Family Secrets

Family Secrets

by Eileen Wijesinghe

           "Can you keep a secret?" María asked with a sweet half-smile.

           My 12-year-old sister and I are sitting in Heller Park away from Mamá's watchful eyes, dangling our feet over the edge of the bone-dry Los Angeles River drainage ditch.

I am smoking the cigarettes that are not allowed in the house, and María is finishing the ice cream that I bought her in exchange for her promise not to tell.

           "Pinky-swear," I say, and we lock fingers in the ritual.

           This is a happy weekend routine for my sister and me. I know Mamá can smell the smoke on my clothes, but as long as she does not see it and thinks I don't do it in front of María, it remains an unconfessed but forgiven sin.

           María sees far worse every day in our Santa Ana barrio than just me smoking. Por Dios, even Heller Park is not the urban escape it was intended to be. The concrete walls of the drainage ditch are scarred with the city's half-hearted attempts to sandblast the gang tags and graffiti that line its sides from top to bottom, overlaid with the latest territorial claims by la Salvatrucha. We're in Sureño territory, the southern arm of the M13 gang, and so many of the tags and nicknames are people I know well from the neighborhood: Flaco and Psycho and Asesino. They know better than to hassle me or my family, but still, I walk María to and from school every day in between my shifts at the garage.

           María is rolling up her left sleeve to show me a sparkling gold bracelet inlaid with diamond chips. My heart sinks. I can tell it is a quality piece right away, worth more than Mamá makes from a month's worth of her janitorial shifts. I pretend to admire the bracelet while my mind is racing, praying that she is going to tell me she found it on the street. The alternative is unthinkable.

           "Bien hermosa," I tell her it's beautiful. Her face lights up with pride and happiness. Dios mío, my little sister looks so angelic and innocent. I want to protect her from all the ugliness and pain that life brings, even though I know it is impossible. Still, it is up to me as the man of the family to do everything I can. After Papá died, it was just the three of us against the world. I had to make some tough choices, including dropping out of high school, but as Papá used to say, we do what we have to and not what we can. I am not going to let María ever have to face those same choices.

           "And?" I ask gently.

           "It was a gift," she blushes a little. I am filled with a sudden, cold rage, but I manage to conceal it.

           "Do you have a secret admirer?" I keep my tone light, pretending to examine the bracelet more closely. Really, I just want to make sure she cannot see the anger and fear in my eyes because I know the answer is only going to confirm the worst.

           Her cheeks grow rosier still. She ducks her head and murmurs, "Kind of. Flavio gave it to me. I think he likes me"

           I stub out my cigarette and light another, so that I can still look away and gain some measure of self-control. I know Flavio. He is a punk and a wanna-be gangster, already working as a lookout on the corner of First and Flower for Jorge, the dealer who operates out of the adjacent alley. Flavio has no business even talking to my sister, let alone trying to romance her. Pinche maldito, she is only twelve!

           María finishes her ice cream cone with a crunch, and we hold hands as we walk home. Mamá has made chilaquiles, our favorite, and after dinner María does the washing up so that Mamá can watch her telenovelas. Once both María and Mamá are settled down in front of the television blaring their Spanish-language soap operas, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

           "Mi hijo, adónde vas?" Mamá calls out from the couch, wondering where I'm going at this late hour.

           "I forgot something at the garage, Mamá. I'm just going to grab it and I'll be right back." I quickly shut the door behind me before she can reply.

           The garage is dark and quiet, as it should be. In my office, I open the safe and pull out the lockbox inside it. There is no money in the lockbox – the safe is good enough for that and nobody in the barrio would ever try to rob me.

           No, the lockbox holds a couple of untraceable guns, some convincing fake IDs, and three burner phones.

           I pull out a phone and dial Jorge's number. "Sí, jefe," he answers on the first ring. My lieutenants know that I will not tolerate more than three rings, no matter the time of day or night.

           "Jorge, tú tienes un problema muy grande," I want to make clear he is in trouble with me and needs to take immediate action.

           He gets it. There is worry in his voice as he asks, "Dígame, jefe. Que hay?"

           "Flavio. Arréglalo." I hang up after those two words. Jorge has been working with me for three years, and I don't need to say anything more than, "Fix it."

           María will probably be sad for a week or two when her puppy-love boyfriend disappears. But I would have had to do this anyway, even if María weren't my sister. When a low-level Sureño flouts a no-touch, no-contact order by a shotcaller, it has to be nipped in the bud. It is the only way to maintain power and protection.

           I lock the safe and turn off the lights. I grab the overalls with my name stitched on the breast pocket that are hanging on the back of the door, and wipe a little more dirt and grease on them to bring home. I may not be the skilled neighborhood mechanic that Mamá believes me to be, but I am without a doubt the caring older brother that she knows me to be. We do what we have to and not what we can.

           I'll stop at the store and buy Mamá and María some ice cream for dessert.