Too Soon

It was too soon, too soon to even think about what comes next, let alone to consider going out on a date. Yet, the polite, painfully awkward boy, Dwayne Strickland, had intentions. Graciela Yanez could tell. And with Bobby little more than ten months in the ground, the waitress shuddered whenever she allowed herself to entertain so much as one thought of getting on with her life. The very thought of another man touching her gave her the willies. Only Bobby had ever touched her, and that after six months of dating. But she could feel Dwayne’s lovesick gaze upon her whenever the gawky, shy oilfield roughneck came into the La Sombra Café, seated himself into his favorite booth and ordered his customary huevos rancheros con frijoles y arroz. And, yes, the tall, gangly boy was handsome, handsome enough. And courteous—more than merely polite, he was almost courtly. And, like Bobby, he had a job, a lot more than she could say about most of the good for nothings in Dos Pesos. But Graciela wasn’t over Bobby. Not yet. How could he think that she could ever get over Bobby?

“Graciela,” said the freckled twenty-three-year-old when she gingerly placed his plate in front of him on the worn, scarred table of the booth by the window, the same place he sat all by himself like an orphaned puppy, day after day, and gobbled down the eggs, beans and rice, “you do know that Bobby Ochoa and I were friends. We were real good friends.”

Graciela blinked, then nodded. Yes, she knew. Bobby had told her all about his coworker Dwayne Strickland, about how they goofed around together out in the desert at the drilling sites, about what a good guy the guero from Beaumont was. The young man, not much more than a boy really (just like Bobby), had about the kindest brown eyes she’d ever seen on a gringo. But she needed for him to stop right there, before he said another word; she wasn’t up to talking about Bobby, not without tears, and not with this boy, not with anyone, not without that quickening in her chest that made her queasy, as if she herself were about to die. Nor was she up to anyone, no matter how nice they might be, coming on to her, even this boy in his timid, clumsy, charming manner.

Dwayne looked up into her face, then continued. “Bobby and I got along real good. We were buds.” He sighed heavily. “None of us on the crew knew that he was sick. Guys our age just don’t up and die like that.” He wiped his mouth with his paper napkin. “Bobby wasn’t like the other guys. He didn’t brag. He didn’t talk like some kind of a bigshot. Like I said, someone his age ain’t supposed to just up and die.”

But Bobby did die, Graciela wanted to shout, though, of course, she didn’t. Your friend, my Bobby, is gone, for Christ’s sake. One day he was here. The next he wasn’t. Don’t you get it? “It was sudden,” she finally uttered. “No one saw it coming. Especially not Bobby. Certainly not me.” It sounded trite but what else could she say? She didn’t want any part in this or in any discussion about what was too horrible to even think about, let alone to talk about, even after all these months.

“Some kind of infection in his blood.” Dwayne grimaced, then looked down at his plate of food. The yolks of the two eggs stared back at both of them like los ojos de un santo triste.  “Bobby and I were the same age.” He looked up into Graciela’s face. His soft brown eyes mirrored all of the world’s pain, or so it seemed to Graciela. More so than any damned uncaring saint’s eyes, that was for sure. “You must miss him something awful.”

Yes, she nodded. I miss him something awful, goddamn it. If you must know, I miss the hell out of him. She took a deep breath. “Bobby and I had talked about getting married,” she said. “We hadn’t set a date. Or made it official…with a ring…or nothing like that. But we would’ve gotten married.” She paused, looked out the window onto the late afternoon stillness on Highway 1129, the only paved street in the dusty little town, onto what lay ahead of her, an ordinary life wasted in a dreary West Texas cafe. “I’m sure we would’ve married.”

In the kitchen Enrique, the cook, no older than Graciela, two years behind her when they were both at Travis High—along with Bobby—smiled when she perched her one-hundred-and-ten pounds onto the creaky wooden stool that stood in the corner like an inadequate sentry. “Is that son of a bitch botherin’ you?” he asked.

Graciela grinned, then shook her head. “No, Ricky,” she said. “He’s just a kid. He comes in here hoping that I’ll go out with him. Like I said, he’s just a kid.”

“Pendejo,” said the ponytailed cook. “Doesn’t he know about Bobby?”

“Si,” said Graciela, “he knows. He’s no fool. He just doesn’t understand how I feel.” And Dwayne didn’t get it. She was sure of it. How could anyone get it? Even she didn’t fully understand how she felt. It wasn’t as if there was a deep chasm inside her as she watched television with her parents and her younger sister late at night, the ghost of Bobby hovering over them like in a sad movie. It wasn’t like that at all. She’d thought that’s what it would be like. But no, it was more of an uncertainty, a questioning of how she should feel rather than how she actually felt. And it wasn’t good, feeling this way. Wailing and moaning would’ve been far better than the numbness inside of her. More guilt than woe. And Graciela was filled with a dread, a remorse that she couldn’t experience something deeper. Bobby’s dead, for crying out loud. So what? What does it mean? It matters—of course it matters—but, really, am I the only one in this world who’s suffering? The only one in Dos Pesos, Texas? Hardly, but sometimes it feels like it.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” asked Ricky, his face, narrow, dark, obviously indio, a face that carried the wisdom of eons of their shared ancestors in its dark furrowed brow.  

She shook her head. No, I can handle the likes of Dwayne, she assured herself as well as the cook. He means no harm. He just doesn’t realize that it’s too early to even think about other boys.

At the cash register as Graciela handed the oilfield worker his change she took a deep breath, mustered her courage then told Dwayne straight out, “I can’t go out with you, Dwayne. Not now, don’t you see? You were Bobby’s friend.” She paused. “You do understand, don’t you?”

The boy winced, took a deep breath then said, “Graciela, I hope you don’t think that that’s why I come in here every day, to try to pick you up, to two-time Bobby?” He shrugged, then attempted a grin. “I like the food here. And I like you, but you’re Bobby’s girl.” He blushed, then hurried out the door without another word.

In Graciela’s ears the bell on the door to the café droned, more like the death knell at St. Rafael’s Church on the day of Bobby’s funeral than the tinkly announcement of the arrival or departure of another customer. There, you see, thought Graciela, I’m marked. No one will ever want me. I will die una solterona, the unmarried old woman everyone pities at weddings, quinceaneras and parties. Like my aunt Lupe. All because I let Bobby touch me. And does that cabron Dwayne think that he’s too good for me? No way. He’s just like all of the gringos. They all think they’re too good for us.

As she cleared the table, the red-sauce-splattered plate with the yellow goo from the eggs that had swirled amidst the remnant of beans and rice reminded her of one of the modern paintings in the museum in San Antonio where she and Bobby had gone, a year ago. Graciela’s heart skipped a beat. She thought, Some kind of an infection in the blood. Poor Bobby. Pobrecito. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be nicer to Dwayne. I will. If he ever comes back. He can’t help being what he is. He means no harm. He’s just a boy. Like Bobby, he’s just a boy.