“This was all wheat fields not too long ago,” Bob said. “We live on the west side, which is less populated.”
“Where do the Mexicans live?”
“All over,” Bob said, ignoring my bitter tone. Then, as if deciding to tell the truth, “Mostly on the east side. We turned off the highway before we crossed the Fox River, but once you cross the river, you’re on the east side.”
The way Bob said it, I got the impression that crossing the Fox River was not a good idea. Bob slowed and pulled to the side to let an ambulance with flashing red lights go by. “Around 1970, the railroad, the big industry in the city, left, and all the workers employed by it started leaving. Latinos from Chicago moved in to take advantage of the cheaper housing. Then some of the gangs came with them. The city had a big problem. Things are much better now, but there’s still a few people who don’t like Mexicans.”
“There’s many people in this country who don’t like us.” I pointed with my chin to the Trump sticker on the bumper of the truck in front of us.
“That’s just politics,” Bob said as he turned the van into a smaller street. “I sell lots of air conditioners and furnaces to people who are in favor of the wall. It’s all about the person-to-person connection, you know?”
What would it be like to do business with people who don’t like you as a human being? Could I pretend to be friendly with people who resent my presence in their country, for the sake of the dollars? I was going to ask Bob how his “person-to-person connection” was with people who did not want Mexicans coming into the U.S. but decided that my brain could not take anything serious at the moment. Instead, the mention of the wall made me think of the place on the Rio Grande where Sara and I had crossed into the United States. After we crossed the shallow Rio Grande, we climbed a rocky ledge and stood for a moment to look at the scattered adobe houses that made up the town of Boquillas. There was a dirt road that crossed through the center of the town and ended at the edge of the river. That’s where I last saw Brother Patricio. He was waving good-bye, or a blessing, or both.
“To tell you the truth,” Bob continued, “one of the reasons Able Abe has done so well is because of the connections I have made with the Latino community. One of the first things I did when I started working with Abe was join the Aurora Hispanic Chamber of Commerce. I just started going to every event they had and soon I was getting orders from restaurant owners, insurance companies, schools. All business consists of personal connections.”
“Yeah,” I said. I thought of the kids back home who made piñatas so I could sell them downtown. They were my friends and we made money together. It pained me to admit that Bob and I had things in common.
“We’re almost there.”
The houses that lined the street all had the same basic design. Two-story houses with a garage, a driveway, front yard and backyard. There was space between the houses, not like in my neighborhood back home, where I could stick my hand out the kitchen window and get a warm tortilla from Mrs. Lozano next door. The major difference between the houses here, besides their size and good condition, was their subdued colors, as if people were afraid to call attention to themselves. The way Bob had described his success at Able Abe’s, I had imagined something flashy, along the lines of Perla Rubi’s house. But Bob’s neighborhood was still impressive, especially if you compared it to the place where Mami, Sara, and I lived.
Bob pulled into the driveway of a pale blue house. It was a two-story house like all the other ones on the street, only there was something cleaner, more streamlined about the house.
“Aluminum siding,” Bob said when he saw the questioning look on my face. “The paint on wood houses peels and flakes during the winters here. But not aluminum. I got out the pressure washer the Saturday before I left for Texas and gave the house a nice cleaning. Looks like new, doesn’t it?”
I had to admit that the house looked better kept than all the other ones on the block and there was a flash of pride inside me for my Mexican father. Then it crossed my mind that under different circumstances, I might have been able to make some money by cleaning houses with Bob’s pressure washer. But I hadn’t come to Chicago to make money.
Bob stood in front of his house, one hand on his broad hip and the other pointing at the windows. “Those are state-of-the-art storm windows, the best you can buy. They lowered our heating bill this winter by six hundred dollars. I used to go to a house and install a new gas or oil furnace. But I’d see old drafty windows. So I saw an opportunity. This is a good example of what I was telling you about connections. I know this guy who owns a hardware store. His name is Pepe Romero. So we connected, you know? I get a commission from Pepe every time I get a house to install storm windows, and that’s how it goes.” Bob walked to the front door, dug keys out of his pocket, and opened the door. “By the way, don’t tell Abe about the commission I get from the storm windows. That’s a little private side deal I got going.”
I couldn’t help smiling when Bob winked. Bob was a more polished, refined, efficient version of the Roberto Zapata I used to know. His old talents and skills had found a place to shine.
Bob took me to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pointed to the compartment where the ham and cheese were stored. The loaf of bread was on the top shelf of the refrigerator as well. In Mexico we can buy fresh bread every day at the corner bakery, I said to myself.
“We keep the sodas out here in the garage.” Bob opened and closed a door at the end of the kitchen. “Come, I’ll show you your room.”
Bob rushed down the wooden stairs. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs that you can also use, but Nancy and I thought you’d be more comfortable down here.”
I did not anticipate the sadness that came over me as I walked down the steps to the basement. I should have been glad for the privacy, but all I could feel was … unwanted. There were three rooms, including a small bathroom with a shower. The large room had a brown leather sofa facing a flat-screen TV on the wall. Wires dangled down messily from the TV to the cable box on the floor. There was a card table where someone—Trevor, I assumed—was working on a Lego spaceship. Next to it was a box filled with the remaining pieces.
“Trevor’s an extremely bright little boy,” Bob said. “Nancy and I worry about him. He spends too much time inside his head. It’ll be good for him to have a … friend.”
My first impulse was to remind Bob that I was not there to be either babysitter or friend to his new son, but I was too overwhelmed by a dark emotion I had never felt before.
“And this is your room,” Bob said, trying to dissipate the tension created by my silence. There was a washing machine, a dryer, a small tool bench, and a table with clothes neatly folded. Next to it was the hot water heater and a furnace connected with iron pipes to the ceiling. There was a stationary bicycle and a rowing machine and behind these was a single bed with one of those goose-feathers quilts that Sara and I had once thought of buying for Mami but couldn’t because they were so expensive. The only light in the room came from a small window on top of the dryer.
“We can move the exercise equipment out of here if it seems too crowded.”