Dark Water (2010)
“More often, though, he wrote what he had to say on the dirt or answered me, if the weather wasn’t too hot and dry, in his raspy voice.
I would ask a question: “So where were you born?”
It took a while to spell out San Ygnacio, Guanajuato.
Another time, I asked about his father.
Estados Unidos, he wrote.
“But where? Here?”
The answer was too long to write, so he whispered, “My father sent my mother money until I had four years, but then he stopped.”
“Why?”
Amiel shrugged.
“What happened to your mother?”
With the stick he drew what looked like a small hill, and then he drew a cross on top of it.
The day I finally spotted the green string hammock wadded up in the willows and brought it to him, he untangled it and strung it from one tree to another and then, with an elegant bow that reminded me of his juggling performance, he offered it to me. I laid myself in the hammock and asked, “How did you learn English, anyway?”
He shrugged. “A guy. Un maestro.”
I waited for him to add more, but he didn’t.
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