These were not observations to share with Dad and Macy on our video calls on Thursday nights, when the museum was free and stayed open until nine p.m. Pessimism would only confirm that I was in a bad way. They wanted to know what I had seen: Greek vases, gold leaf — topped linguist sticks, Mary with the Christ child, silver, photographs, capes made of Technicolor bird feathers. As their tour guide, I led them through the corridors and into the galleries, narrating what I saw, and I felt close to them. Like last summer.
Each Thursday, we ended the call with three or four passes through the Turrell tunnel. Dark platform above and, below, the hot-pink and red and violet and blue changing walls. The thin, lighter outline that passed to other dimensions. Macy would moan so loudly through the passage, I learned to put the phone on mute.
The ends of these calls were often awkward. Dad might ask, “You headed back to the dorm?”
One lie required another: “Yeah. I’ll take my time walking back.”
“What classes did you register for, again?”
“I don’t think I said. I have neurobiology and art history. Still figuring out the other two.”
“Financial aid is all straightened out, then? We haven’t got anything in the mail.”
“I’ll double-check.”
I’d stopped going to school since the spiritual nut-kicking of trying my fob on doors to my dorm, to the gym. Instead, I decided to walk down Graustark to Mr. Larson’s house and stare at his condo from across the street. He didn’t live far from the MFAH, and even closer to the Menil. Lights on timers, the pool’s motor circulating lazily. No mail delivery as far as I could tell. On Mondays, a cleaning woman might come by. Polished concrete, a window like an icicle going from the first to the third floor. I was waiting for them to come back.
Near the Rothko, I sprayed heavy-duty insect repellent all over and lay beside a fence, out of view, using my backpack for a pillow. Same routine every night. At first, I couldn’t sleep. The A pitch of mosquitoes. The fear of frightening someone. Kids who looked like me were treated savagely. Routinely. I wanted to trust the people who lived this close to Rothkos, but that was too generous. In the early morning, when it was cooler, I calmed down and slept. I dreamed that Angus had installed a grill inside the Turrell tunnel and I had shrunk to fit the grill. The kitchen setup didn’t bother the guards. Angus seared my back, browned my front. Poked my thighs with a spatula to make sure I was done. Then he chopped me up, slid me into a corn tortilla, and handed me over to Larson with a wedge of lime.
Ninety-nine degrees and 100 percent humidity. A gray haze all around and pollen and ozone advisory warnings. Droning on Montrose and Bissonnet and Main. I have never been in a desert, and I know Pakistan is not the desert, but I saw a photograph of Pakistan in a Washington Post left at the Y. There were cypress trees shaped like wizard hats. Distant mountains. A small gray swimming pool with, I’m estimating, a few hundred men. Pants on in the water. Hottest day on record in Pakistan. A scientist quoted in the article said these heat waves pushed people to the limits of their thermal comfort. Absolutely. Brains cook at that temperature, just like the brain of a customer standing in the Taco Heaven line in Houston in July. Just like our brains inside the truck. The men in the picture looked shocked, as if standing in front of a body that had just collapsed in the street. But I was probably projecting. They might have been having a great time.
Tuesdays were usually slow, but the week of July 4 meant family time at the museum. Angus hustled on four orders of Indonesian tacos and three fried chicken tacos with waffle casings. I wiped down the counters and refrigerator, then hopped out front to double-check the customer experience. “Order up!” I delivered the tacos to a couple with their in-laws. The mother handed me ten dollars to bring more Topo Chicos. How did she know handing people cold drinks was my favorite? I loved to hold bottlenecks covered in condensation, to feel the glass slip through my fingers. I’m the Red Cross, I thought. I’m saving people. I was bettering the lives of people who hate. In Houston, people were friendly on the surface, happy on the surface. But they hated their lives, themselves, each other, same as back home. Same as everywhere.
I went behind the truck and put cold fingers on my face.
“Do you know how to cook?” Angus asked.
“I can boil water.”
He was being nice, making conversation, but I didn’t want to talk in that metal animal mouth reeking of onions and garlic and meat.
“You could learn to do a little more than that. Based on what I’ve seen, you could do short order most places and some besides.” That was nice to hear. “Not that you’ll want to, when you get back to school.”
I got up and went inside the truck, paired plastic forks with plastic knives, wrapped them in their paper napkin blankets, and put them to sleep in a plastic tub. Angus kept talking and I saw it coming — a sermon — whether I wanted it or not.
“Food was waiting for me. My uncle Ross married this woman Cecilia. There’s this picture of her from the seventies wearing a tight Astros T-shirt, and I always think, That woman changed our diapers and spanked our butts! She was sweet, Cecilia, but she had a temper.”
“Are you following me, Re?”
Where had I been? Thinking money, thinking Macy. “Why are you telling me this?” Angus looked hurt. I laughed, to play it off. “I’m never going to eat your food again.”
“If I didn’t feed you, you’d fly away.” Angus wiped his face with a rag and threw it in the day’s laundry. He handed me two limes. “Work. It’ll make you feel better.”
I destroyed the lime’s skin on the mandolin, making zest and a citrus smell I loved to hold to my nose. Finished that and started with the inventory. Angus took a pencil from behind his ear and checked the inventory sheet. “You mean to tell me you don’t have an Aunt Cecilia in your family? Come on, you know you do.”
What he meant by that, I don’t know.
March of sophomore year, I made an appointment to discuss my financial aid package. A day of cold rain hushed campus, the raindrops pressing down tender leaves, new flowers. I walked through puddles just to hear the swish-glub, to remind myself of walking through puddles with Macy when we were small and both mobile.
On my floor, a sister-girl from Kentucky described Brandon Larson as a fat, bitchy Mark Twain. She said I should see if I could meet with someone else. As gray light came through his office window, I could see the resemblance to Twain, mostly in the hair and mustache.
“What are we here to discuss?”
“Did you get my father’s letter?”
Larson turned to his computer. “Give me your student ID number. Ah, René Garraway.”
“I go by Re.”
Click. No eye contact. “Yes, I see the letter here.” Click.
“Like my dad said in the letter, we can’t afford to pay that amount.” I pointed to the aid award letter. “The amount listed here.”
“Now that your sister is so ill.”
“Yes. My father had to leave his job to take care of her.”
“What your father is doing is noble, I commend him, but your financial aid is based on the previous year, and your mother’s earnings were significantly higher last year too.”
“My mom won’t give anything. She doesn’t have anything.”
“Her income is modest, but she and your stepfather have a significant amount in assets. Your parents have joint custody?”