Fiction | Short Story

Gordo and Mayra’s First Night in America

Alfonzo looked aghast, like they were the two most naïve immigrants in the history of New York. “ICE is preparing to break through that door with guns and night vision goggles, maybe even dogs, and you’re worried about the breeze?”

Mayra shivered on the bare mattress. The comforter was wrapped around the baby in the crib, a little volcano of bedding. He exhaled visible puffs as she said, “Por favor, cuidalo,” praying the child wouldn’t get sick. They were on familiar terms, so she didn’t feel the need to say Dear God or Lord Jesus. It was clear who she’d been addressing. But she still said please, and she looked forward to saying thank you when Gordo was home.

Their roommate’s TV hummed through the wall—a telenovela—and Mayra thought it funny how you could guess the show’s action through its muffled dialogue. The man speaking through sobs was likely apologizing to someone in a hospital bed. A heart monitor beeped, and a one-way conversation suggested that the injured person was in a coma. She saw her aunt Cecilia—cheeks swollen, lips in stitches, cousins crying by her bedside—then shook that memory, replacing it with a handsome actor. A tear streaked down his cheek-boned cheek then fell off his jaw. The scene changed. Was that two lovers kissing? They breathed heavily until a new voice came in, some fat detective? Sorry to interrupt, she imagined him say. But I have some questions about your husband’s disappearance that need answering.

It switched to a commercial. Mayra sat up, wondering again if she and the baby should share body heat. Gordo didn’t want the child in the bed for fear they would squish him. Not that Gordo was actually gordo. He was skinnier than Mayra. She joked that his boney frame was bad advertising for the sweets they sold along the way. Since leaving home, they had been forced to ration meals.

Her dad used to say, “If you have beans you have food,” a motto she and Gordo repeated with mock enthusiasm when they made batches of burritos. Still young—21 and 23—they imitated their parents and grandparents the way teenagers do, using nasal voices or goofy joy. “If you have beans you have food” was not a lesson they intended to teach their son.

The front door opened. Finally, Gordo was home. It must have been 9 p.m. She heard him lock the deadbolt, shuffle through the kitchen, then he stepped in the bedroom with bags on each arm. “That store was amazing, amor! The cashier heard my accent and asked if I was a pipope. Lots of pinche Poblano pendejos move here. When I told him it was our first night, we got a discount.” She sat up. She had never seen Gordo wear a scarf before. He looked so American. “I got this”—he held the frilly end off his neck—“for free!”

“It’s cute, but listen, does the kitchen window need to stay open?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Gordo turned as if he could see through the wall. “There’s a window in the kitchen?” he said.

“You can see up to the sidewalk. This afternoon I closed it then Alfonzo opened it back up, saying it’s for ventilation. But what good is fresh air if we freeze to death?”

Gordo took off his coat and dropped it onto her shoulders. “I guess we have to leave it open.”

She pinched the zipper tracks, squeezing it tight over her chest. “We should attend mass Sunday to get the baby his American baptism,” she said.

“His baptism in Mexico is good in every country, amor.”

“The extra blessing won’t hurt. We can just sprinkle holy water on his head. I’m afraid he’s catching my cold.”

Gordo sat against the wall, undoing his shoelaces with a look of dread. “My uncle said I start work Sunday. You can go to church with his wife.”

She heard dramatic voices coming through the wall. Telenovela couples never hold back, and though they cry a lot, they don’t tire of each other’s emotions either. Mayra had stopped telling Gordo how homesick she was. Simply hearing the soap opera through the wall reminded her of how her dad used to fall asleep watching Soy Tu Dueña. As he began to snore, her mom would tell the kids to go to bed. In Michoacán you could leave the windows open year-round. The air was hot, humid, a little stinky. The breeze would carry in cantina music, and she’d also listen to her sister murmur in dreams. Recalling it warmed her for a moment, then she felt all the more cold. Rocking in place, sniffling, her teeth chattered as she said, “My parents warned that Gringolandia was cold, but I didn’t know it would get me sick.”

“We’ll call your parents tomorrow. They sell phone cards at a shop on the corner.”

She wanted to be more like a telenovela couple, so she said, “I love you.”

He smiled. “If you think you love me now, wait till you see what I bought.”

Now she wore a look of dread.

He opened the first bag. His father was an electrician, and as a kid Gordo used his outlets, wires, and fuses to build a pretend Transformer. So when he saw the real toy at a store, it was like finding an heirloom placed there by his late father’s spirit. “Look.” He showed Mayra the red, white, and blue figurine. “Optimus Prime. I wanted this so much when I was a kid.”

She fell back, letting her hair veil her eyes. “Don’t tell me those bags are full of toys.”

“It’s for him!”

She sat up. “He’s an infant, Gordo! He doesn’t need Transformers. He needs blankets and clothes and so do we!”

“I’d never seen one before.” Gordo placed the toy in the crib, at the base of the little volcano, then plucked an olive-green blanket from the bag, which he dangled like a bullfighter, teasing Mayra. “Give me an olé!” She reached for it. He twirled it over her head and yanked it back. “Nolé?”

“Stop!”

He tossed it over her face. “Stubborn bull.”

“Yuck, Gordo!” She slapped the blanket off her head and wiped her mouth. “Why is it so dusty?” She grabbed the hem and pulled it up to her neck, coughing. She hesitated to chide his playfulness—a tactic he used throughout their journey—yet hearing her choke on phlegm could get him to stop, so she let him hear it.

“The blanket wasn’t washed because it’s an electric blanket.”

“We’re going to plug this in?”

The cord was wadded in his palm. “One electric blanket is worth three normal blankets.”

“I assume you tried it? Because if it doesn’t work, it’s worth less than one.”

“I also found this.” He showed her an extra-large beer glass. “And look, this is the best.” He put the glass down and pulled out a baseball jersey. “Guess who?” It said New York on the chest. She shook her head, puzzled not by his trivia, but by his choices. “Rodriguez!” He threw the Jersey at her. “You play on the pinche New York Yankees, amor.”

“Gordo, turn on the blanket, please. I’m freezing.”

He picked at the knot. “I don’t like old blankets either, but we’ll be grateful when it heats.” With the cord loose he went to the crib, got down on one knee, and as he reached toward the socket, dragged the blanket off Mayra.

“Don’t tell me,” she said.

He dropped the plug and bowed his head.

“It doesn’t reach?”

“A la chingada.” It was a phrase he would only use in complete exasperation. Mayra tugged the blanket back onto herself and said, “If we move the mattress to where the crib is, and the crib to where the drying rack is, we can plug the blanket in.” Gordo stood and placed his hands on his hips, studying the space. “Or,” she added, “we borrow an extension cord.”

Gordo had seen Alfonzo’s room when they moved in that morning and noticed a power strip pulled in four directions by a space heater, alarm clock, TV, and two lamps. “There’s no spare. Maybe we give the baby the electric blanket, use the comforter for us.”

“It might catch on fire!”

“In some places, they put boiling water in a bag that goes between the sheets to warm the bed.”

“We don’t have sheets,” she reminded him, “and we’re not putting boiling water in the crib.”

They grabbed the drying rack first, a gift from Gordo’s uncle, like everything else. Its poles slumped when they hoisted it off the floor. Mayra backed onto the mattress, dimpling it with each step. A sock splatted on the floor as the rack wobbled.

The first thing she did when they moved in was go to a laundromat so Gordo could smell nice on his first day of work—not that it would matter at a tire shop. The hems now looked frosted as if worn through snow. All their shirts and jeans had stiffened.

“A first night in a new home is always full of surprises,” Gordo said.

“You lived in the same house your whole life.”

“I know. I’m just saying because of how this one is.”

The crib had unvarnished wood rails, and as they lifted its base the frame creaked, waking the baby. “Cálmate, mijo,” Mayra cooed between the slats. He responded well. But how would the child feel years from now—as a boy and teen and even as an adult—about parents who traveled far and suffered much for his future, yet would leave him behind when the nation sent them away? They could have grown up together—Gordo and Mayra were only kids too. Would he have to accept that a separation coming down the road was not their fault?

“One step at a time,” Gordo begged, and whereas before the drying rack wobbled, now his arms and legs shook. “I should have asked Alfonzo to help. Slower! I just wanted this over with.”

They set it down. “The baby’s breath is more visible now,” said Mayra. “We need heat. One electric blanket won’t solve this.”

“The electric blanket is like America—weird, but you just have to trust the idea.” Grabbing the mattress, he dragged it over to the socket and plugged the blanket in. A switch on the cord had red, white, and blue buttons. “Red is for warm,” Gordo guessed.

“I overheard your uncle tell Alfonzo it is illegal for landlords to set the temperature below sixty-eight degrees.” She took off Gordo’s coat and wrapped herself in the electric blanket until her husband sat next to her, making it a shawl for two.

The heat came fast. “Should we give it to the baby?” Gordo asked. The blanket heated, and heated, and got hot hot. Not cozy—demasiado caliente. “Try the white button,” Mayra said. Suddenly the light went out. The blanket died. They sat in in silence in the dark as fear and urgency came through the wall—Alfonzo shouting.

*

They met him in the kitchen. “It’s ICE. Okay? Immigration is right outside,” Alfonzo said. He stood by the window, ducking at times to peek out. Middle-aged, taller than Gordo and darker than Mayra, Alfonzo had been welcoming to them until now. “Shut up. No, no, no—stop and listen. They cut the lights . . . They do that!” They paused to listen. Alfonzo smelled like rubber from Llantera Hernández, where he worked with Gordo’s uncle repairing tires. “I’ve lived here for twelve years with no trouble, and for one night with you I can’t be deported. When they come in, I’m not here. Understood?”

“Immigration is not here,” Gordo said. “The circuit breaker was overloaded. We need to ask the owner to reset it.” The temperature was too cold now to remain passive. Mayra had suggested as much, Gordo knew it, and if the baby could walk and talk he would have marched up to the landlord’s door himself.

Mayra lit a match and put it to a prayer candle on the kitchen table. “This ventilation is killing us,” she said. The flame wavered until Gordo shut the window.

Alfonzo looked aghast, like they were the two most naïve immigrants in the history of New York. “ICE is preparing to break through that door with guns and night vision goggles, maybe even dogs, and you’re worried about the breeze?” Again all three of them paused to listen. They heard . . . nothing. “Get out there and turn yourselves in!”

“I paid for a room here, and my wife can’t even use the electric blanket I bought her.”

“Calm down, Gordo,” Mayra said. “We’ll go upstairs ourselves, and while we’re at it, ask him to turn up the heat.”

Alfonzo spun toward Mayra. “You need to calm down too, girl. Even if—”

“Don’t call my wife girl, Alfonzo!”

“Even if ICE is not outside,” he went on, “they will be soon if you go up asking for heat this late from a landlord who knows he can replace us with someone else.” Alfonzo then opened a closet and put on a puffy coat, only to return to his room. “Because you’re new here you don’t realize how careful we have to be.”

“You should calm down,” Gordo said as Alfonzo left the room. “No one is calling ICE on a family that simply wants warmth on a freezing night.” He wasn’t so sure of that, though. “What do you think?” he asked Mayra.

The fear had her wondering why they came here, to this cold, complicated place, but she remembered that they had no choice. “Put on your coat,” she told Gordo, “we’re going with you.” From the start of their journey, they’d relied on prayer and ingenuity and other people’s mercy to survive; this was another of those tests.

Snow had begun falling—another thing they’d never seen before. Up a short staircase to the sidewalk, then up a stoop, and they stood, husband, wife and child, on the landlord’s doorstep. “I hope he’s Catholic,” Gordo said, “because it feels like we’re in Bethlehem.” He rang the doorbell. Its digital chimes made Mayra’s heart pound against the baby’s chest, and she rocked the child to calm them both. “Shit, what’s the word in English?” Gordo asked. “Like how in Mexico we say light.”

She had to think about it. “Electricity is power.”

“Como poware?” asked Gordo.

“Power.”

“Powyare.”

“I’ll say it,” Mayra insisted. Footsteps neared on the other side of the door and an old, raspy voice came through, “是誰呀?”

“Es Chino,” Gordo said. He raised his voice but forgot to attempt English as he said, “Disculpanos, señor. Somos los locatarios nuevos de abajo y ya no tenemos luz.” Mayra translated, “Sorry—”

The man opened the door in a maroon robe. He had drowsy eyes and thin hair raked at an angle that embarrassed the young couple, who’d obviously woken him. “ 你是誰？為什麼這麼晚了還來按我的門鈴？”

“No power,” said Mayra. “We,” she bobbed the baby and nodded to Gordo. “Below,” she pointed downward. “No power,” she made a throat-slitting sign.

“Ehh?”

Gordo murmured, “He thinks you want to kill him.” Bowing awkwardly, he apologized to the man and raced off the stoop, telling his wife he’d be right back. The landlord looked calm yet confused. He pointed downstairs. Mayra pulled the blanket off her son’s head to show the urgency of their situation. “Cold,” she said.

“Ooooo,” replied the landlord, grinning.

Gordo came back out and leapt up the stairs two at a time, tripping onto the top of the stoop. He was holding Optimus Prime. “Mira, así es.” Breathless, he pantomimed the toy robot standing erect, boisterous, and then folded it downward into a lifeless, seated position with a “bzzzzzoooo” sound, pulling its plug. He gave the robot life again, and with another “bzzzzzoooo” he took its energy, its power, away.

“Transformer,” said the landlord.

“Sí sí—bzzzzzoooo,” Gordo said, putting Optimus Prime through another shut down.

A boy wearing pajamas poked his head out from behind the old man. “Transformers?” the kid asked.

“Si chavo!” an ebullient Gordo shouted. “Optimus Prime!” He handed it to the child.

“Below is no power,” said Mayra.

The boy translated for his father, who murmured something back. The boy told Mayra and Gordo, “We’ll reset the power.”

Mayra made a hand gesture like she was turning a dial. “Heat?”

“糟糕！我忘了打開暖氣” the man told his son. The boy answered his dad, then said, “He forgot to turn on the heat. He is sorry. My dad forgets stuff, you know? If you tell me, or my sister, and my mom when you need something, we can do it for you.” The man patted his son’s shoulder and went back in the house and the boy returned the Transformer to Gordo.

“No, is yours,” Mayra said.

“I already have this one,” he said. “And I have Bumblebee, and my sister owns Megatron. She likes Decepticons. We make Transformers fight the X-Men in our living room.”

“Thank you,” said Mayra. “Mil gracias,” Gordo added, his hands clasped.

“很抱歉讓你們冷到了” the man hollered from inside.

“He said sorry again. Sorry for the cold.”

*

Kneeling on the floor by the mattress, still cradling their son, Mayra led them through the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Act of Contrition, to show regret their sins, and finished with the Angel of God, asking los angelitos to ever this day be at their side to light and guard and rule and guide. She placed the boy in Gordo’s arms, kissing his forehead. He whined as she passed him off.

“I have to admit,” Gordo announced over the crib. “I was afraid Alfonzo was right.”

“That’s why I went with you,” Mayra said. “I brought the baby so we wouldn’t be separated if ICE was outside.”

“I worried about that too, amor, but you know it would be better for him to stay put. My uncle and his wife can take care of him while we make the journey back.”

“Don’t talk about us getting deported like it’s a sure thing.”

“We have to plan.”

A steam radiator knocked to life, clacking with noises that made them wonder how long it had been off. Mayra coughed. The room was heating fast. They cuddled under the electric blanket, leaving it unplugged, and slowly the white clouds under their lips and noses dissipated.

“You sure you don’t want to plug in the great American blanket?” Mayra asked.

“It works, but there were too many watts for this apartment.”

“High-tech America,” she said.

“It’s a good thing I bought that Transformer. That’s how we got the electricity back.”

“My English helped.”

“True, you knew powware.”

She turned over to face him. “Say it again.”

“No.”

She wanted him to learn, and for them to practice. “Pronounce it more quickly, please.”

“Power.”

“We have to learn the important words every day.”

“Bzzzzzoooo,” he said, shutting his eyes.

She turned off the lamp. Alfonzo was watching a telenovela again and the action filtered through the wall. She heard men beating someone, bone-crunching noises and smacks, grunts, and a person groaning in pain. They knocked over a table, glassware shattered, and a woman screamed.

The shows included more and more storylines about the cartels, which Mayra didn’t like. They didn’t portray people like her on telenovelas—only the rich and drug lords and police. Gordo was asleep. She put an arm over his chest, her forehead pressed against his shoulder, listening for whatever came next.