Emiliano
MAMI’S VAQUERO
A warm, soft hand reaches over to settle on top of mine, and I’m pulled from my inner thoughts, my eyes likely glazed over.
When I glance over at my mother, she offers a small smile, surrounded by lines that life gifted her, before facing forward again.
A gentle show of power. Having known her since the day she birthed me twenty-six years ago, I’ve gotten to know her face better than even my own. That’s what happens when my world revolves around one person’s reactions.
Because if Mami was irate, Papi took over. And once Papi took over, things got a hell of a lot crueler.
My father wasn’t a bad man, contrary to what some would think a drug lord would be. He was stern, hard-working, and took no shit. And if anyone pissed off Carmen Pineros, it was his job to remedy it.
Even—and especially—when it was her children.
Ear tugs, smacks across the face, punches in the chest. These were all his ways of keeping his sons in line.
Of keeping his sons alive.
The life of a chicano in Texas, so close to our homeland that the harmonious cacophony of our culture still blesses our lives every day.
We see the influence in the clothes, the people, the language, the cuisine, the music .
But something about living in America makes me feel like a foreigner.
Even with the abundance of money and paid-off law enforcement, we’ll never get rid of the Chads who look down their noses at us as we spend their rent on lunch.
I was born here. My mother was not.
She was sent by her brother to marry Oswaldo Pineros for citizenship and distribution purposes. It’s her lot in life that my father took one look at her and fell in love. And he worshipped her until the day death took him from us.
The coroner said it was natural causes. But how could nature be so cruel to my mother?
If Carmen Pineros wept over her widowhood in the hours she knew she’d be alone, it was never for her sons to see. Her red-rimmed eyes were the only indication. As beautiful and kind as she is, her pedigree speaks for itself.
My mother is the beloved sister of the world’s largest kingpin. She doesn’t need to demand respect when her name holds more weight than I’d ever know what to do with.
So when she touches my hand to remind me to pay attention in church, that’s exactly what the fuck I do.
The rest of the service goes by relatively quickly, and before I know it, we’re walking out into the heat, the sun beating down on us with little mercy.
Still, I wear my suit, my mother’s arm in mine with a shawl covering her shoulders.
“Where are you headed, mijo ?”
I always ride back with her, making sure she makes it inside her heavily guarded home before I take the rest of my Sunday to myself.
But today I drove myself for a reason.
“Headed to Papo’s,” I tell her, using the nickname we’d given him after decades of friendship.
She nods, as if giving me permission to proceed. “Give him my love,” she tells me as she lifts her chin, tilting her head to give me her cheek. I lean down to press my cheek against hers, offering a kiss. “Please remind your brother that I’d like him at Mass with me on Sundays.”
I nod, helping her into the armored vehicle.
With my father gone, it’s now fallen on me, her youngest son, to make sure she’s happy. But I can’t force my oldest brother to do anything he doesn’t want to.
“I’ll speak to him,” I lie, straightening as I adjust my large belt buckle, my bolo tie feeling more and more and more constricting as I stand here.
She offers a smile like she can tell before jerking her chin out to dismiss me.
I take off my suit jacket and open the passenger backdoor, laying it across the seat. Once I get inside and turn on my car, I roll the windows down to relieve the stuffy heat that damn near chokes me.
And for a little less than an hour, I coast along the breeze toward a place I’ve known for most of my life.
Before I started college, I used to come to this area all the time. And when Papi died, he passed his ranch down to me. A parting gift from the man who knew me best. A parting gift I haven’t been to since the day after he died.
I can’t, knowing I’m not ready to brace myself for the sound of his voice or feel him in every room, only for him not to be there.
I even had most of the furniture and all of the livestock sold off. One day, I’ll make a home out of it, but right now, I can’t.
I pay a monthly service to keep it pristine, and the neighbors down the road keep an eye on it for me. Armed men used to patrol every acre, but I told my brother it wasn’t necessary anymore. No one lives there.
Now, the only time I head this way is to go to Papo’s place.
Once I make the last familiar left, I’m greeted with the sight of a big-ass house with a large timber porch that reminds me of a cabin. Twenty minutes away from the ranch Papi left me is my best friend Papo’s property.
I don’t think a motherfucker on earth would call this house a cabin, though. Not with its size or history and not with what’s been done to it with each generation.
This earth is rich in history, and Papo’s ancestral blood nourishes the greenery. The land never forgets. And neither do we.
So when the opportunity to purchase it came up, he used his life savings and an investment payment from me and took this shit back.
As surrounding land becomes available, he purchases, expanding it to the massive compound that it is now. His parents live on the other edge of it with his younger sister. The more time that passed, the less he needed me, until he finally was able to buy me out.
That night, we drank tequila until my ass couldn’t see straight.
But this place is my home away from home. It brings me nostalgia to be surrounded by land, horses, and the sheer love he has for cowboy and vaquero culture.
I step out of the car, unbuttoning my shirt so I only have my undershirt on. My worn cowboy boots sit in the trunk, along with a pair of jeans. Quickly, I pop the trunk, pull them out, and head over as the trunk closes.
“ ?Oye, Papo! ?Que tú haces, güey? ”
He tilts his cowboy hat back, tossing me a smile, his eyes squinting from the sun. His hands take their time over the smooth, brown back of the horse, who stands there with complete trust in him.
“I was wondering when you’d be by,” he says as I saunter over, taking a deep breath once I’m standing in front of him. I’m addicted to the peace here.
“Heard through the grapevine that you hosted a wedding out here so…” I glance around, my hands on my hips. “I figured I’d wait until they left.”
His deep chuckle rolls from his body. He stands a few inches taller than me, locs tucked back at the nape of his neck.
“Gotta pay the bills,” he grunts as he leans over to check the horse’s hoof.
“Sure, Desmond,” I say on a laugh. “You and I both know you’re not hurting for cash.”
He straightens from where he’d been bent at the waist, his hand lingering on the horse’s flank.
“Maybe I just like the company.” Desmond shrugs, and I tilt my head as I stare at him. His poker face is impressive. But the twitch of his lip gives him away.
“You fucked one of the bridesmaids, didn’t you?” I accuse, shaking my head.
He squints again, but his twisted grin is all too familiar. Then he says, “ one of ’em?”
He turns to head toward the stable, leading the horse by its reins, and I follow with a grin. Papo doesn’t get a lot of visitors, so it makes sense that someone as young as we are would not only desire company but want to get paid for their presence. A businessman, but a man nonetheless.
His mother and sister handle the event planning portion of the business. Which is how I found out about the wedding. Desmond might like people, but the thought of strangers spending days on my property makes my skin itch.
“Go on in and change,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Coming here with them fancy ass clothes on.”
“Man, whatever,” I tell him before heading toward the main house and bounding up the steps. Inside, it’s still, only a cool breeze flirting with the gauzy curtains cuts through it.
Papo is so utterly alone here.
I envy it. In my life, someone is always looking for me. It’s the reason I left my phone in my car.
If there’s an emergency, my brothers can handle it .
Once I’ve changed, I step back out onto the wraparound porch and take a deep breath.
“That bad?” Papo calls out from where he’s standing near the barn.
“You have no idea,” I shout, closing the distance between us, antsy to hit the trails with him.