Fall 2008  (Go back to current issue)

Clemency

by Sara Campos

I don't know why I looked; I'd been completely absorbed in easement law, strategizing to prevent the kitchen extension my client insisted would obscure his balcony view, when, for no reason I lifted my head and saw him: my twin brother Eddie was standing in the lobby chitchatting with the receptionist. He wore a hooded sweatshirt underneath his signature aviator jacket, one he'd picked off a thrift store rack when he was twenty. It appeared as though he'd used it to scour my kitchen pots. He probably thought it made him look cool. He could be someone sitting the sidewalk, tin cup in hand, and here he was, flirting with the twenty-two-year-old receptionist!

Why had he come here where everyone could see him? Would they look at him and see the same olive complexion and slightly slanted hazel eyes? I winced. I hated everyone, the partners, even the secretaries and clerks, seeing him, judging him. Judging me. In the pristine air of our law firm, he looked like a horsefly on a multi-tiered wedding cake.

Eddie's visits and requests for money were as predictable as my menstrual cycle. For the past six months, he'd arrived every twenty-eight days requesting a handout. If it wasn't for rent, it was for moving expenses because he'd been evicted, for groceries when his food stamps and disability check ran out, or to retrieve the heap he called his car. It was as though I was stuck inside a revolving door handing out cash—a tollbooth operator, in reverse.

Ten years ago, no, it was more like fifteen; I was still in law school studying for finals when Mami called me and told me to look for Eddie.

“¿Qué es un yonkee?” she asked. “It's junkie,” I said, correcting her. “Junkies are people who stick needles into their arms and make themselves into junk.”

Through Eddie's old friend, Mami learned that Eddie was staying at a fleabag hotel near our old neighborhood where Mami still lived. I drove down from school during a storm. Even as sheets of rain strafed the pavement, semi-clad ladies leaned against the hotel's front window, their pale thighs glistening with the wetness from the sky.

I entered the hotel, and the smell of stale, unwashed perspiration hovered in the air. A few men lounged about while others played cards. I ignored a few whistles. I wasn't sure they were meant for me. When I told the manager that I was Eddie's sister, he didn't ask for I.D. He gave me the extra key and told me the room number.

Eddie's room was dark and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. First I glimpsed a few syringes cast on the floor. Then I saw him, sitting in a corner, wearing nothing but threadbare boxer shorts. He smelled like he'd wet himself, not just once but for days. And he looked greasy, his long wavy locks pasted to his scalp. He had scratched his skin raw and he seemed to be sweating and shivering at the same time. He looked at me through glazed eyes, barely recognizing me.

I reached for Eddie and cried as I struggled to help him dress. Later, I firmly clutched his arm and lead him out the hotel as though he were blind. I dug into my savings, collected money from my older siblings, and with Mami, got him into rehab. I still believed in possibilities then.

But the streets lured him back, and not long after that, despite numerous promises, his pricey habit started costing him. He called me crying from jail, begging for help after being arrested for robbery. I didn't know criminal law but took time away from my practice to work with his defense lawyer. The judge was merciful and Eddie walked away with less than a year's jail time. We considered that a victory.

Years later, it wasn't so easy. He and some guys broke into a private residence they thought was empty. It so happened that the family's aunt was in a back room caring for a sick little boy. As Eddie and company loaded up jewelry and CD players, the boy got up and decided to play super hero. Pulling out his father's handgun, he confronted them. One of Eddie's accomplices had a gun too. Nobody was killed, but the break-in with a firearm, false imprisonment and previous conviction all added up. Eddie got serious time. We told our relatives and friends that Eddie was working at a Wyoming ranch. Later we invented a story that he had gone to Mexico. Pretty soon people stopped asking.

Six months ago, he returned, fresh from rehab and swore to me that he was done with dope. He'd even found god. I didn't buy it. I'd heard too many of his stories and was sick of being lied to, sick of cleaning up after him.

My husband Phillip suggested we set up a trust for him. Just so we could spare everyone the indignity of Eddie's begging. But the thought of giving him easy money, well, I just couldn't do it. I wasn't about to set our hard-earned cash on a silver platter for him and say, here: get high off this. Or, here, treat your lady friend to a heroin cocktail, it's on me. Instead, I had to see him every few weeks and do this dance with him. But he'd never come to my office. This was a first.

I heard the familiar buzz from reception and the girlish voice. “A man who says he's your brother is here. Shall I let him through?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering how the resemblance could have escaped her.

I waited, even though I wanted to disappear. But because of our chic, glass-enclosed offices that the firm's partners thought provided a sense of “transparency,” I had no place to hide. Eddie saw me and waved as though we were at a ballgame.

“Hey Sis,” he said too loudly in his gravely, Cheech-Chong voice that no one in this rarefied world ever heard except on television cop shows. He lingered by the brass plate on my door.

“Clemencia J. Vargas Pratt,” he said, nodding with admiration. “Wow, Sis, you're really moving up in the world.” Just then a senior partner walked by and I thought I saw him snicker. Jesus, why couldn't Eddie shut up?

He moved to hug me and I smelled his breath, reeking of a thousand cigarettes. “You're looking good,” he said, “You lost weight or somethin'?”

I grabbed Eddie's arm, shoved him inside my office and after closing the door, pulled down the blinds. He sat at my leather couch.

“Wow,” he said, caressing the leather with his hands, “this couch is real fine.”

Indeed it was. Of supple butter leather, it was custom-crafted and I had it special-ordered from a company in Milan. All the partners had sampled it, put their soft wrinkled asses on it then asked me for the company's address so they could order one too. Of course, theirs are a lot bigger than mine.

I then thought about the worn plaid loveseat in Eddie's apartment. Who knows where he'd hauled it from? Even the church ladies wouldn't have tagged it for their rummage sale.

Eddie got up to look at my view. It wasn't much of one. If you stood at a certain angle from my bookcase, you could see a slice of the bay. Otherwise I looked at two steel high rises. He sat back down and saw me scrutinizing his soiled jeans.

“You worried I'm going to get cooties on your fine leather couch?”

“You aren't high are you, Eddie?” I said, swiveling my chair next to him, examining his pupils. Slightly bloodshot, they revealed nothing but fatigue. “What are you doing here, Eddie?Haven't I always asked you to call?”

“I was in your hood, Sis, and I wanted to talk. A guy has to make an appointment to see his own sister? Gimme me a break.”

How unlikely this was: unless the cops took him to another precinct, Eddie never ventured beyond the two-mile radius of his self-sealed barrio. I looked at my wall calendar. It wasn't even close to the end of the month. What natural disaster had exploded now?

“Alright,” I said, already fishing for my wallet, “how much do you need?”

“It's not about money, Sis.”

“No?

For once, Eddie didn't break into one of his illogically reasoned arguments.

“Eddie, come on. My client's arriving in twenty minutes. I don't have time for twenty questions.”

“I know you said I should call first...” he started.

“You're killing me with the suspense, Eddie. What's on your mind?”

“It's about Mami.”

“Mami?”

“Yeah, you know how you're always saying she's getting older and I should call and visit her more. Well, I was thinking, maybe…maybe I should move in with her.”

“Move in with Mami? Are you crazy? That's out of the question.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Out of the ques…but Sis. I think I can help…”

“Eddie, Mami's 75 years old! She's fragile. She's got high blood pressure!

You've got…friends who party, girlfriends and…stuff. None of it fits with Mami.”

“Sis, can't you see I'm through all that.”

I shook my head. “No. It would never work. What happened? Did your friends insist you get a job?”

Eddie shot me a look feigning hurt, as if anything I said would surprise his virgin ears. But I wasn't going to fall for his tricks this time. I stared back and was silent for a moment. Sometimes looking at him was like looking at my own reflection, except that, even with his gaunt face and long straggly hair, he was still the more beautiful. His features were arranged slightly differently than mine and contained an ineffable, almost irresistible charm. Born of the same pregnancy, I came out forty seconds before him. That's probably all I had on him. That and my status in the world. But that was something I often questioned.

“I thought you'd be happy with this.”

“Well now you know otherwise.”

Eddie rose, headed for the door and hesitated. “You know, you don't make decisions for Mami. I could move in if I wanted to. I don't need your permission.” “Then why bother asking?”

“Because,” he said, “for the first time in forty-one years I'm trying to do things right.”

“Right!” I said to the door as he walked out.

Psycho violins were screeching at top volume inside my head. How could he think I'd let him turn Mami's life upside down? After all she'd gone through, for him—the lawyers, money, and prayers to every conceivable saint who might have interceded—they still stood upright before votive candles on her dresser, all for him.

I opened the blinds and watched Eddie walk slowly past reception to the elevators. As he waited, Burns, the head of litigation, sauntered towards the elevator, barely taking notice of Eddie. I couldn't help comparing them. They were about the same age and height. The difference wasn't simply that Burns was impeccably groomed and dressed; it was their stances. While Burns exuded power and influence, Eddie projected weakness. His shoulders drooped and he looked vulnerable, like a chastened teen guilty of loitering and taking tokes in the schoolyard. I saw him the way one of those beefy cops might have then, before they bloodied him down to a pulp—like a piece of street trash. This view of him hurt my eyes; it was like looking too hard at the sun. A new feeling crept up my spleen and landed hard in my chest. Right then I wanted to follow him, reverse what had happened, and tell him I was sorry. It was always like that with him. One minute I couldn't stand him, the next I hated myself. I never got it right, never calibrated the proper response. I rushed down to the lobby, but Eddie was gone.

For the rest of the afternoon, even after my client meeting was long over, my mind still churned over Eddie. The thing is, I was the one who accompanied Mami to her doctor's appointments, monitored her medications, made sure she had enough vegetables in the fridge and and frozen meals in the freezer. Occasionally, I bought her freshly cut roses for the crystal vase Papi gave her before he died. Eddie wouldn't do that. He'd skim her pocket money while she spaced out before her telenovelas. And he'd bring over his riff raff friends and party until morning.

That was Eddie; he always had people around him. He attracted them like stale breadcrumbs attract pigeons. Teachers never believed we were twins. They always appreciated me. But he was the one with friends swarming over him. He had the effervescent charm of a fizzy cocktail, everyone wanted to drink him up.

The summer we turned eleven, Eddie and I visited our uncle's ranch in Mexico. He lived near a crocodile-filled river and raised chickens, pigs, and a peacock. Eddie came back full of stories. Some were hilarious and I convinced him we should write them down and make a book. I'd even bought a special notebook with a psychedelic cover. Every day that fall, I woke to the idea of that book. Eddie tried his hand at writing, but like everything else, he soon lost interest. I remember feeling frustrated and angry with him. We'd always been close until then, inseparable really. But that fall, we started growing apart. The more I questioned it, the more imponderable it became.

When I arrived home that night, the aromatic scent of rosemary and garlic awakened my nostrils. As usual, Phillip was at the stove, this time grilling pork chops and stirring polenta. This was the work he lived for, the epicurean artist at work. After a ten-hour day at his law firm, he came home to his state-of-the-art gourmet kitchen and created sumptuous meals: Duck a l'orange, pasta fresca with fresh pecorino cheese, garlic risotto with truffle oil, you name it.

“Hi, hon,” he said, pecking me on the cheek. “How was your client meeting?”

“Pretty disgusting,” I said, “client's got more money than god and thinks he can use it to rule the neighborhood. He wants to destroy his neighbor's kitchen remodel.

“Will he get it?”

“Not if Mr. Big Bucks gets his way. I'd like to negotiate but he's ready for court with shark attacks. And our firm's only too happy to oblige. Log the hours, collect big fees.”

“How'd you get stuck with him? Wouldn't a guy like him want a senior partner?”

“Sure, but nobody else wanted him.”

“How'd he ever accept a lady lawyer?”

“He probably thought C.J. Vargas Pratt was a good old boy.”

Phillip laughed then scowled. “Does this mean you won't be able to do that pro bono litigation?”

“Not with Mr. Big Bucks breathing down my neck. And get this, Curtis assigned Melanie Rodríguez, the new associate they plucked from Stanford Law Review, for the litigation. Already they're grooming her for a partnership and she's still wiping her nose.”

“You could use another Latina partner on the team, couldn't you?”

“I guess,” I said weakly.

“Well, you're still my favorite partner,” he said smiling. “Your favorite zin is decanting on the table. Pour yourself a glass, Ms. C.J. Vargas Pratt.”

I filled a glass almost to the top, and looking at its plum colored swirls, thought about Eddie.

“Eddie came to see me at work today,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Eddie? Really?” Phillip's face took on a serious tone. “How much did he take you for?”

“That's the thing. He didn't ask for money. He wants to move in with Mami.”

“Hm,” he said. “Is he still clean?”

I sighed. “Hard to say; he still looks like a street hood. When I went to the coffee room this afternoon, a partner asked me if I'd started representing criminals. It took me a minute to realize he was referring to Eddie.”

“I'm sorry honey,” he said, shaking his head, “what's your mother going to say about his plans?”

“Mami? She loves the attention. She talks about him all the time. She probably thinks she can cure him of whatever disease he's got. She's still hoping he'll marry some nice Catholic girl who'll give her the grandchildren we never gave her.”

As soon as I said that, all the color drained from Phillip's pale face. I then felt his eyes wandering down to my left ovary, the one that would just as soon crush an embryo than nurture it into birth. But he said nothing and continued stirring the polenta.

“All he wants to do is mooch off Mami,” I continued, wresting him out of the space of thoughts I knew he had stepped into. “If he moves in, he'll probably pilfer her blood pressure medication just to see if it can make him high.” I heard the tinny whine in my voice and realized I was on the verge of tears.

“I'm sorry, hon. God, I hate the way he makes you suffer.”

“He doesn't make me suffer,” I said, steeling myself, “he makes me cringe.”

“Maybe having him move in wouldn't be so bad, Clem,” Phillip said gently. “Getting a job can't be that easy with those felony raps.”

I gave Phillip a look—the one that said you don't know shit about my family.

“Dinner's ready,” he said, and he handed me a plate.

Over dinner we talked about Phillip's real estate cases and upcoming golf tournaments. The pork chop was tasty but seemed to lodge in my throat, preventing me from saying anything I really felt. After dinner, I picked up my briefcase, hunkered down in my study and didn't come up for air until well past midnight. When I climbed into bed, Phillip was fast asleep.

I had planned to talk to Mami before Eddie got to her, but for the next couple of days, all I could do was jump to my client's demands. There was research to do, documents to review, court papers to draft. It wasn't until Saturday morning that I finally had the chance.

When I got up that morning, Phillip was already out playing golf. With my java in hand, I headed for the farmer's market. Mami loved fresh apricots and peaches, and this season, they were not only abundant but melt-in-your mouth sweet. At nine o'clock, I stood at Mami's doorstep with her treats. She answered the door, still in her robe, drinking freeze-dried Nescafe. According to her, the gourmet coffee from countries she and her neighbors hailed from was complete nonsense. “That coffee never tasted that good when we were there,” she'd say with the authority of a connoisseur.

“Eddie's moving in,” she said as soon as I entered. Her light brown eyes sparkled with the news.

“He told me, Mami,” I said, thinking I should tread gingerly on the topic. “Before you get ideas in your head, we should talk about this.”

She looked at me sternly, as though I was still six years old.

“Eddie said he went to your office and you weren't nice to him.”

Nice? I thought. After all we'd been through he wanted nice?

Sometimes I looked at Mami and wondered where I came from. She always says everything is God's will, that things will work out for the best. She's so clueless sometimes, it hurts. But that morning, she spoke to me as directly as a partner might have.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said with a hint of sadness, “that this won't work. That he's tried to lead a clean life before and will slip back to the old Eddie. Believe me, I've thought about it. But I'm old, Clemencia. How many more chances am I going to get to help my son? I can't stop believing in him. Not now. Not ever. You'd understand if…”

I knew where she was headed and didn't want to take that ride. Right then, I knew the conversation was pointless. I'd have to find another way.

“Look what I brought you,” I said, handing her the fruit.

“Mis alberiquecoques,” she said, holding the bag of apricots close to her chest. “Gracias, Mija.”

I began storing the vegetables in the refrigerator then rummaged through her cupboard for the ceramic bowl she used for her fruit. My nose was stuck in her bottom shelf when I heard the doorbell ring. She dropped the fruit bag on the counter and rushed for the door.

“It's Eddie,” she said, with the eagerness of a schoolgirl. “And I'm still in my robe.”

“For Crissakes,” I muttered, “if he's going to live here, he's going to see you in your pajamas.”

I spotted the bowl, grabbed it and began making a small mountain of the organic apples, oranges, peaches, and apricots. Then I snatched an apricot and bit into it. It was perfectly ripe. “The fruit is heavenly, Mami,” I called to the other room. “Try one.” I walked into the living room just in time to see Eddie place two small, canvas bags on the floor.

“You need my help?” I asked mechanically.

“Nope, these bags and that box of books is all I got.” If he was still angry with me from the other day, he didn't show it.

Eddie carried his bags into his room and Mami flitted after him. I walked to the box of books on the floor. I didn't think Eddie even read. But perusing, I found a dog-eared copy of the King James' Bible, A Twelve-Step Book, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Prophet, a few books of poetry, and The Confederacy of Dunces. Except for the Bible and Twelve-Step book, all the books he had were ones I had given him years ago. They all looked as if they'd done time along with him. Then I spotted our notebook we'd tried to write together.

“All these years, you've held on to this?” I called out, but he must not have heard.

I carried the box into Eddie's old room. It hadn't changed much. It still had sky blue walls and large posters of Santana's second album and Earth Wind and Fire's first. He looked small in the room, as though the older he got, the less space he occupied.

I wanted to pull out our old notebook, leaf through it and read our old stories, but Eddie and Mami had begun putting his clothes into his dresser. I began feeling like a third wheel.

“Alright then,” I said. “I'll just check Mami's medicines and be off. Let you two new roommates get reacquainted.”

“Gracias Hija,” Mami said absent-mindedly.

I went to the bathroom and began sorting Mami's little pink, gray, and pale green pills into small plastic boxes, each labeled for the day of the week. I snapped them shut then lingered before the coral porcelain sink where for twelve years, since we'd bought that house, I'd brushed my teeth and doused my face with water. I don't know why, but I began thinking about the day I arrived at college. Papi had driven me in his pickup truck. I remembered his thick brown hands carrying the worn, blonde suitcase Eddie and I used in Mexico. I remembered how scared I felt, how I didn't want to go, couldn't see myself leaving Eddie, even though the streets had already claimed him. I closed my eyes and fought off the waft of sadness that eddied just beneath my skin.

When I opened my eyes I looked at my reflection in the mirror, at the lines creeping over once tight skin, at my sensible hairstyle that minimized the gray. I assessed myself the way I might look at the merits and liabilities of a case—the middle-aged lawyer who'd made partner, the miserable wife who'd never be a mother, the daughter who handled all the details in her mother's life, the sister of an ex-junkie. I stopped myself, looked at the plastic pill cases and thought, just make like those tiny boxes and snap out of it. And I clicked myself shut, just like a fan.

I said my goodbyes and heard Mami's faint adiós as I shut the front door.

I kept thinking of calling Mami, but each time I went to dial, I decided against it. Eddie's prodigal son routine could only last so long before the itch to party got to him. One late-night alcohol or drug-induced binge and Mami would come running to me.

Not quite intentionally, I left them alone that week. I had tons of work, including a court appearance on behalf of Mr. Big Bucks. The judge did not like him one bit; his money had no value in her courtroom. I feared my client was going to get his comeuppance and it would be at my expense. I kept negotiating between him, the judge and the neighbor, mediating and cajoling for peace. By the end of the week, I was emotionally and physically spent.

I was so exhausted I slept in the next day and didn't even hear Phillip leave, almost missing the farmer's market. When I got home, I dialed Mami's number but got no answer. Where could she be? It was too early for Bingo. Besides, lately, Mami had been avoiding it; she thought some of the women cheated. Could she have gone to church? She usually didn't go to Mass on Saturdays. Where was Eddie? Asking a question like that was like asking where new latte bars had sprouted around my office. Eddie could be anywhere. I decided to drive there and wait for them.

The house was empty when I arrived and it felt strange to unlock the door, and walk in without Mami's usual greeting. I went to the kitchen, dropped the produce on the counter and noticed a large Corningware dish. Next to it was a package of dried chilies and a faded recipe written in longhand—Mami's recipe for Chicken mole. It reminded me of our family gatherings when we were growing up. How Mami loved to cook. Now, prevented by arthritis, she relied on frozen meals and occasional gourmet dinners from Phillip.

I thought about the family gatherings when we were children, when Eddie and I spilled into the backyard with the neighborhood kids—Eddie leading the crowd in some fantastic game, his stories, jokes, always a gaggle of children and even adults surrounding him. He always needed people so intensely, squeezed the guts out of them, out of everything. But it was never enough.

I wandered into his room. With the single bed and neatly tucked Tartan bedspread, the austere room looked as though it was inhabited by a monk. The only personal items he displayed were the stack of books on his nightstand. I sat on his bed and noticed the little notebook of our Mexico stories. A number of other books lay on top of it so I had to pluck it out carefully so I wouldn't disturb anything.

Flipping through the pages I saw the ridiculously florid cursive I preferred back then. I laughed at the story about the pig that couldn't stop farting and surprised myself at the clever tale about the bewitching owl that told stories beginning at sunset. Leafing through the pages, I found Eddie's sections. What I saw made me hurt. His printing was large and oversized and he'd reversed several of the letters. The S's looked more like Z's, and he'd reversed lots of middle letters, misspelling farm many times. I remembered how he labored over reading and writing, how he often begged me to share my homework with him.

Why hadn't anyone realized how much he struggled? Teachers scratched their heads and asked why he couldn't be more like me? “If he'd only apply himself like Clemencia,” they said, “he might amount to something.” I wondered how much my shine placed him in a harsher light.

I pondered this then randomly pulled out the book I'd given him when I graduated high school. The Prophet. Opening it, I saw my inscription on the front flap—loopy but less ornate than my earlier writing:

To my best friend. I hope you find wisdom in this book. Love always, Clemencia.

The feelings were so natural; they told no lies. Now they stared back at me in accusation. Tears slipped from my eyes.

I heard voices, the front door slam shut and the sounds of crinkly shifting paper bags being carried into the kitchen.

“Clemencia,” I heard Mami calling, “Clemencia, where are you? Funny, her car's out front.”

“Is she in the yard?” I heard Eddie ask.

“There you are,” he said entering the room. “We wanted to surprise you, make your favorite …,” he stopped mid-sentence and looked closely at me. “Sis? What is it?” He sat next to me.

Instinctively, I searched his eyes. If it vexed him, he didn't let on. Instead he gently held my hand. I continued searching, not for a sign of dope in his eyes, but this time, for that geeky, unjaded girl with the florid handwriting. The one who trailed after her brother because she thought sunlight came from him.

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