...His Wide Mouth Home, Continued
“You all right?”
“Oh. Sure. I guess so.” Jason and I had the same name.
We looked on as the potential drowning victim was lifted onto a stretcher,
then into an ambulance, his mother still holding his feet. As the
ambulance
lumbered away, we stood and watched the crowd fall back. The great pot-bellied state troopers stood around the edge of the circle holding back
the
crowd, fending off the flood. “Nothin'-to-see-here folks. Move on, now.
Nothin'-
here-to-see.” But there had been something to see here. Something
horrible.
Something terrible, fascinating, and disgusting.
We stood like that until 287 walked up. His name was Chuck. “How
you
guys doin'? You all right, Jason? What about you, Jason? Good job here,
fellas. Either of you need a break?” He didn't wait for us to answer. It
was
better just to get to work. I could think about it in my tower.
Chuck gave me a ride back. It was farther than I thought. As I
stepped out
of the truck, he smiled to me. “You guys did a good job. Totally by the
book.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and slammed the door. “Wait! Chuck…” I called
to
him through the crack in the window, “You get a name on that subject?”
“Juan Dellacruz”
“Juan Dellacruz,” I said back. “You think he'll live?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. He's dead.”
I climbed back into the tower. “He doesn't know,” I thought to
myself, “He
doesn't know everything. He's not God.”
But it was in the paper the next morning. Juan Dellacruz was dead
at age
six. Leaving behind his parents, Maria and José Dellacruz of Pasadena,
Texas.
Leaving them alone to drive all the way home, alone in their swim suits.
Juan
Dellacruz had died when he was six years old. I ate my breakfast and
chewed
his name to myself. Juan Dellacruz. Juan Dellacruz. Juan Dellacruz.
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