Read Part 1 of Hope Eternal

Recollections from an evening in the west side of Laredo, TX
Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Isabel reached for her scorecard and placed it on top of the spiral notebook. Hurriedly, she began filling in the blanks. She listed the date, the opponent, and the starting pitchers while listening intently as the announcers described the weather conditions on the field. “Warm and breezy, 85°, with steady 10-15 MPH wind in from center,” she jotted down in the upper right-hand corner of the scorecard. They never get the temperature right. I think their thermometer is in the beer cooler. It’s at least 95° right now. Heck, it was 107° at 3 p.m.

She glanced at the television as Calzones’ starting pitcher Roberto Rosado went through his warm-up pitches while the announcers detailed the defensive alignment for the Calzones. Nothing new there, she thought to herself. García is probably using the same basic lineup he has for the last two weeks. She continued writing as the announcers detailed the London batting order. Beyond Wen and Carter, there’s just not much there that scares me. Germán is only a shell of his former self. His body has taken a beating the last few years.

Isabel grabbed another chip as Rosado stood on the mound and looked in for the sign. Ball one. With that, the game was underway. “Throw strikes, kid,” she said, looking intently at the television.

Orlando Germán served Rosado’s next pitch into short left field for a leadoff single. “Not the way to get started,” she mumbled as she made the first entry onto the scorecard. The next batter flied out to right field, bringing up Wen. Isabel stared at the television. “Nothing up, keep the ball down,” she said, somehow hoping Rosado could hear her telepathically. Rosado battled Wen to a 2-2 count and appeared to have the Underground’s young power hitter off balance. “That’s it, keep the ball down.”

Wen lined the 2-2 pitch into the right field gap, splitting the outfielders as it rolled to the wall. “That wasn’t down,” she said as she watched Germán round third and head home with the first run of the game. Again, Isabel made the entries on the scorecard.

That brought Carter to the plate. Isabel watched in horror as he lined a screamer right back at Rosado, who somehow managed to get his glove in front of his face just in time to snare the liner for the out before it surely would have taken his head off. Whew!We don’t need to lose another pitcher. She marked the scorecard. As her eyes shifted back to the television, she saw the trainer coming onto the field to look at Rosado. The announcers began speculating that he might have tweaked “something” as he stumbled backwards after catching the line drive. Then began the ritual of the replay, in which the announcers watched at least four different camera angles multiple times trying to determine what that “something” he tweaked might have been. The announcers also noted that manager Rafael García was now out to the mound to check on his pitcher and that someone was taking off their jacket in the bullpen. Why do relievers wear jackets when it’s 95°? This is Laredo.

Isabel turned to the computer to check the chatter on her blog. She almost instantly began typing.

Yeah, I know. We were hoping for 5 innings; he isn’t even going to make it to the 5^th batter. Looks like another long night.

She refreshed the page to see a few more comments. Isabel’s fingers raced across the keyboard with another quick reply.

It’s going to have to be Torres; he’s the long man. Let’s hope we get three out of him; that’s the most we can ask for. The rest of the boys in the pen are sucking wind right now.

Isabel turned back to the television in tme to see Rosado hand the ball to García. There was a smattering of boos from the hardened crowd at Elysian Fields as Rosado strolled toward the dugout with his head down. Augusto Torres him jogging in from the bullpen. The jeers grew louder as García handed Torres the ball, patted Torres on the behind, and then jogged off towards the dugout. I still don’t get the whole butt-patting thing. It really seems sort of weird.

Rosa appeared in the doorway of her daughter’s room and entered casually. She sat on the edge of the bed, at the near end closest to Isabel. “How’s it going?” she asked Isabel.

“Well, four batters into the game, we are down a run and our starting pitcher has left the game because he tweaked something.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “But other than that, I would say we have the Underground just where we want them.”

“Okay, I’ll come back and join you in a little bit,” she told her daughter. “I need to go do a few things in the yard. Then I’ll bring Roger in and we will come watch with you awhile.”

“Sounds good, Mommy,” Isabel replied. “Do you need any help in the yard?” she asked, knowing full well her mother would not dream of taking her away from the baseball game.

Rosa reached over and stroked her daughters long black hair. “No, mija, I can handle it,” she told her only daughter. Isabel recorded the final out of the inning on her scorecard as her mother spoke. Isabel then leaned forward to kiss her mother, while Rosa leaned her cheek towards her daughter. It was the ritual, their bond. Though they hardly noticed it, neither would dare leave the other’s presence, even just to go into the yard, without having shared that one simple yet tender gesture.

“Be back in just a bit,” Rosa said as she rose from the bed to leave the room.

“Okay, Mommy” replied Isabel as she watched her mother leave the room. The television played through the usual sporting event commercials. Beer. Pickup trucks. The local sports bar. Isabel turned to the computer and scanned the scores on the PEBA website. Charleston had hung a three-spot on New Jersey in the first, and there was trouble brewing for Gloucester with Florida batting in the bottom of the first. Isabel grabbed a chip and then set it back, remembering she would need to be ready to fill in the Calzones’ lineup portion of her card when the bottom of the first started. She reached for a baby wipe to clean her hand. Isabel always had baby wipes handy nearby. Beyond her affinity for cleanliness and organization, there is no way that she would want a grease smudge on her treasured scorecards.

Rosa Padilla made her way back up the hallway and across the house to the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator before unlatching the deadbolt and exiting the house into the back yard. As she left the comfort of the air conditioned house, the Laredo heat immediately made her feel as if she had stepped into a blast furnace. It was nearly 8 p.m. on a late August evening. The sun was just meeting the horizon with its typical south Texas evening fanfare. Much like every night, it was a gorgeous blaze of orange, pink, purple, and every shade of color in between. But the setting of the sun rarely means any relief from the heat of the day. Not in Laredo.

Rosa walked across the small patio and surveyed the yard. It wasn’t much. It certainly wasn’t what she wanted. Not this yard, not this house. Not for her – certainly not for her daughter. But for the moment, it was all they had.

The yard was mostly a dust bowl, with a patchwork of weeds here and there. A few scrawny bushes lined the chain link fence along the rear of the property, parallel to the alley. The one bright spot was the large oak to the east side of the yard, under which she had made a pen for Roger. The gate to the pen was open, as it always was. Roger wasn’t going anywhere and there was no real need to fence him in, but much as she created a comfortable environment for herself and her daughter in their home (simple as it was), so she afforded Roger the same consideration. The pen was his space, at least during the day. It contained a doghouse placed under the large oak whose shade provided at least some degree of relief from the sweltering Laredo heat.

Rosa made her way to the pen. Roger emerged from the relative comfort of his doghouse and lazily meandered out to greet her. Roger was never in a hurry. Frankly, Rosa felt Roger was a bit of a slacker as far as dogs go. But Isabel loved Roger, and so Rosa loved him, too.

Rosa reached down and patted Roger on the top of the head. Much as she and Isabel had their ritual kiss, she and Roger shared the ritual pat on the head. Of course, the pat on the head was generally followed by a wet lick of the hand, which tended to gross Rosa out. It had become something of game for her to see if she could quickly move her hand away before getting licked. Only Roger was wise to the game and was often quick enough to get his lick in anyway. Not always, but often enough. But it didn’t end there. If Rosa managed to get her hand out of the way, Roger would bark at her, and the only way to calm him down would be to put her hand back so Roger could lick it. The little ritual was a small piece of entertainment for Rosa, and for Roger as well, she supposed, even if Roger seemed at times less than amused.

“We’ll go inside in a minute boy,” she told the family’s longtime pet. Roger had already headed for the kitchen door, which Rosa had naturally closed when she stepped outside. Roger had been with them a long time. Since… She closed her thoughts. Roger has been with us forever, she told herself.

Rosa began walking around the yard, taking a visual inventory. Roger stood by the kitchen door, looking somewhat impatient. Eventually he walked back towards Rosa and followed her as she slowly walked the yard.

Rosa did the best she could with the humble surroundings. Despite the dust, the patchwork of weeds, and the scrawny bushes, she endeavored to keep things clean. Any debris or garbage that might be blown into the yard by the wind, Rosa collected on a daily basis and deposited in the garbage. She longed to have a nicer yard in a nicer neighborhood, immaculately landscaped with green grass, lush shrubbery and flowers. Yes, most of all, flowers. But real world responsibilities often interfered with her desires, and flowers in her yard was no different from any other desire. The flowers would have to wait.

On this day, Rosa found a couple of loose leaves and a small bubblegum wrapper, as well. She gathered them up. Fortunately, the wind had been kind and most of the garbage that was always strewn about the alley at the rear of the property had managed to remain on the other side of the chain link fence.

Rosa walked to the garbage can and deposited the handful of litter and leaves. She then walked to the west side of the house and proceeded up the driveway towards the front of the property, with Roger tagging along somewhat lazily a few paces behind. She checked to make sure that her vehicle was locked, checking the doors on both sides before continuing to the front. The next task was to check the gate at the end of the driveway to make sure it was locked. In this neighborhood, you dare not leave a gate, door or window unlocked. Nor did you leave anything of value outside, not even in a locked yard. Not in this neighborhood.

Rosa tugged at the chain on the gate. It held; the lock was still secured. She warily scanned the length of the Victoria Street in both directions. It was a typical evening on this street in the old neighborhood on Laredo’s deteriorating west side. The neighborhood itself was a mere relic, a ghostly reminder of the past. At one time, this neighborhood was considered the center of Laredo, but that was before NAFTA had turned Laredo from a small border town into a bustling center for international trade. Nearby were the railroad tracks. Along many of the streets near the tracks were a mixture of residential homes, warehouses and industrial sites, most of which were now either empty or underutilized. Many businesses had opted to relocate to modern industrial parks such as those along Mines Road, Killam Industrial Boulevard, or on the north side of the Bob Bullock Loop.

By this point in the evening, most residents had already retreated inside behind their locked doors and barred windows. They had retreated from the reality of the decaying neighborhood, unaware of the reality of their own imprisonment.

A few of the local cholos, most of whom were faces she recognized as regulars in the neighborhood, were hanging around in front of a house across the street. Just like every night. Rosa and Isabel kept much to themselves, but Rosa was always acutely aware of the faces around them. One of the cholos nodded to Rosa and held up a peace sign with two fingers. Another ritual, though one with which she was far less comfortable. She smiled warily and held up the two finger peace sign. She had no idea why the two had the same ritual every time they saw each other, but Rosa felt it best not to risk provoking the young man. The cholo nodded and smiled. Then, as always, his attention returned to his friends, and Rosa returned to checking her yard.

Despite her uneasiness with the ritual, Rosa couldn’t have been safer. Unbeknownst to Rosa, the cholo had put the word out that nobody touched that girl, nobody touched that lady, and nobody touched that property. Not ever. They were under his protection, and in this area of Laredo, that was the best protection anyone could have.

Rosa continued her check of the front yard, finding it mostly clear of debris. She picked up a couple of stray leaves, and made a mental note that she needed to rake and sweep up the acorns that were falling from the large oak that shaded the entire front of the house. Maybe Saturday, she told herself. She checked the bars on the windows of the front of the house, giving a tug at each set of bars to make sure they were still firmly attached. She then checked the outer screen door to the front entryway to make sure it was closed and locked. Rosa would check the inner door when she returned inside.

The last task was to check the gate at the end of the walkway that led to the front door. Rosa again tugged at a chain. Satisfied that it was securely locked, Rosa made a last scan of the narrow street. She felt reasonably comfortable. Everything appeared to be as normal as could be on this street in a crumbling neighborhood on Laredo’s west side.

Rosa began walking to the rear of the house, back up the driveway, with Roger still lazily following. Her nightly ritual complete, Rosa briefly felt sorry for herself, and more so, sorry for Isabel. How she wished she could move Isabel to one of the new neighborhoods on the north side near the loop. Stop it, she told herself. Rosa hated feeling sorry for herself. No, she was proud and she would get through this. She could barely afford this place. Her job at a third-party logistics firm paid but a meager salary. Not only could she not afford a better place, she could not afford self-pity. Rosa was all Isabel had, and Isabel was all Rosa had. No, feeling sorry for myself is not an option. Besides, I worked for this. It might not have been much, but at least Rosa could take pride in having earned what she did have all on her own.

Rosa and Roger reached the back door. As Rosa opened the door, Roger rudely pushed his way past her. The dog bolted for the rear of the house, looking for Isabel. All part of another ritual, one in which Roger would rush to Isabel, find her sitting at her desk, stand up and put his head against her chest. Without fail, the same ritual every night.