Day in and day out, Fulgencio toiled and sweat for Buzzy. He kept the grill immaculate, the counters spotless, the tiles beneath the booths devoid of crumbs. He polished the gleaming chrome of the rectangular napkin holders so bright that he could see the very aura of La Virgen radiating from them as the morning rays poured in through the diner’s windows. And he revamped the menu to include all of his favorite Mexican specialties. Business had never been better. Buzzy’s was the only joint west of Highway 35 that served a good taco. And now not just the kids, but the teachers and merchants were coming in for their meals. Buzzy was convinced Fulgencio possessed a magic touch. And nothing had done more to persuade him than his admission to the university.
Every day after breakfast, Fulgencio crossed Guadalupe Street to go to class. And ever since the day the pastor died, he was not the only one to make a mental note to look both ways before stepping off the curb. His classes were more challenging than anything he’d ever studied in La Frontera. Finding himself behind his classmates in subjects like chemistry, biology, and anatomy, he signed up for tutoring as he struggled to make the grades required to maintain his conditional admission. After closing the diner at night, Buzzy would stay up with him at the counter, making fresh coffee and blowing smoke into his bleary eyes. Books splayed out on the countertop. Formulas and equations floating through the air entwined with the smoke that curled around them.
Buzzy wasn’t half bad at math, which was surprising for an old sailor who learned how to count while baking in the galley of a warship during the Great War.
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Fulgencio admitted to his boss as he struggled to solve a practice problem for an upcoming chemistry test.
“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” Buzzy reminded him.
Overwhelmed by school and work, Fulgencio barely had time to think of anything else, but Carolina was always in the back of his mind. On Sundays, he lined up quarters atop the payphone by the diner’s restrooms, and he called her long distance.
“It’s so hard to hear you, but not see you,” Fulgencio told Carolina.
“I miss you so much, Fully,” she replied, her voice trembling. She sounded so small and so far away. It was as if the distance between them had weakened her. She had always come across so lively and bold. Now she seemed melancholy and afraid.
At times when she shared stories about what was going on in La Frontera, he would sense his jealousy bubbling up from that cauldron of fire deep inside him, the mysterious words rushing into his ears like waves of whitewater channeled through treacherous rocks. He yearned to be in all of her stories. And he couldn’t help but fear that someone would take his place.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Carolina assured him. “I might as well be one of the nuns the way I’m behaving.”
The thought of her in a habit broke the spell of his disturbing jealousies and unsettling insecurities, forcing him to laugh.
“It’s not supposed to be a joke!” Carolina chided him. “But I’m glad to hear you laugh. I can imagine your smile and it’s contagious.”
“I can’t wait to be with you,” he repeated at the end of every torturous but vital conversation.
That first winter, he hitchhiked back down, his knees knocking—freezing cold—in the bed of a stranger’s pickup. He went down to see Carolina beneath the stars that lit the steps to her father’s house. There, he held her tight in the damp chill of night, and they kissed beneath the moonlight. Despite the frigid temperature, the Virgencita de Guadalupe willed a single red rose to spring forth on the rosebush beneath Carolina’s window, and Fulgencio plucked it for his love.
Together, they prepared to bring in 1960 in the cozy living room of Mr. Mendelssohn’s well-appointed home, sitting side by side on the crunchy plastic-covered sofa. After dinner, while Carolina and her mother washed the dishes, Mr. Mendelssohn motioned for Fulgencio to follow him into his paneled study. There they sat in his prized leather chairs, sipping Mexican brandy.
“Fulgencio,” Mr. Mendelssohn spoke deliberately, having clearly given great thought to his words. “This year my daughter graduates from high school.”
“Yes, sir. I am very happy for her.”
“Yes, me too,” Mr. Mendelssohn continued. “And then it will be her turn to go to college.”
Fulgencio had known this day might come, but he hadn’t prepared for it. The Mexican girls from Garfield Street rarely finished high school, much less enrolled in college. Sure, Carolina was different. More young women from her social rung were pursuing degrees. She had even mentioned the idea of becoming a Special Education teacher, to help children like Little David, but Fulgencio had never given her plans much thought. Was that wrong of him, he wondered? As he mulled that disturbing possibility, he recalled that whenever Carolina started speaking of her own dreams, that maddening tide of white noise and incomprehensible words drowned out her voice. And since leaving for college, he had been so caught up working toward his goal that he had forgotten the rest of the world—including La Frontera—continued to move forward in his absence.
“I have a proposition to make to you, Fulgencio,” Mr. Mendelssohn said slowly. “If you and Carolina were to decide to marry sometime in the near future, I would be happy to support you both in your academic efforts at the University of Texas at Austin.”
Fulgencio sat quietly, tasting the sweet bitterness of the brandy on his tongue and lips, surveying the dignified study, the elegant desk, the books lining the walls.
Mr. Mendelssohn shifted nervously in his chair, the leather squeaking, “It’s been a difficult year here for Carolina. More than you might understand. I’m sure she’d never want to tell you this, for fear of hurting your feelings, but she’s had to endure some unpleasant comments while holding steadfast to her long-distance commitment to you.”
Fulgencio’s ears pricked up, “Unpleasant? You mean . . . bigoted?”
Mr. Mendelssohn nodded, frowning, “The truth is, there are forces at play that don’t want to see a couple like you together. Given the best of circumstances, you have to know that if you continue to move forward with your relationship, you may face some very real difficulties. Given all of that, I would rather see your bond legitimized before anything . . .” he paused, clearing his throat, “. . . before anything disgraceful might befall her. As long as you are not yet married, people will torment her, they will cling to hope that they can divide you. But once you are married, maybe you can find peace together.”
Fulgencio nodded quietly, listening carefully to his mentor as the sound of the surf and the ancient, unintelligible words swirling through his mind threatened to overtake Mr. Mendelssohn’s rational advice.
“My dream would be for you to join me at the drugstore when you both return with your degrees in hand,” Mr. Mendelssohn proposed.