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Stories
by Ruben Reyes
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Tomas's tiny hands held the bag wide open for his mother. Round and round she turned each mango, inspecting every bit of its reddish orange skin. If the mango was imperfect, she'd throw it into the red basket at the foot of the table, her
frustration growing with each toss. They needed ten impeccable mangoes. Tomas's favorites were the mangoes with wormholes because Mami would cut out the ugly bits and let him eat the rest. At high season, he'd sneak fresh ones, even though his parents and cousin forbade it. No one would find the pit in the brush that lined the path to the mango tree.
That afternoon, Tomas brought home a perfect batch; no worms, bruises, or unwanted holes left by hungry birds. Each mango was firm but would be perfectly ripe when they arrived at their destination. Delicately, as if handling diamonds, Mami took each mango and put it in the crate. A cushion padded the bottom, and the sides were lined with felt. She packed the mangoes close together, placing folded rags between them to ensure they wouldn't shift in transit.
At 10:30 P.M., Papi carried the crate into the passenger seat of his 2001 Toyota Camry, as he did every night. His shoulders, carefully shaped by hours of farmwork, peeked out from his thin white tank top. Tomas watched his muscles flex and relax like the bubbling creek he crossed on the way to Neto's mango tree. Papi turned on the ignition and made the seventy-five-minute drive from Guazapa to the airport.
Instead of pulling up to the front of the terminals, where family members kissed travelers bearing cardboard boxes full of cheap clothing, Papi went to the back of the airport. In a year and a half of deliveries, he'd never brought a box with a missing or stowaway fruit. A flight attendant counted them anyway, though he profusely apologized. He didn't doubt that Papi was a trustworthy man, but he had orders to follow.
Papi signed a contract saying he'd delivered the fruit and, shortly after, the ten mangoes were placed onto a wheelchair and pushed into the airport. By the time Papi had returned to his little home in Guazapa, the mangoes were strapped into an economy seat on a five-hour flight to Los Angeles International Airport. Neto always bought all three seats in a row, so the mangoes could travel undisturbed.
Neto's boyfriend hated mangoes. It hadn't always been that way, but after so many mango smoothies, meats served with a mango reduction sauce, and unevenly chopped pieces of mango in his salads, the mere sight of the fruit angered Steven. Once, at the Whole Foods that had replaced a shop specializing in Central American imports, he purposefully knocked over a stack of boxed mangoes. It was all caught on camera and the manager forced him to pay for everything under the threat of arrest, which made Steven despise mangoes even more.
He would never tell Neto how deeply his hatred went. When he admitted he was getting sick of mangoes, Neto had been incredibly understanding, cutting back on the flavor whenever he cooked for them. But still, the fruit's mere presence bothered Steven, so much so that he changed his work schedule to leave their apartment before Neto got back from the airport. He couldn't stand the sight of Neto cutting up his breakfast.
Still, he loved Neto for many reasons. Neto was generous with his time and attention, a generosity he extended to Steven and his own parents in equal measure. They'd met a decade earlier, before either of them lived in Los Angeles, at one of those fancy northeastern universities where tuition was higher than the national median income. Neto came from modest money and Steven from nearly none, which meant that they didn't run in the same circles: different parties, different extracurriculars, different friends. On their fifth date, they realized they'd attended the same Scarface-themed party as sophomores. It was the only social event they remembered being at together. "Impossible to believe I missed a face as handsome as yours in that crowd," Neto had said.
Excerpted from There Is a Rio Grande in Heaven by Ruben Reyes. Copyright © 2024 by Ruben Reyes. Excerpted by permission of Mariner Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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