Home Maker

                The unforgiving sun beat down on the world as I pulled into the low-income, residential area where Miguel Garcia’s family stayed. The houses in this area looked as if they were barely clinging to life. Each house was painted a different horribly loud color, canary yellow, lime green, sky blue, this was probably done to distract from the actual condition of the houses. The horrible colors seemed to be on their last breath as every house’s paint peeled off more and more as the sun tore through the neighborhood. Under the missing paint you could see old rotting wood, or crumbling dry wall. The state of the houses was only a small drop in the bucket when it came to accumulating just what was wrong with this area. Every house had discarded appliances and garbage littering the front lawn. Refrigerators, washing machines, empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and more made each lawn into a mine field.

                As I pulled into the driveway of the house I was looking for I narrowly avoided hitting some unsupervised children playing a form of tag. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like this neighborhood got much traffic, every house that actually had a car in front of it seemed to have the same small toolbox lying next to the front tires. The one difference was the house that in front of me. Miguel’s house was basically the same as everyone else’s around here, a loud royal purple which was peeling off under the scorching temperature. Their front yard had some nice bicycles lying in it, a dryer, and many beer bottles which littered the patchy grass. The main difference of this house was that the car sitting in front of mine looked brand new, if not new than at least made in the past two or three years. When set against the rest of the neighborhood you could pick this house out of all the others just using this very noticeable upgrade.

                I stepped out of my car ashamed of myself as I wondered if it would be safe behind the only other nice car in the neighborhood. Even though this area was poor there wasn’t really anything to suggest that it had a high crime rate, but the two do seem to go hand in hand. I put it out of my head and began to navigate the maze of trash leading to the front door of the house. Before I made it to the front door I saw a slight shift in the few blinds that were still hanging in their window. Before I could knock the door opened, and I was greeted by a small child. I put on my best smile, and got down to his level as I talked.

“You must be Miguel.” I smiled and he looked a bit confused.

“Yeah, are you a mommy friend?” he said innocently.

“Well you could say that. Is she home?”

“MOM!” He yelled and went through the house repeating this mantra. “Mom there is a man at the door! MOM! Mom there is a man at the door! MOM!” A rumbling came through the house followed by Rebeca greeting me. “THANK YOU JUNIOR!” she yelled back as she looked at me. Rebeca was a very pretty, tall, brunette, Caucasian woman, but the bags under her eyes and her disheveled hair told more of a story than anything else. She looked as though she had been cleaning for a while, sweat beads covered her brow and I was hit with the smell of bleach as she held out her hand to greet me.

“You must be Mr. Hall.” She said as I took her hand and shook.

“You can call me Stanley, Mrs. Garcia.”

“Oh well if we’re on such a familiar basis there is no reason why you can’t call me Rebeca.”

“Right.” I smile at her introduction, she was obviously an educated woman, this was going to be an interesting interview.

“Please, come in.” She said walking into the house. I crossed the threshold into the dilapidated building and the slight smell of bleach became more pronounced. The house on the inside was the complete opposite of the house on the outside. Everything was clean, fresh, somewhat new. There was a big HDTV on the wall with paused cartoons on the screen, a nice leather couch and recliner that pointed towards it. The carpet was a clean tan color and their family photos littered the walls. She was most likely preparing for my arrival.

“Please have a seat!” she yelled from the kitchen, followed by the clattering of pans and plates. I chuckle as this might be the first interview at a house with children where I didn’t have to worry about sitting on a hard plastic toy of some sort. As I sat down on the sofa my thoughts betrayed me and I felt a hard piece of plastic jutting into the small of my back. I felt in between the sofa cushions and pulled out a superhero action figure. I tossed it to the ground and grew annoyed. This is why I never had kids.

                Rebeca returned from the kitchen with some chips in a bowl and placed them on the coffee table in front of the couch. She asked “can I get you something to drink?” I politely declined and motioned for her to sit. She sat next to me and took a small handful of chips out of the bowl that she put in front of us. This wasn’t necessarily a great position for an interview. Usually I try to make sure that we are both comfortable and I can easily look into the subject’s eyes if need be. Now I had to pivot my body and tuck my leg in order to face her, and she may not show me the same respect. I leaned into it and switched up my position, setting my recorder next to the bowl of chips. She sees it and doesn’t tense up like most do for some reason. Maybe it was the recent loss making her more docile. She looked over to me, then turned  her body in my direction with her chips in hand. She took a more relaxed position with her back resting against the arm of the couch, and her knees tucked up forming a wall between us.

“So, now you get to interview the wife of a murdered faggot, huh?”

The foul word pierced the air between us and I could tell she had no care for what she said. I’ve heard it enough times over the course of my life that it doesn’t affect my demeanor towards a person. It’s more alarming that her attitude seemed to switch almost without warning. Maybe it was the recorder, and her body language led me to the wrong conclusion. I smiled at the words and say “ Well, yes in a way. I appreciate that you agreed to meet with me.” She shrugged but I knew there was more to this than she led on. There were no shortage of news outlets that wanted a statement from her, but somehow between all of them beating down her door she agreed to meet with me.

Now that she sullied the surroundings with a derogatory statement I was in more of a mindset to get on with this interview without buttering her up.  I turned on my recorder and began.

“What’s your full name?”

“Rebeca Abigail Garcia.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a stay at home mom.”

“But you’re educated right?”

“Yes, stay at home moms could have gone to college as well.”

“Yes of course, what did you major in?”

“Nursing.”

“Why did you elect to stay home with your children instead of pursuing your career.”

She shrugged, and I turned off the recorder at that. “Mrs. Garcia would you like to reschedule?”

She sighed and laid back into the couch. “No, it’s just been a long couple of days,”

“I completely understand, which is why it would be no trouble for me to come back at a more convenient time.”

She looked at me with a question in her eyes. “You know you aren’t like the other reporters that have come here.”

“Well I can afford to be a bit more social, I don’t work on a deadline.”

“Right, I can tell through you’re writing. You seem to have a general care for the people that you talk to. It’s why I agreed to sit down with you today.”

I didn’t really know what she was talking about, I treat all of my interviews with a certain level of respect, but most of them get pissed and walk away from me. “Well, it helps to be kind in my profession. Never know when you’ll need to talk to a person again.”

I could feel whatever was holding her back escape a little bit as she said “Yeah, that makes sense. We can continue. Sorry about the faggot comment before.”

“It’s fine. Wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it, and it won’t be the last. Besides it’s not like you called me a faggot.” My use of the word may make her feel more comfortable. I turned the recorder back on and repeated my question, “So why did you want to stay home instead of going to be a nurse?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I didn’t like our “free options” for baby sitting and I wouldn’t want a stranger looking after my child for a small fortune.”

“By free option you mean…?”

“Our parents. Miguel’s mother would have had them talking purely Spanish by the time they came of age, and my mother would have spoiled the shit out of them.”

“You wouldn’t want your children to be bilingual?”

“They are bilingual now. I thought their grandmother would have just concentrated on Spanish not English.”

“Ahh yes, parents can be a bit extreme I guess. So what made you want to have children in the first place?”

“Well it wasn’t planned. We had Hector right after I graduated with my Bachelors. We were drunk, Miguel forgot to put on a condom, then I became pregnant. Not exactly the fairy tale romance every girl dreams of.”

“But a more common occurrence in today’s day and age.”

She shrugged and I felt her slipping again.

“So you were in a relationship beforehand and decided to get married after you found out you were pregnant?”

“Yeah-“ she stopped as if she had a toxic thought course through her head.

I started talking to get the ball rolling again. “So were there any signs that Miguel may have preferred men before you two got married?”

“You mean did I think the guy I was having sex with would rather me have a dick instead of a vagina?”

“I’m speaking to the you that knows that he’s gay now, not to the girl then. Looking back could you see any signs?”

She grew a bit red. “Maybe.”

This made me think that whatever she was thinking about was sexual. “You don’t have to go into detail.”

“Well it’s nothing big…it’s just that.” She paused trying to find the words. “Our main position during sex was him bending me over.”

“That was the only thing?”

“Well it’s not like I strapped on a dildo and fucked my husband.”

“Was he ever more friendly to some of your male friends than he was to you?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was just guy stuff.”

“Could have been.” I paused “How was he able to afford some of the more luxurious items in your house.”

“You mean how did we end up owning the nicest car in the ghetto?”

“Yeah or why didn’t you try to find a better area if you could afford a car like that.”

“We’re dumb.” I looked at her puzzled and she went on. “We thought that as long as we had nice stuff it didn’t matter what surrounded it. A nice house was never a big issue for us, and I keep up the crap shack that we live in now so it felt less like a crap shack.”

“And now that he’s gone are you thinking of moving somewhere better? Maybe going into your career field?”

“Yeah, the money we got from his life insurance through the military is enough that we can move, and I can job hunt for a little bit before it gets too hard. It’s not exactly a fortune, especially after funeral costs and taxes, but it’s enough.”

“What was your relationship like before all of this happened?”

“It’s hard to explain-“ she paused trying to find the words for a while then seemed to give up, “I mean how would you explain a relationship spanning over a decade?”

“Well, was he away a lot?”

“He worked long hours, and some of the weekends that he would be off were spent with the military.”

“Did you hold a grudge against him for never being home?”

“Not really, I knew that he needed to provide for us so I never let it get in the way when he was home.”

“But you did miss him, right?”

“Well yeah, he was my husband. I would rather him be home with his kids than out slaving away to provide.”

“And you?”

“What?” she said looking generally confused.

“Be at home with his kids and you, right?”

“Yes…” she trails off, trying to find my meaning behind the clarification.

“Ok. What about when he wasn’t working. When he went out to go have fun. Did you hold that against him?”

“Well everyone deserves to unwind. We discussed that he was allowed to go do whatever he wanted on Tuesdays.”

“When did it start to become a day that you could do whatever you wanted?”

“Around the same time.”

“Where would you go?”

“I would go to clubs with old friends.”

“Clubs? Not bars?”

She sighed, “I’m getting a little annoyed by your clarifications.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, tell me why I need to clarify between going to a bar and going to a club.”

“Well a bar generally means that you are going to drink and celebrate. A club usually means something else.”

Her brow furrowed, “Your seriously going to ask me if I was fucking around on him?”

Her tone said everything, this interview might be over if I didn’t choose the my next words carefully. “Look,” I made a show of turning off my recorder to put her at ease. “Do you want to know a secret?” She motioned her hands telling me to go on. “You’re not the first wife I’ve talked to that found out her husband was gay.”

“Wow, that’s your answer?”

“You know what every wife has in common between them?”

She had a full blown scowl on her face now and said “what?” through her teeth.

“Their marriages were falling apart before they found out.” This gave her pause, speaking candidly with her was the right call. She was very much the type of person that wants your cards all out on the table. This may have been a trait she picked up after finding out her husband didn’t have all of his cards on the table. I put my hand on her knee, and she looks at me. “Now, I’m going to turn my recorder back on. If you want to go into this further that’s fine. If you don’t just simply say ‘no comment’ and we’ll move on. I do warn you that this may be a chance for you to tell your side of a bad relationship.” She nodded and I turned on my recorder. The next part of this interview could make or break my article.

“So, to speak openly, were you cheating on him?”

She didn’t speak for a long time, then I felt her shoulders slump and she leaned all the way back showing that she was tearing up. “Yes.” She breathed the word as a tear rolled down her cheek. I did it, I broke through. I stood up and went to her kitchen. I looked around for some sort of napkin and found a roll of paper tolls. I gave them to her and she cut off a square. She blew into it and composed herself to the point that I could understand her through the sobs.

“Why were you cheating on him?”

“He was never home, and when he was home he was ‘too tired’ and we never had sex. Hell, the only reason we had Junior was because I propositioned him for a month straight. When I went to the club my girls always found me a guy that actually wanted to touch me. I deserve that much. I sacrificed my career, my body, everything for this family. I deserve to be wanted.”

“Absolutely.” I let her cry it out until she was done. I rubbed her back as she cried it all out, she stopped after a few more minutes becoming completely composed. The crying drained her a bit, she seemed more exhausted but she also looked as though she was in a better place.

“Do you want to continue at a later date?” I said feigning concern.

“No,” she blew her nose, “might as well get this over with.”

“Did you ever expect he was doing the same?”

“Yes, that’s how I justified it to myself.”

“Just never thought it would be with guys.”

“He had a certain machismo about him that made it highly unlikely. I figured he was fucking some other chick on Tuesdays than became too tired to come home and do the same to me.”

“You never thought to follow him on one of his days out?”

“No, that would have just made it all too real.”

“What was your end game with all of this?”

“I guess to just keep fucking around on each other until one of us got caught.”

“What would have happened if either of you got caught?”

“Divorce, I go to live with my mom, I fight for the kids and alimony, I get back into my career field.”

“Is that any different than what is happening now?”

“Yeah, now he doesn’t have to pay for his mistake.”

“Some might say he already did.”

She paused and sank, “The world may have gotten it’s pound of flesh, but I’m still not satisfied.”

“Was their ever a moment where you thought of taking that pound of flesh instead leaving it to some karmic balance?”

“Did I ever want to kill him for what he was putting me through?”

“More or less.”

“Sure. I wanted to wring his fucking neck for putting me through that torture. I could never do it though. I always pictured my kids face if they found out their father died.”

“Was it like imagined? I notice I haven’t seen Hector anywhere.”

“He’s at his grandmother’s, on Miguel’s side.”

“And…”

“And?”

“And how has this been effecting them?”

“It’s awful, their father just died.”

I could feel her rage returning so I rephrased. “Yes, they’ve had to go through something no small child should ever have to go through, but I mean the special attention to this death. The media swarming your house, the gossip online, etc. How has this been effecting them?”

“I try to keep Hector offline for the most part but he still manages to see things. I sent him to his grandmother’s house because she has no internet connection and the media don’t seem to be hounding her yet. Right now he is getting harassed at school by bullies. I’ve thought about pulling him out but there are only a few weeks left in this semester.”

“Is that why you are thinking about moving?”

“For the most part. I’m also tired of living in this crap shack.”

“And what about your youngest?”

“He doesn’t quite get the gay stuff, he just knows that his daddy is gone and won’t come back. He’s been watching t.v. and sleeping a lot. I was thinking about getting a therapist involved.”

“Do you feel any sense of responsibility for this?”

“I don’t know, that’s something for my future psychologist to answer. I feel like I should have just ended us a long time ago. Maybe things would have turned out better. Maybe he wouldn’t have been killed and he could have just lived his life. Maybe we could have both gotten what we wanted if one of us would have thrown in the towel. I know it’s not all on me obviously, but it’s hard not to accept some of the blame here. Would he still be alive now if we had admitted that we were not in love? Could be. I try not to dwell on it.”

I turn off the recorder and pick myself up off the couch. She leads me to the door and we shake hands. I feel the energy that I felt when I first came to the house was completely drained. She may have been more honest with me than she had been with herself. I smile and say “Thank you for your time.’

She nods back and says “of course.”

I think about walking away but I didn’t want to ruin the connection so I tried to leave on some sort of supportive comment. “for the record,” I say and she looks up to meet my eyes, “You know you are allowed to feel this way, right?”

“What way?”

“Angry, betrayed.”

“Am I?” She says looking at me more sternly, “I mean if he were to just be cheating on me with dudes instead of dead would I still be allowed to feel this way?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t feel like you’re readers are going to feel that way.”

“Just because he was a confused gay man doesn’t give him leeway to do whatever he wants. Yes, he may have not known how to tell you. Yes, it is harder for minority races to come out than it is for everyone else. Yes, he may have been doing what he thought was right by his children. It still doesn’t give him the excuse to get away completely unscathed. Some people may sympathize with him, but if you ask me he should have bit the bullet years ago instead of putting you all through this.”

She smiled at this and nodded. I turned around a little more satisfied that she may feel some sort of peace from being allowed to be mad at him by another gay man. Whether I believed anything I just said was irrelevant. I put her out of my mind, and steeled myself for my next interview. His commander for the National Guard. I got in my car and breathed a heavy sigh as I thought of all the ways my next interview could go wrong.