The Best American Short Stories 2013 by Elizabeth Strout Read Free Book Online Page B

:
We
Americans? But I lived in this country until I was eighteen!
SANTOS
(talking over him):
Everything you Americans say is very funny. Nothing impresses us unless it lasts five hundred years. We can’t even begin to discuss the greatness of a thing until it has survived that long.
(It’s not clear whom Santos is addressing. Still, there’s a murmur of approval. His eyes close. He’s a teacher again, in the classroom.)
This town is great. The ocean is great. The desert and the mountains beyond. There are some ruins in the foothills, which you surely know nothing about. They are undoubtedly, indisputably great; as are the men who built them, and their culture. Their blood, which is our blood, and even yours, though unfortunately . . . how shall I put it?
Diluted
. Not great: the highway, the border. The United States. Where do you live? What’s that place called?
NELSON : Oakland, California.
SANTOS : How old?
NELSON : A hundred years?
SANTOS : Not great. Do you understand?
NELSON : I’m sure I don’t. If I may: those five-hundred-year-old ruins, for example. You’ll notice I’m using your word, Profe.
Ruins
. Am I wrong to question whether they’ve lasted?
     
Television: the ruins
.
     
SANTOS
(taking his seat again):
You would have failed my class.
NELSON : What a shame. Like these gentlemen?
SANTOS : Nothing to be proud of. Nothing at all.
NELSON
(transparently trying to win them over):
I’d be in good company.
ERICK : Cheers.
JAIME : Cheers.
MANUEL
(reluctantly):
Cheers.
COCHOCHO
(stern, clearing his throat):
I did not fail that class or any class. It’s important you know this. I didn’t want to mention it, but I am deputy mayor of this town. I once ran for Congress. I could have this bar shut down tomorrow.
ERICK/JAIME
(together, alarmed):
You wouldn’t!
COCHOCHO : Of course not! Don’t be absurd!
(pause)
But I
could
. I am a prominent member of this community.
ERICK : Don’t be fooled by his name.
COCHOCHO : It’s a nickname! A term of endearment! These two? Their nicknames are vulgar. Unrepeatable. And your father? What was your nickname, Manuel?
MANUEL : I didn’t have one.
COCHOCHO : Because no one bothered to give him a name. He was cold. Distant. Arrogant. He looked down on us even then. We knew he’d leave and never come back.
     
Manuel shrugs. Cochocho, victorious, smiles arrogantly
.
     
NELSON : Here he is! He’s returned!
SANTOS : How lucky we are. Blessed.
COCHOCHO : Your great-uncle’s old filling station? It’s mine now. Almost. I have a minority stake in it. My boy works there. It’ll be his someday.
     
As if reminded of his relative wealth, Cochocho orders another round. No words, only gestures. Again Celia arrives at the table, bottles in hand, as Elena looks on, resigned. This time all the men, including Nelson’s father, ogle the girl. She might be pretty after all. She hovers over the table, leaning in so that Nelson can admire her. He does, without shame. Television: a wood-paneled motel room, a naked couple on the bed. The window is open. They’re fucking
.
     
SANTOS
(to Manuel):
Don’t take this the wrong way. The primary issue . . . What Cochocho is trying to say, I think, is that some of us . . . We feel abandoned. Disrespected. You left us. Now your son is talking down to us.
NELSON
(amused):
Am I?
MANUEL : Is he?
SANTOS : We don’t deserve this, Manuel. You don’t remember!
(to the group)
He doesn’t remember!
(to Nelson)
Your father was our best student in a generation. The brightest, the most promising. His father—your grandfather, God rest his soul—had very little money, but he was well liked, whereas your great-uncle . . . We tolerated Raúl. For a while he was rich and powerful, but he never gave away a cent. He saw your father had potential, but he wanted him to help run the filling station, to organize his properties, to invest. These were his ambitions. Meanwhile, your father, I believe, wanted to be—
NELSON : A professor of