The Guardians by Ana Castillo

couldn't care less.
    My Sundays are usually a solitary continuation of whatever chores around the house I didn't get to on Saturday so I had no problem saying yes to the outing for whatever reason. And obviously, we were not going to do something dumb like knock on the coyotes’ door again, just check it out, like Miguel said.
    So off we went speeding around the other side of los Franklins, which is where you'll find El Paso—the big city for us in las colonias, where you can count a few thousand, if you include the daily labor brought in from across the border to work on all the ranchos and in the vineyards and hatcheries.
    El Paso is the last stop before México. Like Miguel said, as he talked about it on the way there, “Once upon a time Texas was México.” Back in 1846 the United States invaded its neighbor. “People who are all astounded today at the idea that this country would go and invade another country minding its own business should talk to a Mexican,” Miguel said. “It was all about Manifest Destiny—the WASP philosophy that the U.S. had a right to expand its territories.” Since then, El Paso was delegated to the United States and the city of Juárez to foreign soil. “Twocities that coexist in an arranged and loveless marriage,” Miguel said. I had always thought about la frontera as neglected, but a word like
loveless
would not have occurred to me. Miguel's got all kinds of hardly used words. My new friend is not only a history teacher, he's a writer. He talks like a book. A book with a quiz at the end of every chapter.
    He even had a lesson about the Segundo Barrio, where the coyotes live. While we parked, right in front of the green house, Miguel kept making small talk. The coyotes’ house didn't even look like anyone lived there—it was shut up, with basura piled up in the front yard. “In my class I assign
The Underdogs
by Mariano Azuela,” Miguel said. “Dr. Azuela—he was a physician—was a Villista. He wrote the first novel about the Mexican Revolution while living right in this neighborhood.”
    “I bet Gabo read it,” I said, trying to make myself feel less ignorant. Miguel had the convertible top down and the noonday sun was already upon us. There were flies dancing around our cabezaheads and there was no air. After about a half hour my stomach started growling like I had swallowed a live pit bull and it was trying to get out.
    “You hungry?” he asked.
    “I'm too nervous to think about food,” I lied.
    “Sometimes it helps just to eat,” he said, smiling.
    “In my case, it's cooking,” I said. “Cooking relaxes me. Chopping, cutting, adding a little epazote or ajo, tasting—by the time the comida's done, I'm not even hungry no more. But I feel better.”
    “You're making my mouth water, honey,” he said with a laugh and turning on the engine right quick. “Let's go get us some food.”
    Had he just called me “honey,” I was asking myself when just then the coyotes’ door started to open. My eyes alone must have said, “¡Mira!” because Miguel turned to look. First the door opened wide, then the dirty wrought-iron storm door was pushed out by a stroller. My heart started pounding at the first sign of life we had seen there since that time when we went and actually knocked on the door. My nails clutched Miguel's forearm right through his shirt. He turned to glance at me for a split second, then looked back at the door.
    La coyota made her way out with her two hüerquitos. They were in one of those baby strollers that fit two little kids. It was brand new and the babies themselves were dressed in what looked like new outfits. La coyota, too, was in her Sunday best, a tight, white satin dress and spiky high heels. She came out with her babies like they were on their way to church. Right behind her was her coyote marido, more feo than I rememberedhim and more dressed up, too. He was wearing a shiny suit and brand-new-looking botas. I hated them chatting so happily