The Faith Healer of Olive Avenue by Manuel Munoz

Author:Manuel Munoz
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2007-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

SEÑOR X

LAS PALMAS IS THE only new building Gold Street has seen in years. On this side of town, there has not been much new construction in a long time. Over on the north side, the town is stretching its way toward Fresno, swallowing up farmland sold by farmers who claimed that the soil was too acidic. But that’s a lie. The peaches, the nectarines, were growing just fine. Then one foggy day in January, I drove past the northern fringe of town and saw acres and acres of fruit trees pulled up, the trunks and branches gathered in piles. January: there were no leaves, no buds, just the bare dead trees, and as soon as the sun came to stay and the county waived air-quality restrictions for a few days, the farmers were allowed to burn their tree piles. That’s greed for you: now there are beautiful, beautiful houses up there. Las Palmas, by comparison, isn’t really that great. But since it’s on this side of town, it’s something else.

Las Palmas is two stories, like a good motel. My apartment is on the second floor and my bedroom window faces Treviño’s backyard. Ever since I moved back to my neighborhood a few months ago, I’ve watched him out there. Like a lot of backyards in the neighborhood, it’s full of junk: car parts, smashed aluminum cans for recycling, tire rims, old pieces of lumber. Junk has been back there for as long as I can remember. Treviño hunts through his treasures every day, moving slowly. Sometimes he inspects the cactus ridged against the fence and then produces a knife from his back pocket, slicing a heart for lunch. I remember him from when I was a kid and lived in my real house down the street, not in this apartment. Treviño’s an old, old man now, but even with his wife dead many years, look at the things Treviño has: a lot of kids, even if only three of them come to visit him regularly; his own house, shoddy as it is; a perfectly restored Cadillac from the sixties, the envy of the entire neighborhood.

I’ve seen him drive his Cadillac, very slowly, as if he were king of the street. He always has the windows rolled down, and the neighborhood kids stop their playing to watch him go by. Treviño waves at them and they wave back, gathering to follow his car like a royal entourage. I used to wave at him, too. The black paint was and still is perfect, shiny and waxed, the taillights glimmering sharp even in the daylight.

Treviño’s getting old, though: the Cadillac collects a little dust because he doesn’t drive as much, and I know this makes him crazy. A neighborhood kid comes down the street every couple of days to wash it with rags and a bucket of soapy water. From the bedroom window, I can see Treviño supervising the kid, admonishing him, shaking his head, but he doesn’t have much choice. I know it pains him to see his car lose out daily to the elements of the neighborhood.

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