Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

  There was something very serene about that trip back home.

  Outside of the car, there was an awful storm. Inside of the car, it was warm. I didn’t feel threatened by the angry, unpredictable weather. Somehow, I felt safe and protected.

  One of the times I fell asleep, I started dreaming. I think I could dream on command. I dreamed my father and my brother and I were all having a cigarette. We were in the backyard. My mother and Dante were at the door. Watching.

  I couldn’t decide if the dream was a good dream or a bad dream. Maybe a good dream because when I woke I wasn’t sad. Maybe that’s how you measured whether a dream was good or bad. By the way it made you feel.

  “Are you thinking of the accident?” I heard my mother’s soft voice.

  “Why?”

  “Does the rain ever remind you of the accident?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you and Dante talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “We just don’t.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you two talked about everything.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re just like everyone else in the world.” I knew it wasn’t true. We weren’t like everyone else in the world.

  When we drove up to the house, it was pouring. Thunder and lightning and wind, the worst storm of the summer season. My dad and I got soaked taking the suitcases back into the house. My mom turned on the lights and put on some tea as my father and I changed into dry clothes.

  “Legs hates thunder,” I said. “It hurts her ears.”

  “I’m sure she’s sleeping right next to Dante.”

  “Yeah, guess so.” I said.

  “Miss her?”

  “Yeah.” I pictured Legs lying at Dante’s feet, whimpering at the sound of the thunder. I pictured Dante kissing her, telling her everything was all right. Dante who loved kissing dogs, who loved kissing his parents, who loved kissing boys, who even loved kissing girls. Maybe kissing was part of the human condition. Maybe I wasn’t human. Maybe I wasn’t part of the natural order of things. But Dante enjoyed kissing. And I suspected he liked masturbating too. I thought masturbating was embarrassing. I didn’t even know why. It just was. It was like having sex with yourself. Having sex with yourself was really weird. Autoeroticism. I’d looked it up in a book in the library. God, I felt stupid just thinking about these things. Some guys talked about sex all the time. I heard them at school. Why were they so happy when they talked about sex? It made me feel miserable. Inadequate. There was that word again. And why was I thinking about these things in the middle of a rainstorm, sitting at the kitchen table with my mother and father? I tried to bring my thoughts back into the kitchen. Where I was. Where I lived. I hated the thing of living in my head.

  My mother and father were talking and I sat there, trying to listen to their conversation but not really listening at all, just thinking about things. My mind just wandering around. And then my thoughts fell on my brother. They always fell there. It was like my favorite parking spot in the desert. I just sort of drove there all the time. I wondered what it would have been like if my brother had been around. Maybe he could have taught me stuff about being a guy and what guys should feel and what they should do and how they should act. Maybe I would be happy. But maybe my life would be the same. Maybe my life would be even worse. Not that I had a bad life. I knew that. I had a mom and dad and they cared, and I had a dog and a best friend named Dante. But there was something swimming around inside me that always made me feel bad.

  I wondered if all boys had that darkness inside them. Yes. Maybe even Dante.

  I felt my mother’s eyes on me. She was studying me. Again.

  I smiled at her.

  “I’d ask you to tell me what you’re thinking, but I don’t think you’d tell me.”

  I shrugged. I pointed at my father. “Too much like him, I guess.”

  That made my father laugh. He looked tired but at that moment, as we sat at the kitchen table, there was something young about him. And I thought that maybe he was changing into someone else.

  Everyone was always becoming someone else.

  Sometimes, when you were older, you became someone younger. And me, I felt old. How can a guy who’s about to turn seventeen feel old?

  It was still raining when I went to sleep. The thunder was far away and the soft sound of it was more like a distant whisper.

  I slept. I dreamed. It was that dream again, that dream that I was kissing someone.

  When I woke, I wanted to touch myself. “Shaking hands with your best friend.” That was Dante’s euphemism. He always smiled when he said that.

  I took a cold shower instead.

  Two

  FOR SOME REASON I HAD A FUNNY FEELING IN THE PIT of my stomach. Not just the dream thing, the kissing thing, the body thing, and the cold shower. Not just that. There was something else that didn’t feel right.

  I walked over to Dante’s house to get Legs. I was dressed for a run in the cool morning. I loved the dampness of the desert after all the rains.

  I knocked at the front door.

  It was early, but not too early. I knew Dante was probably still asleep, but his parents would be awake. And I wanted Legs.

  Mr. Quintana answered the door. Legs rushed out and jumped up at me. I let her lick my face, which is not something I let her do very often. “Legs, Legs, Legs! I missed you.” I kept petting her and petting her, but when I looked up, I noticed that Mr. Quintana looked—he looked, I don’t know—there was something in his face.

  I knew something was wrong. I looked at him. I didn’t even ask the question.

  “Dante,” he said.

  “What?”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  “What? What happened? Is he okay?

  “He’s pretty beat up. His mother stayed with him overnight.”

  “What happened?”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee, Ari?”

  Legs and I followed him into the kitchen. I watched as Mr. Quintana poured me a cup of coffee. He handed me the cup and we sat across from each other. Legs placed her head on Mr. Quintana’s lap. He kept running his hand over her head. We sat there in the quiet, me watching him. I waited for him to talk. Finally, he said, “How close are you and Dante?”

  “I don’t understand the question,” I said.

  He bit his lip. “How well do you know my son?”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “I know that, Ari. But how well do you know him?”

  He sounded impatient. I was playing dumb. I knew exactly what he was asking. I felt my heart beating against my chest. “Did he tell you?”

  Mr. Quintana shook his head.

  “So you know,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything.

  I knew I had to say something. He looked lost and afraid and sad and tired and I hated that, because he was such a kind and good man. I knew I had to say something to him. But I didn’t know what. “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay? What, Ari?”

  “When you left for Chicago, Dante told me that someday he wanted to marry another boy.” I looked around the room. “Or at least kiss another boy. Well, actually, I think he said that in a letter. Or maybe he said some of that after he got back.”

  He nodded. He stared into his cup of coffee.

  “I think I knew,” he said.

  “How?”

  “The way he looks at you sometimes.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at the floor.

  “But why didn’t he tell me, Ari?”

  “He didn’t want to disappoint you. He said—” I stopped and then looked away from him. But then I made myself stare back into his black, hopeful eyes. And even though I felt I was betraying Dante, I knew I had to talk him. I had to tell him. “Mr. Quintana—”

  “Call me Sam.”

  I looked at him. “Sam,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “He’s crazy about you. I guess you know that.?
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  “If he’s so crazy about me, then why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Talking to dads isn’t that easy. Even you, Sam.”

  He sipped on his coffee nervously.

  “He was so happy that you were going to have another baby. And not just because he was going to be a big brother. And he said, ‘He has to be a boy and he has to like girls.’ That’s what he said. So that you could have grandchildren. So that you could be happy.”

  “I don’t care about grandchildren. I care about Dante.”

  I hated watching the tears falling down Sam’s face.

  “I love Dante,” he whispered. “I love that kid.”

  “He’s lucky,” I said.

  He smiled at me. “They beat him,” he whispered. “They beat my Dante all to hell. They cracked some ribs, they punched his face. He has bruises everywhere. They did that to my son.”

  It was a strange thing to want to hold an adult man in your arms. But that’s what I wanted to do.

  We finished our coffee.

  I didn’t ask any more questions.

  Three

  I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO TELL MY MOM AND DAD. NOT that I knew anything. I knew that someone, maybe several someones, had beat Dante so badly that he’d wound up in a hospital. I knew that it had something to do with another boy. I knew that Dante was at Providence Memorial Hospital. That’s all I knew.

  I came home with Legs, who went berserk when I brought her home. Dogs didn’t censor themselves. Maybe animals were smarter than people. The dog was so happy. My mom and dad too. It felt good to know that they loved the dog, that they let themselves do that. And somehow it seemed that the dog helped us be a better family.

  Maybe dogs were one of the secrets of the universe.

  “Dante’s in the hospital,” I said.

  My mother was studying me. So was my father. They both wore a question mark on their faces.

  “Someone jumped him. He’s hurt. He’s in the hospital.”

  “No,” she said. “Our Dante?” I wondered why she’d said, “Our Dante.”

  “Was it a gang thing?” my father whispered.

  “No.”

  “It happened in some alley,” I said.

  “In the neighborhood?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  They were waiting for me to tell them more. But I couldn’t. “I think I’ll go,” I said.

  I didn’t remember leaving the house.

  I didn’t remember driving to the hospital.

  Next thing I knew I was standing in front of Dante, looking at his puffed up, punished face. He was unrecognizable. I couldn’t even see the color of his eyes. I remember taking his hand and whispering his name. He could hardly talk. He could hardly see, his eyes nearly swollen shut.

  “Dante.”

  “Ari?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Ari?” he whispered.

  “I should have been here,” I said. “I hate them. I hate them.” I did hate them. I hated them for what they’d done to his face, for what they’d done to his parents. I should have been here. I should have been here.

  I felt his mother’s hand on my shoulder.

  I sat with his mother and father. Just sat. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

  Mrs. Quintana nodded. “Yes. But—” She looked at me. “Will you always be his friend?”

  “Always.”

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  “He needs a friend. Everybody needs a friend.”

  “I need a friend too,” I said. I had never said that before.

  There was nothing to do at the hospital. Just sit and look at each other. None of us seemed like we were in the mood to talk.

  As I was leaving, his parents walked out with me. We stood outside the hospital. Mrs. Quintana looked at me. “You should know what happened.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I think I do,” she said. “There was an old woman. She saw what happened. She told the police.” I knew she wasn’t going to cry. “Dante and another boy were kissing in an alley. Some boys were walking by and saw them. And—” She tried to smile. “Well, you saw what they did to him.”

  “I hate them,” I said.

  “Sam told me you know about Dante.”

  “There are worse things in the world than a boy who likes to kiss other boys.”

  “Yes, there are,” she said. “Much worse. Do you mind if I say something?’

  I smiled at her and shrugged.

  “I think Dante’s in love with you.”

  Dante was right about her. She did know everything. “Yes,” I said. “Well, maybe not. I think he likes that other guy.”

  Sam looked at right me. “Maybe the other guy’s just a stand in.”

  “For me, you mean?”

  He smiled awkwardly. “I mean, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “This is hard,” he said. “I’m—hell, I’m just feeling a little lost right now.”

  I smiled at him. “You know what the worst thing about adults is?”

  “No.”

  “They’re not always adults. But that’s what I like about them.”

  He took me in his arms and held me. Then let me go.

  Mrs. Quintana watched us. “Do you know who he is?”

  “Who?”

  “The other boy?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “What am I supposed to do?” I knew my voice was cracking. But I refused to cry. What was there to cry about? “I don’t know what to do.” I looked at Mrs. Quintana and I looked at Sam. “Dante’s my friend.” I wanted to tell them that I’d never had a friend, not ever, not a real one. Until Dante. I wanted to tell them that I never knew that people like Dante existed in the world, people who looked at the stars, and knew the mysteries of water, and knew enough to know that birds belonged to the heavens and weren’t meant to be shot down from their graceful flights by mean and stupid boys. I wanted to tell them that he had changed my life and that I would never be the same, not ever. And that somehow it felt like it was Dante who had saved my life and not the other way around. I wanted to tell them that he was the first human being aside from my mother who had ever made me want to talk about the things that scared me. I wanted to tell them so many things and yet I didn’t have the words. So I just stupidly repeated myself. “Dante’s my friend.”

  She looked at me, almost smiling. But she was too sad to smile. “Sam and I were right about you. You are the sweetest boy in the world.”

  “Next to Dante,” I said.

  “Next to Dante,” she said.

  They walked me to my truck. And then a thought entered into my head. “What happened to the other guy?”

  “He ran,” Sam said.

  “And Dante didn’t.”

  “No.”

  That’s when Mrs. Quintana broke down and cried. “Why didn’t he run, Ari? Why didn’t he just run?”

  “Because he’s Dante,” I said.

  Four

  I DIDN’T KNOW THAT I WAS GOING TO DO THE THINGS I did. It wasn’t like I had a plan. It wasn’t like I was really thinking. Sometimes, you do things and you do them not because you’re thinking but because you’re feeling. Because you’re feeling too much. And you can’t always control the things you do when you’re feeling too much. Maybe the difference between being a boy and being a man is that boys couldn’t control the awful things they sometimes felt. And men could. That afternoon, I was just a boy. Not even close to being a man.

  I was a boy. A boy who went crazy. Crazy, crazy.

  I got in my truck and drove straight to the drugstore where Dante worked. I ran through the conversation we’d had. I remembered the guy’s name. Daniel. I walked into the drugstore and he was there. Daniel. I saw his name tag. Daniel G. The guy Dante said he wanted to kiss. He was at the counter. “I’m Ari,” I said.

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; He looked at me, a look of panic on his face.

  “I’m Dante’s friend,” I said.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I think you should take a break.”

  “I don’t—”

  I didn’t wait for his lame excuses. “I’m going to go outside and wait for you. I’m going to wait for exactly five minutes. And if you’re not out there in five minutes, then I’m going to walk back inside this drugstore and kick your fucking ass in front of the whole world. And if you don’t think I’ll do it, you better look into my eyes and study them.”

  I walked out the front door. And waited. It didn’t take five minutes before he was standing there.

  “Let’s walk,” I said.

  “I can’t be gone long,” he said.

  He followed me.

  We walked.

  “Dante’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “You haven’t gone to visit.” He didn’t say anything. I wanted to beat the holy shit out him right then and there. “Don’t you have anything to say, you asshole?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You bastard. Don’t you feel anything?”

  I could see he was trembling. Not that I cared. “Who were they?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t screw with me, asshole.”

  “You’re not going to tell anyone.”

  I grabbed him by the collar and then let him go. “Dante’s lying in a hospital and the only thing you’re worried about is who I’m going to tell. Who am I going to tell, asshole? Just tell me who they were.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit. You tell me now and I won’t kick your ass from here to the South Pole.”

  “I didn’t know all of them.”

  “How many?”

  “Four guys.”

  “All I need is one name. Just one.”

  “Julian. He was one of them.”

  “Julian Enriquez?”

  “Him.”

  “Who else?”

  “Joe Moncada.”

  “Who else?”

  “I didn’t know the other two.”

  “And you just left Dante there?”

  “He wouldn’t run.”