Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

  He had this really kind look on his face.

  I didn’t tell him that my new thing was trying to imagine what my brother looked like every time I couldn’t stand the sensation in my legs. “Anyway, it’s good to talk,” I said. “It keeps my mind off things.” I opened my eyes. “So Dante’s mad at you.”

  “Well, I told him there was no way I was going to leave him behind for a year.”

  I pictured Dante giving his father a look. “Dante’s stubborn.”

  I heard Mrs. Quintana’s voice. “He takes after me.”

  That made me smile. I knew it was true.

  “You know what I think?” she said. “I think Dante’s going to miss you. I think that’s the real reason he doesn’t want to leave.”

  “I’ll miss him too,” I said. I was sorry I’d said that. It was true, okay, but I didn’t have to say it.

  His father looked at me. “Dante doesn’t have a lot of friends.”

  “I always thought everybody liked him.”

  “That’s true. Everybody likes Dante. But he’s always been something of a loner. He doesn’t seem to go along with the crowd. He’s always been like that.” He smiled at me. “Like you.”

  “Maybe so,” I said.

  “You’re the best friend he’s ever had. I think you should know that.”

  I didn’t want to know that. I didn’t know why I didn’t want to know that. I smiled at him. He was a good man. And he was talking to me. To me. To Ari. And even though I didn’t particularly want to have this conversation, I knew I just had to go with it. There weren’t that many good people in the world.

  “You know, I’m kind of a boring guy when you think about it. Don’t know what Dante sees.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that to them.

  Mrs. Quintana had been standing further away. But she came up and stood right next to her husband. “Why do you think that, Ari?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you think you’re boring?”

  God, I thought, the therapist has shown up. I just shrugged. I closed my eyes. Okay, I knew when I opened my eyes, they would still be there. Dante and I were cursed with parents who cared. Why couldn’t they just leave us alone? What ever happened to parents who were too busy or too selfish or just didn’t give a shit about what their sons did?

  I decided to open my eyes again.

  I knew Mr. Quintana was going to say something else. I could just feel it. But maybe he sensed something about me. I don’t know. He didn’t say anything else.

  We started talking about Chicago. I was glad we weren’t talking about me or Dante or what happened. Mr. Quintana said the university had found them a small place. Mrs. Quintana was taking an eight-month leave from her practice. So really they wouldn’t be gone a whole year. Just a school year. Not such a long time.

  I don’t remember everything that the Quintanas talked about. They were trying so hard, and a part of me was happy they were there but another part of me just didn’t give a damn. And, of course, the conversation changed back to me and Dante. Mrs. Quintana said she was going to take Dante to a counselor. “He feels so bad,” she said. She said maybe it would be a good idea if I went to see a counselor too. Yeah, the therapist thing to say. “I’m worried about the both of you,” she said.

  “You should have coffee with my mother,” I said. “You can worry together.”

  Mr. Quintana thought that was funny, but really I didn’t say it to be funny.

  Mrs. Quintana grinned at me. “Aristotle Mendoza, you’re not the least bit boring.”

  After a while, I was just really tired and stopped concentrating.

  I don’t know why I couldn’t stand the gratitude in Mr. Quintana’s eyes when he said good-bye. But it was Mrs. Quintana who really got to me. Unlike her husband, she wasn’t the kind of woman who let people see what she really felt. Not that she wasn’t nice and decent and all of that. Of course she was. It was just that when Dante said that his mother was inscrutable, I knew exactly what he was saying.

  Before she left, Mrs. Quintana took my face between her two hands, looked right into my eyes, and whispered, “Aristotle Mendoza, I will love you forever.” Her voice was soft and sure and fierce and there weren’t any tears in her eyes. Her words were serene and sober and she looked right at me because she wanted me to know that she meant every word of what she’d said to me.

  This is what I understood: a woman like Mrs. Quintana didn’t use the word “love” very often. When she said that word, she meant it. And one more thing I understood: Dante’s mother loved him more than he would ever know. I didn’t know what to do with that piece of information. So I just kept it inside. That’s what I did with everything. Kept it inside.

  Three

  I GOT A PHONE CALL FROM DANTE. “SORRY, I HAVEN’T gone to see you,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood to talk to people.”

  “Me neither,” he said. “Did my mom and dad tire you out?”

  “No. They’re nice.”

  “My mom says I have to go to a counselor.”

  “Yeah, she said something like that.”

  “Are you gonna go?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Your mom and my mom, they talked.”

  “Bet they did. So are you gonna go?”

  “When Mom thinks something is a good idea, there’s no escape. It’s best to go along quietly.”

  That made me laugh. I wanted to ask him what he’d tell the counselor. But I don’t think I really wanted to know. “How’s your face?” I said.

  “I like staring at it.”

  “You’re really weird. Maybe it is a good idea for you to see a counselor.”

  I liked hearing him laugh. It made things seem normal. A part of me thought things would never be normal again.

  “Does it still hurt a lot, Ari?”

  “I don’t know. It’s as if my legs own me. I can’t think about anything else. I just want to yank the casts off and, shit, I don’t know.”

  “It’s all my fault.” I hated that thing in his voice.

  “Listen,” I said. “Can we have some rules here?”

  “Rules? More rules. You mean like the no-crying rule?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did they take you off the morphine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re just in a bad mood.”

  “This isn’t about my mood. It’s about rules. I don’t know what the big deal is—you love rules.”

  “I hate rules. I like to break them mostly.”

  “No, Dante, you like to make your own rules. So long as the rules are yours, you like them.”

  “Oh, so now you’re analyzing me?”

  “See, you don’t have to go to a counselor. You have me.”

  “I’ll tell my mom.”

  “Let me know what she says.” I think we were both smiling. “Look, Dante, I just want to say that we have to have some rules here.”

  “Post-op rules?”

  “You can call them that if you want.”

  “Okay, so what are the rules?

  “Rule number one: We won’t talk about the accident. Not ever. Rule number two: Stop saying thank you. Rule number three: This whole thing is not your fault. Rule number four: Let’s just move on.”

  “I’m not sure I like the rules, Ari.”

  “Take it up with your counselor. But those are the rules.”

  “You sound like you’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  I could tell Dante was thinking. He knew I was serious. “Okay,” he said. “We won’t ever talk about the accident. It’s a stupid rule, but okay. And can I just say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time? And can I say ‘thank you’ one more time?”

  “You just did. No more, okay?”

  “Are you rolling your eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, no more.”

  That afternoon, he took the bus and came to visit me. He looked, wel
l, not so good. He tried to pretend it didn’t hurt him to look at me but he could never hide anything that he felt. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I said. “The doctor said I was going to heal very nicely.”

  “Very nicely?”

  “That’s exactly what he said. So give me eight to ten or twelve weeks, and I’m going to be myself again. Not that being myself is such a great thing.”

  Dante laughed. Then he looked at me. “Are you going to initiate a no-laughing rule?”

  “Laughing is always good. Laughing works.”

  “Good,” he said. He sat down and took out some books from his backpack. “I brought you reading material. The Grapes of Wrath and War and Peace.”

  “Great,” I said.

  He gave me a look. “I could have brought you more flowers.”

  “I hate flowers.”

  “Somehow I guessed that.” He grinned at me.

  I stared at the books. “They’re fucking long,” I said.

  “That’s the point.”

  “Guess I have time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’ve read them?”

  “’Course I have.”

  “’Course you have.”

  He slid the books onto the stand next to my bed.

  I shook my head. Yeah. Time. Shit.

  He took out his sketch pad.

  “You going to sketch me in my casts?”

  “Nope. I just thought that maybe you’d want to look at some of my sketches.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Don’t get too excited.”

  “It’s not that. The pain comes and goes.”

  “Does it hurt right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you taking anything?’

  “I’m trying not to. I hate the way whatever the hell they give me makes me feel.” I pushed the button on the bed, so I could sit up. I wanted to say “I hate this” but I didn’t. I wanted to scream.

  Dante handed me the sketch pad.

  I started to open it.

  “You can look at it after I leave.”

  I guess I was holding a question on my face.

  “You have rules. I have rules too.”

  It was good to laugh. I wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh until I laughed myself into becoming someone else. The really great thing about laughing was that it made me forget about the strange and awful feeling in my legs. Even if it was only for a minute.

  “Tell me about the people on the bus,” I said.

  He smiled. “There was a man on the bus who told me about the aliens in Roswell. He said that . . .” I don’t know that I really listened to the story. I guess it was enough just to hear the sound of Dante’s voice. It was like listening to a song. I kept thinking about the bird with the broken wing. Nobody told me what happened to the bird. And I couldn’t even ask because I would be breaking my own rule about not talking about the accident. Dante kept telling the story about the man on the bus and the aliens in Roswell and how some had escaped to El Paso and were planning on taking over the transportation system.

  As I watched him, the thought came into my head that I hated him.

  He read me some poems. They were nice I guess. I wasn’t in the mood.

  When he finally left, I stared at his sketch pad. He’d never let anybody look at his sketches. And now he was showing them to me. To me. Ari.

  I knew he was only letting me see his work because he was grateful.

  I hated all that gratitude.

  Dante felt he owed me something. I didn’t want that. Not that.

  I took his sketch pad in my hands and flung it across the room.

  Four

  IT WAS JUST MY LUCK THAT MY MOTHER WAS WALKING into the room as Dante’s sketch pad hit the wall.

  “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  I shook my head.

  My mother picked up the sketch pad. She sat down. She was going to open it.

  “Don’t do that,” I said

  “What?”

  “Don’t look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Dante doesn’t like people to look at his sketches.”

  “Only you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then why’d you throw it across the room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t want to talk about this, Ari, but I think—”

  “I don’t want to know what you think, Mom. I just don’t want to talk.”

  “It’s not good for you to keep everything inside. I know this is hard. And the next two or three months or so are going to be very difficult. Keeping everything bottled up inside you isn’t going to help you heal.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll have to take me to see some counselor and have me talk about my difficulties.”

  “I know sarcasm when I hear it. And I don’t think a counselor would be such a bad idea.”

  “You and Mrs. Quintana making backroom deals?”

  “You’re a wise guy.”

  I closed my eyes and opened them. “I’ll make a deal with you, Mom.” I could almost taste the anger on my tongue. I swear. “You talk about my brother and I’ll talk about what I feel.”

  I saw the look on her face. She looked surprised and hurt. And angry.

  “Your brother has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “You think you and Dad are the only ones who can keep things on the inside? Dad keeps a whole war inside of him. I can keep things on the inside too.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

  “That’s not how I see it. You go to a counselor. Dad goes to a counselor. And maybe after that, I’ll go to a counselor.”

  “I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” she said.

  “Take your time.” I closed my eyes. I guess that was going to be my new thing. I couldn’t exactly storm away in anger. I’d just have to close my eyes and shut out the universe.

  Five

  MY DAD VISITED ME EVERY EVENING.

  I wanted him to go away.

  He tried to talk to me but it wasn’t working. He pretty much just sat there. That made me crazy. I got this idea into my head. “Dante left two books,” I said. “Which one do you want to read? I’ll read the other.”

  He chose War and Peace.

  The Grapes of Wrath was fine with me.

  It wasn’t so bad, me and my father sitting in a hospital room. Reading.

  My legs itched like crazy.

  Sometimes, I would just breathe.

  Reading helped.

  Sometimes I knew my father was studying me.

  He asked me if I was still having dreams.

  “Yes,” I said. “Now I’m looking for my legs.”

  “You’ll find them,” he said.

  My mom never brought up the conversation we’d had about my brother. She just pretended it hadn’t happened. I’m not sure how I felt about that. The good thing was, she wasn’t pushing me to talk. But, you know, she just hung out, trying to make sure I was comfortable. I wasn’t comfortable. Who in the hell could be comfortable with two leg casts? I needed help doing everything. And I was tired of bedpans. And I was tired of taking rides in a wheelchair. My best friend, the wheelchair. And my best friend, my mom. She was making me crazy. “Mom, you’re hovering. You’re going to make me say the ‘f’ word. You really are.”

  “Don’t you dare say that word in front of me.”

  “I swear I’m going to, Mom, if you don’t stop.”

  “What is this wise guy role you’ve been playing?”

  “It’s not a role, Mom. I’m not in a play.” I was desperate. “Mom, my legs hurt and when they don’t hurt, they itch. They’ve taken the morphine away—”

  “Which is a good thing,” my mother interrupted.

  “Yeah, okay, Mom. We can’t have a little addict running around, now can we?” As if I could run around. “Shit. Mom, I just want to be alone. Is that okay with you? That I just want to be alone?”

&nbs
p; “Okay,” she said.

  She gave me more space after that.

  Dante never came back to visit. He’d call twice a day just to say hi. He’d gotten sick. The flu. I felt bad for him. He sounded terrible. He said he had dreams. I told him I had dreams too. One day he called and said, “I want to say something to you, Ari.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  And then he didn’t say anything.

  “What?” I said.

  “Never mind,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I thought it probably mattered a lot. “Okay,” I said.

  “I wish we could swim again.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  I was glad he called. But I was also glad he couldn’t come to see me. I don’t know why. For some reason I thought: My life will be different now. And I kept repeating that to myself. I wondered what it would have been like to lose my legs. And in a sense, I had lost them. Not forever. But for a while.

  I tried using crutches. It just wasn’t going to happen. Not that the nurses and my mom didn’t warn me. I guess I just had to see for myself. It was just impossible with both my legs completely straight and my left arm in a cast.

  It was hard to do everything. The worst thing for me was that I had to use a bedpan. I guess you could say that I found it humiliating. That was the word. I couldn’t even really take a shower—and I didn’t really have the use of both hands. But the good thing was that I could use all my fingers. That was something I guess.

  I got to practice using a wheelchair with my legs out. I named the wheelchair Fidel.

  Dr. Charles came to visit me one last time.

  “Have you thought about what I told you?”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And I think you made a really good decision by becoming a surgeon. You would have made a lousy therapist.”

  “So you’ve always been a wiseass, huh?”

  “Always.”

  “Well, you can go home and be a wiseass there. How does that sound?”

  I wanted to hug him. I was happy. I was happy for about ten seconds. And then I started to feel really anxious.

  I gave my mom a lecture. “When we get home, you’re not allowed to hover.”

  “What is this about making all these rules, Ari?”

  “No hovering. That’s all.”

  “You’ll need help,” she said.