The Inexplicable Logic of My Life

  I couldn’t understand how she could be so calm. If I were dying, I would be really sad. And pissed off. And I was pissed off. I was pissed off as hell.

  She held me in her arms. I wanted to hold on to her and never let go. But I was going to have to let go. And that hurt. Why does it hurt when you love someone? What is it with the human heart? What was it with my heart? I wondered if there was a way to keep her in this world forever. And it was as though she were reading my mind. “No one is meant to live forever,” she whispered. “Only God lives forever. You see these hands? Hands get old. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, mijito. Even the heart gets old.”

  She let me go and went back to her work. She handed me another warm tortilla. “This will make everything better.”

  She watched me slather butter onto the fresh tortilla.

  “You have big hands,” she said. “Your Popo had big hands.” She nodded. I knew that nod. It was her nod of approval. “You’re turning into a man.”

  I didn’t feel like a man just then. I felt like a five-year-old boy who didn’t want to do anything except play in a pile of leaves. A five-year-old boy with a greedy heart who wanted his grandmother to live forever.

  My Uncles and Aunts (and Cigarettes)

  WATCHING MY UNCLES and aunts was much better than watching the Kardashians. Not that I liked watching the Kardashians. I only watched because Sam wouldn’t shut up about them.

  I sometimes joined the conversation—​but mostly I listened. Mima was taking a nap, and everyone was sitting around the television, watching the Dallas Cowboys game. My Uncle Mickey was about to light a cigarette. Aunt Evie shot him a look. “Take it outside.”

  “I’m watching the game.”

  “Ah, a multitasker. Take it outside. Your mother’s sick, idiot.” Aunt Evie liked that word: idiot.

  Uncle Mickey headed out the front door, cigarette and beer in hand. I was raised in a family of smokers. For the most part, I didn’t much care for cigarette smoke. Not that it kept me from liking my uncles and aunts. Uncle Mickey said that smokers were more interesting than nonsmokers. Aunt Evie told me not to listen to my Uncle Mickey. “He’s an idiot.” She never sounded mean when she said things like that. I wondered how she managed it. Maybe it was because she was really sweet. Everyone loved her. My Uncle Tony said that Evie was Mima with a potty mouth. “She got the potty mouth from Popo.” I thought that sounded about right. And my Aunt Lulu, well, she was the only one who didn’t smoke. And she didn’t drink beer, either. She and my dad, they were the wine drinkers. They were also the only ones who went to college. Uncle Mickey said that going to college turned you into a snob. My dad usually just listened to his brothers talk, without adding his own commentary.

  I walked out the door and joined Uncle Mickey on the front porch.

  “So, vato, you gonna graduate or what?”

  “Or what,” I said.

  “You’re a wiseass.”

  “Yup,” I said.

  I really liked my Uncle Mickey. He had long hair and a goat-ee and the straightest teeth I’d ever seen. His skin was weathered from working in the sun, and he didn’t seem to give a damn about what anyone thought about him. He was tall and had tattoos, and a lot of people were afraid of him. But he was really a sweet guy. When I was a kid, he used to pick me up, and I thought I could see the whole world as I sat on his shoulders. And he was always sneaking bills into my hand—​ones, fives, tens, twenties—​his way of loving me.

  “When are you going to quit smoking those things?” I asked.

  “When I fuckin’ die.” He laughed. My uncles loved using the F word. Dad said they threw that word around like it was a football. That was his way of saying that just because my uncles loved that word didn’t mean I had permission to throw it around the house. Nope.

  I sat there next to him, not saying much. “You’re like your dad,” Uncle Mickey said. “You like to sit and think too much.”

  “Well, I was just thinking that if you quit smoking, you’d live longer. You know, you could stick around and put more bills in my pocket.”

  He grinned at me. “So, cabrón, the only reason you want me to live longer is so I can give you more money?”

  “Nope,” I said. “I want you to live longer because I effen’ love you.”

  “You can say fuck around me.”

  “I know.”

  He rubbed his knuckle against my head. He’d always done that. Dad was right: everybody had their own way of loving.

  “I’m proud of you,” he said. “You’re a good kid. You’re gonna be somebody.”

  We’re all somebody. That’s what I thought.

  I walked back into the living room. The game was over. The Cowboys lost, which didn’t put anybody in a good mood. Dad was talking to my Uncle Julian on the phone, and he had a serious look on his face. Uncle Julian and my dad—​they were really close, even though Uncle Julian was a lot older. Dad shut off his phone, and my uncles and aunts just looked at him like What did he say?

  “Julian agrees with me.”

  Uncle Tony looked a little disgusted. “Well, that’s a fucking surprise, Vicente.”

  “Look, Tony, don’t start.”

  My Aunt Evie looked at Uncle Tony and said, “No more beers for you.”

  Uncle Tony shook his head. He pointed at my father. “Why does he always have to be in charge?”

  My dad had this very patient look on his face. “Nobody’s in charge, Tony. We’re all in charge.”

  Uncle Tony put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. “What’s the Mayo gonna do? Not a damn thing. Pinche gringo doctors don’t know shit.”

  Aunt Lulu did the crossing-her-arms thing. “That’s not true. And they’re not all gringos. There are good doctors, and there are bad doctors. Mom needs to go to the Mayo.”

  And then my dad made an announcement using his firm voice. “Evie and I are taking her—​and that’s all there is to it. I’ve already scheduled her appointment. We have to be there on Wednesday.”

  Uncle Tony didn’t seem very happy. “And then what, Vicente?”

  Aunt Evie wasn’t hiding her impatience with Uncle Tony. “Like he knows. We don’t know. We have to find out what’s going on in Mom’s body.”

  Uncle Tony took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth. “And what about your classes? Or don’t art professors have to show up for work?”

  My dad gave him a snarky smile. “Only when we want to.”

  Uncle Tony was quiet for a little while—​then he said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” my dad said.

  Somewhere along the line Uncle Mickey had walked back into the living room. “How long will she be there?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “We’ll just have to see.”

  Uncle Mickey had this strange look on his face. “Well, just don’t let her fucking die there.”

  Everyone was quiet for a long time. Then my dad said, “Mickey, we’re not going to let her die there.”

  Aunt Lulu looked at Uncle Mickey. “We don’t know that she’s dying.”

  “You’re right,” Dad said. “There’ll be tests. And then we’re bringing her back. We just have to know what’s going on.”

  Uncle Mickey nodded. And then he looked at my dad and whispered, “At least you know how to talk to doctors. You’re good for somethin’, puto.”

  And then everyone in the room started laughing. My dad and my uncles and aunts—​if there’s one thing they knew how to do, it was laugh. My dad called that sort of behavior whistling in the dark. Well, I guess that when you found yourself in the dark, you might as well whistle. It wasn’t always going to be morning, and darkness would come around again. The sun would rise, and then the sun would set. And there you were in the darkness again. If you didn’t whistle, the quiet and the dark would swallow you up.

  The thing is, I didn’t know how to whistle. I guessed I was going to have to learn.

  WFTD = Prayer

  I W
ALKED PAST MIMA’S room and noticed that the door was halfway open. I peeked in, the way I’d always done since I was a kid. She was awake and praying her rosary. She motioned me to come in, patting the bed. I sat next to her. She brushed her hand across my arm. “You’re strong,” she said.

  I didn’t believe her, but I nodded. “Who are you praying for?” I whispered.

  “Your Uncle Mickey.”

  “He needs prayers,” I said.

  She smiled and nodded. “We all need prayers.”

  She shut her eyes and continued praying. I listened to her whispers, and my mind wandered. I was getting worse about the thinking thing. See, if you wanted to pray, you had to focus. Thinking wasn’t prayer—​I knew that much. I’d never been able to focus and keep all the thoughts away. Maybe prayers were too old-school for me. My dad said that when he was a kid, he wanted to be Saint Francis—​and then he found out he didn’t have it in him. I didn’t know yet what I did and did not have in me, but Saint Francis wasn’t in the cards for me, either.

  As Mima prayed, I closed my eyes. I told God that I needed Mima a lot more than He did. You already have more than your fair share. I wondered if Mima would approve of my prayer. Probably not. She would have told me I was a malcriado. I thought that later I would text Sam: Wftd = prayer. I wondered if it was normal for guys my age to be thinking about prayer. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. What was it with me and that normal word?

  As I listened to Mima’s soft Hail Marys, I thought, What if prayer disappeared from the world? Would the world still be okay? Not that the world was so okay. The real world wasn’t my father’s world. The real world believed in fists and guns and violence and war. And I was beginning to think I was a bigger part of the real world than I cared to admit.

  I saw guys like Enrique Infante and that idiot Eddie, guys who had no respect for anybody. It pissed me off, and there were little explosions inside me, and I even wanted to hit God because He was taking my Mima away, which was super stupid because God wasn’t someone you could hit, and what kind of guy was I anyway, a guy who wanted to hit God? My father didn’t believe in hitting or punching. And I guess I did. I mean, that Eddie guy, I had my sights on him. And I knew my father would say that hurting another human being just because he hurt you is no way to live your life. And maybe he was right. But that thought didn’t live inside me.

  Me (and Prayer)

  BEFORE WE LEFT Mima’s house, I texted Sam: What if prayer disappeared from the world?

  Sam: Hard one. Not my subject

  Me: Mine neither

  Sam: Time to consult Sylvia lol

  Me: Seriously U think world needs prayers?

  Sam: Don’t know. Makes us feel better I guess

  Me: If no one prayed would the world go to hell?

  Sam: World has gone to hell

  Me: B serious

  Sam: Am being serious

  Me: Ur no help

  Sam: I’ll pray for U

  Me: Very funny

  Sam: Serious Sally

  Me: Laters

  Sam: Don’t be mad

  Me: If on phone I be hanging up

  As we drove away from Mima’s house, my dad looked at me and asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You were texting Sam, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You and Sam—​you’re a pair.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Part of me wanted to sit in the quiet of my own thoughts, and another part wanted to talk to my dad. Then I heard myself asking, “What would happen if prayers disappeared from the world?”

  “That’s an easy one,” he said. “The world would disappear too.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “You have proof?”

  “Don’t get smart. No, I don’t have proof. I don’t need proof.”

  “Mima prays for us. Does that mean that our world will disappear—​when Mima dies?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Because she leaves us behind. And she leaves others behind too—​others who pray.”

  “You?”

  “I’m one of them. Yes.”

  “What do you pray for?”

  “More kindness in the world. And then I pray for you.”

  If Dad hadn’t been driving, I would have hugged him. And then I thought: How can this man love me so much? I felt like such an asshole. How could I even think or wonder about the man whose genes I had? What did genetic makeup mean anyway, compared with the man who raised and loved me? I was such an asshole.

  And prayer? How could you pray to a God you wanted to hit?

  My Dad

  DAD WASN’T VERY talkative on the drive home. But sometimes silences are comfortable and sometimes they aren’t. Finally I said, “It was different today, at Mima’s.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s the way it’s going to be for a while. I hope—” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “You hope what?”

  “I hope we can all handle this.”

  “We all did fine when Popo died.”

  “I guess we did. But Popo was Popo and Mima is Mima—​and it’s not the same.”

  I knew what he meant. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Families can be messy. People get angry when they’re afraid.”

  “Especially Uncle Tony.”

  “Yeah, your Uncle Tony, he’s—”

  “I get it, Dad. I do.”

  My dad nodded. “We’re all doing the best we can.”

  “I know,” I said, “but me and you, we aren’t messy. And we’re a family, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are, Salvie. As families go, you and I and Maggie are about as un-messy as it gets. But we’re not a self-contained unit. We belong to something bigger than just ourselves, right? You know, when I was young, I tried my damnedest to divorce my family.”

  “Why?”

  “It was too hard, too messy, too complicated. I sort of lived in a self-imposed exile for a good many years. I went away to college, lived my own life, chased my dreams, tried to face some demons. I guess I thought I could do all those things on my own. I thought that because I was gay, my family, well, they’d hate me or they wouldn’t understand me or they’d send me away. So I just sent myself away. It was easier for me to pretend that I didn’t belong to a family. I tried to pretend I didn’t belong to anyone.”

  “What changed, Dad?”

  “I changed. That’s what changed. Me. I didn’t want to live without my family. I didn’t. And then there was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Your mom was living here. She needed help. I came back.”

  “You really loved my mom, didn’t you?”

  “Best friend I ever had. You brought me back to my family. I want you to know that.”

  “Me?”

  “Yup.” He stopped talking. He pulled over to the side of the road. “Here, you take the wheel.”

  Me? I had brought him back to his family? Wow. I’d have to think about that. It made me happy that he could tell me about things he felt. And that he needed me to drive—​that he needed me to do something for him. That made me happy too.

  As I drove down I-10, I wondered if my father was going to continue the conversation he started. He sometimes started telling me something about himself and left off right in the middle of it.

  “I need a cigarette,” he said.

  “No smoking in cars,” I said.

  “I didn’t bring them anyway.”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” he said. “You love your uncles and aunts, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do. I like that they don’t pretend to be anything. They’re just themselves. I like that.”

  My dad nodded. “Me too. But the thing is that we don’t do normal in this family. We’re not a pretty photograph on Facebook. We misbehave and cuss and drink too much beer and say all the wrong things. We don’t try to be the
portrait of the American family. We’re just who we are. And we don’t do perfect. But you know something? It was wrong of me not to trust them. Mima has a saying: Solo te haces menos. You know what that means?”

  “I know Spanish, Dad.”

  “Yeah, but do you know what that means?”

  “I think it means that it’s not other people who make you feel like you’re alone. You do it to yourself.”

  “Smart boy. I lived apart from my family because I didn’t trust them. I didn’t trust that they loved me enough. Shame on me. I’ll never get those years back.” He looked over at me. “Don’t ever underestimate the people who love you.”

  I nodded.

  “I know you sometimes think that people are like books. But our lives don’t have neat logical plots, and we don’t always say beautiful, intelligent things like the characters in a novel. That’s not the way life is. And we’re not like letters—”

  “You mean like the one Mom left me.”

  “I wasn’t referring to that, but now that you mention it—​look, we can’t fit what we feel and think—​we can’t put what we are and stuff it into an envelope and say This is me. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess I just have some regrets. I’m sorry to report that regrets are part of living.”

  “But does it have to be that way?”

  “Yes, I think it does have to be that way. Because we’re always going to make mistakes.” He took a breath. He was trying to explain something to me—​and maybe even to himself. “Let’s put it this way: Show me a man without regrets and I’ll show you a man without a conscience.”

  I nodded. “Well, Dad,” I said, “at least you have a conscience.”

  He started laughing.

  And then I started laughing.

  Whistling in the dark.

  WFTD = Nurture? Nature?

  WHEN WE GOT home, my dad headed straight for his studio. Work was better than cigarettes. I knew he would begin a new painting. He’d take out one of his already stretched canvases and start. And then he’d be able to sleep. He’d told me once that art was not something he did. “It’s something I am.”