In Perfect Light

Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez told them they could stay the night with them, so they wouldn’t have to be alone.

  “No,” Mando said, “Maybe, tonight, it’s a good thing for us to be alone. Just for tonight. We’ll be okay.”

  Mr. Fernandez nodded. Mrs. Fernandez was less quick to nod, but she did. She nodded. “I’ll be back in the morning,” she said.

  “Okay,” Mando nodded. “That’s good.” He seemed to know what to say. What to do. He seemed almost as old as they were. Mrs. Fernandez hugged them all, kissed them, told them to rest. “Duerman con los santos de tata Dios.” He would rather send the santos to walk with their parents.

  Mando went out the front door with Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez. He walked them to their car, just like his mother and father would have done. They were talking about something, but he didn’t know what. Part of him wanted to know. Another part didn’t care. He was tired. And he didn’t care about anything.

  When Mando came back inside, he lit a cigarette. He nudged Yolie and told her to wake up. She sat up and looked around the room. “Did everyone leave?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at Mando. “Give me a cigarette.”

  “I don’t want you smoking.”

  “I already smoke. Mom knew. She said she couldn’t do anything about it, but she wasn’t going to let me smoke in the house. Anyway, I have some in my drawer.”

  Mando handed her one. She lit it. She knew what she was doing. “You’re all going to live with the Fernandezes.”

  “What about you?”

  “Compa Johnny has a garage. He’s going to hire me. He says he’ll start me out minimum wage—but once I learn about cars, he’ll pay me more. He has a small apartment above his garage. He says I can live there for as long as I want. He says he doesn’t use it for anything, and his wife would be glad because she thinks he just has that place so he can cheat on her.”

  “Can’t we live there, too?”

  “It’s too small. And besides, they won’t let me keep you.”

  “Can’t you come live with the Fernandezes, too? With us?”

  “No. I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. I’m emancipated.”

  Andrés knew that word. Had heard it in school. It had something to do with the slaves. When they were freed. Andrés would hear that word many more times in his life, and he would come to know that the word had many meanings.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Yolie said.

  “It means no one’s going to take me in, because I’m a man.”

  “Well, I’m a woman.”

  “The law says you’re not a woman until you’re eighteen.”

  “Fuck the law. Why can’t we all live here? Don’t we inherit this house or something?”

  “Mom and Dad rented it.”

  “What? But they bought it.”

  “Yeah, but Dad hadn’t finished paying on it. Remember when he wasn’t working for about eight months? Remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he had to sell the house, because he had debts to pay. And he couldn’t afford to buy a new one. And since the guy Dad sold it to was going to use the house as a rental, he let Dad rent the house. Even let him live here for free until Dad finally found another job.”

  “In other words, we inherit shit.”

  “Well, Mom had some money in the bank. Not much. Eighteen hundred dollars.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Yolie, that’s nothing. Trust me.”

  “Can’t we just pay rent to the guy?”

  “The law won’t let us, Yolie. If you go with the Fernandezes, then we stay together. That’s what we need to do. Stay together. Isn’t that right?”

  “Who writes these fucking laws?” That’s the way Yolie had been since the accident. Always using that word.

  “Yolie, look. It’s just for a while. I have a plan.” He looked at her. Andrés knew that the look meant something. The look meant they were going to talk later, and he would tell her what he meant by having a plan. The look meant that they weren’t going to say anything else about the plan in front of him and Ileana.

  Yolie shrugged. “Bueno pues. But that lady’s gonna have a lot of rules.”

  “Mom had rules, too. No boys in the house when no one was home. A rule you broke all the time. No smoking in the house. Take your turn washing dishes. Clean your room. Do your homework. Mom had rules. Mostly, you stuck to them. You can stick to them now.”

  “I don’t care about school.”

  “Just keep going for now, ¿entiendes? Trust me.”

  “Mrs. Fernandez is nice,” Andrés said.

  Yolie nodded. “Yeah, she’s nice. You’ll be her favorite.”

  Andrés looked down. It made him sad, to hear her talk that way. But she kissed him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can be mean. I’m sorry, Andy. I’m just kidding.”

  He was glad. That she said she was sorry.

  “Will you visit us, Mando? Will you?” Ileana climbed into Mando’s lap. “You have to promise.”

  “I promise,” he said. And then he kissed her. Mando was good with Ileana. Sure. Why not? She was gentle and pretty and soft and easy to love.

  Things weren’t so bad at the Fernandezes’. He didn’t miss the shouting. But he missed his father. He missed his mother. But he did get to keep his bike, and Mr. Fernandez let him ride it around in the neighborhood, and he even bought him a watch so he would know when he was supposed to come back home. He had his own room, and he didn’t have to share it with Mando, but he missed Mando. He didn’t know why, because they’d never gotten along, but he missed him. Missed the smell of his cologne. Mr. Fernandez didn’t wear cologne.

  Sometimes Ileana cried. Sometimes she would sneak into Andrés’s bedroom and say, “Andy, will you hold me?” and Andrés would let her fall asleep in his arms. But Yolie. Yolie never cried again. She didn’t fight with Mrs. Fernandez, but she wasn’t warm. She did what she was supposed to do. Sometimes she would sneak out at night. And Andrés wondered if the Fernandezes knew. He never saw Yolie and Mrs. Fernandez fight. Not ever. But sometimes he saw this look on Yolie’s face. Like she was a prisoner. Like she wanted to be eighteen. Like she wanted to be emancipated.

  Mando would visit on Fridays and Sundays. And they seemed like they were almost a family. And Andrés didn’t think that things had turned out so bad. Not really bad. But when he thought that, he felt ugly and awful and bad. Because his mom and dad were dead. And he didn’t think he should be thinking things like, Things didn’t turn out so bad. He was being selfish. God didn’t like selfish people. But his mother hadn’t been selfish, and she was dead.

  Compa Johnny threw a party for Mando when he graduated from high school. Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez took them all to Sears, and they all got to choose a gift for Mando. Yolie picked a beautiful shirt because Mando loved beautiful shirts. Andrés picked a toolbox with Mr. Fernandez’s help. Ileana picked a nice pen. And then they went to a restaurant to eat. It was a happy day. Shopping for Mando and going to a restaurant to eat. Even Yolie seemed happy that day.

  Yolie almost cried when they called Mando’s name. And Mrs. Fernandez did cry. And she said their mother and father would be proud. And Andrés, he was happy. Because his brother graduated, and that was a good thing. Everyone said so. And someday he would graduate, too. And maybe go to college. He’d always wanted to do that. Once his father had taken him to the university. And he’d liked it there. And he’d liked all the books in the library. The biggest library he’d ever seen.

  Afterward, at the party at compa Johnny’s house, he saw Yolie and Mando whispering about something. He had never seen Yolie so happy. He was glad. That she was so happy. He wanted to be as happy as her. As happy as Mando.

  “…A week later. Maybe two weeks. I don’t remember. It was a Saturday. The Fernandezes always went to buy groceries and do other errands on Saturdays. Sometimes we went with them. That Saturday, Yolie told them Mando was coming over, and that he was going to take us to Chico’s Tacos. So th
e Fernandezes went off to the grocery store and to do their Saturday errands….”

  He was watching her, even as he told her his story. Watching her. Making sure she was listening.

  And Mando did come for them. Yolie had already packed all her things. Ileana’s things, too. Mando brought in a suitcase and packed all Andrés’ things, everything that would fit. “Where are we going?” Andrés asked. He was scared. He wanted to stay. He wanted to tell Mando to leave without him. “We’re safe here, Mando.”

  “They’re not your mom and dad,” Mando said. “We’re going to be together, now. Mom and Dad would’ve wanted that.” He must have read Andrés’ mind, because he hugged him. That was the second time he’d ever hugged him. “Yolie and I are going to take care of you.” He wanted to believe Mando, but he didn’t. And he thought maybe Mando knew he didn’t believe him. And that scared him even more.

  “What about my bike?” Andrés asked.

  “You’ll have to leave it here.” There wasn’t any patience in Mando’s voice. He was in a hurry.

  “No. Dad gave me that bike.” Andrés got out of the car and walked toward the garage.

  “We don’t have room for it, Andy.”

  “We’ll make room.”

  “Get the hell over here, Andy! We can’t take it.”

  “I won’t go without my bike.”

  Mando got out of the car. He grabbed Andrés by his arms. “I’ll come back for it.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I promise, Andy. I promise.” He was whispering now. Mando was a good whisperer. That’s why girls liked him so much.

  “…I got in the car. I remember looking toward the garage. I think I was saying good-bye to my bike. I don’t know. I was just a kid. I don’t know where Mando got the car. I guess he bought it. I mean, he worked in a garage. Maybe he got a good deal on it. Maybe he stole it. I don’t know. I don’t even remember what kind of car it was.” He stopped. “Oh, yes, I do. It was an old car. A Chevy Impala. Something like that. It was blue. Like a pale blue sky.”

  He looked at Grace. She was nodding her head. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “It’s not that hard to tell you all this, you know?”

  “Does it get old?”

  “No.”

  “Does it feel new?”

  “It’s the only pair of shoes I have.”

  “That’s an interesting way to put it. You read a lot?”

  “I used to.”

  “What happened?”

  “I gave it up.”

  “Why?”

  “I only liked sad books. They only made me sadder.”

  “Why didn’t you read happy books?”

  “Happy books? They bored me. They struck me as being a little too easy.”

  “So you gave up reading.”

  “Yes. That’s when I decided to take up beating on cops.” He smiled.

  Grace laughed. “I shouldn’t laugh. That’s not funny.”

  “No. Nothing I do is funny. Especially not this story I’m telling.”

  “Does the story ever change?”

  “The ending sure as hell doesn’t.”

  Grace at Morning Mass

  She was early for mass. The church was warm.

  She made the sign of the cross and thought of Mister and Liz. She smiled at their banter. They had laughed and talked and—cancer had not entered the conversation. All three of them had been so hungry to talk. Liz spoke of her father and his death. She spoke of a mother she clearly did not love. She came to this city to find herself. And found herself in Mister. Grace nodded as she sat in the pew. I know now why she ran from my Mister. Love can frighten. I wanted to run from Sam when he first loved me. And almost did.

  She looked at Jesus, his arms outstretched, his familiar heart on fire.

  I saw the room they’ve fixed for Vicente. Remember how Sam and I would linger in the room we both fixed up for Mister? Before he came to us? Sam would pace that room and wear a look. Now Mister wears that look. He wants the child more than she does. This is her gift to him. That’s love, to give a gift like that.

  She will give him this gift.

  She is not the woman she was.

  She has learned how to love. I can see that.

  I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t. I could’ve been warmer.

  The words I’m sorry did not appear in the conversation, though it was what we ate for dinner.

  When I left, he held me tight and called me Mom, my son, my Mister. He hadn’t called me Mom since he was four.

  I saw that she was watching us, this woman, Liz. There was no envy in her eyes.

  Perhaps this is a temporary truce.

  Make it permanent, then, you, God, who are all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful. God, with a burning heart, make the truce into a peace that lasts.

  Shirts and Things That Matter

  Mister gets in his truck after his six-hour hike in the desert. He is tired from the walking and the thinking and the hoping and the arguing with demons. He is spent from the heat of the sun. But he likes this tiredness, and he knows that tonight his sleep will be deep and rich.

  He turns the engine over and feels the heat of the air conditioner. He sits in the hot truck, the door open, sweat pouring down his face. Slowly, the air conditioner starts to do its work. He loves the way the coolness feels on his damp skin. He’s decided to buy Vicente a new shirt. A token. He wants to give him something. Anything will do—he’s settled on a shirt.

  He drives to a department store and walks into the children’s clothing section. He looks at the shirts for little boys. He eyes the shirts, to see if they are Vicente’s size. The size fours seem like they will fit him perfectly. There are so many shirts. So many, many shirts. He himself does not spend much money on clothing. He has what he needs. He prefers to buy art and books. He prefers to buy things for Liz.

  As he studies the small shirts, he smiles at the thought that he, too, had once been this size. He remembers his father letting him pick out his own clothes. Grace had never let him do that. Sometimes she would come home and announce, “I’ve bought you this shirt,” or “Mister, I’ve bought you this pair of pants.” She would hand the article of clothing to him, and he would smile. He would thank her and kiss her. He lived with her choices, even when he didn’t like what she’d chosen. She had been thinking of him—that was what had mattered. When had things between them grown more complicated?

  He suddenly feels Vicente’s hands on his face, and he shudders at the thought. The awesome beauty and burden of it. He feels the material of the shirts with his fingers. That was the only way Vicente would come to know the shirt, through the feel of it. He would buy the shirt that had the kindest feel to it. He feels shirt after shirt. He finally finds a shirt that is soft and giving. He takes it from the rack and studies it. He takes out his cell and calls Liz. He smiles when he hears her voice. “How was your hike?”

  “Good. Great. Guess where I am?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m buying a shirt.”

  “A shirt?”

  “Yeah. For our son.” He laughs. “I’m crazy about you.”

  Still Life of Beauty

  I know a man. He works as a janitor. He told me he used to work at the county jail. He said there was a room on the second floor where they hang all the handcuffs and shackles. He said each handcuff and shackle has a number, and when they all hang together on the wall—at rest in a kind of still life of justice—it is a beautiful thing. That’s how he put, “a still life of justice…. A beautiful thing.” I try and picture the wall where all the handcuffs and shackles hang. I try and picture looking at this scene every day. I try and picture me saying, “This is a beautiful thing.”

  I am sitting in the county jail. I have no complaint. I refuse to say I don’t belong here. I know where I belong. A jail is as good a place to live as any. I am learning what it means to despair. We should at least know the meanin
gs of the words that pass our lips.

  I am on the sixth floor. Four floors below me, there is that room with the shackles. Right now it is night. They turn off the lights at ten. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. Hours maybe. I am thinking of the room, how no one is there—how it is a still life of justice in the darkness, and no one is in the room to admire the cuffs and the shackles. I wonder what it’s like to be a keeper of the gates, a keeper of the keys, a keeper of the shackles. It does no good to think about these things, but I think them anyway.

  I think sometimes that it doesn’t really matter where I live. Because, really, where I really live is in my head. My home is my head. Not in this room where there is a man sleeping below me, on the bottom bunk. His name is Henry. He is from Alabama, and his eyes are charcoal gray. Two days ago he killed the woman he once loved. Six feet across from us, on the top bunk, a guy named Freddy is snoring. “Anyone wake me because I’m snoring I’ll kick his ass like it’s a goddamned soccer ball.” Below him, Angel is thinking something. He watches. He doesn’t know a word of English. He looks at me like he wants to say something. I look back at him so that he will understand it is better to say nothing.

  Our cell block is full tonight. Four cells, four men each. Each cell opens into our living room. That’s what one of the men called it. “Our fucking living room.” Another guy just laughed. “It’s a nicer place than the pigsty I grew up in.”

  I don’t live in this room. I don’t live in this jail. Dave says I’ll be out tomorrow. Where will I go then? Where will I live? Dave will have a plan. The living, that’s what they do. They plan.

  Conversations

  (Because We Live in Our Heads)

  You want me to leave you alone, Andrés? I don’t believe you. There are things you know that I will never know. There are things you’ve seen that I will never see. You’ve been used, abused, raped, and pushed around. Your pain’s become the only light you know. You want to punish yourself. You think your life has to be a tragedy. I know that goddamned song—I’ve hummed more than a few bars of that tune myself. You tell yourself you’ve killed a man. You tell yourself you deserve to pay. Leave me the fuck alone, Dave.