He was angry and lost and scarred. That was obvious enough. And she had no doubt he was capable of inflicting physical or verbal pain on anyone who came along at the wrong time. She could almost touch his unpredictable, almost savage energy. But he was also articulate and controlled and had the intellect and sensibility of a poet. He saw things and people for what they were—himself included. It was strange and beautiful, the way he recounted his own history as if he were reading it in the pages of a novel. A novel where he became the elusive, romantic figure. Not quite a hero. Not quite an antihero. She’d never had a client who’d done that so artfully. She wondered if it wasn’t a trick. A kind of seduction. A way of taking control.
She wrote down a few notes on her pad. Not many. Just words that would jar her memory. She put down the pen, then smiled. An ironic smile. Small world. Small enough for everyone to bump into each other’s shoulders, yet big enough to get lost in if you wanted to be lost, and cruel enough to be taken from a place where you were safe, and kind enough to be loved by an older brother who thought himself a man. And kind enough to have a place to live, even if it was a humble place in a humble part of a humble city, and cruel enough to be taken away from school and an education when you were clearly born with a fine mind and a good dose of ambition. Andrés. Andrés Segovia. She didn’t know exactly what about Andrés reminded her of Mister. Maybe it was because neither of them was very conscious of his physical beauty—and they were, both of them, beautiful. A woman could stare all day.
Andrés, Mister. She tried to put them together in her mind, and wondered what they would talk about if they found themselves in the same room. Such different kinds of men. She wondered how her son would’ve turned out if his life had been like Andrés Segovia’s. Would he have turned out to be as kind and as playful? Would he have turned out as comfortable with words? What would Mister have been like if he had traveled the same road as Andrés? What made them what they were, these men? Parents? Affection? Lack of affection? Fathers? Lack of fathers? Circumstances? Environment? Poverty? Loneliness? Want? Genetics? Temperament—and where did that come from, temperament? What was it, finally, that made the difference? And as they aged, would they stay more or less the same? Would they grow harder and more bitter? Would something happen to irrevocably change the way they saw and felt about the world? Fifty years old, and what did she know? What had she learned? Loneliness is fucking listening to other people’s problems day after day. That accusation. That echo in the room. “No, Andrés, loneliness is losing the man who owned your body and your heart.” She chastised herself for that self-pitying remark. She had nothing to teach Andrés Segovia about loss or rage or loneliness. He was an expert on the subject.
“Grace, you’re a disaster.” She stared at the ringing phone again. She wanted simply to walk out of the office, walk out and go to a movie, then buy herself a new dress, then go to the store and buy a pack of cigarettes, then go home and put on her new dress, then walk into her backyard, barefoot, with a scotch in her hand and a pack of cigarettes, and watch the sun go down. She wanted to do all of these simple things as if she were a young schoolteacher on the first day of summer vacation. And then maybe, after she finished her drink and smoked a few cigarettes, she’d cry until she washed away all the crap and garbage in her life. And when it grew dark, she would lie down and count the stars. She thought of Andrés, a boy of ten in a small courtyard counting each star, one two three four five.…She didn’t want to think of him, but there he was again, like a stalker. So many of her patients had stalked her—but it wasn’t them, it was her. She’d never really learned how to let go of things. And certainly she’d never let go of Sam. That’s why she’d never remarried. Of course that was why. It wasn’t a complicated matter. She’d dated exactly two men in twelve years. Two men. Three dates each. Six dates in twelve years. They weren’t Sam.
She wasn’t even letting go of her own life. Telling herself and Mister and Richard Garza that it was okay, that she could let go, that it was time. Didn’t they say that in Spanish, “Ya le tocababa”? About winning the lottery or getting married. Or dying. She was so calm about this cancer that was knocking at her door, asking her to come out. She was acting as if letting go of her own life was as easy as flicking the ashes of a cigarette. As if her life was nothing.
Maybe she was just pretending.
Maybe I’ll go buy a dress. I’ll put it on my credit card. Maybe I’ll be dead by the time the bill comes in.
She was leaving her office early. Why not? The phone rang. Again. It always rang. She wasn’t going to answer it. But she hadn’t answered it all afternoon. Well, she wouldn’t feel so bad for leaving early. If she answered it. “Hello. Grace Delgado.”
“Grace.” The voice sounded young and buoyant. Like a high school boy calling a girl he liked.
“Richard?”
“Are you busy?”
“I was just leaving for the day.”
“Oh, well, I was wondering—” He stopped, suddenly shy. “I have an article I’d like you to read. It might help you think about some treatments.”
“Treatments would only buy time in my case. Isn’t that what you said?”
“No. That’s not what I said, Grace. That’s what you heard.”
“You said it had metastasized.”
“No, Grace, I didn’t.”
“You didn’t?”
“I said it was advanced—but I said it hadn’t metastasized.”
“But it is advanced.”
“Grace. Can I ask you a question? Do you want to die?”
“Of course not.”
“There’s still time.”
“How sick will the treatments make me?”
“Some people hardly get sick at all—did you know that?”
“What about most people?”
“You’ve never been most people, Grace. Will you look at this article?”
“Yes, okay, I’ll look at it.”
“And—”
Grace listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.
“And will you have dinner with me? I mean, if you’re not busy?”
“Tonight?”
“Why not? I was just going to make my rounds, and I should be done by seven-thirty.”
“Don’t you want to have dinner with your family?”
“My wife…” His voice trailed off, then started up again. “She left me. She hooked up with a podiatrist and moved to Seattle.” He laughed, a nervous laugh.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Richard.” She hadn’t meant to sound so callous. Not her most empathetic voice.
“Bad day?”
“They’ll get worse.”
“So take advantage. Eat while you can.”
“Okay, why not? How about a steak?”
Three weeks ago, she would have found eating dinner with her doctor inappropriate. She was always one for boundaries. Her professional relationships stayed professional. Friendly. Even informal. But there was always that line. She never crossed it. Never even came close. She knew some people considered her emotionally aloof. Superior. Imperious. She’d overheard that once. She’d had a good laugh about it later. Imagine a girl from Dizzy Land being accused of that. She turned off the lights to her office as she stood at the door. She stared into the dark and empty office. Then closed the door.
On her way home, she went to her favorite dress shop. She tried on dress after dress, a blue one, a yellow one, a red one, a dress with flowers, a navy blue, floor-length dress with yellow polka dots. She bought the red one. After she left the dress shop, she stopped off at a liquor store and bought a bottle of Chivas and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Same brand she used to smoke. Same brand Andrés Segovia smoked. Three dollars. Three dollars and change for a pack of cigarettes. She always noticed the price of things, was the kind of woman who refused to buy a head of lettuce if she thought it was too expensive. That she could afford it was never the point for a woman with her disposition. Imperious, my ass. Almost four hard-ear
ned dollars. Fifty cents more would buy her a lunch at Jalisco’s. She shook her head, and bought the cigarettes anyway. Why fuss over the price of cigarettes when she’d just spent a bundle on a red dress?
She went home, opened the French doors that led to her backyard, took off her shoes, and poured herself a drink. She found an ashtray in the back of a drawer and took out the fresh pack of cigarettes. She opened the cellophane pack and breathed in the smell. She could almost feel Sam in the room. She could almost feel him lighting her cigarette, his hand on hers. She closed her eyes. She half expected to see him standing there. She felt a pang of disappointment when she opened her eyes. She lit the cigarette.
Why don’t you quit? Because I’ll explode. “Go away, Andrés.”
She finished her cigarette and her scotch. She took a shower, put on her new dress, and stared at herself in the mirror. The light caught her diamond ring, the one Sam had given her when he’d asked her to marry him. She thought maybe it was time to take it off. So she did. She waved her naked hand in front of the mirror. She stared at the ring, sitting there on top of the dresser. She put it back on. She stared at the light—the light that was in the ring.
No, she didn’t know how to let go of things.
Order and Timing in the Universe
Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mister stared at his mother as she guarded her front door. “You look nice. Going out?”
“Yeah.”
“A date? It looks like a date, Grace.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. Dinner with a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Richard Garza.”
“Your doctor?”
“Yeah. Like I said, it’s not a date. Just dinner with a friend.”
“Well, maybe I should’ve called before—”
“No, come in. Would you like a beer?” She pushed the door open, then disappeared into the house. Mister followed her in.
He sat down on the couch, and noticed that Grace had already poured herself a drink. He picked up the drink and smelled the scotch. He hated the stuff. He set the drink back down. Grace walked back into the living room and handed Mister a beer. “I wasn’t expecting you.” She sat down across from him and reached for her drink. “I bought a new dress.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
“Nobody deserves a new dress, Mister.”
“Are you in a bad mood?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. I called you at the office today. Three times. You didn’t answer. I got worried. You should call me more often.”
“Is this a new rule?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She nodded. She wasn’t going to be stubborn. She wasn’t going to start a fight over nothing. They always started a fight over nothing. “You and I—we’re okay. Aren’t we okay?”
He nodded. “We’re okay. Maybe we’ve always been okay.”
“Yes, maybe we always have been.” She played with her wedding band. “You and Liz are very gracious hosts.”
“Yes, we are, aren’t we?”
They laughed. Like they used to. Mister drank his beer, and Grace drank her scotch. They talked. He told her about the coffee shop. He told her Vicente was coming for a visit. She listened. “Next time bring Liz,” she heard herself say as he left.
“She does look thinner,” he said to himself as he drove away. And then he thought, “Why is she having dinner with her doctor?” And then a thought crossed his mind, and he began to worry.
Grace watched herself smoke a cigarette in the mirror. She put out the cigarette and called Richard. She heard his voice on the other end. “I’m sorry, Richard, I can’t.”
“It’s only dinner, Grace.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Grace.”
“Are you mocking me, Richard?”
“No. I’ve always wanted to say that to you.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes it’s important to say what you think.”
“This is all very strange, Richard.” She thought of lighting up another cigarette. “If I wasn’t dying, would you have told me that?”
“I don’t know that you are dying, Grace. You have cancer. Cancer doesn’t always equal death.”
“Did you become a doctor because you think everything can be fixed?”
“I became a doctor because I think that living is a good idea.”
“It’s easier, isn’t it, to tell a woman she’s beautiful when she’s dying?”
“Talking to people in the face of their own mortality is the most difficult thing in the world, Grace.”
“Then you’re in the wrong business.”
“I’m not going to let you die.”
“Is that right, Richard? Do I need to be present to win?”
All Andrés had wanted to do all day was sleep. But now, as he sat in his apartment, he had the sudden urge to get out, to do something. Anything. Anything except play on his computer. Not that he played. He didn’t do chat lines, except to discover what they were, how they functioned. Pornography disgusted him, so that was out of the question. He didn’t look for the perfect mate online, nor did he shop. He’d order an occasional book. But mostly he bought his books at secondhand bookstores. Not that he read that much. Not anymore. Mysteries mostly. Who killed who, and why. Nothing to remind him of real life. Why would he want to read about characters who were as screwed up as he was?
He stared at his computer. He didn’t want to turn it on. Not tonight. It was like night school. It was like learning. It was like work. Which is all he had.
He changed into an old pair of jeans, put on a T-shirt. He would go for a walk. Maybe he would start running again. He’d done that for a while. It had helped. Pounding out rage. The problem with running was that it made him remember. So did walks. But everything made him remember. Why was it that memory was supposed to be something to be valued? Memory had been beating the crap out of him most of his life. He had the bruises to prove it.
It was still hot when he stepped outside. But a breeze was kicking up, and it looked like there was a chance for a thunderstorm. He closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them. He walked down the street, aimlessly, without purpose. Passing time was passing time, a dull hobby for those who had too much of it—and nothing else. He tried not to think of anything, but he kept seeing that look on Dave’s face. He erased it like he would delete a file in a computer. And then, without even conjuring it up, Grace Delgado’s face appeared. Her eyes, severe and demanding and kind and tender at the same time. Beautiful and distant and untouchable like the western horizon. He deleted her, too. He was tired of letting himself be haunted by people who had authority over him. He was tired of remembering fragments of his life without fully understanding the entire story.
He remembered the boy who used to ride a bike around his neighborhood. That boy was the one thing he could not delete from his memory. He walked and walked until there was nothing but the walking.
Dave was leaning on his car outside Andrés’ apartment house. He was talking on his cell and smoking a cigarette. He waved. Andrés didn’t wave back. Dave finished his call and shut his cell phone off.
“¿Que tal, hombre?”
He resented gringos who thought they owned Spanish.
“Slumming?”
“Why are you always mad at me, Andrés?”
“I’m not mad at you, Dave.”
“I’ve left you a couple of messages. You haven’t called me back.”
“I know that, too.”
“I have a few questions.”
“About what?”
“About that night.”
“What do you want to know?”
“When was the first time you saw that guy—William Hart?”
“Who says I’d seen him before?”
“Al Mendoza does. The bartender does. Everyone. Everyone says you were yelling, ‘I know you. I fucking know you.’”
 
; “I don’t remember yelling that.”
“You have to help me out here, Andrés. I can’t help you if—”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not a felony to help someone out.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Will you come in this week and talk to me?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“How are your sessions going?”
“Okay.”
“Want to go grab a beer?”
“Don’t you have a caseload or something? Don’t you have to prepare for a trial or something?”
Vicente took his hand. He turned around and waved at the Rubios, as if he could see them. Someone had taught him these things. Mister thought of Vicente’s mother. It occurred to him that she may have been a better mother than anybody gave her credit for. Vicente wasn’t a tabula rasa. There are things he knew. “He talks,” she’d said. So he would talk when he was good and ready. On his terms. Something on his own terms. That wasn’t hard to understand. If you thought about it.
Mister led him by the hand. He wanted to pick him up, but didn’t. He didn’t seem afraid or tentative. Mr. Rubio had given him a walking stick, and he was learning to use it, though it was still something of a toy for him.
He opened the back door of the car. “This is my car,” he said, “It’s almost new. You can smell it.” Not that he had to tell Vicente to smell it because already he was doing just that. “Here,” he said, then picked him up gently and placed him in the car seat Mr. Rubio had loaned him. He buckled him in, then touched Vicente’s cheek. The boy pressed his small hand against Mister’s, as if to tell him he could keep his hand there for as long as he wanted. Mister kissed him on the forehead. “Aren’t you something?” he said. He buckled him in, but Vicente fought him. “You don’t like the belt, huh? Well, if it makes you feel any better, I have to wear one, too.” Vicente clapped his hands. Mister clapped his, too. “Let’s go,” he said. “You like ice cream?”