In Perfect Light

  Grace looked at her watch. “It’s late.”

  “You don’t mind, coming in after hours?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I think I signed up for too many classes.”

  “How many?”

  “Fifteen hours.”

  “What’s your favorite class?”

  “My drawing class. The human figure.” He laughed. Nervous, a nervous laugh.

  “That’s nice.”

  He liked the way she said that. She sounded real and soft in all the right kind of ways.

  “Are you okay, Andy?”

  “Andy?”

  They looked at each other for an instant.

  “Andy,” he whispered. “I’m okay. I think I am.” He shrugged. He felt soft just then. He never knew what to do when he felt soft. “I ran into Hernandez. I hate that bastard.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like him because he doesn’t see us.”

  “Us?”

  “Any of us. I mean, anybody who works under him. He doesn’t see Al. He doesn’t see Judy. He doesn’t see Octavio. He doesn’t see Elvira. He doesn’t see Carla. He doesn’t see anybody. We’re just these numbers that fit into a formula. That’s all. I’d like to take his face and pound it and pound it. And pound it.”

  She nodded. There was nothing false about the look on his face as he spoke—almost as if he were imagining himself smashing Hernandez’s face into oblivion.

  “You know, Grace, Hernandez should come and see you. He needs to talk to you more than I do.”

  “I don’t care about Hernandez.” Grace paused and looked into his coal black eyes. “I care about you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means—” She paused and smiled to herself. “It means we’re hoeing a long row of summer cotton.” She smiled to herself and thought of Richard Garza. “You and I. Andrés Segovia and Grace Delgado. Lots of weeds, Andrés. And we’re hoeing. We’re hoeing as fast as we can. And if we don’t get the roots, then the weeds will grow back. And all our work will be for nothing.”

  She could almost see his smile. A sunrise. Breaking the darkness.

  He shook his head. “You should have been an English teacher.”

  “You should have been a writer.”

  He laughed. Like a dam that was bursting. “That’s funny, Grace. That’s very funny.”

  And then she saw the tears streaming down his face. And the clenched fist. There was so little difference between a fist that was trying to hold everything in and the fist that was ready to release all its frustration and rage.

  She didn’t stop him as he made his way toward the door. Let him have his tears. He’s earned them. He’s more than earned them.

  It was dusk when he got home, his apartment stifling hot. He hated the late August heat. May, June, July, now August. Summers beat the hell out of him. He was ready for a cool October breeze. He turned on the air conditioner, took off his shirt, soaked with his own sweat. He wiped his face with the wet shirt and tossed it against the wall. He looked at his watch. Almost eight. He noticed the date on his watch. His birthday. Shit, it was his birthday. Twenty-seven years old. Happy Fucking Birthday. If only he hadn’t looked at his watch. It would have been easier if the day had passed without him noticing. The thought occurred to him that he should do something—celebrate. He’d once heard Al tell Carla that if you pretended to be happy, then one day you’d wake up, and sure enough, you’d be happy. Maybe he’d take Al’s advice and pretend to celebrate.

  He thought a moment, then took off his clothes. He stared at himself in the mirror, then averted his eyes. He’d never liked looking at himself, not even his face. He tried not to think it was him he was looking at when he shaved. He pulled on a pair of running shorts and an old T-shirt. He found some old running shoes in the closet. He stepped out the door. He’d run. That’s how he’d celebrate. He’d run and run until his heart burst into flames. And he would become nothing but ash. No body, no heart, no bone, no flesh—just carbon matter scattering in the wind.

  He imagined himself a boy riding through his old neighborhood. He ran and ran, up Sun Bowl Drive, the lights of Juárez below and across the river. He ran and ran, stretching the limits of his body, and suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about his past or thinking about what would become of him. He wasn’t thinking of himself at all. He was thinking of his beating heart. He was thinking of his aching legs. He was thinking of his lungs that felt as though they were being punched by the air. And he was glad to take the punches, glad—and almost glad to have a body.

  Timing and Order in the Universe

  Dave is lying awake in his bed. He is recalling his conversation with Rosemary Hart Benson. She did not seem surprised by his phone call. She was even kind. It was evident that she had no illusions about her brother. “Do you have anything that belongs to him?”

  “Well, yes, but I don’t know exactly what you’re referring to.”

  “What happened to all his things, when he was sent to prison?”

  “I have all of his things in boxes—in my attic.”

  “How many boxes?”

  “Quite a few. Ten or twelve boxes, I’d say. And a couple of suitcases.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “I’ve never looked.”

  “If I went there, could I go through his things?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “and will you take his belongings out of my house?”

  He is recalling the conversation. He knows she never looked because she did not want to know. He does not blame her. She wants to be free of his things. She was pleading with him, will you take his belongings, she wants to be free of him, her brother. He gets up from his bed and walks into his home office. He pours himself a Grand Marnier over ice—his favorite nighttime drink. He lets the orange liqueur coat his tongue, then burn down his throat. He lights a cigarette.

  Grace is at home, making a list of all her material possessions. She is taking stock of her life. But she knows that making a list of what to give to whom when you die is not the same thing as taking stock. She does not know how to measure her life. When Sam was alive, she measured it through his love. She had always measured herself through the look in his eyes. She is afraid of admitting that to herself.

  Liz and Mister are lying in bed. They are talking to each other. They are talking about Vicente. They are talking about the Rubios. They are talking about the coffee shop. They are talking about Grace. They are talking and talking and talking. And finally, they fall asleep in the middle of their talk.

  The Things of This World

  I’m so tired that I’m not tired at all. It happens that way, sometimes. At least to me. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had the capacity to do nothing. Grace, come and sit. Sam always beckoned me like that in the evenings. Grace, it can wait until tomorrow. I could never wait until tomorrow. Mañana has always been a problematic word for someone with my disposition. And, anyway, tonight is not a good night for resting. I need to think, to take stock of things—to see what’s on my shelves, to take inventory while I still have all my faculties.

  Strange. I don’t feel sick at all.

  Maybe Richard Garza is right. Maybe I should go through the treatments. When he told me, I heard the word metastasized. I thought, I’m dead. But that’s not what he said. He says that we should go ahead with treatment. I read the article he wanted me to read. Cutting off my breasts, and then chemo, and then maybe radiation. And then pills—sometimes for a lifetime. Is my life worth all of that? Most days, I’m sure. Let it go, Grace, take a dive into the darkness. But why? Why don’t I want to fight when fight is all I’ve ever known and loved? I’ve fought for every inch of joy I’ve ever known.

  Mister wants an answer.

  I’m sick. Why intervene? God has sent a cancer. Should I reject the gift?

  Tonight I want to sit, take stock of everything. The material things are easy. The house is paid for—courtesy of Sam’s death. The most impractical man
I’ve ever met, except when it came to insurance. The house is Mister’s. He can do what he likes with it. Maybe he’ll move in and raise his son in the same house where he became a man.

  My clothes and my jewelry will go to all my sisters. I’ll make a list. They like to fight. I need to be clear. No arguments on my account. My pearls go to Dolores. She’s never spent a dime on herself. Even when she’s needed something and was forced to break down and ask me for money, it was always for one of her children. Her sons can now afford to buy their mother pearls—they wouldn’t dream of it. After all she’s done for them. I don’t forgive them their ingratitude. I’ll leave her oldest son my Bible. I’ll underline certain passages. He’s smart enough. He’ll understand my accusations.

  All my rebozos will go to my youngest sister, Carmen. She’s borrowed half of them, anyway, and never returned them. And Teresa will get my dresses. We’re the same size. Her husband buys boats and expensive tools, and dresses her in rags. Whatever furniture Mister wants, he can keep—the rest he can distribute among my sisters. I’ll make sure to remind Mister that he should be prepared to play referee. They’ll go easy on him, though. They adore him.

  Sam’s two brothers have fallen on hard times. I’ve done my best to keep up with them. They never truly understood my Sam, never understood his intellectual bent, his love for art and books and politics. They resented him, of course they did. Not that they’d ever said anything. But Sam loved them all. Sometimes he wept. It never mattered, not to him, that they hadn’t known what to do with his affection. I’ll leave them money. The money Sam left so I could live. I never needed it. They can use it. Sure they can. And money’s something that they understand. If Sam, who was their brother, never held a grudge, then why should I?

  I’ve put money away for children who’ve grown up in abusive homes—in memory of my clients. And some money for the National Council on La Raza and the Democratic Party. Sam would like that. I’ll give the Catholic Church enough to cover my wake—and not a penny more. I’m Catholic to the bone, but the church is feudal, and I refuse to feed its antiquarian habits. I’ll leave a note to the rector of the cathedral and remind him that a woman gave him birth. Something for him to think about the next time he gives one of his sermons. I’m writing all this down.

  I don’t want anything elaborate for my funeral. A simple mass. Someone to sing the Ave Maria. George. I’ll write and ask him. His voice is as beautiful as I have ever heard. He has a steadfast heart, and doesn’t suffer right-wing fools. He’s been banned from singing at the church. He sleeps with men and fights for women’s rights. Father Ed will come to see me when it’s time. When he comes calling at my deathbed, I’ll tell him, “George.” He won’t deny me.

  This cigarette is good. As good as God.

  I want mariachis at the gravesite. And I want Mister to pop some bottles of champagne. I’ll order a case of Sam’s favorite in the morning. That’s what I want. Champagne. It’s an acquired taste for a girl who’s grown up in Dizzy Land. But everything in this damned and blessed world is an acquired taste. Or so Sam said. “Your mother’s milk—that’s the only thing we’re born to drink.” He was right, of course.

  It’s not so bad to think about these things.

  What will it be like, to die? What kind of light is there in death? Perhaps there will only be darkness. Perhaps there is nothing but a long, long night.

  Nothing but a long, long night.

  Everything but Sleep

  (in the Middle of the Night)

  Andrés woke up in a cold sweat, his heart thumping like an angry fist pounding on a door. The man had come to him in his dream. Yolie’s boyfriend. He was eleven again, and the man was beckoning, There’s someone here who wants to meet you. His throat was dry, his heart racing, and he began pacing the room—and then he couldn’t breathe, no air, God, and he knew that everything was collapsing, the walls of his apartment, his skin peeling away, his flesh exposed, and God, he couldn’t fucking breathe, why couldn’t he breathe? And then everything felt as if he were underwater, deep, deeper and deeper, drowning, and he had to find a way to the surface—if only he could force his way back to where there was some air. But he was so far down in the dark waters, and it was miles to the surface, where there was air and sky. He was certain that his heart was going to burst, and he was going to die, and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. To die. And then suddenly he could breathe again. Air.

  He lit a cigarette, smoked it, then lit another. He had to get out, just get out, go anywhere. He splashed water on his face, combed his hair, dressed himself—then walked out the door. He got in his car, drove around and around and around until the image of the man disappeared. And then he seemed to know what he should do next.

  He parked on an empty street in Segundo Barrio and made his way to the Santa Fe Bridge. As he walked over into Juárez, he calmed himself by smoking. He didn’t think about the fact that he could forfeit his bond and his freedom. The thought did not enter his mind that what he was doing was against the conditions of his bail. It wasn’t his mind that was in charge tonight.

  He hadn’t been to Juárez since everything had happened. Not since then, though he had visited this city in his dreams, and always the dreams had disturbed him, so he had tried to shut the city out as if it had never existed, as if his life there had never happened, but if it had never happened, why did that place haunt him into his waking hours?

  He knew exactly where to go—but when he got there, he felt lost again. He walked into a familiar club, dim lights, perfect. Just perfect for a place like this—a place that smelled of a century of smoke and beer and the sweat of women and men and cheap cologne and even cheaper perfume. It was just like he remembered it. Nothing ever changed, especially the things that most desperately needed to change—his life, this bar, this damned city that punished the wrong people day after day, year after fucking year, and blessed are the poor, yeah. Sure.

  He sat at the bar. There’d been a magician here when he was a boy. And the magician had performed tricks, and the patrons, most of whom were waiting for a prostitute or deciding which one to go with, they’d sat there and watched the bartender magician. And he’d perform tricks for them. Make a pack of cigarettes disappear and reappear in someone else’s empty pocket. Make a parrot appear on your shoulder. The magician was gone now, replaced by a younger man whose only magic was pushing drinks and girls. Presto, he placed a drink in front of Andrés, then used his chin to point at someone behind him, “Te quiere.”

  He didn’t turn around to look. He knew it was a woman waiting to turn a trick. He shook his head, downed his drink. Then pointed at the glass. He drank another, then another. He turned around and searched the room. The tables were mostly full—couples at every table. Only they weren’t really couples. He saw a woman staring at him. Smiling. He called her over. He handed her a twenty, told her to go home. He finished his fourth drink, maybe his fifth. He sat there for a moment—it was so strange to be sitting there, and he wondered if he would ever be alive. He picked himself up, then numbly walked out the door.

  He wandered up and down the streets. He didn’t know if he was trying to remember or trying to forget. It seemed to him that he had lived his whole life somewhere in between remembering and forgetting. He didn’t know which was worse. And in any fucking case, he didn’t like his choices—either way it was a limbo. As he walked down a quiet street, he found an alley and urinated, and he thought, wouldn’t it be great if you could do this to all your worries and troubles, just pour them out, just piss them away? As he walked back out into the street, a man approached him. He reached into his pocket, ready to hand him the dollar he’d be asking for. But he didn’t ask for a dollar. “Quieres una mujer?”

  “I don’t speak Spanish.” It didn’t matter that it was a lie. The truth was the last thing that mattered on these streets.

  “I said, do you want a woman?” He had a slight accent, but his English was perfect.

  He shook his head.
r />   “What about a man?”

  He shook his head.

  “What about children—you like that? Do you? I got perfect little girls. Boys, too. You like that? Take your pick. You can—” Andrés didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. He had him by the collar and was dragging him toward the alley, and the man was screaming, sure, playing the victim, sure, the victim, and he let him scream, go ahead and scream, you bastard, hijo de la chingada, go ahead and scream. There wasn’t anybody on the street and the alley was dark and no one could bear witness to this event, hijo de puta, go ahead and scream and Andrés floored him with one punch. He was about to grab him, pick him up, and begin pounding and pounding—but then he didn’t. He just stopped. He just took a breath and stopped. It was as if he was about to take a dive into a dark pool, and something made him stop and catch himself just as he was about to jump. For once in his life, he just stood still. And saw himself. And saw his rage. And understood that rage could be quiet. Could be soft. Rage didn’t have to be a killer.

  He stood there in the darkness, the man at his feet. Not a man, he thought, a fucking pimp who fed off the flesh of children, not a man, a devil who dragged people into hell for a blessed dollar. He lit a cigarette. Grace’s voice ran through his head, I think a lot of men smoke a cigarette after they’ve killed someone. Probably smoked one right before. He knelt down beside the man. He lit a match and stared at his face. He stared and stared. He looked for something human in his trembling face.

  “Deja los niños solos, cabrón. ¿Entiendes?”

  The man nodded. He looked like a scared deer.

  “If I ever catch you peddling children again, te mato, cabrón—¿me explico?

  He got up, walked out into the street, and walked inside the nearest bar. He walked into the bathroom and washed himself off. He felt numb and inarticulate.