“She’s putting nail polish on Ileana’s nails.” She winked at him. “I made tacos for dinner. They’re in the oven.” She always made tacos on Saturdays.
He heard the horn of his father’s car. He turned around and waved. He’d shaved his mustache, and he looked like a different man. He looked like he was really nice. He yelled at him from the front of the house. “How was your bike?”
“It’s great, Dad. God, it’s so great.”
He nodded as he lit a cigarette. “Vamonos, vieja. Ya vamos tarde.”
“Let me just run in and get the present.”
He walked up to the car and studied his father’s face. “You shaved.”
“Yeah, what d’ya think, mi’jo.”
“I like it. Does Mom like it?”
“That’s why I did it—to make her happy.”
He nodded. “That’s good, Dad.”
His mother came out, holding a gift wrapped in silver with a white bow and wedding bells. She kissed him on the cheek. “Love you,” she whispered.
“Love you more.”
“No. It’s me who loves you more.”
“No. Me.”
They both laughed. It was a game they always played. She rubbed his hair and walked around to get into the car.
“You treat him like a baby.” That’s what his father said when she got into the car.
“He’s the only man in this house who knows anything about love.”
He stood there watching them. His father shook his head. “Be a man,” he said. His mother looked past his father and blew him a kiss. “Bye.” His father threw his cigarette out the window and drove away.
“Am I boring you?”
“No.”
“Maybe I’m making the story longer than it needs to be.”
Grace smiled at him. “Your hour isn’t up yet. Besides, you’re just repeating a memory. That’s different than telling a story.”
“Well, it’s a sad memory.”
“If it was a happy one, you wouldn’t be repeating it. You might not even be sitting here telling it.”
“I told this story to Dave once. A long time ago. I don’t know why. He cried. Dave is funny that way—he cries. I don’t understand him. Are you going to cry?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I watched them drive away. I went around the block one more time—even though the sun was setting and it was hard for drivers on the street to see me in that kind of light. Mom had told me about that—she called it a dangerous light. It’s beautiful to look at, but it blinds people, she said, that kind of light. It’s not good to be out in it. That’s what she said.” He lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He blew the smoke out through his nose. Grace watched him. She realized for an instant how seductive a man with a cigarette could be. The right man, anyway. “But I went out. I hopped on my bike and went out in that light, anyway….”
When he came back from his bike ride, he went into the house and opened the oven. There were plenty of tacos on a cookie sheet. He counted them. Twelve tacos. Ileana only ate one. That meant he could eat five or six. But really, four was all he could ever eat. Maybe tonight he could eat five. He was hungry from all the riding around he’d done. He took out a plate and served himself. He poured on some of his mother’s salsa. He liked it hot, the way she did. They were the only two people in the house who could stand that kind of heat. He added some extra grated cheese she’d left in the refrigerator. He walked into the living room and turned on the television. He sat on the floor and bit into his first taco. It was gone in three bites. He could hear his sisters in the other room. They were good together. Yolie was okay most of the time, but her boyfriend was trouble. As soon as the adults disappeared, he was always kissing her. She always wound up pushing him away. He would get mad. It scared Andrés. He hoped he wasn’t coming over tonight. He wasn’t supposed to come over when his mom and dad were gone. But he came over, anyway. Yolie always called him when they went out.
God, but the tacos were good. One was gone. And then another. And then another. He devoured a fourth. He knew he wouldn’t be able to finish a fifth. No way. He walked back into the kitchen and looked for something to drink. There were Cokes. Not that he liked Coke. But Mando and Yolie liked it. Cream soda, that’s what he liked. But his mom never bought any. He grabbed a Coke and walked out the door, into the front yard. He didn’t feel like watching television. He was full, and as he looked at his bike, he was happy. He touched it, and kept touching it, and finally he decided to take it around to the backyard. Where it would be safe. And then, for no reason at all, he thought it would be nice to try a cigarette. He liked them. Once in a while, he snuck one out of his father’s pocket. That’s what he wanted to do tonight. Smoke a cigarette. He walked into the house. Yolie and Ileana were eating tacos in front of the television set.
“Is your boyfriend coming over tonight?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t home when I called.” She sounded mad. Or maybe just bored. She got that way. She was always bored. He wondered, when he got to be sixteen, if he would be bored, too.
He walked into his parents’ bedroom and looked through his dad’s things. He found a nearly empty pack of cigarettes in the shirt he’d been wearing. He took one out, smelled it. Breathed it in. He liked the smell. Maybe because it reminded him of his father. He wasn’t so bad, his dad. He just got mad about too many things. Mando was like that, too. Mad about everything.
He took the pack of cigarettes and some matches and went out into the front yard. He sat on the front porch in the chair his father always sat in after dinner. He would sit in the chair and smoke. And sometimes have a beer—or, if it was a Friday night or a Sunday afternoon, he would sit here and smoke and have a bourbon. He would always pour the bourbon for his father.
He was about to light the cigarette when he noticed a car stopping in front of his house. It was a police car. Oh, shit, he thought, Mando’s gone and done it now. He’s gone and done something bad. And Dad’s gonna kill him.
Two policemen got out of the car. They walked up to the front porch. “The Segovias live here?” one of them asked.
“Yeah.”
“Santiago and Lilia Segovia?”
“Yeah. That’s my mom and dad.”
“Is there anybody at home?”
“My older sister. And my little sister, too. My older brother, he’s out.”
“How old is your sister, son?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen.” He nodded. “What’s your name, son?”
“Andrés.”
Why was he asking his name?
“You want to tell your sister to come out here?”
“Why? What’s happened? Is it Mando? Is Mando in trouble? Did something happen to Mando?”
“No, son, this isn’t about your brother.”
“What?”
“Go and get your sister.”
He knew something was wrong. It was bad. He knew that by the way the policeman was talking to him. Serious. And he was trying to be so nice. It was bad. He walked inside and told his sister the police wanted to talk to her.
“Policeman?”
“Yes. Policeman.”
“You better not be lying.” She walked outside. She looked at her brother, then at the policeman. The light of the front porch was dim, and everything seemed far away.
“Are you the oldest?” one of them asked.
“Well, no. My brother Mando. But he’s out. I don’t know when he’ll come back. Sometimes he stays out pretty late.”
“Do you have any relatives you could call?”
“We don’t have any relatives that live in town,” she said. “We have two aunts and one uncle—but they live in California. We don’t really know them.”
“What about your grandma and grandpa?”
“They died. We never knew them.”
He nodded.
The two policemen looked at each other.
“…I remember that part. I reme
mber how they kept looking at us, then looking at each other. Finally, one of them said, ‘Do your parents have any friends? Good friends?’
“‘Yeah. The Garcias.’ I can’t remember if I said that or if my sister said that.
“‘Where do they live?’ ‘Two blocks down,’ I said. I think it was me who said it. They walked over to the Garcias, the two policemen, and they came back a little while later. Mrs. Garcia was crying, and she hugged us. And I knew. I knew they were dead. I don’t remember who actually told us. I don’t remember if that’s when they explained that there had been an accident. That my father had run a red light and crashed into another car. I don’t remember if that’s when I heard the whole story. Maybe I didn’t get all that until later. I just remember Ileana’s howl. I didn’t cry. Later, I remember crying—but not then.” He’d finished his cigarette. “I don’t have a family. That’s an important thing you should know about me. My mom and dad were the first to go.”
Grace nodded. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
The World Is Born
(in One Apocalyptic Moment)
Mister smiled at his mother as he stood at the door. He was perfect when he smiled. Young and optimistic and undamaged. She wondered, for an instant, how she could have thought that her son and Andrés Segovia looked alike. Maybe it had been the light.
Grace smiled back at him. As if he came by every day. As if nothing was wrong between them. Her dog, Mississippi, fourteen years old and legs beginning to go unsteady, looked up from where she was sitting and barked.
“Love you, too, Missah.” He walked over to the dog and kissed her. “You think I look okay?”
“She’s going blind. And I’d lose the tie. Looks like you’re trying too hard, Mister. Who wears a tie to meet a three-year-old boy?”
“A lawyer.”
“Where did I put the three years while you were in law school?”
He started to take off his tie. “You’re a million laughs, Grace.”
“Relax.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Just then you looked like your father.”
“I miss him.”
Grace nodded.
“We never talk about him.”
“Do we need to?”
“Maybe I do.” He took a deep breath, then another, then pushed the hair out of his eyes, something he did when he was nervous. “God, Grace, I’m a wreck. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t pass the test?”
“This isn’t a college exam, Mister. If he doesn’t like you or if things aren’t right, well, then, it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Grace, since when did you start believing in fate?”
“Day before yesterday, when I was crossing Stanton Street.”
“You really are a million laughs today.”
“You used to laugh when I’d say things like that.”
“Did I?”
They looked at each other. We won’t fight. Not today. “Listen, Mister, do you think this child will save you? Is that why you’re doing this, because somewhere deep down you feel you need to be rescued from your life?”
“I don’t need rescuing, Grace.”
“I hope not, Mister. Salvation is too heavy a load for a child to carry.”
The Rubios lived in the middle of a working-class neighborhood near Ascarate Park. Some of the houses were neat and well kept; some of the houses were run down and showed all the signs of careless owners who were either as worn out as the houses they lived in or too wrapped up in other pursuits. “Drugs,” Grace said, “and alcohol—look what it does to us.” She shook her head—and then, typically, tired of her own lectures, she changed the subject. “What do you know about the Rubios?”
“Not much. They have three grown kids, and they’ve adopted two other children, one is in his teens, the other is nine or so. Linda tells me they’re good people. Humble. Love kids, can’t stand to see them hurt. They’d adopt Vicente except they feel they’re just getting too old.”
Grace nodded as she stretched out to see the street sign. “It’s the next street over.” She knew these streets, this neighborhood, she remembered all the details, white and pink oleanders in every other yard, shirtless middle-aged men watering their front lawns, a beer in one hand, a watering hose in the other, Sam riding a bike, twelve and talkative and happy as a Saturday morning. Happy Sammy. “You like my bike?”
“Looks like an ordinary bike.”
“It’s not ordinary.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“I’m riding it.”
“Conceited boy. I don’t like conceited boys.”
“Hey! Hey! Don’t go. Where you going?”
“Home. And you better not follow me on your ordinary bike.”
“If I told you you were pretty, would you stay?”
“You’re conceited and you’re a liar.”
“I’m not a liar.”
“Yes, you are. I don’t think it’s funny or nice to make fun of people. Everyone knows I’m not pretty. Everyone.”
“Everyone thinks you’re beautiful.”
“Please, stop it, Sammy.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m as ordinary as your bike.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t like to be teased. I don’t like it. And I don’t like you, Sammy. I don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“When I grow up, I’m going to find you, Grace. And I’m going to kiss you. And you’re going to kiss me back. And you’re going to whisper my name—except I’ll be a man and you won’t call me Sammy, you’ll call me Sam. You’ll see. We’ll kiss.”
“Grace?”
“What?”
“Are you okay?”
“Your father and I grew up in this neighborhood.”
“I know.”
“He used to speed down the streets on his bike and tell all the girls they were pretty.”
“Did he ever tell you?”
“It was a long time ago. No me acuerdo. There—is that the address?”
Mister parked in front of the house, but kept the car running. “Just one more thing, Grace. Something I forgot to mention.”
“What?”
“Vicente. He’s blind.”
Mr. Rubio was a quiet man with a friendly smile. Fifty-eight, thin, a careful way about him. He opened the door as if their coming was both something unexpected and something completely familiar. Ordinary as their lives that were as ordinary as a thousand other Mexican families in this city full of ordinary families that were ordinary and not ordinary at all. He led them to the kitchen, where Mrs. Rubio sat looking over someone’s homework. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “How can the children understand? How can anyone? Yo no se. Soy muy burra.”
Mr. Rubio shook his head. “We weren’t meant for school, vieja. Y no eres burra.”
Mrs. Rubio nodded, slightly amused by her husband’s endearment. Vieja. Neither she nor Mr. Rubio seemed to be at all self-conscious about letting people see them as they were. Perhaps it came with having social workers dropping in on them unexpectedly. Perhaps it came with the trappings and the freedoms of their class—they did not expect or privilege the god of privacy. Let them come in. Let them see us. She stuck her hand out. Grace reached back, and as their hands met, she uttered her name. “Grace Delgado.”
“Esperanza Rubio.”
They smiled at each other as if already they were on the same side against an ill-defined enemy. Mrs. Rubio turned her attention to Mister.
Mister smiled awkwardly, then reached out to shake her hand. “Mister Delgado.”
“Entonces eres un joven muy formal?”
“No, no. My first name’s Mister.”
“Your name is Mister?”
“Yes.” He smiled at his mother. “Blame her.”
She smiled—then laughed. She enjoyed the joke. “I like it,??
? she said. She stared at him again, then looked at Grace. “He’s a beautiful son. Muy alto.”
Grace nodded.
Mrs. Rubio didn’t say anything else. She’d made up her mind about him. She looked at her husband, who took the signal. Like a handoff in a football game.
“He doesn’t speak, your Vicente. Sometimes he points. At first we thought, pobrecito, ciego y tartamudo. But we knew he could hear, reacts to everything. Loves to touch, and he’s not afraid to explore. The doctor says there’s nothing wrong with his hearing and that he’s very intelligent, and that there’s no reason at all why he shouldn’t be talking—except that maybe he hasn’t been—” He looked at his wife. “¿Como dijo?”
“He said maybe Vicente hadn’t been stimulated enough.”
They both nodded as if they were pondering the meaning of that word, stimulate. Mr. Rubio studied Mister’s face for a minute. “Tengo un hijo. As tall as you. Older. And your wife?”
“Her father died. She went to his funeral.”
Mister Rubio made the sign of the cross and nodded. “She wants this boy?”
“We both want him.”
Grace watched the expression on his face, then looked over at Mr. Rubio. He was a man who liked to nod and ask uncomplicated questions. His nods were more a conversation with himself than a means to communicate assent to whomever he happened to be talking to. He seemed satisfied enough with Mister, though he didn’t seem like a man who was demanding and difficult to please. “If you lead Vicente into a room, he’ll smell the air. He knows about chairs and tables, and he knows to keep away from hot stoves. I think he’s burned himself before. He has a scar on one of his palms. Not a big scar—but a scar, ¿sabes? He likes baths. He knows how to wash himself. Lo dejó solo por muchas horas al pobrecito—so he’s used to being alone with nothing to do. But I think he writes stories in his head.”
Mrs. Rubio shook her head, “It’s you who writes stories in your head.”
“We all do,” he said, “¿A poco no?”
He winked. And Mister had a sudden urge to hug this man who behaved as if he wanted to become everyone’s grandfather. He patted Mister on the hand. “Mi’jo, you have to listen at night. Sometimes he sleep walks and he runs into things and he cries—so you have to make sure there’s nothing in the house that can hurt him. Sometimes he wakes up crying in the night. He won’t let Esperanza comfort him. Only me. He’ll let me hold him until he feels better, then he pushes me away. Sometimes I think he wants to kiss me, but he won’t. He likes to eat. But he only eats a little. He likes orange juice mixed with Coca-Cola. He likes chocolate and tacos and burritos and hamburgers—but he doesn’t like French fries. He’ll smell everything. And he likes to study people. He listens to their voices. Esperanza’s training him to use the bathroom.”