Let the stars of night be dark;
We will hope for light, but have none,
May we never see the eyelids of the morning.
—JOB 3:9
The sun flickers. Like a flame hit by a sudden gust of wind. Like the lights of a bomb shelter during an air raid. Even the sun flickers. That’s what she kept telling herself. A gust, a bomb, a small explosion. Then the disruption passed—everything calm again. Everything returning to normalcy. Except that she felt herself trembling. Except she knew that this was the beginning. It was her body that had flickered.
Had it begun this way for Sam? There were so many things he never told her in the end. Maybe that’s the way it was with people who entered the liminal space between living and dying. When you stepped into that space, you stopped telling people things. You started letting go of the need for words the same way you began to let go your need for food, your need for water, your need for anything associated with the strange and capricious hungers of the body. Perhaps, when you began edging toward death, you began to fill yourself with silence.
She had sifted through all these theories when Sam was dying. She had clung to them when she should’ve been clinging to Sam. Hadn’t that been her sin? She’d lost her nerve, had told herself it didn’t matter, all those wordless hours that hovered over them like vultures over a carcass. But it had always mattered. That she’d let him suffer alone. Because she didn’t want to know, because it hurt too much, and hurt even more pretending it didn’t hurt at all. Because she hadn’t really believed he was mortal, her Sam. She had expected him to find a way to live, just like he’d found a way to fix everything in their house, the plumbing, the electricity, the foundation, the drawer that was always sticking. Oh, God, she had, she’d expected him to live. And so she’d waited in dumb silence. But now she had another chance. She wouldn’t make the same mistake. God damn her if she made the same mistake again with Mister. But how could she find a way to pull him close when she’d pushed him away without even knowing she was doing it? You’re more interested in being right than in being kind—that’s your problem, Grace. He’d tossed the accusation at her like he was lobbing a hand grenade. She steadied herself against the desk. The momentary darkness lifting. See how easy it is to stop yourself from trembling. She didn’t even know she’d whispered Mister’s name.
“I think I should call a doctor.”
“I’m all right, Dave. I’m fine now.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
“What happened?”
“I’m just tired.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have a medical degree, Dave.”
You’re a lawyer, not a fucking doctor. He smiled to himself. First Andrés. Now Grace. Maybe he was more predictable than he thought. He bit his lip. “Grace—”
“I just came back from a visit to the doctor. I know exactly what is and what is not wrong with me.”
“Well, now you sound like the Grace I know and love.”
“I had no idea you had so much affection for me.”
“I had a crush on you from the very beginning.”
“You were a boy.”
“I was twenty-one.”
“And looked sixteen. And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With that grave look of concern. It’s a little too earnest.”
“Earnest?”
“I thought lawyers were supposed to be a little more calculating. A little more callous.”
“Oh, I can be callous. And according to the women I date, I can be calculating as hell.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Did anybody ever tell you that you were very pushy?”
“The word very is so unnecessary, Dave.” Her hands had stopped trembling. She felt strong again. “I’m fine. There’s that look again. You must be very good at eliciting sympathy from juries.”
“It’s all for a good cause.” He was studying her. “Mister? Isn’t that your son?”
“Yes. Why do you ask.”
“You whispered his name.”
“Did I? He must be on my mind.”
“Would you like to have dinner? I mean, if you’re well enough?”
“How about a drink?”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s an excellent idea. Then you can tell me about how you’ve managed to become such a successful lawyer and be such a dismal failure with women.”
“I find the word dismal as unnecessary as you find the word very. This isn’t going to be a counseling session, is it, Grace?”
“No. I’ve done all I can do on that count.”
“I’m functional.”
“That was my great accomplishment with you?”
“You can’t take all the blame, Grace.” He could be shy. She could see that shyness in his smile. She’d seen that side of him—such a long time ago.
“You’re studying me, Grace. What are you discovering?”
“A man who works too hard. It’s making you old.”
“It’s not the work. Gringos don’t age well—didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”
She almost laughed. “That rumor was started by other gringos.”
“To what purpose?”
“To elicit sympathy.”
He laughed softly. “I like you, Grace.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Sincere. You are. You take the world home with you every night.”
“Not the world.”
“Maybe just Andrés Segovia.”
“It’s complicated, Grace.”
“Would I need a law degree to understand the whole situation?”
“Well, no, not a law degree.”
“Explain it to me, then, this complicated thing. I’m relatively intelligent.”
“Relatively?”
“I thought by now you understood I didn’t like the word very.”
He really did like her. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to ask her how many men had fallen in love with her. But she wasn’t the kind of woman who let you ask that question.
“I want you to keep seeing him.”
“He’s in jail.”
“He’ll be out. Of course, right now, he doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want to see anyone. But I’ll get him out one way or another.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I know the system.”
“They’ll let him out with that temper?”
“They can’t keep you in jail for having a temper.”
“He got into a fight with four policemen—went at them, resisted arrest, was intoxicated—”
“Why do you think I got him out so easily? The cops beat the crap out of him. The charges were dropped altogether.”
“Does Andrés know that?”
“I haven’t gotten around to telling him.”
“Why not?”
“If he knew the charges had been dropped, then maybe he’d stop seeing you.”
“So the state isn’t going to reimburse me?” She smiled.
He smiled back. “Nope.”
They stayed that way for a moment.
“You see—my man Andrés had no record.”
“But I thought—”
“He was a juvenile. And he was cleared of all charges.”
“Was it murder?”
“He didn’t kill anyone, Grace.” His face turned to stone in an instant, then turned back to flesh. “He doesn’t have a record.”
“None that they can use against him in a court of law. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“I can get him out on a PR bond, Grace—and I’m going to.”
“That simple, huh?”
“Nothing is that simple. Getting him out on bail until his trial is the easy part.” He studied Grace’s face. “You think he belongs in jail?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know. They won’t set a trial date for him for another six to nine months. Maybe longer. That’s too long for him. He doesn’t deserve that.”
He was upset. She could see that. “Maybe letting him out isn’t the best thing.”
“The best thing, Grace?” He reached for a cigarette, then put it in his mouth.
“Grace, it’s not too late for him. He’s got something, Grace, this kid.”
She nodded. “Yes, I think he has. But—”
“No buts.”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because, like Andrés, I’ve got something, too.” He broke into a smile, then laughed. The cigarette falling out of his mouth. He laughed. “You want to know a secret?”
“That’s what I do for a living—listen to everyone’s secrets.”
He picked his cigarette off the floor. “Remember that accident?”
“How could I forget?”
“The people I killed—”
“You’d think at this point, you’d stop talking about that car accident as if you’d killed them with a gun. You want to play the dictionary game?”
“The one where you push the dictionary across the table and have me read—”
“The word is accident.”
“Grace, that couple—they were Andrés Segovia’s parents.”