I don’t remember very much about the funeral. But I could conjure some details. I could write the scene and make the whole story sound convincing as hell. I could. Sure. Why not? It was windy and threatening to rain. There might have been thunder. And I was wearing a white shirt.”
“A white shirt?” Grace’s voice was casually challenging. Not really impatient. Just a hint of This isn’t necessary. Just a hint of Let’s not waste time.
“But I was wearing a white shirt.”
“Okay.”
He liked that little hint of challenge in her voice. He had decided he liked her. Still, he had to test her. An easy test. He wanted her to pass. Because she was beautiful. Because there was lightning in her eyes. Because he was tired of being careful, and tired of his dreams and tired of everything about his life. And maybe there was still a chance for him. That’s what Dave told him. There’s still a chance, buddy, so don’t fuck it up. And there she was, sitting in front of him, in this jury room in the county courthouse, a jailer just outside the room. Dave had gone to a lot of trouble.
“Why skip a session?”
“Because I killed someone, Dave.”
“Grace will see you—there’s an empty jury room a judge has lent us. She’ll see you.”
“I don’t want to talk about what happened.”
“Then don’t. Talk about something else. Something else. Start from the beginning”
“From the fucking beginning?”
There she was—unafraid. Completely in charge—as if this were her office. She was different. When the jailer told her he had to be in the room, she had not argued with him. She had merely looked at him with an authority that made him shrink. “No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary.” He did not even bother to argue with her. None of the others had looked like her or acted like her—or talked like her. Not the foster mothers, not the social workers, not the counselors who always wanted him to talk. Not that she tried to be different, and not that she tried to be beautiful. That was the thing. She didn’t paint her nails, and her makeup was barely visible, and there was only a hint of perfume. “Well, it wasn’t threatening to rain. But it was windy. My dad liked white shirts.” That was the truth. And he had probably worn a white shirt at the funeral. Certainly Mando had worn one. That, he did remember.
“Is it important, that your dad liked white shirts?”
“No. Probably not. My mother bought them for him. No, it’s not important. It’s just something I remember.”
“What else do you remember?”
“My sisters took turns crying. I could hear them. I think that’s all I really heard, the sounds of their tears. They stayed in their room. They didn’t want to come out. They howled like one of those winds that won’t quit, those winds that make you afraid. But I thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, because they were washing themselves. They were trying to get rid of the hurt. That’s what I thought—but still, I just couldn’t stand it. All day. And in the night, too. I couldn’t stand it, all that crying. I couldn’t. And Mando couldn’t stand it, either. He would go into their room, talk to them, talk and talk. And listening to his voice, they would stop. But when he would leave the room, they would start again. And Mando, he would stomp out the door, hells and damns and fucks on his lips….”
Santo Niño de Atocha Catholic Church was full. Mostly families from the neighborhood. Women dressed in black or gray. Women he knew because they’d been to visit his mother in their house. Women they’d seen every Sunday in the same church. Women who looked like they’d been crying, and he wondered about their tears because, really, they were strangers. And little girls, clean and dressed up in dark blue dresses. Little girls who had been instructed not to giggle, who had been lectured that this was a sad and sober and serious business. Little boys wearing pressed shirts and wearing looks of curiosity. Andrés could see that. He wondered what kind of look he had on his own face as he studied the whole scene.
He recognized some of the men—the pallbearers, an uncle he didn’t know, his dad’s friends from the neighborhood or from work or from the garage where he and his friends liked to go to have a beer and get away from the chores that were waiting for them at home. His dad had referred to them as his compas. Compa Johnny and compa Joe, who was a real compa because he was Andrés’s godfather, and compa Chepo and compa Lazaro. And compa Henry. He knew them. They’d spent hours and hours in his front yard and backyard, smoking and drinking beer and laughing and making jokes about their wives or about their bosses. He recognized them. Today, they weren’t making jokes.
He was sitting next to Mrs. Fernandez, his mother’s best friend. They were always talking on the phone. “We went to school together.” That was his mother’s explanation for their friendship. “Since first grade.” She was a nice lady, Mrs. Fernandez. Pretty—though not as pretty as his mother had been. But she had the kindest voice in the world. And she never seemed to be in a bad mood. She didn’t have any children of her own. The other women in the neighborhood whispered about that, the tragedy of it, as if she wasn’t as good as the other women, the women who’d been able to have children. Women who had children, they were real. More real than Mrs. Fernandez.
She’d always been good to them, Mrs. Fernandez. Even before the accident. But since that night, she’d practically moved in with them. Taking care of things, funeral arrangements, making sure they had everything they needed, feeding them. She was good to Ileana. Yolie didn’t like her. But Yolie could be hard on people. She could be just like Mando.
Mrs. Fernandez would take them in. Maybe she would love them. That’s what Andrés was thinking. He got mad at himself. He was only thinking of himself. He was supposed to be thinking of his mom and dad. He was supposed to be praying that they would find their way to heaven. That’s what his friend, Nico, had told him, that when you died, some kind of angel put you in front of these roads. And you had to choose. And you had to take one of those roads and hope that it was the one that would lead to heaven. And if you had been good, then the angel gave you a light so you could see better, so you could choose wisely, so he shut his eyes and prayed for his mom and dad. He knew that an angel would give his mother a light, because she’d been good. And she would share the light with his father. Because that’s the way she was.
He was praying so hard that he was shaking. He felt Mrs. Fernandez’s hand on his shoulder as he knelt. He shut his eyes. Finally, he opened them. He didn’t want to cry in front of anyone. Mando said it was okay if he cried. “But don’t let them see,” he said. “Don’t let anyone see.” So every day he would take a ride on his bike and cry as he rode around the neighborhood. He couldn’t even see where he was going, didn’t care either. He just rode and cried and rode and cried. He’d done that every day since that night. He would fall asleep, his legs aching almost as much as his heart.
He felt Ileana taking his hand and leaning into him. “They’re in heaven, right, Andy?”
He didn’t want to tell her what he’d heard about the roads. And the long walk his parents were taking right now. It would scare her, and she didn’t need to know about the angel who gave people lights, either. “Yes. They’re in heaven.”
Yolie didn’t say anything. She didn’t cling to him like Ileana—but Yolie was older. She was dressed in black, and he’d heard someone whisper “Ya se hizo mujer,” so maybe Yolie was a woman, now. And if Yolie was a woman, then Mando was a man. And only he and Ileana were still kids. Only he and Ileana needed taking care of. Maybe that was it. Maybe if he had been older, he would have been mad, too. Mad like Yolie and Mando. But he wasn’t. He was sad. And he was scared. And Ileana, too. But not Yolie. Maybe, when you were older, you got scared and sad in a different way. He knew that Yolie cried at night, when everyone was gone. Just like him and Ileana. But in the daytime, she was mostly mad.
Yolie knelt in front of their dad’s casket first, to look at him for the last time. Andrés, too. He knelt next to Yolie. Ileana didn’t kneel. She wanted to see, so she just stood and leaned into her brother and peeked inside the casket. He could feel his little sister’s clean breath. “Andy, does it hurt to be dead?”
“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
She nodded. He could tell Yolie was crying. Soft. She made the sign of the cross—then she reached toward her father. At first, Andrés didn’t know what she was doing. And then he understood. She was trying to take off his wedding ring. She wasn’t afraid. To take it. At first it seemed like she would break his finger—but then it just slid off. She handed it to him. “Here.”
Andrés just stared at the ring his older sister had thrust into his hand.
“Maybe you should give it to Mando.”
“No. He wouldn’t care about it. We’ll give him all of Dad’s shirts. He likes them.” She sounded so sure. Like she knew exactly what to do. Like she’d thought about all these things. Not like she was lost. Not like that. She rose and kissed her father on the forehead, then made the sign of the cross again. It seemed like she knew everything. It was true, what people were saying. She was a woman. She walked slowly to her mother’s casket. Andrés and Ileana made the sign of the cross and followed her.
This was too hard for Andrés—to kneel in front of his dead mother. He didn’t want to cry. But he did. And Ileana cried, too. And Yolie put her arm around him. “You were her favorite,” she said. “She loved you.”
“I wasn’t. I wasn’t,” Andrés said softly. He didn’t like the accusation. He wanted to ask her why she was saying those awful things.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“She loved everyone.”
“Yes. All of us. She loved all of us. But you were her favorite.”
She reached for her mother’s wedding band and slipped it off. She clutched it in her hand. Andrés could tell she was about to cry. But Yolie wrapped her hand tight around her mother’s ring, and refused to cry. They knelt there, the three of them, for a long time. And then, all of a sudden, Mando was beside them. He smelled of cologne and cigarettes. “Let’s all say a prayer,” he said. He seemed different. He was like Yolie. Not lost. A man. Andrés could tell. And he’d been crying. Even though he was wearing sunglasses, Andrés could tell by the sound of his voice that he’d been crying. Maybe that was okay, to be a man and to cry. Especially if your mother and father were dead. Mando took Yolie’s hand, and then she took Andrés’s hand, and Andrés took Ileana’s hand, and they all clung to each other and whispered: “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou…” Their mother’s favorite prayer. And when they finished they made the sign of the cross, and Yolie and Mando started to walk back to their seats.
But Andrés refused to move. He just stayed there and began howling like a hurt dog. He didn’t have any control, now, over his body, over the awful sounds that were coming out of him. And he felt Mando’s arms around him, and his arms were soft and kind and good. Mando had never placed his arms around him, not like that, not ever. And he kissed him on the top of his head and he said, “You have to be strong, now, Andrés. You have to be.” And Andrés stopped crying. And nodded his head.
And when they lowered his mother and father into the ground, he didn’t cry.
The house was full of people all afternoon. All the Compas and their wives and their kids, the whole neighborhood. Mando smoked cigarettes in the backyard with all the men. And they let him have a beer, just one—but it wasn’t the first time he’d ever had a beer, Andrés knew that. Maybe the men knew it, too, but they knew the women were watching, and so they let him have only one.
The women had filled the house with food: borracho beans and beans cooked in ham hocks, and refried beans and calabasitas con chile y queso and enchiladas and brisket and bolillos and tortillas and tamales and chile colorado con carne and tacos and chiles rellenos and more than a few buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken and homemade potato salad and macaroni salad with jalapeños and cilantro. And everyone just made themselves at home, and Mrs. Fernandez oversaw everything in the kitchen and Yolie helped her and Ileana ate and ate because she was hungry—but after she finished eating, she fell asleep. She looked so little. And Mando carried her into the bedroom she shared with Yolie, and it suddenly occurred to Andrés that they had no money, and how were they going to pay for the house? But he shook his head and prayed for his mother and father’s journey, the one they were taking that very minute, and so he went into his room and prayed. He prayed in Spanish, too, just to make sure. And when he finished praying, he took out his bike and went for a ride—but he told Mrs. Fernandez so she wouldn’t worry, because the day before, when he’d gone out, he’d forgotten to tell her and she had all the neighbors looking for him. “Just half an hour,” she said.
He didn’t have a watch, but he nodded. Half an hour. So he rode around for a long time. Maybe it was an hour, he didn’t know. He thought of his mother and father and he wanted to remember them, and never forget, so he just pictured them, and tried to paste that picture to the walls he had in his mind. So he’d never forget.
And then he went back home with his tired legs and his tired heart and his tired mind, tired from trying to picture his parents. So he wouldn’t forget. When he walked back inside his house, people were beginning to leave, and they all hugged him as they left, and the women put their hands on his face and told him he was a beautiful boy and they said it in English and in Spanish, que muchacho tan bonito. And by the end of it all, he was tired of being touched and talked to and he just wanted to sleep.
And finally, when it got dark, all the people had gone home—except the uncle he didn’t know very well and whom his mother didn’t like—him and Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez. They were the only ones left. Mrs. Fernandez was cleaning up the kitchen and putting the leftover food away and Mando and Mr. Fernandez were cleaning up the backyard and Yolie was holding Ileana and sitting on the couch and they were both more asleep than awake—and Andrés just watched them.
And then his uncle said it was time for him to go. And so he gave them all a halfhearted hug, and then Andrés knew why his mother hadn’t liked him. He didn’t care. Not about any of them.
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 the 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.”