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?”
Vicente nodded.
“What kind? What kind of ice cream do you like? Vanilla?”
He shook his head.
“Chocolate?”
He shook his head.
“Orange sherbet?”
He nodded.
“Good. That’s my favorite.”
All the way home, Mister stared at Vicente through the rearview mirror. Alert, he moved his head from side to side as if he were studying his new surroundings, almost as if he were sighted. As they neared his house, he heard Vicente’s small voice. “Mom.” And then, after a moment, Vicente repeated the word again. “Mom.”
Mister smiled. That’s where all our stories begin, don’t they? With Mom. Me and you, kid, our stories are as different as our mothers. He pulled into the driveway. He turned off the car. He turned around and reached out his hand and touched Vicente’s wandering face. “Mom. That’s a good word. A holy word. Hand. That’s a holy word, too. Let’s go inside. I’ll teach you a new word. Home. H-O-M-E. Home.”
He carried him inside. He could feel Vicente’s breath on his neck. He smelled of apples. His breath hadn’t changed yet. There was nothing rotting inside him yet. Mom. Hand. Home.
Mom. Dad.