It was odd, how already the house seemed empty without him. Mister pictured him growing into the bed he and Liz had bought for him. He pictured the house full of his photographs. One picture for every year—five, six, seven, eight…What would he look like as a man?
He looked in the mirror. He wondered if a man’s body changed when he became a father. Sam had once told him that the shape of the human heart changed every time it loved someone. So the shape of the heart was always changing. If his heart had changed shape because of Vicente, then wasn’t it also true that his entire body had changed?
But what did Sam know, anyway? He was no scientist. Just a romantic guy from the barrio who spent his entire life trying to figure out the meaning of things. Especially love. Sam was always trying to get at the root of the human heart. It was a thing with him. He was convinced that love wasn’t metaphysical. Well, perhaps metaphysical in part. But its roots were in the physical body, the mind or the heart or the flesh, which was more intelligent than most people believed. The body is intelligent. That’s what he had on a note that he tacked above his desk. Well, Sam was no dualist. Sex feels good. Why do you suppose that is, mi’jito? Sam always told him things like that—but he’d been too young to ask the right questions.
Maybe the heart did change shape. And not just when it loved. When it was hurt. When it was angry. When it hated. When it remembered. When it yearned. When it mourned.
Liz.
Vicente.
Grace.
Sam.
Heart.
“You can take him home next week.”
“It’s just Wednesday, Linda.”
“Another week—that’s—”
“An eternity.”
“Relax.”
“The Rubios need a little more time. It’s not too much to ask, Mister.”
“No, it’s only right.”
“They want to know if they can visit him.”
“Of course.”
“I think they’ve really fallen for this kid. Especially Mr. Rubio.”
“They can visit any time they want.”
“I think it would be a good idea if you called and told them that. I think it would be easier on them if you called.”
“I can do that.”
“You’re a good egg, Mister.”
“Sure I am.” He laughed. A week. Not such a long time. Liz will be disappointed. He practiced saying, It’s only a week, Liz. Not so long.