Mister was gone now. She felt the weight of that permanence, the pedestrian deadness of the meaning of “gone,” all through the night. And such a long night. There was so little drama in the kind of dull numbness that set in after a loss. The dullness was omnipresent as a watchful god, even after she’d fallen asleep, exhausted from her grieving and the attendant details that came with a death. The living were always left with attendant details.
When she woke, she thought of Liz, of how she’d said, “I have to go home.” Grace had let her go. But she had sent two of her sisters to drive her home. And later she’d called her, but there was nothing but sobbing on the other end of the telephone. “It’s good to cry,” she’d whispered. When she hung up, she took her own advice.
The last time she’d cried herself to sleep was the night she buried Sam.
She was numb and groggy as she pulled herself out of bed. The light in the room made her head throb even more. She slipped on a robe and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She brushed her teeth and thought it was strange to be doing such a normal thing. What right did she have to be doing normal things? She took two aspirin. She chewed them, winced at the taste, then cupped some water in her hands from the faucet and washed the taste away. But the taste remained.
She could smell the coffee. Dolores had stayed the night. Grace had been too tired to fight with her. The smell of the freshly brewed coffee reminded her of Mister. Everything would remind her. Everything would make her feel the guilt, the misspoken words, the impossible demands. That’s how it was in the beginning. That’s how it had been with Sam. She’d recalled every disagreement until she almost broke under the weight of her own punishment. Don’t, Grace, please.
She made her way into the kitchen. She glanced at the headlines in the morning paper. She didn’t have the stomach to read it. She pushed the paper away, then watched Dolores walk in from the backyard. “When did the dog die?”
“I forgot to tell you. Mister and I buried her.”
Dolores handed her a cup of coffee, then kissed her. She wondered why everyone around her was so demonstrative, and wondered why temperaments were so permanent. She had the urge to go and exchange hers at her nearest department store.
“What are you beating yourself over this time?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Ya te conozco, Graciela.”
“No es nada.”
“You’ve always been so hard on yourself, Gracie.”
“Maybe I’m just plain hard.”
“Don’t, amor.”
Grace stared at her older sister, her fine features, softening with age. Her voice, too. Beautiful.
“I wonder what will become of the boy?”
“What?”
“The boy. Vicente. Do you think Liz will still want him?”
Grace looked into her sister’s serious face. “He’s alive?”
Today, no morning mass for Grace. Instead, she made up her mind to go see Liz. When she arrived, she stood outside the house. Mister had landscaped the house with desert shrubs and trees and cacti. It was so peaceful and calm. No signs of chaos or bullets or the violent intrusions of the outside world. Here, everything was just as Mister had left it—perfect for a man and a wife and a son.
On the night she had come to dinner, Mister and Liz had showed her the house, everything they’d done to it, and it was so apparent that this house was full of the abundant gifts her son had possessed—full of books and art and wood floors perfectly sanded, perfectly stained, perfectly varnished with Mister’s steady, patient hands. She rang the doorbell, her hands almost trembling.
It didn’t take long for Liz to answer the door.
They studied each other’s eyes, saying nothing. Finally, Liz smiled weakly. “Would you like some coffee?”
Grace nodded.
“I’ll put a fresh pot on.”
As Liz ground the coffee, Grace wandered through the living room, not knowing what exactly she was searching for. She touched his books, sat on his couch, and thumbed through the art books on his coffee table. He had a bookmark in one of them—then she found that the bookmark was a photograph. It was a picture of Mister between her and Sam. He was four, and they were both kissing him. He had a look of fullness on his face.
She thought of Andrés. Even today, he haunted her. She wondered if he had ever worn that look of fullness. So much hunger written on his face—so much want and rage and confusion. And yet it was her Mister who was dead, and Andrés who was alive. It wasn’t fair, to compare them, as if somehow some men deserved to live more than others. It wasn’t fair, and yet her mind had compared them because the mind had its own capricious triggers. She bowed her head. Andrés deserved to live. And so had Mister. And all these random thoughts were useless, anyway, as if the business of living and dying was a question of “deserve.”
She closed the book. Liz was standing over her, a cup of coffee in her hand. “You take it black?”
Grace nodded.
“Like Mister.”
“Yes.”
Liz saw the picture Grace was holding in her hand. “It was his favorite picture.”
Grace put the picture back in the book and shut it. “It was all so much easier when Sam was alive. For both of us.”
“Mister loved you, Grace.”
She didn’t bother to wipe the tears from her face. “Not that I made things easy for him.”
“I never made things easy for him, either, Grace.”
“He must have been addicted to loving difficult women.” Grace took a sip of coffee through her tears. “It’s good coffee.”
“What’s going to happen to us?”
Grace shrugged. “Are you going to take Vicente?”
“He was Mister’s idea. I’m sure you’ve guessed that, by now.”
“You wanted him, too. I could see that.”
“Not anymore.”
“But Liz—”
“I don’t want him, Grace. He’ll just—”
“He’ll just what?”
“It doesn’t make any sense without Mister.”
“Why not?”
“Did you come over here to play counselor?”
“I’m sorry if I sound like one,” she whispered. She got up from where she was sitting and walked to the window. She pushed aside the curtain and looked out into the morning sun. “This is a wonderful house. Shame on me for waiting so long to come here.”
“We didn’t exactly invite you over.”
“I could’ve invited myself over. And you wouldn’t have thrown me out, either. I’ve always known that. I didn’t do anything to help things along.” She looked at Liz. “I have a client. His name’s Andrés. He’s been coming to me. A troubled young man, but I’ve grown to care about him. He’s beautiful. In a different way than Mister—but beautiful. You know, it’s sometimes easier to care about strangers than to care about your own flesh and blood. He has a sister, her name’s Ileana. It’s a complicated story. He lost track of her when he was a boy. Now he’s afraid to go find her.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s afraid. What if she’s dead? What if something happened to her?”
“What if she’s alive?”
“Exactly, Liz. Don’t you see, Liz? Did you know that when I looked at Mister, sometimes all I saw was Sam? I was seeing Sam when I should’ve been seeing my son. Andrés is afraid to look for a sister, because he’s afraid he just might find more despair. Well, he just might. And he might find that he’s stronger than he thinks. But what if he finds his sister? What if he does, Liz? I stayed away. It was easier that way. Maybe for both of us. We never quite got over Sam’s death—neither one of us. You don’t want that boy anymore because he’ll just make you think of Mister. But, damnit, Liz, who does that boy have now?”
Liz sat on the couch, head bowed, tears running down her face. “It’s too hard. It’s too goddamned hard.”
Grace slowly walked toward Liz, then knelt on the floor. She placed her hand under Liz’s chin and lifted it. “There comes a time we have to send the dead away.”
“I can’t.”
“I think you can.”