You should tell him, Dave. Grace was good at giving advice. And she wasn’t wrong. But he’d backed down so many times that it seemed normal now, to live with this not telling him. It was like forgetting someone’s name when you first met him. And the next time, for whatever reason, you were too embarrassed to ask the man’s name, because he remembered yours and he was so friendly—and you had your pride, and you didn’t want to appear to be egotistical because he remembered your name, after all, and how was it that you didn’t have the decency to pay attention to other people’s names when they were introduced to you. And you kept running into this man, and each time you smiled and finessed How are you? Lots of work? and hoped the man didn’t notice you never called him by his name. And every time you saw him, you wanted simply to look him in the eye and ask. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.” It would be so easy and simple to confess that. But what would he think, after all these years of speaking to each other on the street? The problem could be so easily resolved. But you never ’fessed up, because your pride didn’t let you, and so you’ve learned to live with this stupid and insane fear that you’ll run into that man again—and of course you will. It was like that, this not telling him. Only worse. Much worse.
Grace was right. About everything.
He wondered how she was doing. God, they killed her boy. He’d taken flowers to her house. She’d offered him coffee, and they’d talked. She looked sad and sleepless. But something else. She was in mourning, yet she seemed so calm. She showed him a picture of her son. There was something about him, even in the picture. What a world this is. You’d think they’d all be used to this by now. When was the last day the fucking world had lived without a killing? This was normal, after all. Apocalypse was normalcy. What a world this was. How was it that he was so in love with living? How could that be? Maybe he wasn’t in love. Maybe it was like smoking. Living was just another addiction. Isn’t that what addicts always told themselves? That it was love. Isn’t that what he always said? “God, I love to smoke.” Whatever gets you through the day.
He shook his head and laughed. And lit a cigarette.
I’ll take Andrés to the funeral. And afterward, I’ll find the words.