It’s just as the Grandmother promised. Father is getting better, doing amazingly well, in fact, astonishing us all, though he complains too much, especially about the food. Mother brings Father his favorite—confetti Jell-O. He’s eating this straight from the deli container with a plastic spoon. Now that he’s out of Intensive Care, he has a television, and this is what he’s watching. I know Death can’t come and take him now that he’s laughing at Cantinflas.
We sit around watching Cantinflas like he’s God, and in a way, he is.
—How you doing, Mr. Reyes? At long last, Father’s doctor arrives.
—Fine, thank you, doctor.
—No, not fine, Mother says. —All you do is complain, and now here’s your chance to complain—so complain!
Filipino nurses pop in nonstop and joke with Father.
—Papacito, how are you today?
—Mabuti, Father says, surprising us with his Tagalog. —Me siento mabuti.
My brothers are arguing about whose fault it is a chaise lounge hasn’t been delivered on time. Stop it! Here’s Father sick and they’re wasting oxygen over nothing. I try to think of something to change the subject so that Father won’t get upset too.
—Father, can you remember your first memory? What’s the oldest memory you can remember? The oldest, earliest thing you can think of.
Father pauses between spoonfuls of the confetti Jell-O and thinks.
—Two men shot by the firing squad. This from the time when we lived in a house next to the army barracks. I used to wake up with the bugler. I remember once waking up one morning and standing on the bed, your grandmother still asleep with baby Fat-Face, the others weren’t born yet. It was just me. I looked out the window looking for the bugler, and there he was, same as always, but what do you think? This morning they have two pobres with their eyes covered and their backs to the wall. And then I hear the guns go off, boom! And the two fall to the ground. Just like in the movies. Boom and they’re dust. It gave me a fright I never forgot. I woke your grandmother with my crying. That’s what I remember.
—Was this during the Cristeros uprisings?
—I don’t know. I just know what I saw.
—How come you never told any of us this before?
—Nobody asked.
His life, mine, theirs, each, oh. And here is Father, a little leaf. Dry and light as snow. The wind could take him. THANK YOU, CALL AGAIN. I’d better ask now.
—And what is it … I mean, what would you say is the most important thing you’ve learned from all your years being alive? What has life taught you, Father?
—¿La vida?
—Yes.
He licks his plastic spoon and stares at the wall. A long silence.
—El dinero no vale pero ayuda mucho. No worth the money, but they help a lot.
—Money’s worthless, but valuable?
He nods and goes back to his Jell-O.
I sigh.
—Father, did you know that the Carnicería Xalapa on the corner is expanding. They bought the whole block and are going to open a super-supermercado.
—Drogas. That’s what they’re really selling. No wonder I can’t make a go of it. I’m too honest.
—Tell Father the good news. Go on, tell him.
—Father, when you were sick we had a family meeting, Rafa says. —And we’ve decided to go into business together, to use what we’ve learned in school and pool our resources, help you with your business. You have all the contacts and expertise, and Ito and I both have business training. Tikis can help if he wants when he finishes school. And the younger boys are already working with you summers. So we decided we should start our own business, and not have you working with Tres Reyes anymore. It’s bad for your health. You should have your own shop, with your sons, and hire real upholsterers, the kind who know how to work with a hammer.
—Custom, quality work, Father says, excited. —Maybe Toto will want to join when he gets back from the army, no? And what about your sister? She can be the receptionist. Right, Lalita? You like to sit at a desk and read, don’t you?
For once I have the good sense not to say anything.
—And guess what else, Father? We got the truck painted up with the new name, Inocencio Reyes and Sons. Quality upholstery. Over forty years experience. It looks real nice.
—Wow! Has it really been forty years already, Father?
—Well, yes, but no. More or less, Father says. —It’s what the customer wants to hear.
Father’s tired. Mother makes us all kiss him good-bye, and we walk out to the parking lot where the shop van is waiting, the new business name painted on both sides and on the back door. INOCENCIO REYES AND SONS, QUALITY UPHOLSTERY, OVER FORTY YEARS EXPERIENCE.
Rafa’s right. It looks real nice.