Grace took out Andrés Segovia’s file for the third time that afternoon. She had questions. She’d written them down on a piece of scrap paper and stuck them in the file. Who hurt you? When did it happen? How many times? Where? Tell me. Why do you hate yourself? Where do you keep the hurt? There was no art to this, coming up with these questions. But she would never ask them. They were too direct and unsubtle and disarming. And too unearned. Unearned questions deserved no answers. Everything had to be earned.
She kept the questions in the file. A compass for the journey.
She tried to think of more practical questions. Not real questions. Not important questions, not questions that needed answering, but questions that were like doorways. They could walk through them. Questions that would let him know she was listening, that would let him know she wasn’t a lawyer deposing a client. The trick was not to sound too prepared—as if you could be too prepared to listen to young women and men as they stumbled to articulate their sufferings. Maybe, if she worked hard enough—if she could make him work hard enough—maybe he would answer the questions. And he would let it out and listen to his own words. That would be a start. If he listened to the sound of his own breaking voice, if he could hear the rage and the hurt. But what if he already knew? The possibility existed he already knew everything about himself, and knowing everything brought him no closer to a cure. And what constituted a cure? What was healing for a damaged human being? Who needed help and who didn’t? And anyway, was there really a cure for the truly hurt? People could be totaled, just like cars.
Maybe there was just management. More painless days than painful ones. Sometimes that was the supreme victory. Some, she sent to doctors and psychiatrists who were competent to deal with their maladies, doctors and psychiatrists who decided they needed meds—and for some, it worked. For a few years, anyway. But for a lifetime? Who knew? But hadn’t she seen it happen before? People healed. Cripples who learned to walk. Hadn’t she been a witness to recoveries? Somehow, miraculously, they forced themselves, told themselves they were going to live. They wrote themselves new lives. Fictions, perhaps, but what did it matter? They had kept the chaos at bay. They had managed to stop cursing the darkness. They’d lit a torch.
Others stopped swimming, their arms and legs limp in the dark waters. And they drowned.
Andrés Segovia, tell me what happened that night? That was a good first question.
The resemblance to Mister was uncanny. They could have passed for brothers. He almost took her breath away. Not that she showed him what she felt. She’d always had the kind of face that hid her emotions. She offered a handshake, natural, friendly, at ease. Andrés hesitated for an instant, then smiled back at her as they shook hands. He sat down on the chair across from her desk.
“We can sit here,” she said, “the safety of this large desk between us—or we can sit over there.” She pointed to the opposite side of the room, which was arranged like a living room. A small couch, a coffee table with a stack of books on it, two comfortable chairs.
“This is good,” he said. He looked around the room.
She noticed a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “You’re either looking for an escape route, or you’re searching for an ashtray?”
“Both, I think.” He looked straight at her. “This wasn’t my idea, to be here.” He started reaching for a cigarette, then stopped himself. “You let people smoke in your office?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Some people claim they can’t really talk to me without a cigarette.”
“And you believe them?”
“What I believe isn’t always important.”
“But you let them smoke?”
“You want an ashtray?”
“No.” He leaned back on his chair. “I had to take off from work. Now I have to work tonight. To make up for lost time. I don’t like that. My boss doesn’t like it either.”
“I can change the time of your appointments. That won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” he said. “I still don’t want to be here.”
“But you came.”
“You saw my file?”
“Of course.”
“The judge thinks I need to learn to manage my anger before I get into deeper trouble. He said I’m a good candidate for Huntsville, if I’m not careful. And my lawyer, he thinks I need help.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think the judge—never mind the judge. Fuck him. And my lawyer, he needs a project. So I’m the project. He thinks I need saving.”
“And do you need saving?”
“Everyone needs saving. Isn’t that why people go to church?” He laughed. “My lawyer’s full of crap. I bet he called you.”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
“He wants you to check in with him every time I come in, doesn’t he?”
“He just wanted me to know that he thought you were—” She paused, weighed her words for an instant. “He cares about you.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yes, it is. It’s very nice.”
“So he just wants to make sure you’re on board to save me, too. Maybe I should go find one of those churches and let myself be slain in the holy spirit. Let Jesus come into my heart.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Not a loud or boisterous laugh. Not like that. “That’s funny.”
He tried to hide his smile. “So you don’t think Jesus saves?”
“I don’t believe in cheap shortcuts.” She chastised herself—not for what she said, but for the way she said it. Too much edge in her voice. Not that he seemed to mind.
“Counseling doesn’t help, you know? I’ve tried it. I’ve talked to you people before. I’ve talked and talked and fucking talked. I’ve even played the game of refusing to fucking talk. I’ve answered questions and refused to answer questions—and sometimes it even felt good. For about a second. And nothing’s ever changed.” He reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. He played with it. “Look, these are my choices. I either come to talk to you every week until you write a nice report and say, Look, Judge, this guy can walk the streets again. I either do that, or I go to jail. Hell, I’m probably going to wind up there, anyway. Maybe I should fucking save us both the time.” He got up from where he was sitting, nodded at her. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you have a cigarette?”
She’d thought of chasing him down, pleading with him, convincing him that he was worth it. That’s what Dave had told her on the phone, “Look, Grace, this guy, he’s worth it. Do what you can. I’m counting on you.” Wasn’t that her job, to convince them all that they were worth the trouble? But she wasn’t a pleader, and it didn’t work that way. She wasn’t a jilted girlfriend, and he wasn’t a little boy. He was a man, articulate, and whatever it was that he had in him, she couldn’t pin him to the floor and yank it out of him, any more than he would be slain in the spirit and be saved by Jesus.
What a waste.
She would have to call his probation officer. She would have to tell him that he wasn’t interested in counseling. This was the part she hated. She picked up the phone, then stared at it. She looked up, her door open. He was standing there. He was looking at her. He lit his cigarette. She took out an ashtray from her desk and slid it across the desk.
“You can’t help me.”
“Probably not.”
He sat back down on the chair. “Were you going to call Dave?”
“I don’t know who I was going to call.”
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How? How do you know him?”
“I think you should ask him about that.” His cigarette looked good.
He nodded. “So what do you want to know?”
“What happened that night? The night you were arrested?”
“I went out.”
“Went out?”
“I was at home. At my apartment. I was writing something.”
“Writing?”
“I write sometimes.”
“What do you write? Stories? Poetry?”
“Poetry?” He smiled. Not a smile, a sneer. “Nothing like that. I just write things. Things I’m thinking.”
“Does it help?”
“Sort of. Like having a cigarette when you need one.”
“So you were writing, and you decided to go out.”
“Something like that. I got restless. And I went to this place I like to go to. El Ven Y Verme.”
Grace smiled. “I like the name. Makes me want to go there.”
“You wouldn’t like it. It’s a dump. So I was there, and I got to thinking. Sometimes too much beer makes me think about things.”
“Like what?”
“Things that make me sad. And I’d brought along the stuff that I was writing. And I took out what I’d written, and I wrote some more—right there in the bar. And this guy starts hassling me, asking me what I was writing, was I writing a letter to my girlfriend or maybe I didn’t like girls and was I writing to my boyfriend, and I wanted to punch his goddamned lights out. So I just left. I don’t know what time it was. I just wanted to be alone. So I just walked. I don’t even know where I was, but I sat down under a streetlight and I just started reading what I had written, and then these cops come along. And they treat me like I’m some kind of goddamned animal—like I’m some kind of wild dog on the loose—that’s how they treat you. And I wasn’t going to let them treat me like that. I wasn’t. So I wind up in jail.”
“What happened between you and the cops?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Were you drunk?”
“No. Maybe a little drunk. But not very.”
Grace took out a file. “Would you like to see a copy of the police report?” She handed it to him.
He read it slowly. “I don’t—I don’t remember any of this. I don’t remember acting that way.”
“Is there any truth there?”
“I didn’t say they were lying. I just said I didn’t remember.”
“What happens—when you get mad?”
He pushed the file back toward Grace.
“You don’t think I know that I hurt people?”
Grace pushed the file aside. “Tell me something about yourself. Something important.”
“Is this a game?”
“No. Not a game exactly. Let’s call them ground rules. You come and see me twice a week, and—”
“Twice a week?”
“Then later, maybe just once a week. Every time you come and see me, you tell me something important about yourself. Something absolutely necessary.”
“I don’t like that rule.” He put out his cigarette. He wanted to light another. He stopped himself. He looked at her. She was beautiful. And young. Like a girl, but a girl who had always been a woman. He hadn’t expected that. She was old enough to be his mother. And still she was beautiful. “I don’t have a family,” he said.
“How did that happen?”
He took out a cigarette. He held it tight. “I was ten years old. I was ten that summer. It’s hard, sometimes, to remember. I remember my dad had bought me a bike that day. It was Saturday. It was a nice day. Not too hot. Dry. Like today. I hate Saturdays. He was a funny guy, my dad. Unreliable. A party guy, I think. That’s how I remember him. He’d gotten me a bike because my dog had died. I loved that dog. And he’d died. I found the dog, dead, in the backyard. He’d gotten mad at me because I started crying. But I didn’t care if he was mad. It was my dog, and my dog was dead, and I wanted to cry—so I did. My mom helped me bury him. She said a prayer, and I put a cross in the ground. And I think, later, my dad felt bad. Because I’d lost my dog and because he’d gotten mad at me. So I think that’s why he’d gotten me a bike…”
“A bike! You got me a bike!”
“Sure I did. It’s summer. What kind of summer would it be without a bike?”
The boy looked at his bike. Then looked at his dad. He wanted to kiss him, but he’d told him that the days for kissing dads were over. He didn’t understand that. But those were the rules. “Can I ride it?”
“Go. Go on!” And so he’d ridden his bike up and down the streets. Up and down, showing everyone his new bike. God, a bike! His heart was bursting, God, he could ride all summer. He rode all afternoon—until it was almost dark. When he got home, his mother was at the door.
“I was starting to get worried.”
“You don’t have to worry, Mom. You don’t. Not about me.” He looked into her hazel eyes. She wasn’t happy. He knew that. Maybe she’d had another fight with his father. Or maybe his father had been fighting with Mando again. Sometimes she got in the middle of it. Sometimes she succeeded in making them stop. Sometimes they refused to stop and cursed her. Both of them. She’d been crying. He could tell. “Can we go to the movies tonight, Mom?” She liked the movies.
“Not tonight, mi’jo. Your father and I are going to a wedding dance.” That’s why she was all dressed up.
“Oh. Where’s Dad?”
“He went to put gas in the car.”
He nodded. “Will you come home late?”
“Not too late. But Yolanda will be here.”
“And Mando?”
“He’s gone out.”
“Oh.” He knew what that meant. It meant he’d left as soon as his father had gone out to gas up the car. He’d come back when he felt like it. It wasn’t a new story. And Yolanda, she would stay until they left—and then her boyfriend would come, and then they would leave for a while, and he would be the only one left to stay and take care of Ileana. But she was good, and she went to sleep early anyway, and the house was peaceful and he could watch anything he wanted on the television—sometimes there was an old scary movie. Sometimes he’d just read a book. He liked the quiet of reading. “And Yolie?”
“She’s putting nail polish on Ileana’s nails.” She winked at him. “I made tacos for dinner. They’re in the oven.” She always made tacos on Saturdays.
He heard the horn of his father’s car. He turned around and waved. He’d shaved his mustache, and he looked like a different man. He looked like he was really nice. He yelled at him from the front of the house. “How was your bike?”
“It’s great, Dad. God, it’s so great.”
He nodded as he lit a cigarette. “Vamonos, vieja. Ya vamos tarde.”
“Let me just run in and get the present.”
He walked up to the car and studied his father’s face. “You shaved.”
“Yeah, what d’ya think, mi’jo.”
“I like it. Does Mom like it?”
“That’s why I did it—to make her happy.”
He nodded. “That’s good, Dad.”
His mother came out, holding a gift wrapped in silver with a white bow and wedding bells. She kissed him on the cheek. “Love you,” she whispered.
“Love you more.”
“No. It’s me who loves you more.”
“No. Me.”
They both laughed. It was a game they always played. She rubbed his hair and walked around to get into the car.
“You treat him like a baby.” That’s what his father said when she got into the car.
“He’s the only man in this house who knows anything about love.”
He stood there watching them. His father shook his head. “Be a man,” he said. His mother looked past his father and blew him a kiss. “Bye.” His father threw his cigarette out the window and drove away.
“Am I boring you?”
“No.”
“Maybe I’m making the story longer than it needs to be.”
Grace smiled at him. “Your hour isn’t up yet. Besides, you’re just repeating a memory. That’s different than telling a story.”
“Well, it’s a sad memory.”
“If it was a happy one, you wouldn’t be repeating it. You might not even be sitting here telling it.”
“I told this story to Dave once. A long time ago. I don’t know why. He cried. Dave is funny that way—he cries. I don’t understand him. Are you going to cry?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I watched them drive away. I went around the block one more time—even though the sun was setting and it was hard for drivers on the street to see me in that kind of light. Mom had told me about that—she called it a dangerous light. It’s beautiful to look at, but it blinds people, she said, that kind of light. It’s not good to be out in it. That’s what she said.” He lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He blew the smoke out through his nose. Grace watched him. She realized for an instant how seductive a man with a cigarette could be. The right man, anyway. “But I went out. I hopped on my bike and went out in that light, anyway….”
When he came back from his bike ride, he went into the house and opened the oven. There were plenty of tacos on a cookie sheet. He counted them. Twelve tacos. Ileana only ate one. That meant he could eat five or six. But really, four was all he could ever eat. Maybe tonight he could eat five. He was hungry from all the riding around he’d done. He took out a plate and served himself. He poured on some of his mother’s salsa. He liked it hot, the way she did. They were the only two people in the house who could stand that kind of heat. He added some extra grated cheese she’d left in the refrigerator. He walked into the living room and turned on the television. He sat on the floor and bit into his first taco. It was gone in three bites. He could hear his sisters in the other room. They were good together. Yolie was okay most of the time, but her boyfriend was trouble. As soon as the adults disappeared, he was always kissing her. She always wound up pushing him away. He would get mad. It scared Andrés. He hoped he wasn’t coming over tonight. He wasn’t supposed to come over when his mom and dad were gone. But he came over, anyway. Yolie always called him when they went out.
God, but the tacos were good. One was gone. And then another. And then another. He devoured a fourth. He knew he wouldn’t be able to finish a fifth. No way. He walked back into the kitchen and looked for something to drink. There were Cokes. Not that he liked Coke. But Mando and Yolie liked it. Cream soda, that’s what he liked. But his mom never bought any. He grabbed a Coke and walked out the door, into the front yard. He didn’t feel like watching television. He was full, and as he looked at his bike, he was happy. He touched it, and kept touching it, and finally he decided to take it around to the backyard. Where it would be safe. And then, for no reason at all, he thought it would be nice to try a cigarette. He liked them. Once in a while, he snuck one out of his father’s pocket. That’s what he wanted to do tonight. Smoke a cigarette. He walked into the house. Yolie and Ileana were eating tacos in front of the television set.
“Is your boyfriend coming over tonight?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t home when I called.” She sounded mad. Or maybe just bored. She got that way. She was always bored. He wondered, when he got to be sixteen, if he would be bored, too.
He walked into his parents’ bedroom and looked through his dad’s things. He found a nearly empty pack of cigarettes in the shirt he’d been wearing. He took one out, smelled it. Breathed it in. He liked the smell. Maybe because it reminded him of his father. He wasn’t so bad, his dad. He just got mad about too many things. Mando was like that, too. Mad about everything.
He took the pack of cigarettes and some matches and went out into the front yard. He sat on the front porch in the chair his father always sat in after dinner. He would sit in the chair and smoke. And sometimes have a beer—or, if it was a Friday night or a Sunday afternoon, he would sit here and smoke and have a bourbon. He would always pour the bourbon for his father.
He was about to light the cigarette when he noticed a car stopping in front of his house. It was a police car. Oh, shit, he thought, Mando’s gone and done it now. He’s gone and done something bad. And Dad’s gonna kill him.
Two policemen got out of the car. They walked up to the front porch. “The Segovias live here?” one of them asked.
“Yeah.”
“Santiago and Lilia Segovia?”
“Yeah. That’s my mom and dad.”
“Is there anybody at home?”
“My older sister. And my little sister, too. My older brother, he’s out.”
“How old is your sister, son?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen.” He nodded. “What’s your name, son?”
“Andrés.”
Why was he asking his name?
“You want to tell your sister to come out here?”
“Why? What’s happened? Is it Mando? Is Mando in trouble? Did something happen to Mando?”
“No, son, this isn’t about your brother.”
“What?”
“Go and get your sister.”
He knew something was wrong. It was bad. He knew that by the way the policeman was talking to him. Serious. And he was trying to be so nice. It was bad. He walked inside and told his sister the police wanted to talk to her.
“Policeman?”
“Yes. Policeman.”
“You better not be lying.” She walked outside. She looked at her brother, then at the policeman. The light of the front porch was dim, and everything seemed far away.
“Are you the oldest?” one of them asked.
“Well, no. My brother Mando. But he’s out. I don’t know when he’ll come back. Sometimes he stays out pretty late.”
“Do you have any relatives you could call?”
“We don’t have any relatives that live in town,” she said. “We have two aunts and one uncle—but they live in California. We don’t really know them.”
“What about your grandma and grandpa?”
“They died. We never knew them.”
He nodded.
The two policemen looked at each other.
“…I remember that part. I remember how they kept looking at us, then looking at each other. Finally, one of them said, ‘Do your parents have any friends? Good friends?’
“‘Yeah. The Garcias.’ I can’t remember if I said that or if my sister said that.
“‘Where do they live?’ ‘Two blocks down,’ I said. I think it was me who said it. They walked over to the Garcias, the two policemen, and they came back a little while later. Mrs. Garcia was crying, and she hugged us. And I knew. I knew they were dead. I don’t remember who actually told us. I don’t remember if that’s when they explained that there had been an accident. That my father had run a red light and crashed into another car. I don’t remember if that’s when I heard the whole story. Maybe I didn’t get all that until later. I just remember Ileana’s howl. I didn’t cry. Later, I remember crying—but not then.” He’d finished his cigarette. “I don’t have a family. That’s an important thing you should know about me. My mom and dad were the first to go.”
Grace nodded. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. Isn’t that why I’m here?”