The Inexplicable Logic of My Life

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  “I don’t care if he is cute. If he hurts your dad, I’ll kill him.”

  “Are we going to start that again?”

  “How come you don’t care?”

  “I do care. I learned something about my dad today. Something very beautiful. You know that game What If? Well, Sam, what if my dad hadn’t adopted me?”

  “I don’t know, Sally. I don’t have an answer to that one.”

  “Not,” I said. “Not, not, not.”

  “Enough with the nots already. Basta.”

  “I don’t know what would have happened to me if Dad hadn’t adopted me—​but I do know I wouldn’t have this life. And it’s the only life I know. I wouldn’t have Mima, who is the greatest grandmother in the fucking world—”

  “Did you just use the F word?”

  “Sarcasm looks really good on you, you know that?”

  “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “I know. I know. But, Sammy, if it weren’t for my dad, I wouldn’t know you. You wouldn’t be my best friend. You wouldn’t be living here. You know, I asked my dad once if he believed in God. You know what he said?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He said, ‘Every time I look into your blue eyes. Every time I hear you laugh. Every day, when I hear your voice, I thank God for you. Yeah, Salvador, I believe in God.’”

  Sam leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re the luckiest boy in the world.”

  I nodded. “You bet your ass.” Yeah, I was the luckiest boy in the world. But I was still a boy. Shit.

  Sam and I were sitting at the kitchen table admiring the chocolate cake we’d baked.

  “Who knew?” Sam said. “Chocolate cream cheese frosting.” She was really happy. “Who knew that teaching a girl how to bake a cake could make her happy?”

  “Did the girl learn?”

  “I took notes.” She tapped her temple. “Up here. And it’s really beautiful.”

  “It’s all about the aesthetics.”

  “You love that word.”

  “My dad’s an artist.”

  Right then, for whatever reason, I got this not-so-great idea to have a glass of wine. So we sat at the kitchen table and opened up a bottle of red. I poured us each a glass. We toasted our cake.

  I swear I don’t know what got into us. Pretty soon we were having a second glass.

  “You think your dad will get mad?”

  “Hmm,” I said. “It’s not as if he’s going to kill us.”

  We both shrugged and kept drinking. The thing is, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to know what it felt like to be drunk. You want me to explain this with logic? Well, where was the logic to loving? Where was the logic to dying in accidents? Where was the logic to cancer? Where was the logic to living? I was starting to believe that the human heart had an inexplicable logic. But I was also starting to get drunk, so I wasn’t trusting anything I was thinking.

  As I opened up a second bottle, Sam and I looked at each other with a kind of what-the-hell thing on our faces. “Did you know I used to think that every person was like a book?” I said.

  Sam laughed. “Boy, you are a talker when you drink.”

  “I can shut up.”

  I poured us another glass of wine.

  “No! Don’t! Just talk. You do know that I do most of the talking in this little mutual admiration society of ours.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You do know what that means, don’t you?”

  “It means you like to talk more than I do.”

  “You’re an idiot. It means you know me better than I know you.”

  “You know me.”

  Sam looked at me. I wasn’t going to argue with her. Not because I wouldn’t win the argument, but because I knew she was right.

  “I’ll try and do better.”

  She smiled. “So everyone’s like a book, huh?”

  “Yeah, I used to think that. But it’s crap. People aren’t like books—​they’re not like books at all. Books make sense. People don’t. You know, like life. All these things happen, and they’re not connected. I mean, they are and they’re not, and it’s not as if my life or your life—​it’s not as if our lives have this plot, you know? It’s not like that. I mean, like some people say, we’re born, we live, and then we die. Yeah, well, so fucking what? That doesn’t say anything, does it?”

  Sam was looking at me.

  “You’re studying me, Sammy. It’s a little creepy.”

  “You’re funny,” she said. “This is just how I imagined you’d be when you were drunk.”

  “That predictable, huh?” I downed my wine.

  “Well, you’re predictable in some ways. But lately not as predictable as you used to be. I don’t understand that fist thing you have going, Sally. I don’t know where it comes from. You’re not crazy or wild. But sometimes you are crazy and wild. That’s the greatest thing about you, Sally. You’re you. It’s like sometimes you’re the same old Sally, and then you get into these pensive moods and you don’t want to talk, and then all of a sudden you’re mad at the world. I get that. I’m mad at the world a lot. But you weren’t like that. And now, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either, Sam. I’m just confused. And everything seems complicated. Mima’s sick. And I have this reminder of my mom in a letter that I don’t want to read, and it haunts me and it confuses me because I want everything to be the way it was, and it can’t be that way anymore, and your mom is dead and that’s so strange, and I don’t know how you deal with it, and it’s weird that we both have dead mothers, only you remember yours and I don’t remember mine, and I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to say.”

  “So we’re both mad at the world. That’s okay.”

  “Is it, Sam?”

  “That’s the way it is right now.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s okay, Sally.”

  “I don’t feel okay. I feel like punching out the world.”

  “I do too. Only you’re being very literal about that, and maybe that’s not so okay.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “You’re gonna have to figure that out.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re so sure.”

  “I know you. You’ll find a way.”

  “And you still love me, even though I’m not that good boy you thought I was? The good boy you wanted me to be?”

  “I never wanted you to be anything, Sally. I’ve always just wanted you to be you.”

  “But I don’t know who me is.”

  “Yes, you do. Deep down you do. Reach out and find him, Sally.”

  “It hurts.”

  “So what?”

  “I’m not brave like you, Sammy.”

  “Maybe you’re braver than you think.”

  “Maybe.” I looked at the bottle of wine. “I’m drunk. And I’m saying stupid things.” Then I smiled at Sam. “We might as well polish it off.” I don’t know, I guess I felt like talking—​so that’s what I did. I just kept on talking. “Sammy, remember when Marcos came over that day? I told you I saw a look on my father’s face. I didn’t understand that look because I’d never seen it. Sam, it was love. You know, a different kind of love. I mean, I can see love on my dad’s face when he looks at me. But this was different. I think that’s exactly what I saw. Dad loves him.”

  “Does that scare you?”

  “A little bit. That’s a lie. It scares me a lot. I mean, I’ve never really had to share him.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve always shared him with me. And you’ve shared him with Mima and with all your uncles and aunts.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I just want my dad to be happy. I do. And if Marcos makes him happy, I’m cool with that. No, no, maybe I’m not so cool with it. I’m not.”

  “You jealous?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I am. And then, I mean,
the guy hurt my dad. And if he ever hurt him again, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know, Sam.”

  “I get that. I couldn’t stand any of my mother’s boyfriends.”

  “Not any of them?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew they were all going to hurt her. And they did. And Marcos better not hurt your dad, because I’m going to go after him. And I got those fists of yours on my side.”

  “So we’re a team.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “Me and you against the world?”

  “Not exactly. We have your dad. And really, he’s my dad too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  Then we got to laughing and we just kept drinking wine and talking and then the room started spinning and there was this salty thing going on in my mouth and the next thing I knew, I had my head in the toilet, spilling my guts out, and Sam was standing over me and handing me a warm washcloth. “You’ll be okay,” she said. “You’re not an alcohol virgin anymore.”

  I felt terrible, and the room was still spinning and all I could do was moan.

  And then I was throwing up again.

  Dad. At the Breakfast Table. Me and Sam.

  “I’M WONDERING WHICH one of you two geniuses thought this was a good idea.”

  Sam raised her hand, as if she were in a classroom. “My idea, Mr. V.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “I thought, you know, it would be nice to have a glass of wine.”

  “A glass would have been fine with me. But I’m looking at two dead soldiers on this kitchen table.”

  “I guess we just got carried away.”

  “Care to offer an explanation?”

  “Well, we stayed home. We didn’t drink and drive.”

  “You don’t get extra credit for that. And that doesn’t qualify as an explanation.”

  “You’re talking like a dad.”

  “I’m taking that as a compliment.” My father wasn’t taking his eyes off me. “I’m waiting.”

  “I don’t have an explanation, Dad. We just, you know, we got a little crazy. Not everything has an explanation. Not everything I do makes sense. It was just one of those things.”

  “Just one of those things, huh?”

  “What do you want me say, Dad? I feel like crap. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

  “Who said anything about punishment? All I’m asking for is a simple explanation.”

  “And I’m telling you I don’t have one.”

  Dad looked at Sam, who was hanging her head as low as I was hanging mine. “Sam?”

  “I guess I don’t have an explanation either. Mr. V—​I—​well, no, I don’t have an explanation.”

  “I’m going to ask you two a question, and I want you to answer honestly.”

  Sam and I nodded. We just kept nodding very slowly. God, I thought my head was going to bust open.

  “Does this have anything to do with Marcos?”

  “How do you mean, Dad?”

  “Are you two upset because I went out with Marcos last night? Because if that’s the case, if that upsets you, I don’t have to see him. We can talk about—”

  “Wrong, Dad! Wrong!” I wasn’t sure why I was yelling. “Downing two bottles of wine last night was one of those stupid high school things that stupid high school kids do sometimes. That’s all! Don’t make it more than it is—” And then I said something I had no idea I was going to say. “And if I was upset about you and Marcos, you know what? You should be saying, Then grow up, Salvie! Stop living your life around me, Dad. Just stop it!”

  So there I was, feeling really bad. I was covering my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  My dad had his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, you did,” he whispered.

  “Dad, I’m going through some stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Stuff, Dad. I can’t talk about it right now. But stuff. Things are happening. And I can’t control it.”

  “Who says we’re always in control?”

  “I used to be in control of me.”

  “Control can be a lie, son.”

  “No one ever told me that.” And I started to cry.

  My dad held me. “Let go, my Salvie. Just let go.”

  “I did let go. I got drunk.”

  “Try it without two bottles of wine.”

  Hangover

  YUP, THAT SUNDAY morning I ran into the word hangover. I didn’t exactly want to be Hangover’s friend. Sam told me to drink lots and lots of water. Which I did. I took a shower. All I wanted to do was sleep. I felt like crap. I mean, emotionally speaking, I felt really, really bad. Sam said it was called “the walk of shame.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s the perfect name for what I feel.”

  “Well, I feel the same way. I really am ashamed of myself. I mean, your dad’s, like, this great guy, and he’s all about being good to me, and here I get drunk on his wine. Shit, Sally! I mean, on top of everything else, we stole his wine.”

  “We’re idiots.”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  “And then, what I told him. I mean, I shouldn’t have said what I said. I told him to stop living his life around me. But the thing is, maybe I’ve been living my life around him. It’s like I’ve always wanted to please him and be a good boy and all that—​and I, hell, I mean, I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Maybe the truth is that you’ve been living your lives around each other. And maybe you have to do something about that. Both of you.”

  “It’s what we’ve done forever.”

  “He has to live his life. You have to live yours. Me and Sylvia. We had that down.”

  “Oh, God, what am I gonna do? Can we just pretend none of this happened?”

  “That’s walk-of-shame talk, Sally. No pretending. Pretending equals no bueno.”

  “’K. No pretending. Shit. So how many times have you been drunk, Sammy?”

  “I don’t know. Enough times, I guess. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I experiment with mood-altering crap. I always wind up hating myself for it.”

  “Walk-of-shame talk,” I said.

  And then we both sort of laughed. Halfhearted laughter. Walk-of-shame laughter. Guess we weren’t up to whistling in the dark.

  There were clouds floating in the autumn air. It wasn’t really warm, and it wasn’t really cold. But the breeze was almost cold. Dad was sitting on the steps. He had a cigarette in his lips, but it wasn’t lit.

  I had our baseball gloves. “Wanna play catch?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  So we started tossing the ball around.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said.

  He smiled. “It’s okay, Salvie. But let’s make a deal?”

  “Okay?”

  “I think I need to give you some space, you know? Things are rough for you right now, and you’re not used to rough. I think I spoiled you a bit too much.”

  “Sure. That’s why I’m driving my BMW sports car around town.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just protected you—​maybe a little too much. You know what I’m trying to say?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You never wanted anything bad to happen to me. Maybe because I lost my mom?”

  “I didn’t want you to lose anything else. A little overprotective, I guess.”

  “Just a little.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I get that, Dad.”

  “But we’re okay, Salvie. Me and you.”

  “We’re okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.” And then he smiled. “But I’m afraid you owe me for a couple of bottles of red wine.”

  I wanted to tell him that we’d figure out the Marcos thing. We’d figure it out. I’d figure it out.

  Mima. Cake.

  MIMA WAS A REAL TALKER. Loved to talk. But that Sunday, when Sam and I handed her the cake, her face lit up and she hugged us—​but she didn’t
talk much. She held my hand and she held Sam’s hand and she held Dad’s hand. But she didn’t say much. Her eyes searched the quiet room, and I didn’t know what she was looking for.

  She loved the flowers we gave her, and she asked me to put them on the kitchen table. Dad and Aunt Evie made a late lunch.

  Mima didn’t eat much—​but when it came to the cake, she ate two pieces. “Who made this cake?”

  “Sam and I, we made it.”

  Then she started talking a bit—​but I knew it was taking some effort. “My mother used to bake bread every Saturday on a woodstove. And she knew how to make root beer. Did you know that? She used to make all my dresses. I have her sewing machine. I feel like seeing her again.” Her voice sounded strange and far away, as if she’d left the room. But then she took her fork, asked for a little more cake, dug in, and offered me a bite.

  She smiled.

  I smiled back.

  She fed me a bite of cake.

  And I remembered those days when I was a small boy.

  As we drove home in the dark, it started to rain.

  “It will be her last Thanksgiving.” Dad’s voice was sad. But it was also matter-of-fact. “Everyone will be here,” he said.

  I didn’t feel anything.

  I didn’t want to feel anything.

  I knew Sam was in her own corner of the world. Thinking about her mother.

  When we got home, Dad went into his studio. “Think I’ll work awhile.”

  The streets were wet, but it had stopped raining, and it was cool, but it wasn’t cold. Sam and I decided to go for a run. I wondered if running in the dark was the same as whistling in the dark.

  I don’t know if Sam was crying. She did that a lot. She cried when she ran. It was the grief thing. The my-mother-died thing.

  I don’t know if she cried that night as we ran. But I did.

  Poetry. Poetry?

  THE HANGOVER WAS nothing more than a memory, and the sadness over Mima’s visit seemed to have abated. Abated. Another word Sam taught me. Sam and I were walking to school, and I felt oddly normal, meaning I didn’t have any feelings running through me. Maybe the weekend had tired me out. I was feeling okay. Like everything was okay—​even though it wasn’t. And I told Sam what Dad said about the wine.