“Sorry to disappoint you, Grace, but Liz and I are doing just fine.” He took a breath.
She knew he wanted to scream.
“You always have to do this, don’t you, Grace? You always have to go for the throat.”
“I’m sorry. I apologize.” She clutched the receiver tightly. She took a deep breath and looked out into the blinding midmorning light. “Where would you like to meet?”
She’d managed to make him angry in less than two minutes. Always, it was about the same subject. His wife. The first time she’d met Liz, it had been clear that she was capable of doing a great deal of damage. She’d concluded that her attraction to her son was a cheap attempt at inviting some kind of goodness into her life—as if goodness were something you could get secondhand. She and Grace had taken an instant dislike to each other. Liz had looked at her and accused: “You’ll turn him against me, won’t you, Grace?”
“No. He’s not the kind of man who turns against the people he loves.”
“Does that mean he won’t turn against you either, Grace?”
“That’s exactly what that means.”
She’d been wrong, of course. Mister had turned against her. But that had begun long before Liz had entered the picture—so it wasn’t fair to blame her. Liz was just salt on the wound. She had understood nothing about the man she’d married. Nothing that mattered, anyway. Six months. Just six months. And she’d run off with another man. Mister had shown up at Grace’s door, drunk and sobbing. “How could she have done this? How, Grace? Look at me, Grace. Look at me.”
A few months later, he’d taken Liz back in.
“She just had the jitters, Grace. You know, she was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Of being married, of being loved.”
“Oh, I see, so she goes off with another man.”
“Forgive her, Grace.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean, you won’t.”
“She wrecked your car. She totaled it. While she was with another man, Mister.”
“What’s a car compared to a fucking heart, Grace?”
She resented thinking about Liz, about Mister, about what was wrong with them. When she thought of them, they took over the room. She shoved them away, then turned back to the file she’d been reading. Other people’s problems had always been more interesting to her than her own. She noticed the name on the file. Andrés. Andrés Segovia. She smiled at the irony and half wondered what his parents had been thinking when they named him.
She reread what Andrés had written. She couldn’t help herself. Much as it bothered her to have these pages in her possession, these words said more about the author than the rest of the file, where he was referred to mostly by the word suspect. Files had too many rules and limitations. A police report regarding the arrest. The judge’s mandate to see a counselor, the terms and conditions. It was all there. A name, Andrés Segovia. An age, twenty-six. All these things were clear enough. But what about the face? The look in his eyes? The movement of his hands? The stubborn or quivering lips? Those things said more. They always did.
She put the file down.
Andrés Segovia. Andrés who’d been found on the streets, yelling and cursing and howling like an alley cat or a dog with rabies. He’d scratched and kicked and even tried to bite. Not like a person. Like an animal. That’s what the police report said. She half smiled. Policemen weren’t writers. But sometimes they tried. Like an animal. As if people weren’t animals.
She tried to put a face on him. His eyes would betray the chaos of his heart, the riots that were exploding everywhere inside him. His eyes would be so black that they would shine blue in the sun. That’s what she decided about Andrés. Andrés, who wrote words as if they were portraits. Andrés, who knew about storms.
Lost Files
Programming and installing. Cleaning out viruses, restoring lost files. The getting to the root of a problem. There was always a source, always a solution. Computers were systematic, had a built-in logic with wires and chips that corresponded to specific functions. They were programmed, and they carried out the functions for which they were created. You could count on it. When something went wrong, you could fix it.
Not people. People were wired to hell. He wanted to growl like a rabid mastiff when he heard someone say, “The body is a machine.” What asshole thought of that? Screwed up and angry and wanting love, fucking desperate to get it and not knowing how to get it, and willing to do anything just to get a taste of it. Or worse, striking out because you couldn’t get it—all that love you wanted. The body was not a machine. Machines and computers, he could deal with. There was always a solution for the problem.
What was the solution for him?
“What happened to your face?”
He hated Al. Always interrupting him, always asking him questions. “Nothing.”
“You get in a fight?”
If he didn’t answer, maybe Al would just go away.
“Does it hurt?”
“What?”
“The bruises? Do they hurt?”
“Actually, they feel good.” Andrés stared straight into his eyes until Al looked away. He smiled, then laughed nervously. Then walked away.
Andrés shook his head. He should’ve stayed away from work for a couple more days. But his bruises would last longer than a couple of days, and he couldn’t afford to stay away from work, even though he knew there’d be questions from people like Al. So what did it matter? He did his job. And did it well. He did it very well.
He could still smell Al’s cologne as he sat and read his e-mail. He wondered about guys who wore so much cologne. The world was full of them. As if they were trying to hide what they smelled like. As if there was something terrible in their smell, something mean and rotting inside them. His father had worn something sweet on his skin every day of his life—even when he worked out in the yard. His brother, too. Lots of it. You could smell him when he walked into the room. And keep on smelling him when he left.
“Armando, you’ve used up all my goddamned cologne. Your mother gave that to me for my birthday. Armando!”
Armando kept his eyes on the television set.
“Dad’s talking to you, Mando.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“He’s shaving. In the bathroom. Shaving and yelling at you. Can’t you hear?”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
“I think Dad likes to yell from the bathroom.”
“Dad likes to yell from every room in the house.”
“You make him mad.”
“Doesn’t take much.”
“Armando! ¿Me estas oyendo?”
“He’s just gonna keep yelling until you go and talk to him.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“The whole neighborhood can hear.”
“You’ve got to learn to ignore some things in life, Andy.”
“Don’t call me Andy. You can’t go around ignoring dads, Mando.”
“What do you know? What are you, ten?”
“Ten and a half.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you? Don’t you? Just because you’re gonna be eighteen next month.”
“I know more than you, you little shit.”
“Mando, I’m talking to you. Get your ass over here!”
“He’s mad. You used up all his aftershave last week. And this week, you’ve used up all his cologne. Why do you like that stuff, anyway?”
“Girls like it, Junior.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Like you really know what rukas like.”
“Like I really care.”
“Maybe you’re just a little homo.”
“Shut up, you asshole. And just wait till Dad finds out about that shirt you stole from his closet.”
“What shirt?”
“I saw you. It’s one of Dad’s favorite shirts—like he’s not gon
na know it’s missing. Like he’s not gonna know who took it.”
“You tell, and I’ll kick your ass.”
“So what? Go ahead. I don’t care.”
“Mando!”
“I’m coming! Just wait—I’m coming!” Mando got up from the couch, and muttered to himself. “If he fuckin’ doesn’t want me to use his cologne, why doesn’t he put it in a place where I can’t find it?”
Andrés picked himself off the living room carpet. “I hate cologne. I swear I’ll never wear it. I’m not. I’m not.” He heard Mando and his father yelling at each other. Their arguments were getting worse. Every day, something new to yell about. He walked out the front door. He saw his older sister and her boyfriend leaning on the car in the driveway. He walked up to them. He smelled the air. Yup, someone was wearing cologne.
“Andrés, you’re weird. Why are you sniffing like a dog?”
“I was just investigating, Yolanda.”
“Investigating what?”
“Nada. Never mind.”
He saw his little sister riding her bicycle up and down on the sidewalk. He walked up to her and kissed her, his favorite thing to do. She laughed. “You’re silly, Andy!”
“Yes, I am. But tell me something, Ileana. Do you like guys who wear cologne? You know, do you like the way they smell?”
“Like Daddy and Mando?”
“Yeah, like Daddy and Mando.”
“They smell pretty, don’t you think so, Andy?”
“Yes, they do. They smell very pretty.”
Grace
She was nervous—about seeing her own son. She wondered what he had to say to her. Serious, he said. And what should she say to him? It had all been so much easier when Sam had been around. He’d always been the buffer between them. And they’d both adored him. Maybe they fought over him in their hearts. And when he died, that fighting in their hearts spilled over into their lips. And they had words. And over the years, she and Mister, well, over the years it had just gotten worse. Maybe they just were painful reminders to each other. They preferred to look away. Because it hurt too much.
He would ask how she was. That’s how he would begin. She would say, “Fine.” And she was fine, wasn’t she? And if she wasn’t fine, what could she or Mister or anybody do about it?
He was at a table for two. In the corner. Waiting. Always a few minutes early. Just like Sam. He waved, a smile washing over his face, and for an instant, nothing between them was wrong. She smiled back. He started to get up, but she motioned for him to stay seated. By then she was pulling out the chair and seating herself across from her son. “You look fine, Mister. You look just fine.”
“So do you, Grace.”
They looked at each other, then looked away, then looked at each other again.
“How’s Liz?” She tried to sound sincere.
“She’s fine. It’s nice of you to ask, Grace.”
“I’m feeling nice.” She smiled.
Mister nodded. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Of course I am.”
“You were walking out of an oncologist’s office when I saw you.”
“My doctor happens to be an oncologist. He also happens to be a very fine internist.”
“Yes. I remember.”
They both nodded.
Mister caught a waiter’s eye and waved him over. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”
“Chivas. I remember.”
A Chivas for Grace. A beer for Mister. They sat quietly as the waiter walked away. “Grace,” he said softly, “Liz and I are going to adopt a baby.”
Grace nodded.
“We can’t have any.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not the end of the world.”
“So you’re adopting.”
“I got a call from this lawyer I know at the Child Advocacy Center, and well, this kid, they found him in a trailer house. He was naked and soiled and soaked in his own urine and sweating and roasting to death. It must’ve been 110 in there. Hell, the police had to open all the windows, couldn’t stand the stench of urine and rotting food. God, Grace. They were looking for his mother—drugs, well, you know the story, drugged out, makes her money dancing in clubs, leaves the kid at home. Jesus Christ, Grace—” He stopped. “Anyway, we had a home study done about six or seven months ago, and we’ve kind of been waiting, and this seems—well, Grace, this boy, Liz and I want him.”
“He may have a lot of problems, Mister.”
“It’ll all work out.”
“You can’t just order a kid and say everything is going to be fine. The world isn’t a waitress asking to take your order.”
“Oh, I thought she was. I thought she chewed gum and was always about to serve me apple pie—and looked a little like you.”
“Don’t mock me, Mister.”
“I won’t mock you, Grace, if you don’t mock me. We’re not kids. We know what we’re doing.”
“Do you, Mister?”
“We want this boy.”
“You haven’t met him yet, have you?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Grace. I want to be a father. Liz wants to be a mother. There something wrong with that?”
“This boy may have a lot of problems, Mister.”
“I know that, Grace.”
“And does Liz?”
“Don’t start with Liz.”
Grace clamped down on her jaw, then relaxed her face. Her poker face was useless in Mister’s presence. The waiter placed her drink in front of her. She reached for it. She took a sip and then another. Why was all of this so hard? “What if you can’t save him, Mister?”
“What if we can? What if Liz and I take the chance? What if we take a child into our home and try to love him?”
“What if you fail?”
“So we shouldn’t do it—because we might fail?” He took a swallow from his beer. He tried to smile. “Sometimes I really want a cigarette.”
Grace nodded. “Me, too.” She put her finger in her scotch and stirred it. “Mister, you can’t fix everyone who’s broken.”
“Well, Grace, you’re the expert. You’ve spent a whole career trying to fix people who were broken. You’re a fixer, Grace. That’s what you do.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mister, I didn’t always succeed. And I never brought them home with me.”
“Now, that’s a lie, Grace. You brought a helluva lot of clients home with you. I could see them written all over your face in the evenings. You brought them all home.”
“Is that why you’re mad at me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of it.”
He was so like Sam. So willing to let other people see him, touch him, examine him. That’s why people hurt him. Not that he seemed to care. A part of her wanted to reach over and hold him. Another part of her wanted to get up and walk out of the room. They sat for a while, each of them sipping on their drinks. A scotch, a beer, the quiet.
“I’m going to visit him tomorrow night.”
“What’s his name.”
“Vicente Jesús.”
“It’s a good name.”
“Yes, it is.” He bit his lip. “You can go with me if you like.”
She was surprised by his question. “What?”
“I’m inviting you to go with me to see the boy who’s very probably going to become your grandson.”
She took another sip from her scotch. She understood the depth of his gesture, was moved by it. “Liz won’t mind?”
“She doesn’t hate you, Grace.” He smiled.
God, he looked so much like Sam. So much like her Sam.
“Liz is out of town this week. Her father died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is Liz—is she all right?”
“She never knew him.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes. It’s a common enough experience—children not knowing their parents.”
“You’ll come with me, then, Grace. To meet Vicente?”
Night
The night brings its own kind of memory and revenge. The lucky ones sleep through the chaos. But tonight, Grace is not among the fortunate. No sleep for Grace, who is thinking of the color of death. Is it white? Is it black? Is it warm or is it cold? Is it a coffin in a cemetery, or is it a door? She puts the questions to Sam—though Sam does not answer. She stores so many of his words in her head that she feels as if she has become nothing more than a book he has written. “You have to die at the right time. That’s the secret.” He’d died at thirty-eight. Just after dawn. How did you know it was the right time? Many died too late. Why overstay your welcome?
She tries to think of something more soothing. She gets up from the bed and walks into the backyard. She takes a breath. She thinks of Mister. She tells herself she will try to love him. But she does love him. Not that love made anything easy. This is how Grace will spend her night. Thinking and asking and thinking.
Andrés, too, is wide awake. He lights a cigarette. He is thinking of another kind of death. Being held prisoner by his claustrophobic past, that is the worst kind of death—the kind of death that doesn’t let you touch or breathe, that makes your heart feel as if it’s a stone. “I died before I died.” He’d read that somewhere. He knows exactly what it means. He thinks of a bicycle. He thinks of a ring. He thinks of a little girl who’d called him Andy. He thinks of a man who was a woman. He thinks of a mother holding his face between her palms, the only paradise he’s ever known. Tonight, sleep will not be among his visitors.
Mister is doing what he always does when he can’t sleep. He picks up a book and thumbs through it. He finds a passage, then reads it. Then rereads it. Then rereads it aloud, Vine a este mundo con ojos/y me voy sin ellos. I don’t know what this means. Tonight, he can’t translate. He puts the book down, then looks up at the ceiling as if it were the sky. He thinks of Abraham sacrificing Isaac at an altar in the middle of the desert. He was a boy when Sam read the story to him. “You wouldn’t kill me, Sam, would you?” Sam had held him in his arms. “Eres mi vida,” he whispered. “Even if God told you to kill me, Sam?” “Even if God told me. Even then. Someday, Mister, you’ll understand the story.” At twenty-eight, he did not understand the story. Just as he did not understand why the story had entered his head. On nights like these, there is no logic to the visitors who make their way into his house. They come, they enter, they have their say. He reaches for Liz, then realizes she is gone tonight. He picks up the phone. He needs to hear her voice.
In Perfect Light Page 3