In Perfect Light

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  He looked around his cell. It was odd, that the room was so familiar. Dark and not really dirty. But not clean. How could a place like this be clean when it was filled with men like him? He thought of Mando. This is what he’d seen. Maybe this was even the same cell. So here he was, following in his brother’s footsteps. This was their fate. This is where they belonged. Here—in an exile they had more than earned.

  He thought of the courtyard in Juárez, and that house they’d lived in. It wasn’t so very different than this place. He whispered the word emancipation. He knew the word from somewhere in his past, but he was too tired and too numb to search his memory. And, anyway, it was a word that had no meaning.

  In the morning, there wouldn’t be any sun in this room. I’ll get you out, I promise. I promise, Andrés.

  “It’s all right, Dave. Some people prefer the dark. Don’t you know that by now?”

  Part Two

  Let the stars of night be dark;

  We will hope for light, but have none,

  May we never see the eyelids of the morning.

  —JOB 3:9

  Normalcy and Apocalypse

  The sun flickers. Like a flame hit by a sudden gust of wind. Like the lights of a bomb shelter during an air raid. Even the sun flickers. That’s what she kept telling herself. A gust, a bomb, a small explosion. Then the disruption passed—everything calm again. Everything returning to normalcy. Except that she felt herself trembling. Except she knew that this was the beginning. It was her body that had flickered.

  Had it begun this way for Sam? There were so many things he never told her in the end. Maybe that’s the way it was with people who entered the liminal space between living and dying. When you stepped into that space, you stopped telling people things. You started letting go of the need for words the same way you began to let go your need for food, your need for water, your need for anything associated with the strange and capricious hungers of the body. Perhaps, when you began edging toward death, you began to fill yourself with silence.

  She had sifted through all these theories when Sam was dying. She had clung to them when she should’ve been clinging to Sam. Hadn’t that been her sin? She’d lost her nerve, had told herself it didn’t matter, all those wordless hours that hovered over them like vultures over a carcass. But it had always mattered. That she’d let him suffer alone. Because she didn’t want to know, because it hurt too much, and hurt even more pretending it didn’t hurt at all. Because she hadn’t really believed he was mortal, her Sam. She had expected him to find a way to live, just like he’d found a way to fix everything in their house, the plumbing, the electricity, the foundation, the drawer that was always sticking. Oh, God, she had, she’d expected him to live. And so she’d waited in dumb silence. But now she had another chance. She wouldn’t make the same mistake. God damn her if she made the same mistake again with Mister. But how could she find a way to pull him close when she’d pushed him away without even knowing she was doing it? You’re more interested in being right than in being kind—that’s your problem, Grace. He’d tossed the accusation at her like he was lobbing a hand grenade. She steadied herself against the desk. The momentary darkness lifting. See how easy it is to stop yourself from trembling. She didn’t even know she’d whispered Mister’s name.

  “I think I should call a doctor.”

  “I’m all right, Dave. I’m fine now.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have a medical degree, Dave.”

  You’re a lawyer, not a fucking doctor. He smiled to himself. First Andrés. Now Grace. Maybe he was more predictable than he thought. He bit his lip. “Grace—”

  “I just came back from a visit to the doctor. I know exactly what is and what is not wrong with me.”

  “Well, now you sound like the Grace I know and love.”

  “I had no idea you had so much affection for me.”

  “I had a crush on you from the very beginning.”

  “You were a boy.”

  “I was twenty-one.”

  “And looked sixteen. And stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “With that grave look of concern. It’s a little too earnest.”

  “Earnest?”

  “I thought lawyers were supposed to be a little more calculating. A little more callous.”

  “Oh, I can be callous. And according to the women I date, I can be calculating as hell.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “Did anybody ever tell you that you were very pushy?”

  “The word very is so unnecessary, Dave.” Her hands had stopped trembling. She felt strong again. “I’m fine. There’s that look again. You must be very good at eliciting sympathy from juries.”

  “It’s all for a good cause.” He was studying her. “Mister? Isn’t that your son?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask.”

  “You whispered his name.”

  “Did I? He must be on my mind.”

  “Would you like to have dinner? I mean, if you’re well enough?”

  “How about a drink?”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea. Then you can tell me about how you’ve managed to become such a successful lawyer and be such a dismal failure with women.”

  “I find the word dismal as unnecessary as you find the word very. This isn’t going to be a counseling session, is it, Grace?”

  “No. I’ve done all I can do on that count.”

  “I’m functional.”

  “That was my great accomplishment with you?”

  “You can’t take all the blame, Grace.” He could be shy. She could see that shyness in his smile. She’d seen that side of him—such a long time ago.

  “You’re studying me, Grace. What are you discovering?”

  “A man who works too hard. It’s making you old.”

  “It’s not the work. Gringos don’t age well—didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”

  She almost laughed. “That rumor was started by other gringos.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To elicit sympathy.”

  He laughed softly. “I like you, Grace.”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Sincere. You are. You take the world home with you every night.”

  “Not the world.”

  “Maybe just Andrés Segovia.”

  “It’s complicated, Grace.”

  “Would I need a law degree to understand the whole situation?”

  “Well, no, not a law degree.”

  “Explain it to me, then, this complicated thing. I’m relatively intelligent.”

  “Relatively?”

  “I thought by now you understood I didn’t like the word very.”

  He really did like her. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to ask her how many men had fallen in love with her. But she wasn’t the kind of woman who let you ask that question.

  “I want you to keep seeing him.”

  “He’s in jail.”

  “He’ll be out. Of course, right now, he doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want to see anyone. But I’ll get him out one way or another.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “I know the system.”

  “They’ll let him out with that temper?”

  “They can’t keep you in jail for having a temper.”

  “He got into a fight with four policemen—went at them, resisted arrest, was intoxicated—”

  “Why do you think I got him out so easily? The cops beat the crap out of him. The charges were dropped altogether.”

  “Does Andrés know that?”

  “I haven’t gotten around to telling him.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he knew the charges had been dropped, then may
be he’d stop seeing you.”

  “So the state isn’t going to reimburse me?” She smiled.

  He smiled back. “Nope.”

  They stayed that way for a moment.

  “You see—my man Andrés had no record.”

  “But I thought—”

  “He was a juvenile. And he was cleared of all charges.”

  “Was it murder?”

  “He didn’t kill anyone, Grace.” His face turned to stone in an instant, then turned back to flesh. “He doesn’t have a record.”

  “None that they can use against him in a court of law. Isn’t that what you mean?”

  “I can get him out on a PR bond, Grace—and I’m going to.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “Nothing is that simple. Getting him out on bail until his trial is the easy part.” He studied Grace’s face. “You think he belongs in jail?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know. They won’t set a trial date for him for another six to nine months. Maybe longer. That’s too long for him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  He was upset. She could see that. “Maybe letting him out isn’t the best thing.”

  “The best thing, Grace?” He reached for a cigarette, then put it in his mouth.

  “Grace, it’s not too late for him. He’s got something, Grace, this kid.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think he has. But—”

  “No buts.”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because, like Andrés, I’ve got something, too.” He broke into a smile, then laughed. The cigarette falling out of his mouth. He laughed. “You want to know a secret?”

  “That’s what I do for a living—listen to everyone’s secrets.”

  He picked his cigarette off the floor. “Remember that accident?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “The people I killed—”

  “You’d think at this point, you’d stop talking about that car accident as if you’d killed them with a gun. You want to play the dictionary game?”

  “The one where you push the dictionary across the table and have me read—”

  “The word is accident.”

  “Grace, that couple—they were Andrés Segovia’s parents.”

  Grace and Morning Mass

  The world could be as small as it was cruel. She wondered at God sometimes, his schemes, his plans, his plots, his sense of order. Maybe he was just like the Bible—beautiful and overwritten and redundant and badly in need of editing.

  Andrés Segovia and Dave Duncan. It made so much sense, now. Not that anything made any sense.

  She walked outside in her bare feet and searched her garden. The century plant would bloom this year. It hadn’t bloomed since Mister was a boy. The green stalk was reaching out to the morning sky. She shut her eyes. She vaguely remembered her dream and wondered if it had come to her last night. Perhaps it had. She couldn’t tell—a sure sign that the dream was too familiar.

  She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head of everything that was in it—Andrés and Dave, her work, the lingering smell of cigarettes on her skin.

  At morning mass, she prayed for Mister. It wasn’t fair to put him off. She would have to tell him about her conversation with her doctor. She wondered if it would be easier to tell him if they got along better. Not that getting along had anything to do with the measure of his love. She knew that Mister loved her, knew he would do anything for her—if she asked. That was the problem; she had always hated to ask. Would telling him that she had cancer sound too much like she was begging for affection?

  She tried to picture his face as she told him. He was, in the end, a good man. Every ounce Sam’s son. He would object to her early exit. He would demand to know why she was already waving the white flag of surrender so soon after the first shot had been fired. Already you are counting yourself among the dead. Already you are casting yourself into the bin of history. How can you let death take you so easily? Even the roots of a dying tree cling to the soil that it loves. That is what he would say.

  He would object to the way she had decided to handle the whole matter. He would demand that she go to another doctor, and assure her that the other doctor would expose the ineptitude of the first. He would debate and object and look for loopholes. He would argue with her—and for once, the argument would be a beautiful thing.

  He would shout at the unfairness and randomness of this whole scenario. He would say that they were in this fight together. He would say that together they could defeat anything. Cancer was a puny, unworthy enemy. They were sure to conquer it. He would urge and cajole and beg her to roll up her sleeves, Get in the ring Grace, fight, damnit! He would volunteer to be her manager, her trainer, her anything she needed him to be. And they would be close again, mother and son—closer than they had ever been.

  But how would she phrase it? There had to be an aesthetic to this. She would tell him over a glass of wine. Your mother is dying. Or she would invite him and Liz to dinner—finally she would have them both over to her house. And over dessert and a cup of coffee, she would tell them. Delicately. Matter-of-factly. Flippantly. Serenely, like a nun taking final vows. I’m going to buy the farm. I’m going on a long cruise over the river Styx. I’m going to see Sam. I’m leaving the country and I’m packing light. And really, the air’s gotten so bad that I’ve decided I simply don’t want to breathe anymore. I’m going to see Sam. God is honking out front. Look, Mister, I have cancer. I’m going to see Sam. I’m walking into the light. I’m going to see Sam. I’m going to see Sam. I’m going to see Sam. No matter what she said, it would sound horrible and trite and sad and self-pitying and theatrical and sincere and moving and melodramatic and manipulative all at the same time. Sam had been right. Words were a great poverty when confronted with the pleasures and the limitations of the body. A touch said more. A look. But she knew her son better than to communicate the news with a look—though she had no doubt she was capable of communicating just about anything without the use of words. But hadn’t she and Sam taught Mister that words were salvific? Hadn’t they used that exact phrase? It was too late to tell him that they had been mistaken. He had learned his lessons well, their Mister.

  I thank you for this son of mine, whom I know and do not know. She looked up at Jesus. She stared at the flames of the sacred heart. My heart is hard. Can you make it tender?

  Do You Love Me, Mister?

  As Mister waited for the light to turn green, he noticed his mother’s car parked on the street. She was attending morning mass. She’d taken up the habit when Sam died. It was as if he’d handed her some kind of torch. Grace carried it without complaint, but he knew that the ritual of morning mass was a duty for her in a way that it had never been for Sam. He smiled to himself. He pictured Grace sitting in one of the pews at the cathedral, the light shining through the stained-glass windows and falling on her, half hidden in the shadows of the morning light. He held her image for an instant, then tore himself away from his mental photograph at the sound of a car honking at him from behind. He stepped on the gas, then looked at his watch.

  He’d get to the airport just in time.

  When their eyes met, Mister laughed, then reached for her. It was such a natural thing to do, reach for her, hold her, smell her. They held on to each other, tight, as if they’d lost each other, then found each other again.

  “You should’ve let me go with you,” he whispered.

  “Believe me, you didn’t want to be there, Mister.”

  They both shrugged, then took each other by the hand. “My mother will never change,” she said.

  “Don’t feel so bad. Grace will never change either.”

  “It’s not the same, Mister. Grace may be difficult, but she’s not crazy and she’s not a bad person. Not really. But my mom, hell she’s crazy and bad and difficult. And, Mister, she’s just plain mean.” She shook her head. “God, it’s good to be home.”

  Liz pushed her empty pla
te away. “God, you’re a good cook.”

  “Sam and Grace—they taught me.”

  Liz nodded, kissed Mister on the cheek, then refilled her glass of wine. “Honey, why do you insist on fighting a civil war with your mother?”

  “It’s pretty bloodless as wars go.”

  “Then why don’t you stop?”

  “You knew why, Liz. You know damn well why.”

  “The she-doesn’t-like-my-wife reason. That reason? I’m tired of being used as an excuse for what’s wrong between you and Grace.”

  Mister emptied what was left of the bottle of wine into his glass. “What are you talking about? Has she ever been nice to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, she is nice to me, when we happen to run into each other. She’s always nice, and she’s decent enough to make conversation. She tries, Mister.”

  “That’s because she’s not the kind of person to make a scene. She’s civil to people—so what?”

  “You know, Mister, I should’ve let you come to Dad’s funeral. I should’ve let you see my mother in action. Maybe you’d get some perspective on—”

  “I can’t believe this. Has she ever had us over to her house, Liz?”

  “Have we ever invited her to our house, Mister?”

  “She knows she’s welcome any time.”

  “You’re more like Grace than you think.”

  “I’m not the bad guy here, Liz.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s Grace that’s the bad guy?”

  “Since when are you a member of her fan club?”

  “You took me back, Mister, without any questions.”

  He nodded, then smirked, then kissed her. “That was my prerogative.”