In Perfect Light

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Andrés listened to the long pause.

  “Listen. Bad news.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Grace Delgado’s son.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s been killed.”

  “What?”

  For a second after he’d hung up the phone, he’d wanted to get in touch with Grace. Isn’t that what people did, get in touch with each other when something bad happened? Isn’t that what people did? He shook his head, changed into his running clothes, and ran. He found himself at the Santa Fe Bridge. He wondered what her son had been like. He wondered if Grace would have time for him now. He clenched his fists for being so selfish.

  Mister’s story was front-page news. Everywhere he went that morning on campus, all he heard was outrage. By noon, outrage was beginning to get on his nerves. He didn’t know if the response was good or bad. Appropriate and decent perhaps. But shallow, too. People were outraged by drug dealers and prostitutes and gangs. People were outraged by high property taxes and bad schools. People were outraged by trash on the sidewalks of the city and crooked or stupid or do-nothing politicians. People were outraged by men who killed innocent people. Not that anybody did anything about anything. It was always easier to be disgusted after the fact. It was easier to shake your head and be outraged, as if the outrage was proof of civility—a sign that the world hadn’t died, that it could still scream out in horror, proof that its heart was still beating.

  And who the fuck was he to put a bucket of water on those flames of after-the-fact outrage? Except that he was too cynical and too hard to cry about the whole sad affair. In his world, wasn’t that sort of thing normal? What was public outrage to him? Public outrage was as capricious as it was respectable. He’d read too many vacuous editorials in tossed-out newspapers to feel any sympathy for the tender and myopic sensibilities of its virtuous readership. He didn’t even know what virtue was anymore. Was virtue the enraged man who killed transvestites because their very presence perverted the natural order of things?

  Hadn’t virtue come to him in the form of an old whore who’d saved his sister’s life? Hadn’t it come in the form of a transvestite whose friendship had pulled him out of hell? This, finally, is what he knew. He knew this man whose name was Robert Lawson. He’d known men like him all his cursed and sorrowful life. Their names were carved on his heart like graffiti. That man, Robert Lawson, that selfish, crazy bastard, had something in common with Mando and Yolie, and with his father. They trampled the world with their sick and twisted and crooked kind of love. The bastard didn’t think that anyone else’s love mattered at all. As if a father’s love knew everything, could see everything, could cure everything. And what would have happened if that man, Robert Lawson, had been allowed to keep his son? What would have fucking happened then? Men like him and Mando, they didn’t understand anything but their own imperfect hearts. That was their sickness—that they believed themselves to be the center of all light. That kind of light was a darkness of the land. A plague that was killing them all.

  He spit on the ground. Spit on men like Robert Lawson and Mando Segovia. Screw you all the way to hell.

  He dropped the morning newspaper. He tried not to think of Grace. If he thought too much, his heart would soften. And what would he do with a soft heart in a world that killed men like her son? All he was trying to do was adopt a boy.

  No. He didn’t want to think about Grace.

  No Morning Mass Today

  Mister was gone now. She felt the weight of that permanence, the pedestrian deadness of the meaning of “gone,” all through the night. And such a long night. There was so little drama in the kind of dull numbness that set in after a loss. The dullness was omnipresent as a watchful god, even after she’d fallen asleep, exhausted from her grieving and the attendant details that came with a death. The living were always left with attendant details.

  When she woke, she thought of Liz, of how she’d said, “I have to go home.” Grace had let her go. But she had sent two of her sisters to drive her home. And later she’d called her, but there was nothing but sobbing on the other end of the telephone. “It’s good to cry,” she’d whispered. When she hung up, she took her own advice.

  The last time she’d cried herself to sleep was the night she buried Sam.

  She was numb and groggy as she pulled herself out of bed. The light in the room made her head throb even more. She slipped on a robe and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She brushed her teeth and thought it was strange to be doing such a normal thing. What right did she have to be doing normal things? She took two aspirin. She chewed them, winced at the taste, then cupped some water in her hands from the faucet and washed the taste away. But the taste remained.

  She could smell the coffee. Dolores had stayed the night. Grace had been too tired to fight with her. The smell of the freshly brewed coffee reminded her of Mister. Everything would remind her. Everything would make her feel the guilt, the misspoken words, the impossible demands. That’s how it was in the beginning. That’s how it had been with Sam. She’d recalled every disagreement until she almost broke under the weight of her own punishment. Don’t, Grace, please.

  She made her way into the kitchen. She glanced at the headlines in the morning paper. She didn’t have the stomach to read it. She pushed the paper away, then watched Dolores walk in from the backyard. “When did the dog die?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Mister and I buried her.”

  Dolores handed her a cup of coffee, then kissed her. She wondered why everyone around her was so demonstrative, and wondered why temperaments were so permanent. She had the urge to go and exchange hers at her nearest department store.

  “What are you beating yourself over this time?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Ya te conozco, Graciela.”

  “No es nada.”

  “You’ve always been so hard on yourself, Gracie.”

  “Maybe I’m just plain hard.”

  “Don’t, amor.”

  Grace stared at her older sister, her fine features, softening with age. Her voice, too. Beautiful.

  “I wonder what will become of the boy?”

  “What?”

  “The boy. Vicente. Do you think Liz will still want him?”

  Grace looked into her sister’s serious face. “He’s alive?”

  Today, no morning mass for Grace. Instead, she made up her mind to go see Liz. When she arrived, she stood outside the house. Mister had landscaped the house with desert shrubs and trees and cacti. It was so peaceful and calm. No signs of chaos or bullets or the violent intrusions of the outside world. Here, everything was just as Mister had left it—perfect for a man and a wife and a son.

  On the night she had come to dinner, Mister and Liz had showed her the house, everything they’d done to it, and it was so apparent that this house was full of the abundant gifts her son had possessed—full of books and art and wood floors perfectly sanded, perfectly stained, perfectly varnished with Mister’s steady, patient hands. She rang the doorbell, her hands almost trembling.

  It didn’t take long for Liz to answer the door.

  They studied each other’s eyes, saying nothing. Finally, Liz smiled weakly. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Grace nodded.

  “I’ll put a fresh pot on.”

  As Liz ground the coffee, Grace wandered through the living room, not knowing what exactly she was searching for. She touched his books, sat on his couch, and thumbed through the art books on his coffee table. He had a bookmark in one of them—then she found that the bookmark was a photograph. It was a picture of Mister between her and Sam. He was four, and they were both kissing him. He had a look of fullness on his face.

  She thought of Andrés. Even today, he haunted her. She wondered if he had ever worn that look of fullness. So much hunger written on his face—so much want and rage and confusion. And yet it was her Mister who was dead, and Andrés
who was alive. It wasn’t fair, to compare them, as if somehow some men deserved to live more than others. It wasn’t fair, and yet her mind had compared them because the mind had its own capricious triggers. She bowed her head. Andrés deserved to live. And so had Mister. And all these random thoughts were useless, anyway, as if the business of living and dying was a question of “deserve.”

  She closed the book. Liz was standing over her, a cup of coffee in her hand. “You take it black?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Like Mister.”

  “Yes.”

  Liz saw the picture Grace was holding in her hand. “It was his favorite picture.”

  Grace put the picture back in the book and shut it. “It was all so much easier when Sam was alive. For both of us.”

  “Mister loved you, Grace.”

  She didn’t bother to wipe the tears from her face. “Not that I made things easy for him.”

  “I never made things easy for him, either, Grace.”

  “He must have been addicted to loving difficult women.” Grace took a sip of coffee through her tears. “It’s good coffee.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Grace shrugged. “Are you going to take Vicente?”

  “He was Mister’s idea. I’m sure you’ve guessed that, by now.”

  “You wanted him, too. I could see that.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But Liz—”

  “I don’t want him, Grace. He’ll just—”

  “He’ll just what?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense without Mister.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you come over here to play counselor?”

  “I’m sorry if I sound like one,” she whispered. She got up from where she was sitting and walked to the window. She pushed aside the curtain and looked out into the morning sun. “This is a wonderful house. Shame on me for waiting so long to come here.”

  “We didn’t exactly invite you over.”

  “I could’ve invited myself over. And you wouldn’t have thrown me out, either. I’ve always known that. I didn’t do anything to help things along.” She looked at Liz. “I have a client. His name’s Andrés. He’s been coming to me. A troubled young man, but I’ve grown to care about him. He’s beautiful. In a different way than Mister—but beautiful. You know, it’s sometimes easier to care about strangers than to care about your own flesh and blood. He has a sister, her name’s Ileana. It’s a complicated story. He lost track of her when he was a boy. Now he’s afraid to go find her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s afraid. What if she’s dead? What if something happened to her?”

  “What if she’s alive?”

  “Exactly, Liz. Don’t you see, Liz? Did you know that when I looked at Mister, sometimes all I saw was Sam? I was seeing Sam when I should’ve been seeing my son. Andrés is afraid to look for a sister, because he’s afraid he just might find more despair. Well, he just might. And he might find that he’s stronger than he thinks. But what if he finds his sister? What if he does, Liz? I stayed away. It was easier that way. Maybe for both of us. We never quite got over Sam’s death—neither one of us. You don’t want that boy anymore because he’ll just make you think of Mister. But, damnit, Liz, who does that boy have now?”

  Liz sat on the couch, head bowed, tears running down her face. “It’s too hard. It’s too goddamned hard.”

  Grace slowly walked toward Liz, then knelt on the floor. She placed her hand under Liz’s chin and lifted it. “There comes a time we have to send the dead away.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I think you can.”

  Whatever Gets You Through the Day

  You should tell him, Dave. Grace was good at giving advice. And she wasn’t wrong. But he’d backed down so many times that it seemed normal now, to live with this not telling him. It was like forgetting someone’s name when you first met him. And the next time, for whatever reason, you were too embarrassed to ask the man’s name, because he remembered yours and he was so friendly—and you had your pride, and you didn’t want to appear to be egotistical because he remembered your name, after all, and how was it that you didn’t have the decency to pay attention to other people’s names when they were introduced to you. And you kept running into this man, and each time you smiled and finessed How are you? Lots of work? and hoped the man didn’t notice you never called him by his name. And every time you saw him, you wanted simply to look him in the eye and ask. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.” It would be so easy and simple to confess that. But what would he think, after all these years of speaking to each other on the street? The problem could be so easily resolved. But you never ’fessed up, because your pride didn’t let you, and so you’ve learned to live with this stupid and insane fear that you’ll run into that man again—and of course you will. It was like that, this not telling him. Only worse. Much worse.

  Grace was right. About everything.

  He wondered how she was doing. God, they killed her boy. He’d taken flowers to her house. She’d offered him coffee, and they’d talked. She looked sad and sleepless. But something else. She was in mourning, yet she seemed so calm. She showed him a picture of her son. There was something about him, even in the picture. What a world this is. You’d think they’d all be used to this by now. When was the last day the fucking world had lived without a killing? This was normal, after all. Apocalypse was normalcy. What a world this was. How was it that he was so in love with living? How could that be? Maybe he wasn’t in love. Maybe it was like smoking. Living was just another addiction. Isn’t that what addicts always told themselves? That it was love. Isn’t that what he always said? “God, I love to smoke.” Whatever gets you through the day.

  He shook his head and laughed. And lit a cigarette.

  I’ll take Andrés to the funeral. And afterward, I’ll find the words.

  Timing and Order in the Universe

  The city is obsessed with the story of Vicente Jesús, the only survivor of what the media has dubbed “the Adoption Massacre.” They have turned Mister into martyr and saint. There are reporters from as far away as Lyon, France, and Sydney, Australia. They are descending on the city. They are coming to see firsthand. They want the world to know. They are inviting themselves to attend Mister Delgado’s funeral.

  A few reporters camp themselves in front of Liz and Mister’s house. Liz calls Grace in tears. Grace drives to the house, helps Liz pack her things, and brings her home. On the way out the door, she grabs a reporter by the collar and shames him for the way he practices his profession.

  Offers to adopt Vicente Jesús are pouring in from around the country. It is like buying a lottery ticket. Someone has started a home page with Vicente’s picture on it. Mister’s picture also appears on the site.

  On the day of the funeral, there is standing room only at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. As Grace walks Liz down the aisle, she is surrounded by a sea of mourners. She knows there are gawkers in attendance, but she also knows her son was greatly loved. She stops and greets an old friend, then another, then another. She sees faces of many former clients. She has never seen many of these people outside her office. She is moved by their presence. She is perfectly composed and gracious. When she sees a face she recognizes, she thanks them for coming. As she embraces a woman she has known since childhood, she is distracted by the flash of a camera. When she looks up, she sees Dave escorting a young man out the door. She pats his arm in gratitude as he walks by. And then, she sees Andrés. He smiles awkwardly. She knows he does not know what to do or say. She looks at him and takes his hand, then squeezes it gently. She looks into his beautiful face. She is looking for her son. She thinks to herself that she will be looking for Mister in the face of every young man she sees.

  Liz has made her way to the open casket in front of the church. She kneels and stares into the face of her husband. She wants to be strong. She is thinking of how he was in the habit of kissing he
r every time he walked into the room. She remembers telling him, “You don’t have to kiss me every time you see me.” She remembers his answer, “Yes, I do.” She does not hear herself wailing.

  Grace turns to her daughter-in-law, and leads her away from the casket.

  Prayer

  I buried a son today.

  Mister was a good man. You, the giver and taker of life, the source of darkness and light, you know I speak the truth. He was a good man.

  Last night I woke to the sound of thunder. I loved the anger of the skies and the blessings that it brings. The light was wonderful and strange. I opened the window, and let the rain pour in, so cool against my skin. I wrapped myself around the curtains. I danced a waltz and cried for all my losses.

  My men are gone. My Sam. My son.

  Your cruelty is greater than I ever thought. I’m told your love is greater. I’ll soon find out.

  I stood there in the rain, and when it stopped, I wandered through my house. So big, this house. Too big for only me. I found a poem I never finished. I’d placed it in a book Sam loved to read. Two lines, was all I ever wrote:

  For years I’ve dreamed your eyes as black as night

  I long to see your face in perfect light.

  Not a poem at all, a couplet. I finally understand. I’ve been in love with being my Sam’s widow. Endiosada. You know that word.

  I won’t play the widow anymore.

  I loved my Sam.

  And loved my son.

  You know that boy, Vicente? If Liz won’t bring him home, I will. I intend to bring him home. I intend to raise him. I intend to finish what my son has started.

  You know what’s in my heart.

  And now you know that I intend to live.

  And one more thing. Forgive me. For Liz—for the way that I misjudged her.

  The Story of Dave