And that is what Javier made himself believe, from the bottom of his heart, until the day Señor Montase died.
Chapter Seventeen
Suddenly Étie could not go on. He looked out over the gently whooshing sea, perplexed, even a bit lost. I reached across the table and took his hand in mine and squeezed it gently. He turned to me, looked up at me gratefully with a smile that said, “Thank you, Papi. That is just what I need.”
My smile answered back, “Anything for you, my sweet.”
We paid the bill and left our little café. The warm night breeze felt so right and needed. Its soothing sigh was a lullaby.
We walked along El Malecón, breathing in the tropical air, basking in the moonlight. My God, how I wanted to kiss him. And so I did. We kissed each other desperately. We were both grateful to have each other.
Hand in hand, we walked down to the beach and kicked off our shoes, dug our bare feet into the warm sand then eventually sat like children, cross-legged, staring out over the water, staring up at the moon, staring at each other, giggling every now and then. And then his head was on my shoulder, then on my chest. My arms wrapped around him. He felt like talking again.
“As much as he try, my father could not raise me as good as Señor Montase could. So he give me to Señor Montase for raising. But it was hard work for an old man.
“Within one year, Señor Montase is dead too and my father must take me back. And that is when he see his truth about me.”
Again, Étie could not go on. I felt him shiver in my arms. I turned him to me and looked into his eyes, eyes that struggled to say what the voice could not.
“What, Étie?” I asked gently. “What truth did he see?”
Étie turned, pulled away from me, studied the sand beneath his naked feet. He opened his mouth to speak. His voice was a trembling mumble.
“He see that I am killer baby.”
“Étie…” I almost cried.
“He see that I kill his wife giving birth to me. He see that I kill his friend who try and raise me. He see that everyone I touch die.”
“Étie,” I said, grabbing him, holding him, pulling him close to me.
“No, Papi.” He finally looked up at me, pulling away again. “That was his truth. He say when mi madre die, he die too. That is what he say to me. When she die, his soul die. Only pain and sorrow live.
“From the very beginning, when the doctor tell him that she is gone, he cry. He cry tears of sorrow and tears of anger, angry at baby for killing the great love of his life. Angry at me for killing her.
“He say if he was really evil man, he kill me too. But he could not. He thought again to kill me, to kill this evil, when Señor Montase die, but he could not. What was left of the holy Father in him make him not do this thing. So he raise me.
“But he never lose anger for what I do. And so as I grow, so do his anger. He was in pain to look at me because I look so much like her. I live to remind him of what he lose, what I was, what I do, and it make him angry and sad.
“And so he beat me and curse me and hate me for looking like her, for acting like her, for being like her. The older I get, the more I look like her; and the more I look like her, the more he hate the reminder.
“He see love for her inside me, but he cannot have her, so he no want to see me, because it is seeing her without having her. It is torture that he try to blind himself to, but cannot. So he must get rid of me, put me out, make me not in his sight. For so many years, that is his truth.”
“But it’s not the truth, baby.”
“I know that now,” Étie said softly. “And so did he. When I am gone out of his sight he think he have peace. But peace did not come. It become something else, a bad feeling, a worse feeling than before. And in time he see that he put blame and make his child suffer for something that is fault of no one. A child bring not death. It bring life, he tell me. For him not to see that was bad. Very bad, he say.
“But when he finally see this, it is too late. I am already gone and cannot see him change his way.
“He also ashamed. He ashamed of what he do to me, beat me, curse me, spit at me and he afraid I will hate him if I see him. So even as he look for me high and low, he is afraid still. And he know that it is his selfishness that give him fear, him thinking what I may think of him, instead of me knowing what he now truly felt for me.
“But when he begin to grow strong in what he know what he must do, he grow weak with illness. He then believe illness is punishment for his godlessness. He think it is punishment for forgetting what Señor Montase said to him long ago—‘Little Étienne is you, Javier. Little Étienne is Isabella. He is the both of you. That is the great gift he is.’
“He say that he ache with guilt and pain and sorrow and sickness when he realize that. So he go look for me. But when he see me working at Señor Trujillo’s bodega, he is afraid. He is happy and sad and proud to see that I am grown and strong young man, but he is afraid, afraid that I will not believe that he see bad ways, that he is repentant, that he want forgiveness from his son, that he love me.
“But he finally go to Señor Trujillo anyway and tell him who he is and say that he want to see me, make it right for me, ask for my forgiveness. He and Señor Trujillo pray together. But when he is about to come and see me, he is put in hospital. He beg Señor Trujillo to talk to me and that is what Señor Trujillo do, remember?”
“Yes, baby, I remember.”
“At first I no want to. But you, Papi, you make me see the right thing to do. Thank you, Papi, for what you do.”
“I didn’t make you do anything you weren’t going to decide to do on your own.”
“Well, I am glad I see him. I am glad we had private time together. He say to me, ‘In all years I did not know how to say it, did not have the strength, Étienne, the courage to say it. But now, now I must say to you what I have not said before. What years have taught me is my truth and that truth is I love you, my son, my child, my gift…I love you.’ That is what he say to me.
“In all my life, Papi, I never hear those words from him. I never hear those words from anyone. Only you. I only hear those words from you.
“It was strangest thing, hearing him say it. I felt like little child in dream, floating high somewhere, trying to catch my breath, but not afraid that I would not, like on Ferris wheel or roller coaster.
“I feel me cry,” Étie continued. “He struggle to reach up and take my hand. I bend down toward him, like praying. My tears spill on his face. He smile at me. I whisper in his ear. I say, ‘I love you, Father.’ I then feel him tremble and he kiss me where my tears fell. And now he cry. Tears pour down side of his face. We hug each other. I hear him then take his last breath.
“He love me, Papi. Mi padre love me. And he refuse to go until he tell me so. I am so glad I was able to say same to him, that I love him. It make me think of you and your padre. It is wonderful feeling for fathers and sons to tell each other they love each other. It is blessing beyond imagination. Him and me finally be able to share that blessing.”
I could tell by the way he held my hand, looked up into my eyes, smiled at me, a slow, sad smile, that the peace he made with his father was indeed real and I knew that his father had passed on in that peace.
Good fathers of color too often die so young and with little to no fanfare. Their love moves mountains and changes lives quietly. Their sense of self-correction, though sometimes slow, is steady when it recognizes itself and walks along the course of rightness.
* * * * *
On Saturday, June 18, 2001, Javier Marcos Saldano Jimenez was laid to rest. Étie stood over his father’s open grave where the coffin had been slowly lowered. The handful of mourners who had attended the services dispersed. Only Étie and I remained.
“Papi?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you know what it is that I do now realize?”
“What, baby?”
“I am a true orphan.”
“Yes.”
/> “No, no. It is not bad thing. It is sad thing, but not bad.”
“Okay.”
“To be orphan, you must have parents who have gone on. Well, I have parents. I have a mother and I have a father. And they are now gone. So I am a true orphan.”
“Yes, baby, you are.”
“But orphan or not, I am a son. And I will always be a son. Now I am orphan son, but a son with a mother and a father. I am part of what is called beautiful cycle of life. All what my father say to me about my mother is what he say about himself. I am their son. And, orphan or not, I am glad to be their son. I am glad to be his son.”
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just an old, over-sentimental, hopelessly romantic gay guy from Los Angeles, but at that very moment I knew. I knew for sure. I could not have loved Étienne Saldano more.
We made beautiful love that night. Perhaps the kind of love my mother and father made, his mother and father made.
The next day we boarded our flight to the States. It was Étie’s first airplane flight. He was thrilled beyond comprehension. There were so many wonderful firsts that lay ahead of him. There were so many wonderful firsts that lay ahead for the both of us. We would finally be together, living together in Los Angeles, in America, in a house of love, looked over by our heavenly fathers.
Still, with all the good ahead of us, I couldn’t help but think how all of this could go terribly wrong. Once Étie was in America, legally married to my sister, an American citizen, he would have to spend two years on probation. During those two years, he and she would be under the constant scrutiny of immigration officials. The discovery of marriage fraud could result in Étie being deported and never allowed back in the US again and the conviction of my baby sister on federal charges.
Yes, I was indeed in bliss. But I was deeply concerned. I couldn’t help but think about Sylvester Winfrey. And what he knew. And what he could do with what he knew.
Still, I believed so deeply in the love Étie and I shared. It was a love that could conquer all. Even Sylvester Winfrey.
The End
About Stanley Bennett Clay
Stanley Bennett Clay is an award-winning novelist, playwright, actor and filmmaker. He received three NAACP Theatre Awards and three Drama-logue Awards for writing, directing and co-producing the stage play “Ritual.” He made his film writing and directing debut with the feature film adaptation, starring Clarence Williams III and Denise Nicholas. The film received the Jury Award at the Pan African Film Festival.
He is the author of three previously published novels, a novella, and, as the former Editor-In-Chief of Black Beat magazine, hundreds of feature stories, book and film reviews, and celebrity interviews.
Stanley welcomes comments from readers. You can find his website and email addresses on his author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Aching For It
ISBN 9781419942860
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Aching For It Copyright © 2013 Stanley Bennett Clay
Edited by Victoria Reese and Kelli Collins
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Electronic book publication April 2013
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Table of Contents
Blurb
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
About Stanley Bennett Clay
Aching For It Page 11