The next morning, I realize Californians don’t know heat. Here, it’s brain-turned-to-sludge weather. To make matters worse, there are fifty thousand people in the Silver Springs parking lot.
Fine. I’m exaggerating. There are eleven. But six of them are from major TV networks. Univision, Fusion, Fox News Latino printed on the sides of their cameras. As I step off the bus and shove my way through the lot, questions rocket through the air:
“Young man! Any news about where Álvaro Herrera’s been?”
“Are the rumors true?”
“Is he dating anyone?”
The last question whips my head around. The man disappeared for three years and this asshat wants to know if he’s dating anyone?
Screw him. Screw them all.
Once I’m inside the lobby, Marla shuts the door and shouts through the glass, “You people need to mind your own business!” Turning back around, she pulls a card from her pocket. Hands it to me with the words: “Here, honey. Phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you betcha life, it’s going to get worse. I’m giving all the volunteers swipe cards. If your card doesn’t work”—leaning in, whispering—“the code’s zero-zero-zero-zero.”
Before I can tell her that 0-0-0-0 is hardly high security, she says, “Got one for you, too, Miss Marilyn.”
Oh. There’s someone else in the lobby. The girl from yesterday.
“It’s Linny,” the girl says.
I hate her. God, how I hate her.
My face reads like an obscene hand gesture. At least I hope it does. There’s a fine line between looking angry and looking constipated.
Marla motions between us. “Y’all two met before?”
Sí. And no. I dig my hands into my pockets, ballooning them out like puffer fish.
The girl doesn’t move. I can tell she’s replaying yesterday’s speed-walk down the hallway. Her narrowing eyes give it away.
Marla says, “Linny, Sebastian. Sebastian, Linny.”
Neither of us says hello. Linny blows a curl from her eyes. She’s wearing jean shorts and Chuck Taylors like yesterday, but her blue T-shirt isn’t so see-through this time. On it is a picture of a yawning kitten. The fabric slips off one of her shoulders.
Smacking her hands together, Marla says, “Right. So here’s what y’all need to know. Last night one of the reporters broke in through Ethel Markovitz’s bathroom window again. We found him wandering the second floor. I’m hiring a security guard, but in the meantime, I need y’all to make sure Álvaro’s not wandering anywhere he shouldn’t be wandering. Make sure no one’s wandering into him, if you see what I mean.”
Linny asks, “Why do we get to do it?” and Marla says, “Look around, honey. We aren’t exactly swimming in volunteers.”
“So basically,” I croak, “we’re stuck together.”
Marla crosses her arms. “Maybe you’ll even like him. Ever think of that?”
But I didn’t mean stuck with Álvaro.
On the way upstairs, I remind myself that avoiding confrontation is simple, if I stick to a proven plan.
Step 1: Feign interest in the floor.
Step 2: Count the tiles to keep your mind occupied.
Step 3: Whatever you do, don’t speak first.
Except I speak first. Halfway up the steps it dawns on me that it could be a long-ass summer if I don’t get a few things off my chest. I take one of those I’m-the-wolf-about-to-blow-your-house-down breaths. Turn around and say, “Look.” The tone of my voice is very Mr. Benson, my chemistry teacher, when he’s scolding us about lab safety.
Linny recoils.
Three steps ahead, I tower over her. “I know it was your friend—that girl—who, you know, filmed the whole Álvaro thing, and I just wanted you to know that I think it was really shitty, filming him when he was . . . you know. Stressed. Really, really shitty.”
Linny studies the two stairs between us like a demon’s about to jack-in-the-box out of them. But do I stop? Heck no.
“Who does that?” I shout. “What kind of person has friends like that?”
Linny tugs at the braid behind her back. Then she looks up. Bam! Her eyes are really brown and superbig.
I remind myself that I hate her. That she keeps getting in the way.
She says, “Sorry, I didn’t . . . Cass . . . I didn’t know she was filming it, okay?”
“No! It’s not okay!”
“It’s not okay that I didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
Linny huffs. “I said I’m sorry. And I am sorry.” She reaches out and grips my arm. Hard. All fingertips. “I swear,” she says. “I swear I didn’t know. I even tried to get her to take it down, but, well—” Just as abruptly, she pulls back.
The complicated truth of it is, I would give my left eyeball for her to touch me again. Suddenly my body feels weighed down. Like I’ve swapped all the oxygen for heavy elements.
A SECOND OBSERVATION ON MAGNETISM:
Repellency and attraction can occur in quick succession with supermassive force.
We stand silently for several days.
Then she says, “Why do you care so much anyway?”
I cross my arms. “What makes you think I care?”
“You just yelled at me in a stairwell.”
“Right.” Pause. “I’m—” Pause. “Well, I’m—” Pause. “I’m the president of Álvaro’s fan club.”
Linny scrunches her nose. Like she doesn’t believe me. “You are?”
“Yes. Absolutely. That is I. El presidente.”
“Oh, um, cool . . . So, are we going to . . . ?” She points to the door at the top of the stairs.
“Yes. Yes. Climbing. Upward. Motion.” Why the hell am I speaking like a robot?
I tell myself to refocus. I tell myself that I don’t exactly hate her but I don’t exactly like her, either.
DO NOT FOCUS ON THE HOT GIRL.
It almost works. The rest of our twenty-eight-step walk consists of me recalculating what my first word should be to Álvaro. Hello? ¿Hola? Something snappier? Maybe I should come right out with it. All in one breath: “I-know-you-don’t-know-me-and-have-other-things-on-your-mind-but-by-the-way-my-mom-had-your-baby.” Oh! How about the reverse Darth Vader approach? “Álvaro, I am your son.”
I rap on the door with my knuckles. (Finally! A complete knock!)
Sounds inside: papers shuffling, footsteps swiping the ground.
Álvaro wrenches open the door. He is so old it stops my heart. It’s one thing to know old age abstractly and another to smell it. Like stale vinegar and bad cologne.
Physiologically speaking, he looks decent for eighty-two. (Everyone assumed he was worm food, so I guess not having holes in his face is a win.) Still, I can’t stop staring at his droopy flesh. He looks blurrier than on TV—all form with no edges. An amoeba beneath the microscope. Although I saw him yesterday and the day before, it feels like I’m seeing him for the first time.
Hyperventilation happens. Quick he-hoo-he-hoo breaths. So my first word is not technically a word but a combination of hello and Álvaro. “Halvaro,” I say. Which undoubtedly helps with the weird-kid perception. (Sebastian, zero. Paralysis, a hundred.)
Linny says, “Can we come in?”
Álvaro: a blank expression.
Us: standing there awkwardly.
Álvaro tilts his head, like viewing us from another angle might help. “Sure, sure,” he grumbles. “You will have to excuse me.”
But he doesn’t say for what.
Shuffling back to his desk, he sits. Massages his knees. Returns to his typewriter. Linny and I take a few exploratory steps inside. Entering is like landing on the moon: unknown territory. Papers scattered on the floor. Everything is white.
“Bah!” Álvaro shouts. He rips a sheet from the typewriter and tosses it over his head. “¡Ay qué relajo!” Translation: What a mess.
Estoy de acuerdo. I agree in every way.
Linny cranes her neck and rise
s to her tiptoes. “So, what are you writing?”
Not to us, but to the typewriter, Álvaro mumbles, “A new novel.”
She rocks to flat feet, leans back. Like that information is blowing her away. “Oh, wow . . . after all this time?”
In response, Álvaro swivels around in his chair. It is the world’s slowest swivel. “What can I do for you?”
Linny says, “We want to—you know—hang out with you for a bit.”
Álvaro: blank face again. Then, “We should play dominoes.”
I nod enthusiastically, like dominoes is exactly what I want to do. Not like I’m desperate to talk about literally anything but dominoes.
I’d rather he played Fill in the Blanks.
I left your mother because ________.
The last few years, I have been hiding in ________.
If I found out I was your father, I would ________.
Five minutes later we settle into a corner of the game room. Next to us is a group of women in hats playing cards. One of them is saying, “My grandson just got a neck tattoo. A neck tattoo. Nothing says ‘employ me’ like a neck tattoo.”
Álvaro carefully sets his personal set of dominoes on our table. They have Cuban flags on them and smell of perfume. I swish them around.
“Every Saturday, I play dominoes,” Álvaro says. “Every Saturday. Me and Joe. Do you know Joe?”
It’s Thursday. And I don’t know Joe.
Linny’s eyes carve a hole into the side of my face.
I sidestep Álvaro’s question. “So, how do you start?”
“You don’t know? I will teach you. Any fool can play, but I’ll teach you to win. The first thing you must learn is how to fight.” He winks at Linny and me. “In dominoes, people scream, sing, make jokes! Shout at the top of their lungs!” There’s a cigarillo between his lips. He strikes a match. “Let me hear you shout.”
Linny and I exchange glances.
“Ándale,” Álvaro urges. “Shout!”
So we do. Give weak aaaaaaahs. The card-playing women turn in their chairs to glare at us.
“We’ll work on that later,” Álvaro says, waving a hand to tell us: Okay, shut up now. Then to me, eyes narrowing: “You remind me of someone. Have we met?”
My muscles constrict. Does he know? Is it an innate thing—a father recognizing his son?
I completely choke. “No . . . but . . . I, you know—”
“Sebastian’s the president of your fan club,” Linny offers.
Álvaro takes a first puff, pauses for a cripplingly long moment, and repeats my name with a flourish. “Se-bas-TIAN! Se-bas-TIAN! Saint Sebastian. Patron saint of archers and dying people, no?”
I guess? Never knew that.
“So you two are”—gesturing between me and Linny—“you two are together, yes?”
“Nooo,” Linny says.
“I’m from California,” I say, as if this explains everything.
Jesus. I’ve practiced this. My first real conversation with my father, I was going to reel him in with my favorite scientific facts.
Plutonium is the heaviest naturally occurring element.
The known universe has fifty billion galaxies.
Statistically, a meteorite will strike a human once every hundred years.
But Álvaro’s giving me a strange look. Like he and Paul have conferred—and they’ve both decided I’m a weird kid. Mierda.
Linny’s phone keeps buzzing in her back pocket, distracting me. I don’t mention it. That’s admitting I’m looking there. Which I’m not. Just like I’m not looking at her kick-ass clavicle (the most underrated body part).
“Officially speaking,” Linny says to Álvaro, “if the fan club wanted to interview you about your—um—history, would that be okay?”
Álvaro shrugs. “I do not mind.”
Linny straightens up. Shoulder blades almost touching. “Great, I’ll have Sebastian set it up.”
Excuse me?
I just nod. Nodding seems like the thing to do.
Suddenly, the game room door flings open. It’s Marla. “Mr. Herrera! I know you’re not smoking indoors again!”
Álvaro’s face says: Who, me? I would never! (Although the cigarillo’s still between his fingers.)
Then the smoke detector, BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Maintenance comes with a key and kills the alarm.
My nerves = completely shot.
Somehow, I make it through the next few hours. We have lunch. Watch an episode of Wheel of Fortune and three-quarters of a baseball game. Teach Álvaro—very, very unsuccessfully—how to play Ping-Pong.
Then it’s just Linny and me, gathering our stuff. She practically pins me against the fig tree in the lobby.
“I know you’re not president of his fan club.”
I falter. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. The president runs findalvaro.com and is a fifty-year-old man name Jorge Rodriguez.”
“I could be fifty. You don’t know that.” What. Am. I. Saying.
Raising a hand—“I don’t really care, okay? You have your reasons, and I have mine.” She shoulders her backpack and looks me square in the face. “I think we should work together.”
“Uh—”
“It’s really obvious that you want to know him. I need to find out things, too, and as it is, you’re kind of getting in the way of my investigation. It makes sense if we pair up.”
I’m getting in the way? But I’ve heard worse ideas. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she says.
“What exactly did I just agree to?”
“We’re going to read his books. Rewatch his movie. Do some sleuthing. Basically, find out where he went and why he came back. Which reminds me. . . .” She does a goldfishy thing with her mouth—opening and closing. “Who do you think Joe is?”
The same question has been rolling through my mind. The best answer I have is very nonspecific. “A friend?”
Her lips twist to the side. It’s kind of adorable. “Don’t you think it’s weird that he said he played dominoes every Saturday? Because that means someone was with him the last three years.”
My mind races as I play devil’s advocate. “Maybe he meant before he disappeared.”
“No,” she says. “I think it’s probably more than that.”
I think it is, too. But before we can compare hypotheses, two sets of footsteps pound down the hallway. A man with an SLR camera strapped around his neck makes a hairpin turn around the corner. He’s moving at sonic speed, Hawaiian shirt rippling with motion, National Enquirer baseball cap threatening to fly off his head.
Marla is close behind. “I hope you got a really nice picture,” she shouts at his back, “because you betcha behind, you’re never getting in here again!”
The man looses his footing, skidding on the lobby tiles and into Linny. To avoid another clash, I quickly swipe my key card. The sliding door whooshes open. He disappears into the parking lot.
Linny follows him. Walking backward. Pointing in my direction like she’s picking me out of a crowd. “We start tomorrow.”
9.
Linny
WHO: British film director Timothy Cross
WHEN: 2001
WHY: Cross was supposed to shoot a contemporary version of Tarzan and His Mate, but he couldn’t handle the pressure of filming. In the greatest overreaction ever, he vanished into the jungle. Crew members later found him living with an indigenous tribe. Several times, Cross had returned to the set in the guise of a costume assistant to watch the rest of the film get completed by the new director.
NOTES: Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but does Grace spy on us sometimes? Should I set up cameras around the house? (I could totally see her in the jungle, tree climber that she is—Mom used to call her “a wild thing.”)
Cass tries to call me three times after my shift, and then come a flurry of texts:
it’s really not a big deal
ANYONE could have filmed that, it would’ve happened soone
r or later
Linnnnnny, come on! I’ll split the thousand bucks with you
are you mad at me?
. . . Linny?
I check and see that her YouTube video has ten thousand hits. She almost messed up absolutely everything, my one shot at finding out how to bring Grace home. So I delete all her messages.
There’s another thing, too—something I can’t quite voice. The truth is, even though Cass doesn’t give me the “you poor sisterless girl” look, she has a habit of prying at doors I want closed, and maybe the smallest part of me is searching for a reason to lock them all, to keep her out.
After dropping a few leaves of lettuce into Hector’s terrarium, I crawl into my closet, turn on my flashlight, and pull out my Journal of Lost and Found, writing under the Álvaro Herrera Notes section:
“Me and Joe. Do you know Joe?” Who the heck is he? Álvaro’s long-lost sibling? His neighbor? Maybe he’s the one who brought Álvaro back into the world. But if Joe’s so important, then why isn’t he the one playing dominoes with Álvaro?
Next I Google “Álvaro Herrera and Joe” but find nothing except an old picture of Álvaro at an independent bookstore. The caption reads: “Midnight in Miami Author Visits Joe, North Carolina! Signed Copies! Complimentary Cookies!”
It’s not exactly what I’m looking for, so I generalize my search. “How to disappear.”
There’s tons of material—even a step-by-step guide featuring information about selecting hoodies for maximum facial coverage (to reduce recognition). The guide suggests moving to the West Coast, taking up migrant farming, hunting for mushrooms. On the bottom of the page, the final piece of advice is: Tell no one. You are on your own. I guess the only way to leave is to disappear completely.
But still—jeez.
Sometimes I wonder if Grace contacts anyone, if she’s holed up in some seedy motel in Nebraska, writing letters to her old guitar teacher—Dear Justin, I’m finding my sound on the road. Or maybe she’s prank-calling her most notable ex-boyfriend—that bass guitarist with the swoopy blond hair who ripped her heart at the seams. (Cass and I nursed her through it. Lots of peppermint ice cream and inspirational Debbie Harry quotes.)
It’s a selfish thought, but I let myself think it anyway: if she isn’t contacting me, then I hope she’s contacting no one.
If Birds Fly Back Page 6