by Chie Alemán
“I know,” Santiago says, defeated. “I just…” And I almost scream because I can’t make out the rest of what he says.
“If you want her to understand you,” Genie says, “you’re going to have to tell her.” She speaks clearly, almost as if she wants me to hear.
Ceramic clinking makes me turn my head. Genie is carrying three mugs on a tray, along with a bowl of sugar and a little pitcher of milk. She smiles at me and nudges her head toward the dining table.
I get the cue and push myself up, unfolding my legs and walking around the edge of the couch. I notice Santiago’s standing in the kitchen, his face nearly expressionless, his eyes far away, as if he’s in deep thought. I pause, waiting for him. He finally sees me and forces a smile, but there’s a distance in his eyes. Even from here, it’s like staring into a deep well.
“Di, how do you like your coffee?” Genie asks me from across the room. She’s laying everything out on the table. When I turn back, I see Santiago heading off toward the hallway. I wonder if I should follow him, but I decide to give him his space and walk to the table, sinking into one of the chairs.
“The same as Santiago—milk and two sugars, thanks,” I say.
She smiles slyly, nodding as she fixes me a cup. “Don’t worry about him,” she says, spooning sugar into my mug. “He’s angry at me, not you.”
I accept the coffee and watch as she preps a second, also with milk and sugar. “What did you mean when you said he ‘gave it up’?”
Genie sighs, stirs, and sets the mug in front of one of the other chairs for Santiago. “I think I’ve probably said too much already.”
I nod. Taste the coffee. It is a little weak, but it’s good.
Genie finally sits; I notice she takes hers black. “You know how it is with siblings,” she adds in explanation.
Not really. As an only child, I have no concept of what it must have been like to grow up in a house with five kids. I can’t stand the awkward silence; I wonder if Santiago is ever coming back. The air conditioner turns on, humming. I sip my drink, looking at Genie.
“You and Santiago are close?”
She smiles nostalgically, nodding. “Yeah. I’ve always looked after him, taken care of him. Especially since…” She shakes her head as if realizing she’s about to say something else Santiago wouldn’t like.
I wonder if she means his BMD, but then realize that can’t be it. Obviously, if I’m here, I must already know about it. What else could she mean? Santiago has seemed so transparent, all things considered. Confident and comfortable with himself. He may have a lot more in his closets, so to speak, than I saw while he was sleeping.
Genie cradles her mug in both hands and sips, offering a small sigh at my expectant look. “Let’s just say our parents had certain…expectations for us. Especially Diego. A certain…image they wanted him to convey.” She sets her mug down, frowning sadly.
I’m almost more confused now than I was before, and I desperately want to press her for more, but I notice she looks up, and when I turn, I see Santiago emerging from the hall.
I’m not sure what to do, so I turn back around and grip my coffee mug. The heat feels good on my palms. Genie stands, pats me on the shoulder, and strides up to him, meeting him halfway between the table and the hallway. I turn and see her kiss him on the cheek, then whisper something in his ear. She pulls back, a hand on his arm. Maybe she says something else to him. I don’t know. But she looks back at me and smiles.
“It was nice meeting you, Di.” She grabs her purse off the counter, slings it on her shoulder, and exits. I feel stupid sitting at the table alone, so I cross the room to Santiago.
He seems…off. I can’t quite say what it is exactly, but the Santiago I know seems to have retreated somewhere. I slip my arms around his waist and hug him, a reassuring squeeze I hope feels as good for him as it does for me. His breathing shifts, his body seems to relax, and I force myself to pull away.
“Your sister seems nice.”
He smiles wanly. “Can we sit?”
I nod and wind my way around the couch again, then hop onto it, curling my feet up. Even though the air is tenser, the mood heavier, I still love watching him move. He sits, then sets his crutches aside, propping them against the couch. He leans back, sighs heavily, eyes closed, before turning his head to offer me a weak smile.
I reach over and take his hand, smoothing my thumb over his skin, hoping to reassure him with my touch. Somehow it feels more right than any words I could speak.
Santiago stares at our hands, his cheek tipping up just a little before his face drops into seriousness. “I used to be an attorney.” He squeezes my hand. “Oil and gas. I was good. Very successful.” He takes a long, slow breath, his shoulders rising, then falling gently as he exhales. “Something happened,” he says vaguely, “so I decided to quit. That was about three years ago.” He looks up at me. “I’m sorry. I know I said I wasn’t going to lie.”
Now the car, the apartment, the suits, the references to frequent meetings in New Orleans all make sense. I can’t quite smile; I want to know more about him, everything, and I understand his reticence. “It’s okay. You didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell me everything.” I hesitate. “I’m sure there are things about me you don’t know yet, either.”
He smiles, shifts, leaning forward so he can cradle my cheek. Gazing at me with that look: that soft, warm gaze as if he’s admiring me, only seeing me. I guess what I said worked? “I’m sorry about my sister. I haven’t always had the best relationship with my parents, and Genie’s always filled in as a kind of surrogate mom. She worries about me.”
I nod. “It must be nice having someone to worry about you,” I say, pulling my necklace out and holding the medal tightly in my palm, trying to stave off tears.
He nudges his chin toward my white-knuckled hand. “St. Anthony?”
Catching me off guard, I drop it, letting the charm fall against my chest, offering a faint nod.
“That’s my confirmation name,” he says quietly. “San Antonio de Padua. Patron saint of the poor, the lost, and a model of perfection,” Santiago finishes in a tone I can’t determine. It feels strange to be connected in this way, that a fourteen-year-old Santiago could have picked the saint who would later guide the last ten years of my life.
He reaches forward and places a tentative finger on the medal, then closes his eyes and whispers in Spanish, “San Antonio, San Antonio, vuelve aquí, porque hay algo que se me perdió, y no puedo encontrarlo sin ti.” He opens his eyes and takes his hand away, caressing my face with those same fingers, his expression a little sad. “I know I’ve said that prayer a lot, especially when I was younger. You probably have too. Asking him to help you find something, or someone”—his eyes are fixed firmly on mine when he says this—“that you lost.”
I nod and bite my lip hard, just short of drawing blood. We fall into each other’s arms, comforting one another. Enveloped by his musky smell, and by this newfound connection, I’m suddenly relaxed and comfortable.
We simply hold each other like this a few minutes, neither of us speaking, listening to our breathing. Then I pull myself up, so I’m sitting in his lap, his arms supporting me, my head resting on his shoulder. It reminds me a little of how he held me the night he carried me up to his room.
My heart’s beating swiftly in my chest. “You’ve told me a secret about you; I should tell you one about me.”
He squeezes me, then laughs. It’s nice to hear and feel his laughter after the tense mood. “You mean, other than the fact that you’re married and possibly carrying my baby?”
A deep tingling forms inside of me: the hope, however irrational, that it is his. I suck in a breath and push away so we can look into each other’s eyes. “There’s something you should know about me,” I say slowly.
“You used to be a man? Oh. Wait. Then you couldn’t be pregnant.” He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes do, glinting mischievously.
I think of changing my mind. He’s back
to his old self, and I don’t want to ruin that by telling him I don’t find him sexy despite his braces, but partially because of them.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his face shifting, worried he’s offended me. “You’re being serious, and I’m joking. Go ahead.”
I breathe deeply. I feel uncomfortably warm. I hesitate. “How…how long…” I breathe in and out a few times. “How long have you…” I can’t seem to finish the sentence. I put a hand on his knee, on the strap of his brace, which I can feel through his pants.
He sighs, staring at my hand, knowing what I’m trying to ask. “A long time,” he says simply.
I nod. My pulse is thumping in my neck. I want to ask him how special I am. Does he bare himself to every woman he brings home? But I can’t seem to form the words. I don’t even know why I need to ask. Maybe to reassure myself? Maybe to test how receptive he’ll be if I tell him the truth about me?
He smoothes my cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
He pulls me in, hugging me tight. “Don’t be. You’re perfect.” He laughs. “Well, except maybe the married part. But I see that as a minor stumbling block.”
I relax into his hug. I decide I don’t want to tell him. Not now. Why ruin his impression that I’m “perfect”?
“How ’bout no more secrets for today.” He kisses me on the top of the head. “You hungry? I could make something, or we could shower and I could take you somewhere.”
Although the prospect of more of his cooking is enticing, the idea of showering—presumably together—and then sitting shotgun in that glorious car of his is extremely tempting, and may allow me to forget myself for a while. “Where are you going to take me?” I ask.
“Wherever you want,” he says, his eyes smiling at me.
Chapter Nineteen
Stephen drives a nice car. Sensible, comfortable. Leather seats, the works. But nothing prepared me for the experience that is Santiago’s Porsche. I feel like I’m crawling into the cockpit of a fighter jet, there are so many buttons and fancy screens; that is, a fighter jet with fourteen-way adjustable ventilated leather seats that cradle my body like a hand embracing me, the AC blasting through the seat itself.
I’m so distracted by the car, I don’t even notice Santiago get in until I see him slipping his crutches between us, over the console and into the backseat.
He laughs. “You approve, I take it?”
“Definitely cushier than my car.”
“If you’re nice to me,” he says, shifting into drive and pulling out of his reserved parking spot, heading toward the garage exit, “I may even let you drive it.”
I flush. Stephen doesn’t let me drive his car, so I’d be terrified to get behind the wheel of a vehicle that probably cost as much as Stephen’s and mine combined.
“Um. That’s probably not a good idea.”
He chuckles, pulling out into the sunlight, which seems especially bright after the dark garage. He stops and grabs a pair of sunglasses out of the console, the same sleek pair I remember from our breakfast in New Orleans. I know Santiago can move his feet and toes, but I notice he uses hand controls, something I’ve never seen before. I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t trust the strength or dexterity of his legs, or if he would tire easily, or if it would hurt his ankles, and so he prefers to use his hands. Whatever his reason, I watch him curiously. He uses his left hand to work the lever that controls the pedals while his right mans the shift and steering. Not wanting to interfere with his driving, I lean over and lay a hand on his thigh. He glances at me when he feels the touch, a sweet, relaxed smile slipping onto his face as he navigates us out of the gated parking lot.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say, as it always amazes me every time I drive past Hermann Park that he actually lives here.
“Houston’s a big city, but there aren’t that many really pretty parts of it,” he says. I’m trying to watch how he drives, determine how the hand controls work, but all I can really see is the subtle shift of his arm. “And your commute basically sucks no matter where you live, so I figured, why not live somewhere with a nice view, a park to enjoy when the weather’s not too hot, and near a ton of great restaurants.”
I lean back in the seat, start to pull my feet up out of reflex, then decide I probably shouldn’t on his nice leather. “We live up north because it’s close to Stephen’s job. It’s not so bad. The Woodlands is nice.”
I sense a shift in the air and glance over at Santiago. He has his eyes on the road, but I still feel as if he’s analyzing, studying me. “Di, when was the last time Stephen did something just for you?”
His question catches me off guard, and I take my hand back so I can knit my fingers together. Stephen gives me things all the time, always practical stuff. One Christmas, he was immensely proud of the combination digital tire-pressure gauge/window hammer/seatbelt cutter he gave out to everyone he knew, though he had mine monogrammed for that individual, “special,” touch. Living in an area with so much water, he was appalled I didn’t already have that lifesaving measure at hand.
Somehow, I don’t think that’s what Santiago means. I can’t seem to find any words, so I stare down at my hands instead.
He sighs but doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. I watch Rice University pass by our window, and guess we’re heading to the Village, or maybe somewhere in Montrose or even Bellaire. I’m not even hungry anymore. In fact, I kind of want to go home, yet I don’t want to leave Santiago, either. Not that I really have a choice at this point, since my car is parked in one of the visitor spaces back at Santiago’s apartment building.
“How long have you been married?” Santiago finally says, breaking the stillness; his voice is low, quiet, yet it startles me.
The air suddenly seems too thick, and I struggle to speak, to breathe. “Ten years.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Life’s too short to be unhappy.”
I catch his eyes in my peripheral vision. I sigh heavily as silence envelops the car once again. I’m trying to think of what to say when I hear ringing and the display flashes, Mamí.
Santiago glances at it and groans. He adjusts his left hand on the lever so his thumb can rest on the steering wheel, freeing up his right to answer the call. He looks at me and holds his finger up to his mouth in the universal shh gesture before returning back to the wheel.
“Hi, Ma—” He can’t even finish before she interrupts.
“You never call me anymore!” she says; I can hear a subtle Spanish accent in her words.
Santiago takes a deep breath, trying to steel himself. “That’s because you hate me, Mamí.”
I lean against the window, feeling uncomfortable being caught in the middle of this conversation, trying to watch the scenery, the mansions of the Museum District whirling past.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t call your mother!” she says in a huff. “What are you doing? Are you in that car of yours? You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days in that thing!”
Santiago is biting his lip. “Wouldn’t that do you and Papí a favor?”
“¡Ay! How can you say such a thing?”
“It’s easy. I open my mouth, and the words just spill out. I think you’d know all about that.”
Surprised, I glance over at Santiago. His eyes are fixed on the road, but his right hand grips the steering wheel tightly.
His mother either didn’t hear what he said, wasn’t listening, or chose to ignore it. “Where are you going?”
Santiago’s eyes dart toward me. “I’m having dinner with…a friend.”
“Espero que no trajiste esas…‘cosas.’” My limited Spanish is rusty, but I think she said something like she hopes he didn’t bring “those things.” What is she talking about? I check the backseat, where his crutches rattle against each other as we turn onto the rough, potholed street that is Kirby. His crutches? Is that what she means? She wishes he hadn’t brought his crutches? Why?
Santiago sighs loudly, smack
s the steering wheel with his right hand. “I don’t want to get into this now. I really have to go.”
“You know, you used to be such a sweet boy! You listened to your parents and respected them. You had pride in yourself and your family. I don’t know where your father and I went wrong.”
I can see the tension in Santiago’s forearm and shoulders; he’s obviously trying really hard not to be angry, not to yell at his mother, especially in front of me. I wish I’d brought my headphones so I could at least give him some privacy.
“Well, seeing how things’ll only get worse, I’m obviously a fucking lost cause.”
She gasps. “And I didn’t teach you that type of language, either! No wonder you’re not married. Walking around with those things and talking like that, jugando a no sé que when you had a perfectly good position at the firm that made good, real money. You could still be with that girl… What was her name? Victoria? Vanessa? Veronica!”
Santiago’s right knuckles are white, he’s clenching the steering wheel so tightly. “You and Papí are never going to fucking get it, are you? I have to go, Ma.” Santiago practically slams his fist on the button to end the call. He exhales sharp and quick, then casts a quick glance at me. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Um, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“What? For my mom?” He laughs bitterly. “Don’t be.”
The tension and anger lingers in his posture, and I debate whether I should ask about the conversation or pretend I didn’t hear it. I open my mouth, and Santiago must sense my thoughts, because before I can speak, he does, with a long sigh.
“Let’s just say denial is a river in Cuba,” he says through clenched teeth. We stop at a light, and he looks at me with an expression that tells me I should just leave it at that; please, leave it at that.
I shift my hand to his cheek, brushing my knuckles against his skin. “Didn’t you leave the firm like four years ago?”