by Manuel Munoz
“This isn’t the Datsun,” Roberto told him, easing forward to the street.
“Sorry,” Robbie said, then added, a little less curtly, “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“You know, it isn’t any of my business, but maybe I should have said something before you went along. I thought it was a bad idea.”
“Well, they liked you.”
“I lived with him for almost fifteen years. There’s a big difference.”
Roberto drove to the new pass-through on Highway 198, a clear shot along the north stretch of Visalia, and soon they were back out on the country road headed to town. It was hot, like the day before, which was unusual for November; across one of the empty cotton fields, a dust devil swirled lazily, meandering. “Look at that,” Roberto said.
“I’ve never seen one. It’s like a tornado.”
“Harmless. It’s just the heat. Don’t they have fields where you grew up?”
“I grew up in Menlo Park. It’s all houses.”
“How old are you, Robbie?”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“That’s young,” Roberto said. “Too young for Joaquín, in my opinion.”
“I’m mature for my age,” Robbie said defensively. “And besides, he’s been with me for almost a year already.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t mature. I just said you’re too young for Joaquín. There’s a big difference.”
“And what would that be?”
“Oh, about fifteen years.”
Robbie fidgeted in his seat, as though eager to be somewhere else. But Roberto knew there was nowhere to go, not for miles, with the cotton fields surrounding them and the county landfill and the dairy barns with the cows idling at the roadside fences. Just the miles sailing endlessly on the straight road, not even a stop sign where Robbie could hop out of the car dramatically and insist on walking back to town.
“You know, I really wanted to meet you,” Robbie finally offered. “Joaquín talks a lot about you, says a lot of good things. He thought you wouldn’t have a problem with this.”
“With what? With him dating you?” Roberto shrugged.
“I thought you’d be nicer about it, just because of how he talks about you, I mean.”
“Look, that was a whole year ago,” he said, sighing. “He’s his own person and he’d been bored with his life here for a long time, just frustrated, and that was that. I don’t blame myself anymore. People come and go.”
“I would be more angry about it. More bitter. After all those years of being with him, it doesn’t matter to you? I just can’t believe it. I get all messed up when we argue, thinking he’s going to leave me.”
“He’s not going to leave you,” Roberto said. “Not if you keep wanting him.” He stared out at the approaching line of nectarine groves, acres of them continuing all the way up to his very bedroom window. The groves seemed to take forever to arrive, the car moving so slowly. The space between them went slack with silence. Out of the corner of his eye, in the quick glances in the rearview mirror to check the diesel truck behind them, Roberto could see Robbie as he sat motionless, uncertain. Something in the discomfort thrilled Roberto, the feeling that he had the upper hand over Robbie, that he understood his want and the kind of love he had for Joaquín, something at once stupid and tender. Still, he wasn’t proud of this manipulation, and he knew that Robbie deserved none of his scorn. None of this, after all, was his fault.
“You just deserve better,” Roberto said, breaking the silence in the car, but it only parted the air like the dust devil on the cotton field, riding through, everything settling right back down where it had been, the moment descending, spiraling some, but ultimately vanishing.
They would have hours ahead of them, until nightfall at least, when Joaquín would return, and as Roberto pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex, he debated going off to the grocery store without Robbie. Robbie got out of the car and closed the door almost apologetically, hands in his pockets, and walked behind Roberto as they made their way to his apartment. Roberto jingled the keys, wanting the noise to hide his nervousness, and debated how the excuse to go to the store would sound. He let them into the apartment, then walked over to the kitchen to open up a cabinet and declare something lacking for dinner, but when he turned around to say it, Robbie had come up behind him, his steps quiet, and his green eyes were looking up at him. Robbie leaned closer to him and tilted his head up to kiss him. There was nothing passionate about it, just the flesh of their lips touching, both of them with their eyes open, Roberto wanting to see Robbie’s green eyes and not knowing why Robbie kept them open. It was when Robbie closed his eyes to him, shut away the green, that the kiss became deeper, wetter, and Robbie’s tongue began searching. Roberto allowed himself to touch him, just the arms first, through the soft fabric of the blue shirt, the stitching of the delicate diamond pattern, and the small biceps beneath. Robbie’s hands reached down to feel if Roberto was hard, and Roberto closed his eyes finally because he wasn’t. He ignored the self-conscious tightening of his own back when Robbie ran his hands up his shirt, discovering the layer of fat around his middle, but Robbie’s hands glided over it. He kept his eyes closed and imagined how it was for Joaquín to feel this, the patch of hair on Robbie’s belly and the smooth skin up above, the shirt that unfastened with clasps and not buttons, the tiny, hard nipples. And though Robbie had none of Joaquín’s height or thickness of torso or wide shoulders, Roberto kissed as if remembering him, knowing that Robbie’s skin was what Joaquín touched with light fingers, that it somehow contained Joaquín, at least if Roberto just kept his eyes closed.
Robbie stopped and stared up at him. They stood in the silence of the kitchen, and Robbie would not break away from Roberto’s line of sight, would not blink. Robbie reached down again to feel if Roberto was hard, and when he discovered that he was, he led Roberto with his other hand in the direction of the bedroom, and there, finally, they broke their hold on each other. Roberto’s hands shook as he closed the blinds against the afternoon sun, as he took off his clothes, watching Robbie do the same. His hands could not stop shaking as he thought of what he was doing, of Joaquín’s parents in the hospital only fifteen miles away, of his own empty, lonely months, of the reasons why Robbie was doing this. Neither one of them would speak, and they fumbled awkwardly on the bed, limbs getting in the way, the bed squeaking from their weight. After a while, Robbie positioned himself underneath and looked at him expectantly, and it shamed Roberto to admit that he had no condoms in the apartment, all the months he had gone without — first the months after Joaquín left, then the months when he could do nothing but remember. He shook his head at Robbie. “I don’t have any . . .”
Robbie seemed to contemplate the situation for a moment, saying nothing. For a long time, he looked into Roberto’s eyes without blinking, running his fingers against his back, as if coaxing him. Then almost imperceptibly, his legs loosened their grip around Roberto’s waist and slowly his knees straightened back down to meet the mattress. It would be wrong to try to kiss him, Roberto knew, so after a moment he rose from the bed, as if to free Robbie from his own trap, and shyly put his clothes back on.
“Will you come to the store with me?” he asked Robbie, clearing his throat, and he was somewhat surprised when Robbie agreed.
THE STORY WENT THAT Joaquín’s mother still loved Joaquín’s father even after he had had the affair. The story went that she sat at the kitchen table with the lights out, save for the glow of a cigarette. She had never smoked before. But she loved him and she had waited. When was that — back when it was just she and her husband alone in the States, back when Joaquín himself was but a baby and still being bathed with creek water in that village in Mexico? It’s easy to forgive when pride is obliterated, ignored, made to dissolve into nothing with a pull on the cord for the lightbulb in the kitchen. It’s easy to forgive, easy as stubbing out the cigarette in a little blue dish with green roses in the center, washing it with hot wa
ter and soap, and putting it away. It’s easy to love the wrong person, even after much time has passed since the sudden discovery of betrayal. It’s as easy as holding the hand of the dying man and giving thanks that it is happening in a hospital in Visalia, California, and not in the rusted heavy bed back in Jalisco. It’s easy to pretend there never was that white woman with four kids of her own, that woman who still lives in the town, easy to pretend she has stopped existing.
It’s easy to forgive, but it’s hard to understand it. It’s hard to understand how anyone can pretend, how love trumps reason and understanding. In that wing of the hospital, slouched in the aquamarine couches, arms crossed, dozing, Joaquín’s family had been waiting through the hours, when, near eight o’clock, toward the end of official visiting time, the news was whispered quietly to one of the men and his lowered hat answered everyone’s pleadings. Who was to say who loved him more, who forgave him more, who had more to forgive? The wailing came in floods, the arms in the air grasping, the shoulders shuddering. Who was to say which uncle would drink the most later that night, and who was to say what he would be trying to hide in such sorrow? Whose hand was held longest, hardest, in those final hours, the old man’s bony wrists against the crisp, folded-down creases of the hospital’s bedsheets? Who was to say what the old man was trying to say, one of the last sounds he made, a word trapped in his mouth like a fly buzzing, that sound he made when Joaquín, of all people, held his hand and announced himself present?
There was an enormous amount of food on the table, plates half-wrapped in plastic, and Joaquín ate hungrily. It was near midnight when he returned from Visalia, unannounced, because Robbie found him impossible to reach on the cell phone. Earlier that afternoon, Roberto had led the way through the grocery store, looking for items that required work, to lull the uncomfortable hours away: green beans with their ends to be snapped, swirled around with tomato and onion; ground beef for albóndiga soup, and a bag of rice to roll into the meatballs; a flan mix that required setting. All afternoon, he and Robbie chopped vegetables, watched rice soften, stirred soup, both of them listening for Joaquín’s tired entry at the front door. But the evening set in; they both ate quietly at the table and then cleaned up the kitchen, leaving it spotless.
“My mother says he waited for me,” Joaquín said, rolling a corn tortilla and dipping it into the albóndiga soup.
“You don’t believe her? People do that, you know.” Roberto unwrapped the green beans and pointed to them, encouraging. “I see it at the convalescent home. They can hang on if they know someone’s coming.”
“I don’t believe in that,” Joaquín answered, picking at the green beans. “You made all this?”
“I helped,” Robbie said.
“He wasn’t alert even.” Joaquín motioned around his head with both hands, rolled tortilla still in one, parting the air around him as if it were fog. “What could he understand at that point? What could he know?”
“They can hear what’s happening,” Roberto assured him.
“You sound like my mother,” Joaquín said. “And no, they can’t.”
Roberto and Robbie sat at the table, watching Joaquín devour the food, and when he finished the bowl of soup, he looked expectantly at Robbie, who rose to ladle more and reheat it in the microwave. Roberto watched him go, so dutiful, Joaquín picking at the green beans and having a spoonful of rice at the same time. There was something wrong with this need to fill his hunger after what he had seen.
“When’s the funeral?” Robbie asked, setting the bowl down gently.
“Thursday is what my uncle said. But I’m not sticking around that long.”
“What?” Roberto asked, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding . . .” He was stunned by Joaquín’s complete lack of compassion, his rush to move past the family obligation. It struck Roberto as cruel, unforgivable. But this was part of his nature, the way Joaquín had always been, and Roberto found himself keeping his criticism to himself as he had always done over the years, allowing Joaquín the open road to pursue whatever he craved. Joaquín’s mother — her eyes that day when Joaquín’s father had hypocritically denounced him — rattled voiceless in his head. She nodded at Roberto in memory, speechless, as if she understood how he could have loved someone like Joaquín to begin with.
“Hey, I’ve got a job. I’ve got bills to pay,” Joaquín said, raising his voice. “I’m not sticking around all week. For what? So my drunk uncles can come around asking to borrow money for a headstone?”
“Jesus . . .”
He waved Roberto quiet. “Really, just . . . just lay off.” He continued eating, finishing the second bowl of albóndigas. Without a fresh spoon, without wiping off the one he used for the soup, he dipped into the flan. Dissatisfied, he ate only two bites.
Roberto rose to clean off the table, half-tempted to ask Joaquín to help him, but it would be no use. Joaquín would ignore him, and it was his own kitchen that would suffer in the end. “Robbie,” he said, “there’s some blankets in that hall closet. And pillows on the couch.”
“We get the floor?” Joaquín asked.
He didn’t answer him, pretending to be absorbed in settling the food back into the refrigerator. By the time he finished washing the dishes and turned away from the sink, both Joaquín and Robbie were on the floor, nestled in the blankets, and he turned off the lights without saying good night.
In bed, Roberto felt increasingly awake as the minutes wore on. Every time he closed his eyes, he had a new image to contend with, something to make him open up to the darkness again. If it wasn’t the clasps on Robbie’s shirt, it was the way his hair felt. And if it wasn’t Robbie’s hair, then it was Joaquín’s mother being served tea laced with a powder provided by a neighbor woman, something to calm her nerves. Or he’d picture himself filling out forms for Joaquín’s father, as if he had been at the convalescent home, and all the procedures they had to go through when a patient died. The orchard leaves rustled more loudly than usual, and then he could hear the patter of rain, the first of the season. He listened to it come down, not a hard rain, just enough to wake anyone in the lightest of sleeps, even Joaquín’s mother despite her nerve-calming tea. A great shame filled him to think of her just then, lying in a bed that she had slept in alone for weeks now, while he thought of Robbie and Joaquín on the floor of his apartment. That white woman with the four kids, maybe she too had heard the news by now, awake and listening to the rain and remembering.
From down the hallway, from beyond the closed door of his bedroom, he heard a deep moan. It wasn’t Joaquín. He listened for it, but he didn’t hear it again. Only the rain. It saddened Roberto enough that sleep continued to refuse him. His heart broke for Joaquín’s mother and her enduring such a man after so many years; in thinking of her, his heart broke for himself all over again, for having been just like her, the years wasted loving someone like that: you love someone because there might never be anyone else. He listened to the rain and thought of Joaquín’s inoculation scar, Robbie’s fingers knowing in the dark where the three birthmarks were and reaching out for them. Outside, he knew the rain would finally begin to empty the gold leaves from the trees.
WHEN HE WOKE IN the morning, Roberto found the blankets folded neatly on the couch. Had the duffel bags not been near the door, he would have thought Joaquín had left early and without saying good-bye. “Joaquín?” he called out stupidly, but the apartment was empty. The coffeepot was on and two cups were in the sink, unwashed. When he served himself a mug, he spotted the note. I took him to church. The coffee was terrible: he couldn’t tell which of them had made it.
The Iglesia de San Pedro would hold a Saturday service twice this morning, but there was no telling how long Joaquín and Robbie had been gone. It was nearing eleven o’clock, the hour of the second service; perhaps they had gone to eat breakfast first. Roberto peeked outside the window. The sky held gray, but there were no heavy, dark clouds around, and overnight the rain had paused. It would be a day with l
ittle more than weak light.
Roberto looked down at the two duffel bags, both zipped and ready to go. He wondered why they hadn’t loaded them onto the Datsun and been done with it, and then he quietly granted Joaquín the grace of trying to reassure him: he would return to say good-bye and to be sure there were no hard feelings. The person needing the most comfort right then, he knew, was Joaquín’s mother, but he felt his loneliness stretching before him like a road, the mirage of water at the end of it wavering, beckoning him. Roberto looked down at the duffel bags, tempted to unzip them and rummage through, not looking for anything, but just to feel what was inside: the blue shirt with the delicate diamonds, if Robbie wasn’t wearing it again, or the brown shirt with the orange on the sides. Or in Joaquín’s bag, perhaps a shirt he remembered, the color, the feel. If he dipped his head to smell the interior of the bag, would he come up with the scent he still remembered from all those years?
He unzipped one of the bags, slowly and quietly, as if Joaquín and Robbie were in the next room. He listened for the sound of footsteps out on the walkway, but there was only the wind rattling through the bushes. Robbie’s brown shirt was on top, the orange almost gleaming up at him. Roberto knelt on the floor and bent his head down, breathing in the scent of it deeply. I love you, he imagined Robbie saying to Joaquín the night before on the hard floor of his living room, and there was this scent for Joaquín to breathe in, a powdery citrus, very clean. Te quiero tanto, Joaquín’s mother had said, all those years ago, when she turned on the kitchen light to forgive Joaquín’s father. Roberto closed the bag and did not open the other one. He did not want to remember himself, like Joaquín’s mother grasping her arms around her husband’s neck, saying those same words just last year, trying to persuade Joaquín to stay.