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  “Ya mero,” Mrs. Rubio said, “Ya mero aprende. He’s very smart, and he’d know by now if his mother had taught him. But she did teach him how to brush his teeth.” She shrugged. “No entiendo.”

  “Dios la perdone. We don’t know what she’s been through, Esperanza.”

  “I don’t forgive people who treat children as if they were no better than dogs.” Her eyes were hard as stone for an instant.

  Mr. Rubio shook his head. He looked like he was having another conversation with himself. “No sabemos,” he whispered. “And anyway, her son isn’t ordinary.” He looked at Mister and ran his hand over the young man’s hair, as if to comb it.

  “My hair can’t be tamed,” Mister said.

  The old man smiled. “Are you patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think Vicente is going to need a lot,” Mrs. Rubio said.

  Mister nodded.

  “He’s watching TV with the kids. Not that he’s very interested in that thing. Maybe because all he can do is listen to it. I don’t know what he gets out of it, but he sits there. I think he likes the company—you know, after being alone so much.” He shrugged, then stepped away, disappearing down the hall.

  Mister looked at Mrs. Rubio. “Does he know—I mean, does—?”

  “He doesn’t know anything. Or he knows everything. Solo Dios sabe. Sometimes I think this child is very old. He hates the social worker. When he doesn’t like someone, he wants them to know it. And if he likes someone, I think he gets afraid. I think. I don’t know. Really, I don’t know. He’s not ordinary.”

  Mr. Rubio walked back into the kitchen, three-year-old Vicente Jesús in his arms. He put the boy down and placed his small hand on the kitchen table, so the boy would know exactly where he was. Mister studied him as his small hands searched the table. He had black eyes that were a smoky gray with clouds in them. He had thick black hair, dark skin, and dimples. “This is Mister,” Mr. Rubio said. “And sitting right next to him is Mrs. Delgado. She’s Mister’s mother.”

  Vicente turned to Mr. Rubio and put his hand on his face. He nodded, then turned in Mister’s direction, as if he could sense his presence. As if he knew exactly where he was sitting. He remained expressionless, and again he turned toward Mr. Rubio. “It’s okay. You want to meet Mister?” The boy did not assent with a nod. But he did not reject the offer with a shake of his head, either. Mister moved closer to the boy, then bent his knees until he was eye level with him. He stuck out his hand. “Hi,” he whispered. The boy awkwardly reached, gently slapping at Mister’s arm. He took Mister’s hand and began turning it over in his own small hand—almost as if he were sighted and looking for a promised toy that was hidden there. After he had examined Mister’s hand thoroughly, he dropped it. His searching hands reached for Mister, first touching him in the chest, and then slowly, his hands moved over his neck toward his face. He felt his chin, his jawline, his ears, his lips, his nose, his eyes and cheeks and eyebrows and forehead. It was impossible to tell who was more fascinated by the experience—Mister or the boy. And after feeling the entire surface of Mister’s face, the boy smiled and held Mister’s face between his small hands.

  And then he laughed. His laughter filled the kitchen, then the house. The entire world, it seemed, was filled with this boy’s laugh. And then he let go of Mister’s face, patted his right cheek—and kissed him.

  “Bendito sea Dios,” Mrs. Rubio whispered.

  Grace saw it happen in an instant. It passed between them so quickly. Just like that—in one apocalyptic moment—simple and beautiful. A birth. But also a kind of death. Like lightning in a storm. In one flash of light, the whole desert was lit, and you could see the universe. That’s what she had seen—the universe in the hands of a child feeling the face of a man. The Rubios had known it, too. It was so clear—and yet nearly impossible to comprehend. She reran the image in her mind, the boy touching Mister’s face, the look in her son’s eyes as the boy laughed—and kissed him. She had seen that look in Mister’s eyes a hundred times, a thousand times. When he’d looked at his father, that is the look he’d worn. And there it was again, that love, confronting her, asking her to be a part of it. She’d grown so hard the past few years, as if all the softness inside her had been worn away.

  “What are you thinking, Grace?”

  She was glad it was night and that Mister had his eyes on the road, glad he couldn’t see the expression on her face.

  “He’s really very beautiful,” she whispered.

  “That’s not what you were thinking.”

  “The Rubios are good people.”

  Mister nodded and kept driving. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he glanced over at Grace. “That wasn’t what you were thinking.”

  “The neighborhood. We used to call it ‘Dizzy Land’.”

  “Dizzy Land?”

  “On certain days, the wind would blow the smell of the sewage treatment plant right into the neighborhood. It was a joke.”

  “Getting nostalgic, Grace?”

  “I’m too mean for that.”

  “You’re not mean, Grace. Just a little hard, sometimes.”

  “I lied. Earlier. Your father told me I was pretty. I told him I was as ordinary as the bike he was riding. I told him he was a conceited boy. I told him to stop teasing me.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said when he grew up, he was going to find me. And he was going to kiss me. And he said I was going to kiss him back.”

  “And is that the way it happened?”

  “A day before my twentieth birthday, he walks up to me on the campus of the university. He looked at me and said, ‘Grace? Is that you?’ I hadn’t seen him in five or six years. His family had moved out of the neighborhood. But I knew him. God, I’d have known him anywhere. Really, your father—” She stopped talking.

  They were quiet again. Mister turned on the radio, Frankie Valli’s falsetto voice melting into the voices of the Four Seasons. He imagined his mother and father, young, kissing on the campus of the university. He had seen their wedding picture. They were beautiful, both of them. To have been that beautiful—if only for a blessed second. “Is that when he kissed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you kissed him back.”

  “Yes. In one apocalyptic moment, I kissed him. It was like I had died.”

  He parked the car in his mother’s driveway. Neither of them made a move. He wanted to ask her more questions, but decided against it. Grace was private. She always backed away when she started talking about herself. Sam had always said it was because she was shy. But Sam always made excuses for her. “So do you think I’ll get to keep Vicente?”

  “The mother’s relinquishing her parental rights. You’ve had a home study done. You have a good lawyer. The Rubios like you—”

  “Actually, I think they liked you, Grace. They only liked me because I was your son.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. That’s okay, Grace. Being your son has made this process a whole lot easier.”

  “When they did your home study, how many interviews?”

  “Three or four.”

  “When they interviewed you, and interviewed you again, and then interviewed you one more time, was I there?”

  “Hell yes, you were there, Grace. The first thing out of everyone’s mouth was, You’re Grace Delgado’s son, aren’t you? That’s all anyone needed to know.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay, it’s not true.”

  “You don’t think they’d have approved you and Liz as potential adoptive parents if I wasn’t your mother?”

  “Being your son didn’t hurt.”

  “There’s a little edge in your voice when you say that.”

  “Is there?”

  “What exactly is so bad about being Grace Delgado’s son?”

  “Everyone thinks you’re perfect.”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

 
“I’m sure you are.”

  “Mister, I’m not responsible for what other people think—about me or you or anyone else. And why do you always have to pick a fight with me?”

  “I pick fights, Grace? Me?”

  “We used to get along just fine.”

  “We got along when I agreed with you. When I went along with what you wanted. We always got along Grace, so long as I did things your way. Which is why you can’t forgive me for staying with Liz.”

  “She left with another man, Mister.”

  “And I forgave her, Grace.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “It’s not yours to forgive. And you know who you don’t forgive, Grace? Me. Because I didn’t do what you would’ve done. Well, I’m not you. And I don’t do things the way you do them. That’s what you don’t forgive.” He took a deep breath. “Are we going to sit here and fight all night, or are you going to ask me in?”

  “No, Mister, I don’t think I will ask you in.”

  The Order of Things in the Universe

  William Hart is surfing the Internet. You can see things you dream of doing. You can do everything but touch—and it’s the touch that matters most. He is bored with virtual boys. He thinks of the preacher and wonders what his life would be like if his faith had been real—but his faith had been as virtual as the images he is staring at in the computer. Virtual faith. The Lord had not found him worthy.

  He turns off his computer. He tells himself he will go out and have a glass of wine. That is what normal people do. He has envied normal people all his life. Tonight he will pretend to be one of them. He looks at his watch. It is just after five-thirty. He changes into a nicely pressed shirt. He likes to be neat when he goes out. As he walks out the door, Grace Delgado is talking to her doctor. He is looking at her files and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Grace, I’m very sorry.”

  Mister is driving home. He is repeating the word father over and over again. He parks the truck and sits for a minute. He thinks of Grace and Sam and wonders what their lives would be like if Sam had not died. He tosses his cell phone from one hand to the other. He calls Liz. When he hears her voice, he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  There is no reason in the world why William Hart decides to pick this particular bar when there are ten or fifteen others in the same area. He randomly selects this bar. This one.

  Andrés Segovia. What a Beautiful Name

  He never went to bars after work. Just El Ven Y Verme on nights he couldn’t sleep. Happy hours after work never did anything for him—young people who looked more or less like him who were looking for relief from their jobs or from their lives. He had stopped looking for relief. But there he was, sitting at a bar, having a beer after work. Without even knowing why he was there, except that talking to Grace had kicked up some dust. So he didn’t want to be alone. Being alone would lead to thinking. And thinking would lead to being sad. So here he was, sitting and drinking a beer, just like everyone else. Looking for relief.

  As luck would have it, Al walked through the door. Al, his annoyingly friendly colleague. He was good for two things—small talk and working on computers. He sat right next to him. Of course he did. Shit.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Andrés Segovia.”

  Andrés grinned, but said nothing.

  “Do you play the guitar?”

  “I’ve heard that joke.”

  “You have a girlfriend?”

  “Do you?”

  “You live alone?”

  “Do you?”

  “You like to party?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I like to party. Yes, I live alone. And my girlfriend dumped me.”

  “Because you talk too much.”

  “This is going well.” Al smiled, then laughed.

  “Yeah, this is fun.”

  Al looked at him. “C’mon, lighten up. Let someone in.”

  “The house I live in is pretty crowded. No more room.” Andrés finished his beer, then set the glass on the bar. “Gotta go.”

  “But I just got here.”

  “That’s why I gotta go.”

  “C’mon. Have another.”

  “I don’t want another. Look, Al, me and you—look, if I have another, will you promise not to fucking interview me? Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “No, you can’t. Al.”

  “Yes, I can. I promise—”

  Just as he heard the word can, his eyes got caught in the face of the man who was sitting on the other side of Al. Caught, as if he’d just swallowed a fishhook. For an instant, there was no motion in the room, no breathing, no air, no sound. He knew that face, that stranger sitting next to Al, someone from the past who was almost, almost forgotten, those gray eyes, the scar on his thin lips, the neatly pressed shirt, the milk white skin.

  “Are you okay?” He could hear Al’s voice and wanted to pretend that his easy voice was the only thing in the room, but he found himself pointing at the man. “I know you.”

  Al looked at him, then turned to the man Andrés was pointing at.

  “I fucking know you.”

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I was twelve.” There was a dryness in his throat, as if he was swallowing sand, and he knew his voice had been reduced to a whisper. His voice always changed in that way when a storm came. Sand everywhere. “I was twelve.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You do. Yes, you do.”

  “I’m sorry, but—I’m very sorry.” The man shrugged and turned away. He stared into his drink.

  It was him, that voice, a voice that pretended kindness, that pretended sincerity, that pretended a polite and gentle manner. I won’t hurt you. I like you. Don’t you know how much I like you? Can’t you see?

  “You know me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know me.”

  The man looked up at him, and they stared at each other, and though the man wanted to look away, he didn’t, something in the young man’s eyes forcing him to look. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know you,” he whispered again, but there was nothing convincing about the way he uttered his words.

  “Yes, you fucking do!” God, sometimes it was like heaven to yell. So good to clear the sand that was clogging his throat, preventing him from breathing. Andrés Segovia. That’s a beautiful name. You’re named after an artist. A guitarist from Spain. Did you know that? Just come over here and sit next to me. See? Now that doesn’t hurt now, does it? “Yes, you fucking do!” He didn’t feel himself leap toward the man, shoving Al to the floor, didn’t feel a thing. He didn’t even feel the pain in his own fists. But God, God, it was good to feel his fists pounding his face, pounding his ribs, pounding and pounding, trying to find a way, just the right spot to break through toward the freedom he’d always wanted to have, a real kind of freedom, not the kind that was just a nice word. Everything was glowing and perfect, as if the sun were setting in the room or as if he were right in the middle of a rainbow, everything bright and haloed, no shadows anywhere. God, he could live in this light forever.

  “Stop, Andrés, stop! Stop!” Someone was yelling, but the voice was distant. He felt himself being pulled away from the man, but even then, it was like someone else was being pulled away, like someone else was fighting the man whose name he’d never learned, the man who you’re a beautiful boy, don’t you know that? “Andrés, stop it, fucking stop it!” He could hear a voice coming closer, Al, yes, that was him, closer now, yelling in his ear, pulling him away, but it was all so strange and none of it seemed real at all. All he could see was the man That wasn’t so bad, was it? the man just lying there, and he wanted to hit him again and again, but he felt hands all over him and they didn’t let him move, and he watched as the man slowly picked himself up, his lip and nose bleeding, and already his face was starting to swell, and they looked at each other for what seemed a long time That wasn’t so bad, was it? M
aybe the sun had set. Maybe the rainbow had lifted—because the light was gone.

  Irony and Touch

  She’d always appreciated irony. So now she smiled—ironically, of course—as she thought about Richard Garza. An internist. An oncologist. He’d been young when she’d first gone to him. She’d liked that his last name was Garza. She’d liked that he spoke English as if he’d majored in it. She’d liked his face, his eyes, his warm, steady hands. She’d liked that he spoke Spanish as if he’d been raised in Mexico. She’d liked that he had olive skin and dark eyes and a Mayan nose. She’d liked that he asked questions and looked at you and didn’t pretend to know everything. She’d liked that he faxed her information about health issues that affected her. She’d liked the way he touched her when it was necessary that she be touched. A good doctor. An internist. An oncologist.

  Mister had insisted he wasn’t the right man for the job—as if Mister knew.

  “He’s not a woman’s doctor, Grace. Don’t you need a woman’s doctor?”

  “A gynecologist?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “If I need a gynecologist, then I’m sure he’ll send me to one. Besides, when I get cancer, I won’t have to change doctors.” She’d said that—laughing—years ago. And now, as she let that memory linger, she laughed again. She’d always appreciated irony.

  The receptionist smiled at her, holding a question, but not asking it.