“I really do not wish to have this discussion in front of children. It just isn’t appropriate.”
“Ari isn’t a child. He’s almost a man. I’m sure he can handle it.”
“I thought you were a more discreet mother.”
“Lola, in all the years I’ve known you, this is only the second time you’ve walked through my front door. The first time was to comfort me when my older son’s name appeared in the newspaper. Only you didn’t come to comfort me. You came to condemn me for the kind of mother I was. You said, and I remember every word, All of this might not have happened if you’d been the kind of mother that God expected you to be. You’ll forgive me if I tell you that I don’t give a damn about your opinions on the kind of mother I am.”
“I suppose some people just don’t take constructive criticism very well.”
My mother was biting her lip. “Constructive? You and I have differing views on what that word means.”
“You’ve never liked me.”
“I’ve never treated you with anything but respect—even if you didn’t earn it. And there was a time I liked you very much. But it’s been a long time since you’ve given me a reason to like you.”
I was starting to like this little discussion my mom and Mrs. Alvidrez had going on. If this was going to be a fight, I already knew Mrs. Alvidrez was going to be on the losing end. She didn’t have a prayer. I kept my head down. I didn’t want them to notice I was smiling.
“I speak my mind. When I know something to be wrong, my faith demands that I speak regardless of what others may think.”
“Really, you’re going to drag your faith into this? Whatever it is you have to say, Lola, say it—and try to leave God out of it.”
“God accompanies me everywhere I go.”
“He accompanies all of us everywhere we go, Lola. That’s what makes him God.”
“Yes, but some of us are more aware of his presence than others.”
I’d never seen that look on my mother’s face. And I knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t about to say most of the things she was thinking. “Now that we’ve established that God is on your side, Lola, get to the point.”
Mrs. Alvidrez looked straight into my mother’s eyes and said, “Lina’s son has died of that disease.”
“What disease?”
“That disease that all those men in New York and San Francisco are dying of.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that Diego, who apparently chose a lifestyle contrary to everything our faith stands for, has died of AIDS. And I understand that the obituary will say he died of cancer. I do not approve of that lie. And I do not believe that he should have a funeral in the Catholic church. And I thought that a group of us should approach Father Armendariz and ask that he do the right thing.”
I could tell my mother was trying to take a couple of breaths before she said anything. Finally, she said in a voice that was quiet but firm as a fist about to punch her lights out, “I want you to listen to me, Lola, so that you clearly understand my perspective. Has it even occurred to you how painful all of this must be for Lina? Have you any idea or have you even considered what she must be going through right now? She’s a good and decent woman. She’s generous and she’s kind. In a word, she possesses all the virtues that you lack. I have no idea why you think our faith is centered around condemning people. Lina and her family must not only be in a great deal of pain, I’m sure they’re also feeling a great deal of shame. A funeral for her son from the church she has attended all her life is a consolation no one is entitled to refuse.”
She wasn’t finished, but she paused and looked right into Mrs. Alvidrez’s eyes.
Mrs. Alvidrez was about to say something, but my mother stopped her. “Lola, get out of my house. Get out and don’t ever think of ever entering my house again for any reason. In all my years of walking God’s good earth, I have never refused my hospitality to anyone for any reason. But there’s a first time for everything. So get out of my house. And if you think that you’re taking God with you as you leave, you had better think again.”
Mrs. Alvidrez didn’t seem to be the least bit hurt by my mother, though it was clear that she was pissed and dying to have the last word. But the fierce look on my mother’s face stopped her dead in her tracks. She quietly walked out of the kitchen and slammed the front door behind her.
My mother looked at me. “I swear I could choke that woman. I could choke her and go in front of a judge, and in all honesty and sincerity, I would plead justifiable homicide. And I am absolutely certain I’d get an acquittal.” She moved slowly toward one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat down. There were tears running down her face. “I’m sorry, Ari. I’m sorry. I’m not quite as good a person as I set out to be.” She kept shaking her head. I reached my hand across the table and she took it.
“Mom, you want to know what I think? I think I’m a really lucky guy to have you as a mom. Seriously lucky. And I’m starting to find out that you just might be one of the most decent human beings I will ever meet.”
I loved the way she was smiling at me right then. She whispered, “You really are becoming a man.” She got up from the table and moved behind me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to help your sisters pack. And when I come back tonight, I’m going to sit down and think about what I’d like to take to Lina and her family when I go to visit them. And I’m going to send Lina flowers. Not something for the funeral home, but something for her.”
If the word “feisty” hadn’t already been invented, it would have been invented just to describe my mother.
* * *
I heard my mother leave and then I felt Legs’s head on my lap. I petted her for a long time. And then I talked to her—even though I knew she didn’t understand. “How come people aren’t as sincere as dogs? Tell me. What’s your secret?” She looked at me intently with her dark, dark eyes, and I knew that even though dogs didn’t understand the language of human beings, they did understand the language of love.
* * *
I took out my journal, and I wasn’t sure what to write. I don’t know why I suddenly had this thing with writing. I mean, sometimes I’m thinking something, and I just want to write it down. I want to see what I’m thinking, maybe because if I see what I’m thinking in words, then I can know if what I’m thinking is true or not. How can you ever know what’s true? I guess people can make you believe something is true if they use beautiful words, and it may sound beautiful, but that doesn’t mean it really is beautiful. I guess I don’t have to worry about that because I don’t think that anything I write will ever be close to being beautiful or, as Dante would say, “lovely.” But why the hell should that stop me? I’m not a writer. I’m not going for art. I have things inside me that I have to say, and they are things I need to say to myself. To figure things out for myself. If I don’t say the things I need to say, it’s going to kill me.
Dear Dante,