My mom is a good person. I don’t mean that like she’s my mom. I mean like she’s a person. Dante, I used to think that I was invisible. I used to think that my mom and dad didn’t know a damn thing about me and what I felt and who I was. And I thought that they didn’t much care one way or the other. Especially my dad. I thought he was just this sad guy who didn’t see anything or anyone around me. And I wanted him to love me and I hated him because he didn’t love me. And I was always getting mad at Mom because she was always getting into my business and I thought she just wanted to run my life and tell me what I could and couldn’t do. And when she wanted to talk to me, I just thought she wanted to lecture me or teach me something she felt I needed to know and I would say to myself, Yeah, yeah, my mom the schoolteacher, and I’m stuck in her class the rest of my life.
I’m not like you, Dante. You have always understood that your parents loved you. And you loved them back. You never thought it was cool to look down on your parents. You’ve never cared what other people thought because you’ve always known who you were. You’re kind and you’re sensitive (and yeah, a little bit moody, and you get hurt maybe a little bit too easily). But you feel. You feel and you’re brave. I used to think maybe you needed me around to protect you. But you don’t need protecting. Because you have a special kind of courage that most people don’t have and will never have. I’ll never have the kind of goodness you have living inside you. But you’ve taught me a lot of things. All those things I thought about my parents, well, they were mostly lies, and I believed my own lies. My dad noticed, even before I did, that I loved you. And not only that, he didn’t judge me for it. And I’m beginning to realize that he really loves me. And yeah, he loves me because I’m his son, but he also didn’t judge me for loving another boy. And that’s because he’s a good person. God, Dante, I never saw them as people. Not really. You know, I’ve been a piece of shit for a long time. I don’t want to be a piece of shit anymore.
And my mom, she’s a little like you. She knows who she is and she knows what she thinks because she’s actually the kind of person who sits down with herself and gives things some thought.
And Dante, my mom, she is one fine, fantastic, feisty lady. And if my life is going to be a war because I love you, which means I like guys, then I’m one lucky guy to have my mom fighting that war right beside me.
We’re lucky, Dante. Not just because our parents love us but also because they’re good people.
I had never thought about that until today.
I love you, Dante. And that has changed everything in my life—and that matters. But I don’t really know what that’s going to mean for the life that I am going to live. There are so many things I don’t know. So many things I will never know.
Eleven
I HEARD DANTE’S VOICE ON the telephone. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m such an asshole. I—I mean—I mean, I acted like a five-year-old last night. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes. Sometimes I think that I’m nothing but a lot of emotions all tangled up in my body and I don’t know how to untangle them.”
“You really are a poet,” I said. “You talk like one. You think like one. And there’s nothing wrong with you, Dante. Your parents were messing with your head, and maybe they were making a point—but they were also being playful.”
“I know, and I just, I don’t know. I know they didn’t mean to hurt my feelings—and you didn’t either. I know I have a good sense of humor, but sometimes that sense of humor abandons me. And you think I’m some kind of saint. But I’m not, Ari. I’m not.”
“I don’t think you’re a saint. I don’t think saints make love to other boys. But sometimes I do think you’re some kind of angel.”
“Angels don’t make love to other boys either.”
“Well, maybe some of them do.”
“I’m not an angel and I’m not a saint. I’m just Dante.”
“That works for me. Can I come over? I think I’ll put Legs in the truck and take her over.”
“That is one brilliant idea.”
“Does the word ‘brilliant’ live inside of me? If it does, I didn’t get the memo.”
I hung up the phone. I had to pick Legs up and put her in the front seat. She kept licking my face as I drove to Dante’s house. One of the mysteries of the universe is why dogs are always trying to lick your lips.
Twelve
WHEN I GOT TO DANTE’S house, I lifted Legs from the seat of the truck and placed her on the sidewalk. She climbed up the steps without a problem—and licked Dante’s face as he sat there.
“My mother read me the riot act this morning. I mean, that woman can lecture like no one else in the entire Western Hemisphere. ‘And it’s my job to remind you that there are consequences for the things you do, however small or big those actions are. I will not let you charm your way through life, because charming your way through life is cheating. There are no shortcuts in a life that is worth living.’ You know, Ari, she’s like this flame in the night and it doesn’t matter if a wind or a storm comes along, because no storm is strong enough to snuff out the flame that is my mother.”
I wanted to say something important to him, but I didn’t know how to say important things. So I just whispered, “Dante, one day you’ll be that flame. Maybe you are that flame already.”
“Maybe you see what you want to see.”
“Is that a sin?”
“It might be, Aristotle Quintana. It just might be.”
Thirteen
WHEN I GOT HOME, MY mother was in the kitchen making an enchilada casserole. Two enchilada casseroles. One red, one green. “What’s up with all the food, Mom?”
“I’m taking it over to the Ortegas’ house and offering my condolences to Lina.”
“Why do people take food over when someone dies? Where did that come from?”
“Your father would call it immigrant behavior.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Most people who came to this country didn’t come here because they were making it in their home countries. People were poor. When someone died, a lot of people dropped by and families didn’t have anything to offer them. People have their pride. So people would stop by and drop off food, and there’s nothing like sharing food, eating with people. And it turns a funeral into a kind of celebration.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“It’s called living, Ari.”
And I was thinking that my mother had always talked to me and told me things and I don’t think I ever listened to a damn thing she said. At that moment, I was ashamed of myself. I’d always wanted to escape her presence as if I were some kind of prisoner. I was always wanting to leave the house, not because I had anywhere to go, but because I just wanted to go.
As I watched my mother place aluminum foil to cover the casseroles she had made, I thought how easy it was now to be around her. She was intelligent and interesting and she had a sense of humor and things that didn’t matter didn’t upset her or ruin her day. I used to think that she wanted me to be someone else. But it wasn’t her who wanted me to be someone else—it was me. She pushed and challenged me. And I didn’t like it. But it wasn’t because she wanted to ruin my day. She was, in some ways, like Dante’s mother. They both expected their sons to be decent human beings—and they were going to do everything they could to make that happen. And they sure as hell let us know when we weren’t getting it.