* * *
I had homework to do, but I decided to go with my mother to give the Ortegas our condolences. “Why tonight, when the funeral isn’t until tomorrow?”
“Because,” she said, “it’s our tradition that we surround the mourners with our love. Our presence gives them consolation when they feel inconsolable. That matters.”
As my father drove us to the Ortegas’, he said he had a theory about the importance of attending funerals. “Funerals,” he said, “are much more important than weddings. People won’t remember if you went to their son’s wedding—but they will remember if you weren’t at their mother’s funeral. Deep down, they’ll feel the hurt that you did not stand beside them when they needed you most. And it’s good to remember that we not only mourn the dead when we go to a funeral, we celebrate their lives.”
I was sitting in the back seat, and my mother turned her head and winked at me. “Your father has a poor attendance record when it comes to weddings. But when it comes to funerals, his attendance is perfect.”
My father let out something that resembled a laugh. “Liliana, did anyone ever tell you that you talk like a schoolteacher?”
“Maybe it’s because I am one. My husband, on the other hand, has been retired from the military for eighteen years, and he still cusses like he’s a grunt in the army.”
“I don’t cuss all that much, Lilly.”
“Only because you don’t talk that much.”
They were being playful—just like Dante and I were sometimes playful when we talked.
“The thing you don’t understand is that cussing is just as much fun for me as I’ve grown older as it was when I was Ari’s age. It’s the only part of me that’s still a kid. There’s way too much adult in me. Vietnam killed most of the boy I had inside. But I still have a little piece of that boy living somewhere in me, and that boy likes to cuss.”
“That has one of the most moving justifications for cussing that I have ever heard.” There were tears in her eyes. “You never talk about the war. You should do it more often. If not for yourself, then for me.”
“I’m trying, Lilly. I’m trying real hard. And you know, even before the war, I wasn’t much of a talker. But I do know how to listen.”
“Yes, you do,” she said. She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Just when I think I know all there is to know about you, you manage to surprise me. And I think it’s very manipulative. You make me fall in love with you all over again.”
I couldn’t see my father’s face, but I knew he was grinning.
One small car ride and you find out something about your parents that you knew but that you didn’t really know. That they had managed to stay in love with each other for thirty-five years. I always heard that one person in a marriage loves the other more than the other loves them. How could you really know that? Well, I guess that in a lot of marriages it was obvious that one of them cared and the other didn’t give a damn. But in the case of my mom and dad, I’d call it a toss-up.
And what was it about human beings that wanted to measure love as if it were something that could be measured?
In the Country of Friendship
Every human being—each of us—is a like a country. You can build walls around yourself to protect yourself, to keep others out, never letting anybody visit you, never letting anybody in, never letting anybody see the beauty of the treasures you carry within. Building walls can lead to a sad and lonely existence. But we can also decide to give people visas and let them in so they can see for themselves all the wealth you have to offer. You can decide to let those who visit you see your pain and the courage it has taken you to survive. Letting other people in—letting them see your country—this is the key to happiness.
One
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE boy and I’d walk into a room full of people, I would count them. I would count them and recount them—and I never knew why I did that. I wasted a lot of time counting people, and the counting had no purpose to it. Maybe I didn’t see the people as people but just as numbers. I didn’t understand people—and even though I was a people too, I lived far away from them. For no reason, I thought of that when we arrived at the Ortegas’ house. I knew that the house would be full of people and those people were people and not numbers—and that they were people who had hearts. It was their hearts that had brought them there.
I was holding one of the casserole dishes, and my father was holding the other. I think we both had this look on our faces that said Just don’t drop it.
When Mrs. Ortega answered the front door, it was obvious that she really liked my mother. She hugged my mother and burst out crying on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“What have you got to be sorry about?” my mother said. “This isn’t a New Year’s party—you’ve just lost a son.”
She smiled and tried to pull herself together. “Thank you for the flowers, Lilly, it was very thoughtful. You’ve always been so thoughtful. And I’m glad you came.” We followed her into the living room and Mrs. Ortega made room so we could set my mother’s casseroles on the dining room table. Mrs. Ortega looked at me and shook her head. “I know you hate it when your mother’s friends give you compliments. But I have to say that you are a very handsome young man.” A lot of adults had to say something about my looks, which I always found interesting. I didn’t have anything to do with the face I was born with. And it didn’t mean that I was a good guy. And it didn’t mean that I was a bad guy either.
“And I look just like my father,” I said.
“And you look just like your father,” she said. “Only you have your mother’s eyes.”
I felt awkward, and I didn’t know what to say next, so I just opened my mouth and said, “I’m sorry that you’re hurting.”
She started crying again. And I felt bad because I’d made her start crying again. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I’m always saying the wrong things.”
She stopped crying. And she shook her head and smiled at me. “Oh, Ari, don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t say anything wrong.” She kissed me on the cheek. “You’re as thoughtful as your mother.”
* * *
Nobody there was my age. There were a lot of little kids running around, and they made me smile because they seemed like they were happy. Two of the Ortega girls were there too—and they were older. Not that much older, but old enough to be disinterested in me. Just like I was disinterested in them. And then there was Cassandra. She was the youngest. She was my age, and you could say we went to school together, but “together” wasn’t really a word that applied in this instance.
Cassandra pretty much hated me. And I pretty much hated her right back. It was a mutual dis-admiration society, even though I don’t think “dis-admiration” is a word. And I hoped I would manage to avoid running into her and seeing that look of outright disdain on her face. Her looks only added to her sense of superiority. I was relieved that Cassandra was nowhere in sight.