Mrs. Quintana moaned in pain as she took a breath, then another, then another. And then she seemed to go back to normal. “Well, perhaps we may not make it to dinner after all.” She laughed. “I was twenty years old when I had Dante. And seventeen years later, here I am.”
And then her eyes opened wide and she held her stomach. Through her breathing, she whispered, “Sam, I think now would be a good time to drive me the hospital.” And then she laughed. “Oh, Sam. You had that same look of panic on your face when Dante was about to be born.”
“I’ll drive,” my father said.
Seventeen
ON THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1988, at 10:43 p.m., Sophocles Bartholomew Quintana was born into the world at Providence Memorial Hospital in El Paso, Texas. The next morning, I watched his older brother hold him in his arms as he looked at me with tears in his eyes. “It’s a boy, Ari. It’s a boy.” And I knew what he was thinking. And he’s going to be straight. And he’s going to give my parents the grandchildren I will never be able to give them.
Does being gay screw with our heads and our hearts?
“Here, Ari,” Dante said. “Sophocles wants you to hold him.”
“Oh, does he, now?” I said.
Dante handed his baby brother over to me—carefully. Mrs. Quintana said, “It’s sweet that you’re so careful with him. But, you know, he’s not going to break. Just relax.”
Dante rolled his eyes at his mother. “Now we have something new to fight about, Mom.”
“Just wait till I show you how to change his diapers.”
“I didn’t sign up for that one.”
“You don’t have to sign up. You’re going to get drafted.”
I really did get a big kick out of how Dante and his mother got along. As I held Sophocles in my arms, I stared into his dark eyes. He seemed to be as wise as his name.
“You’re a natural, Ari,” Mrs. Quintana said.
I smiled—and then I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking of a poem Dante taught me. ‘The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.’ ”
“I taught that poem to Dante.”
“You did?”
“I certainly did. I bet you thought his father taught him that poem.”
“I guess I did.”
“Did you know I used to write poetry?”
“Mom? Really?” Dante said.
“When I was in high school. It was terrible. Beyond awful. I kept them—and one day I was cleaning out the closets and I found a shoe box all tied up in a bow. I was going to throw them out. In fact, I did throw them out. But your father rescued them. He has them somewhere. I have no idea why he wanted to keep them.”
“Because you wrote them,” I said.
She smiled. “I suppose you’re right.”
“My mother, the poet. Can I read them?”
“Ask your father. I don’t know where he put them.”
“Where did the name Sophocles Bartholomew come from?”
“Bartholomew was our best friend in graduate school. He died of AIDS not so long ago. We wanted to honor him. And your father picked out Sophocles. He was one of the great Greek playwrights. He was known for his musical abilities, for his athleticism, and for his great charm.”
“Is that true?” Dante asked.
“Everything I know about Sophocles, I learned from your father. Once, when he was drunk, he and Bartholomew started reading one of his plays aloud: Oedipus the King. They didn’t get very far. I put a stop to it.”
“Why, Mom?”
“I didn’t believe that drunk graduate students, sincere though they may have been, were doing justice to a great playwright.” She laughed. “Plus, I thought it was boring.”
I handed Sophocles back to Mrs. Quintana. “Sophocles,” she whispered and kissed him on the forehead.
“Well, it’s a great name. Not very Mexican—but a great name. Sophocles Bartholomew Quintana. A truly great name. I mean, the name wasn’t on my list—but still.”
“We thought you’d like it, Dante.”
“It’s a big name for a little guy.”
“He’ll grow into it.”
Eighteen
I WAS STARING AT THE painting Emma had given us. It was a strange and mesmerizing painting. I asked Dante to read me the poem again and I got lost in his voice, not really caring about the words he was reading, listening only to the stubborn softness in his voice. When he finished reading, he looked at me with a sadness in his eyes. “It’s so sad, this poem. Do we all wind up in sadness, Ari? Is that how we’ll all wind up?”
I didn’t, couldn’t say anything.
He put the poem back in the envelope and placed it back in his desk drawer. I noticed the college admissions applications on the top of his desk. “How many colleges are you looking at?”
“Well,” he said, “about four or five. But I’m really only interested in one of them. It’s a small liberal arts college in Oberlin, Ohio. And I’m also applying for an arts summer program in Paris.” He didn’t seem very enthusiastic. I could tell he didn’t really want to talk about the college admissions thing or the Paris thing. “What about you?”
“I’m applying to UT. That about does it.”
He nodded.
We were both sad.
There would be no Ari in Oberlin, Ohio.
There would be no Dante in Austin, Texas.
I don’t think either of us liked quiet sadness in the room. But Dante didn’t want to be sad so he changed the subject. “I was talking to Susie about art the other day and she informed me that The Raft of the Medusa was your favorite painting.”
“It is my favorite painting.”
“That’s my favorite painting and you know it.” He was trying to pick a fight with me—but he was just playing. I could always tell when he was playing. “I’m afraid you’ll have to pick another favorite painting.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
“I guess you’re not as original as I thought.”
“I never claimed to be original.”
And then he laughed.
And then I laughed.
And then he kissed me. And we weren’t sad anymore.
Nineteen
A COUPLE OF DAYS AFTER school ended, Cassandra and I went to Rico’s funeral. We sat next to Danny in the back of the small church. It was small and simple.
My mom said that funerals were about resurrection.
Resurrection didn’t seem to be present at this one. There was only the sadness of Rico’s body in a casket. And his mother’s quiet sobs.
Afterward, Cassandra and Danny and I went to the Charcoaler. I don’t think Danny even tasted his food—he just wolfed it down. “Guess I was hungry,” he said.
We sat in one of the outside benches and listened to the music coming from the radio in my truck. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” came on and Danny and Cassandra smiled at each other. “Danny, this is our song, baby.” She took him by the hand, and they danced in the parking lot. For an instant, Danny was happy.