“My father not only went in search of humility, he found it. When he died, he died of a heart attack—and he died in my arms whispering my name and whispering the name of my mother. I thought of a story he once recounted to me of a young soldier who died in his arms. The young soldier asked my father to hold him. He had been a man barely an hour, my father said. And the young soldier, who was Jewish, asked my father as he died, ‘Tell my mom and dad. Tell them I’ll see them next year in Jerusalem.’
“My father went to Los Angeles for the purpose of delivering that message to his parents. Now, some people would think that only a special kind of man would do such a thing. But he would quote my mother, the schoolteacher who is as proud of what she does as my father was proud of what he did, saying, ‘You don’t get extra credit for doing what you’re supposed to do.’
“My mom and dad and I traveled to Washington, DC, one summer. I was about nine or ten. My father wanted to see the Vietnam Memorial. More than fifty-eight thousand soldiers died in Vietnam. He said, ‘Now they are not just numbers. They were human beings who had names. And now, at least, we have written their names on the map of the world.’ He found the names of the men who had been killed in Vietnam who had fought alongside him. He traced each name with his finger. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry.
“My father traced his name on my heart. And his name will remain there. And because his name lives in me, I will be a better man for it. My name is Aristotle Mendoza, and if today you ask me who I am, I will look you in the eye and say to you: I am my father’s son.”
* * *
I looked into my mother’s eyes as I finished. Tears were running down her face, and she was standing, and she was clapping, applauding, proud. And I saw my sisters and Dante, standing, applauding. And then I realized that all of the people gathered in that church were standing, applauding. All of those people—their applause, I knew it wasn’t for me. It was for the man they had come to honor. And I was proud.
Thirty-Nine
IT WAS A MILITARY FUNERAL. And the trumpeter played out taps, the solitary notes disappearing into the clear blue desert sky, and the seven soldiers pointed their guns up to that same blue sky and shot off a round of bullets—and those shots echoed in my ears. Then another round of shots and then another. And the soldiers folded the flag in that careful ceremonial way they had learned—and one of the soldiers handed the flag to my mother and whispered, “From a grateful nation,” but I did not think those words were true, and I did not think that my father would have thought those words were true either. My father loved his country. Sometimes I think he loved it more than he could bear. But he was a man who sought the truth, and I knew he did not believe those words were honest.
The priest gave my mother the crucifix and then hugged her and then he stood in front of me and said to me in a whisper as he shook my hand: “The words you spoke today—those were not the words of a boy—those were the words of a man.” I know he meant what he said—but I knew better. I was not a man.
* * *
My sisters and my mother made their way back to the black funeral limousines. But I stayed behind. And I stood there alone, wanting to say good-bye even though I’d said good-bye already—but no, that wasn’t true. I knew I would be saying good-bye for a long time to come. I didn’t want any of this to be true, and I didn’t know how to let go. I stared at his casket, and I thought of his tears as he knelt at the Vietnam memorial. I thought of it in the cold as we looked up at the stars and how soft it was when he told me the story of how he met my mother and how he’d loved her from the start.
“Dad,” I whispered, “next year in Jerusalem.” What I felt—it was an awful pain. I didn’t know that I’d fallen to my knees. There didn’t seem to be anything but darkness all around me.
And then I found myself surrounded by Dante and Susie and Gina and Cassandra, and I felt Dante pulling me and holding me up. And my friends, they were all as silent as I was, but I knew they were saying that they loved me and that they were reminding me that we were all connected. They stood with me. And then I heard Cassandra singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and then Dante joined his voice to hers and then Susie and Gina. And at that moment, they sounded like a choir of angels—and I never thought I could love this much or hurt this much.
And even though a part of me felt like it had died, another part of me felt alive.
* * *
Dante walked me to my car and whispered, “I’ll see you back at the reception.” When I approached the limousine, I could see my mother was standing outside the car and she was talking to a man. As I got closer, I saw who the man was. “Mr. Blocker?”
“Ari,” he said.
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?”
“I had something more important to do today.”
“You came. You came to my father’s funeral.”
“I did.” He looked at me and nodded. “I was just telling your mother that I was very moved by what you wrote. Well done, Ari. I was sitting next to a woman and her husband, and after all that applause died down, I said to them, ‘He’s my student.’ I was proud. I was, and am, very proud of you.” He shook my hand. He looked into my eyes and nodded. He turned to my mother and hugged her and said, “He may be his father’s son. But he is very much your son too, Liliana.” He turned and slowly walked away.
“He’s a fine man,” my mother said.
“Yes, he is,” I said.
“It says something about his character that he came to Jaime’s funeral. And it also says something about yours.” I opened the car door for her. “And I want a copy of the eulogy you wrote for your father.”
“I’ll just give it you.”
“I’ll give it back to you when I die.”
“I hope you never die.”
“We can’t live forever.”
“I know. I was thinking that the world won’t mourn for guys like me and Dante when we die. The world doesn’t want us in it.”
“I don’t give a damn what the world thinks or wants,” she said. “I don’t want to live in a world without you or Dante in it.”
Forty
WHEN I GOT HOME, I changed into some old jeans and a T-shirt. I sat in the living room and tried to have a conversation with my sisters. But it was like I couldn’t hear. And I couldn’t talk. I guess my mother was watching me. She took me by the hand and led me to my room. “Get some sleep. All you need right now is sleep.”
“No,” I said, “all I need right now is Dad.”
She combed my hair with her fingers. “Get some rest.”
“ ‘But I have promises to keep.’ ”
“ ‘And miles to go before I sleep.’ ”
We smiled at each other, and our smiles were sad. And then I said, “Some children leave, some children stay, but, Mom, I’ll never go away.”
“You will someday.”
“No. Never.”
“Sleep.”