* * *
I thought the best honor my mother received was a letter she got from Lizard, her former student. My mother let me read it:
Dear Mrs. Mendoza,
I got some news from one of my old classmates from Jefferson High School. He said you’d finally gotten some recognition for your work in the classroom. Teacher of the year. I know you must be proud of the award—but you couldn’t possibly be as proud as I am.
I might have mentioned this to you in one of my annual Christmas cards, but I keep a picture of you and me when I graduated from high school on my desk. I always hold that framed picture in my hand before I’m trying a case in the courtroom—and I talk to it. Well, I talk to you. And I say, “All right, Mrs. Mendoza, let’s you and me go into that courtroom and show them how it’s done.” I always picture you in that courtroom. And I never make a move that you wouldn’t be proud of. You have set a standard of excellence for me that I have always endeavored to live up to.
I’m often told that I am a very dedicated lawyer—something my wife admires about me. I learned what it means to be dedicated to your profession from you. I don’t think I ever told you that I married a schoolteacher. She is every bit the educator that you are. I’m very proud of her commitment—and her love for her students.
I learned from you that you can’t be a good teacher if you aren’t a good human being. You also taught me that women should be respected and that teachers are undervalued by the society we live in. I have tried not to make the same mistake as our society by believing that my work is more important than hers.
I never tire of telling people of how I got my nickname. Even my nephews and nieces call me Uncle Lizard. When I think back, I have come to believe that setting those lizards out in your classroom was the smartest thing I ever did.
I know I have told you this before—but I will never stop thanking you for saving my life. I have nothing but respect and affection for you. I feel as if I will always be your student. I will always feel connected to you. Let me say again how proud I am, how happy I am, how blessed I am to have sat in your classroom.
I send you all my love,
Jackson (AKA Lizard)
Enclosed in the letter was a gold-plated lizard pendant on a gold chain. My mother put it on. “I think I’ll wear this until the day I die.”
Twenty-Eight
“MOM, YOU KNOW, SINCE I got back from visiting Bernardo, I haven’t really had any time to think about it.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I do. But I think maybe you don’t.”
“That’s not true. Not anymore.” My mother looked at me. “What are you thinking?”
“Do you know the name of the person that Bernardo killed?”
“Yes,” she said. “That person’s given name was Solitario Mendez.”
“Do you know where he—where she’s buried?”
“Mount Carmel Cemetery.”
“How do you know these things?”
“The obituary page. That was the worst period in my life. To know that I brought a son into the world that killed another human being.”
“You didn’t do anything bad.”
“I know. But it hurt. And I was so ashamed. So much of me died. It took me a long time to feel alive again. Life, Ari, can be an ugly thing. But life can be so incredibly beautiful. It’s both. And we have to learn to hold the contradictions inside us without despairing, without losing our hope.”
Twenty-Nine
SATURDAY MORNING AND I’D MADE up my mind what I was going to do that day. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a short note. I wrote it slowly and deliberately. I grabbed an envelope and wrote the name I’d chosen.
I drove up to a flower shop and picked a bouquet of yellow and white flowers.
I drove to Mount Carmel Cemetery. It turned out to be the largest Catholic cemetery in the county. I panicked. I thought I’d never find the grave. I drove to the office and asked where Solitario Mendez was buried. The nice woman gave me a map and showed me where the grave was located.
It didn’t take long for me to find it. It was a simple stone with the date of his birth and the date of his death. Her death. Twenty-four years old. There was nothing to indicate a life or a horrible death. I tried not to picture her last seconds.
I stood there and looked at the name. I placed the flowers in front of the grave. I took out the note I’d written and read it aloud. It wasn’t exactly a prayer:
“ ‘My name is Aristotle Mendoza. We never met. But we are connected. Everything is connected. And not all those connections resemble anything that is good or humane or decent. The name on your gravestone reads SOLITARIO MENDEZ. But I wanted to give you another name. I hope this doesn’t offend you. I’d hate to think that I would be inflicting one more cruelty on you. I know it’s more than a little arrogant to give you a name you never chose—but I intend this gesture as a kindness. I think of you as Camila. I think of you as being beautiful, and I think Camila is a beautiful name. I will take this name everywhere I go. I can’t undo what my brother did to you—but this is the only way I can think of to honor your life. In honoring your life, maybe I can honor my own.’ ”
I put my words back in the envelope I’d marked “Camila.” I sealed it and tied it to the flowers with a string I’d brought with me.
I’d already decided that I would never tell anybody about my visit to Camila’s grave—not because I was ashamed, but because it was something between me and her.
I sat in my truck for a long time. And then I drove back home.
Thirty
SCHOOL WAS ENDING. DANTE AND I were on the phone. “I don’t know whether I’m happy or sad. I’m happy to be leaving high school. I’m excited to be going away to college. But I’m sad. I’m really sad. Everywhere I go when I leave, you won’t be there. What will become of Ari and Dante?”
“I don’t have an answer.”
“We should have had a plan.”
“Can we just be happy for right now?” It was like we’d exchanged attitudes.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But maybe you don’t understand how much I love you.”
That made me mad. Like I didn’t love him. “I thought you knew I loved you too.” I hung up the phone.
He called me right back. And I just said, “Maybe you do love me more than I love you. I didn’t know it was a contest. I can’t really know what you feel. But you don’t know how I feel. It makes me mad that we’re playing this game.”
Dante was quiet on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Ari. I’m not handling this very well.”
“Dante, we’ll be okay. Me and you, we’ll be okay.”
Thirty-One
I WAS DRIVING HOME FROM school, and I saw Susie and Gina walking down the street. I’d know them anywhere. I always had my windows open because I didn’t have air-conditioning. I stopped. “You ladies want a ride home? I promise I’m not an axe murderer.”
“Even though you look like one, we’ll take your word for it.” I liked the dimples Gina got when she smiled.