All Stories Are Love Stories (25 page)

I tell you that on the right-hand side of the Indies there was an island called California, which was very close to the region of the Earthly Paradise. The island was made up of the wildest cliffs and the sharpest precipices found anywhere in the world. [Its people] had energetic bodies and courageous ardent hearts, and they were very strong.

—
GARCI RODRÍGUEZ DE MONTALVO
,

Seville, 1510

Max opened his eyes. He was staring at a sheet of white. A sail? Maybe a curtain. He turned his head as a woman in uniform walked in. A nurse. He opened his mouth, but his throat was too dry to speak.

“Hello there,” she said warmly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He turned his face to the ceiling.

He heard her fussing around. “You've got a visitor, today, Mr. Fleurent.” She fluffed out a sheet on an empty bed nearby, lifting it up and out to float before landing. She smoothed it with the flats of her hands. “You up for it?” She straightened up, indifferently cheerful.

He didn't answer.

“Cat got your tongue?” She was clearly the sort of steely person who could chat through anything. Max hated the sound of her voice. “He's been waiting for two hours already. I told him he'd be lucky to get you awake, but he wanted to stick around. Anyway,” she said, tilting her body away, offering him a last chance, “do you want me to bring him in? Seems a shame to send him away after all that time waiting.”

Max shrugged with his good shoulder.

She muttered something far less pleasant to herself as she left the room.

A moment later, Gene appeared at the door.

Max looked at him for a long moment before turning his face back to the ceiling. “Where am I?”

“Presidio. Makeshift hospital.” He took a folding chair from the wall and unfolded it, winding his long legs around it. “I'm sorry.” He smiled forcefully. “I mean, the New San Francisco Hospital at Crissy Field. They had to give it a proper name. We're supposed to call everything by its new name.” Though Franklin refused, even when filling out paperwork. Gene had left him in their government-subsidized room on Geary with Muppet, Esmerelda, and a bottle of rescued 2008 Harlan cabernet by his side, making a list for the insurance company the way other people make a guest list for a wedding. “I'm touched, sweetheart, born under a lucky sign,” he said when Gene remarked almost reverently on his ability to sally forth unharmed through a sea of disaster, “always have been, always will be.” Though he was now calling Esmerelda by her given name, and he'd put the wild poppies she'd plucked for him in a paper cup by the window.

“How long have I been here?”

“Little over three days. You can thank a major puncture wound, a fractured collarbone, severe dehydration, and shock for these sweet digs,” he said, patting Max's cot. “The rest of us are stuck in a bunch of block buildings built too unimaginatively to fall. That is, those who aren't well enough to camp out or flee.”

Max closed his eyes.

Gene tried again. “If you eat something and pee on your own, they'll let you out.”

Max's eyes shot open. “My mother,” he said, the panic startling him. “Can we call her?”

Gene reached out and steadied him with his arm. “She's OK, Max,” he said. “You mentioned her while we were walking. I checked in on her for you. She's fine. Buena Vista was fine. Had a few cases of heart trouble and panic attacks, but your mom was good. Rattled, but good. Glad to know you're out of harm.” He had the grace to look away while Max broke down in relief and despair.

Gene stood and walked to the camper's window, plastic cut into canvas, for a watery, muted view of the light outside. It was a bright day, sunny, everything blooming in the mud. It was spring in California. Spring always came early in California.

“How long were we in there?” Max's tone was soft and searing.

Gene turned around. “Not too long. Less than twenty-four hours.”

“But she was dead that whole time.”

Gene watched Max carefully. “Don't know. Most of it, I guess.”

Max's face was white, his eyes red. “Have I lost my mind?”

“No,” Gene answered.

“I swear she was there.” Max met Gene's eyes for the first time since he'd walked in the room, though he whispered.

Gene scraped his chair over to sit by Max. “I've been thinking about this. Well, I started thinking of this while we
were walking. You know how everybody argues about when life begins? Who's to say the same arguments can't hold up at the end? Who says when death begins?”

“Doctors.”

Gene smiled. “Do doctors know everything there is to know about life? You said you loved her all those years, even when she was away. You said you loved her like a fool. But you loved her, so who cares if you were a fool? Who cares if you held on to her longer than anyone else might have? Most of us tend to lose each other too easily, anyway.”

“You're telling me what I want to believe.” Max's face was contorted by grief.

“It's what I want to believe, too, then. Death and love—they're just ideas anyway. They change depending on how we think about them. Don't get stuck in ideas. Ideas aren't real. Even the best ideas—ideas about love—aren't real.”

Gene stood and picked up a brown envelope by the side of the bed with Max's name on it. He handed it over, and Max took it, studying the handwriting on the outside. It was vaguely familiar. Cautiously, he opened it.

Inside was a photograph with a note taped to the back.

Dear Max,

I'm only in town for the day to take care of a few things for Dad, and you were sleeping. Sorry I can't stick around. It took me three days to get here, and I'm heading back out tomorrow. I'd say I have work, but the truth is, it's just too hard. I keep thinking that if all of San Francisco had burned
down but she survived, I would consider myself lucky. Please forgive me for not sticking around.

I'm attaching a picture of Anita I took shortly before her first birthday. I thought you'd like to have it.

She really wanted to go see you. I'm so glad she did.

Love,

Javi

Max studied the photograph. It had been taken outside, and his daughter's hair was fluffed by the wind, her smile crooked. He closed his eyes, then put it back in the envelope and set it on a tray by his bed. Some things were just too beautiful to bear.

As if on cue, the nurse chose that moment to bustle in and take Max's vitals, grabbing the tray and balancing it on top of her equipment on the way out. Max's eyes were closed again. “Here, let me.” Gene helped her with the door, grabbing the envelope as she walked past him. “This isn't trash,” he said casually, slipping it into his pocket.

After she left, he took a seat again by Max, wondering if he'd fallen asleep.

“Thank you,” Max said after a while. “I never got to say that. You helped save my life.”

“You're welcome,” Gene said, smiling a little. He turned around and gestured to the window. “You have quite the view from here. The bay and all the rescue ships, the cleanup efforts.” He stood up when Max didn't respond and walked over to the window. “Did you know,” he said, “one
of the reasons why Alcatraz was so effective in crushing the spirits of its prisoners? You could see the lights of the city from your cell block. It was so close, a good wind could bring in the sounds of tinkling crystal and laughter from the yachts moored at Hyde Street Pier. Sometimes you could even hear the women's voices. All that lay in the few miles between you and them were a score of armed guards and some frigid, shark-infested waters.”

“It must still be standing, at least,” Max finally spoke. “An island out in the water.”

“It is,” Gene said, smiling wanly. “I hear they're thinking of building it up. Condominiums. You know what's weird about old pictures of San Francisco?” he continued. “Except for the high-rises, the city doesn't really look that different. The spacing between the buildings is the same, you can see the same kinds of gables and porticos and long windows and quirky doors and sun-splayed streets. It's like the city is seeded. What's aboveground can't last for long, but it also has this way of growing back, pulling itself back together into a patchwork of its former selves, oddly familiar but never the same. Anyway,” he said and paused, going over to help Max sit himself up in the bed, “isn't it better to admit—even if it's just to yourself—that the things worth loving the most will never last?”

“Oh God, Jon, I'm too old for this.”

“You're fine. Just pull yourself together.”

Willie picked up another pillow and fluffed it relentlessly.

“Leave the upholstery alone. There won't be any stuffing left.”

“Jon. What if they don't like it? Don't like
us
anymore?”

“I'm not sure Tia ever liked us, honey,” the priest replied, going to the door, “so you can scratch that off your list of concerns.”

She'd grown taller by at least three inches. Ally was still thin but there was color in her face.

“I made this for you,” Ally said, stuffing something indefinable and crafted into his hand.

“Come in,” the priest said.

“Let me show you your rooms! We have rooms for you!” Willie exclaimed.

“It's only for the month,” Tia said.

“For now,” Jon reminded her. “We still want you to stay for good.”

Tia shrugged.

“It's the beauty of a half-empty city,” Willie explained, Ally's hand already in his as he led her down the hall, “acres of
space, just acres of it. A room for you, a room for me, a room for your sister . . .”

Jon and Tia followed them down the hall.

“It's a little girlie,” Tia commented, peeking her head into Ally's room. “But nice, I guess.” It was the nicest room she and her sister had ever seen.

“And yours,” Willie said, “I made it special. Perfect for a girl your age. Oh—I was thinking! We can plan a sweet sixteen!”

Tia scowled darkly at her. “I'm still only fifteen. My birthday's not until December eleventh. Do I need to write that down for you?”

“But you didn't get a quinceañera, you prickly little thing, now did you? So I was thinking sweet sixteen, American-debutante style. We'll need all that time just to plan it!”

Tia sat down glumly on the bed, putting her bag on the floor beside her.

“Hey!” Jon enthused. “We were thinking of inviting Phil over to dinner one of these nights. He's working on reconstruction only a stone's throw from here. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“Don't bother,” Tia muttered, refusing to meet his eye.

The two adults exchanged a glance. “I'll just leave you two alone,” Willie announced, leading Ally away for the rest of the house tour.

“Did your aunt get off to the airport OK?” the priest asked mildly, sitting down in a chair across from her. “Guadalajara's a long trip. I don't envy her that flight.”

But Tia didn't answer. She was crying into her hands.

“Come here.”

She did. “Sweetheart,” he said into her hair, “you just let as much of that out as you want. Trust me. If you don't, it clogs the soul. And don't you worry. Just because people gave up on you doesn't mean you're going to give up on you, too. Not on my watch, at least.” She moved to wipe away her tears. “Don't be afraid to be sad,” he said, reaching for a box of tissues on the nightstand. “I'll let you in on a little secret: if you don't fight it, it always leaves a gift or two behind.”

Ally and Willie were back, standing in the doorway. Willie stepped in, tentative with concern in her new cobalt wig and yellow silk kimono with elephants on the sleeves.
Elephants!

“I've got just the thing,” Willie said somberly, stepping into the hallway to retrieve glasses of milk and sandwich cookies on an ornate silver tray she'd polished for the occasion. “Oh,” she said a moment later, frowning as she reappeared, “forgot about the dog again.” A spectacularly ugly mutt with a milk-soaked muzzle and a crumb-filled tongue hanging out of its mouth followed on her heels. Taking one look at it, Tia laughed aloud, surprising them all.

Max was watching the news when his front doorbell rang. Some newscaster had replaced the one he was just getting used to—Ellen Sanchez? Sarducci? No, Santiago—who was now a hot item, had moved on to national news, no longer went near anything as pedestrian as a local station. He took a minute to listen before muting the set:

When we return, we'll take a look at the ongoing debate about whether or not to relocate the peregrine population that has exploded in upper Market following the earthquakes. And we'll be asking Mayor Benioff if hi-tech communes really are the answer to SRO restrictions in the Tenderloin. Stay tuned.

It was a beautiful day, so instead of buzzing his visitor in, he made his way down the stairs, his leg still stiff but functional, and opened the door himself. A man stood there. He was wearing a brown jacket and jeans, his bald spot wreathed in gray, his hat in his hands.

“Hello, Max.”

His voice had not changed, though the rest of him had aged significantly, most of his body falling off into curves where there had been strength. He was smaller than Max
remembered him, too, though he wasn't sure if that was only a function of his father's age.

“Your mother told me you'd be home.”

He'd gotten so old. Somehow, in Max's mind, he'd always stayed the same age he'd been when he left. “Yes.” His mother had mentioned his father's intention to visit, but that didn't dampen the shock.

“I'm only passing through,” his father said, clearing his throat. “But I wanted to see you.” His voice trailed off. Then, “May I come in?”

If he'd had time to think about it, Max might have closed the door and walked back up as deliberately as he'd come down, but instead he found himself showing his father up the stairs in a moment of courtesy that felt like someone else's moment, the moment of a civilized adult making a stranger comfortable, not a man welcoming his estranged father into his home.

Max found something for them to drink while his father took a seat. When he returned with two glasses, his father took a deep breath. “Your mother seems well,” he said.

“Yes,” Max said. “Considering what she's been through.”

“She was lucky to come through it unharmed. She was always very strong.”

Max considered that she had never let him see her otherwise.

“This isn't your apartment?”

“No,” Max said. “It's temporary. My old apartment is on the list for restructuring, but it's a long list.”

“Your mother told me what happened. With your friend.”

Max looked away. Four months later, and the nerve was just as raw. Though now he was dreaming of her as if she lived. That was some comfort. To know how well she stayed with him even when she wasn't there.

“You look like my father,” Guy said after a while, regarding Max with curiosity. “I see it now, in your profile. I used to think you only took after your mother.”

Max's expression turned inward. “You could have called, instead of just showing up on my doorstep. I'm not even really sure why you're here in the first place.”

“To be truthful, I wasn't sure you'd see me.”

“That's fair.”

His father rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, an old, familiar gesture Max had completely forgotten about until that moment. It sent a chill down the back of his own neck. What else did he have the capacity to forget?

“Listen, Max, I know a good father would say he was sorry right about now, be tucking his tail between his legs and all that. But I've never been a good father, and I won't insult you by pretending otherwise.”

Max couldn't even summon the anger he knew he should be feeling. Or he was just still too sad, too overwhelmed by all the loss. The old grief was atrophied from his memory's disuse, the new one so muscular it shoved out all other concerns, bruising everyday pleasures and choking them like a bully. “I don't want an apology,” he said. “It's hard to ask for anything from someone who chose God over the people who loved him.”

“I guess that's true,” his father said. “God is really the greatest love story ever told.”

Ever the philosopher. Even when it came to love.

“Why are you here?” Max asked.

His father held his gaze. Max clenched his fist involuntarily and didn't look away.

“How long do you have?” he guessed.

“Six months, a year. I'm told I won't see another spring.”

“You know what?” Max said after a moment, surprising them both with his honesty. “In all my wondering about why you were getting in touch, it never occurred to me that you were dying and wanted to say good-bye. The simplest explanation.”

“It's hard to imagine a parent dying,” his father said and shrugged. “Even one who hasn't been much of a parent to you.” He twisted his glass around in his hand. “I'd like to make one thing clear, if that's OK with you.”

Max waited, listening.

“I would never have been the father you wanted, Max. I know it sounds like an excuse, but it really isn't. I just wanted to make it clear to you that even if I had stayed, I would have disappointed you. I know that for sure. I was already disappointing. For a while, I wanted to believe something about myself that wasn't true, I guess, but it never worked. At first I thought marriage would do the trick. But your mother and I married late. And then, well, you were somewhat of a surprise.”

“One you never wanted.”

“Maybe. Yes.”

They were quiet, letting the long-hidden truth between them get some air.

Outside, a truck rumbled down the street, carrying surplus produce from Salinas to the volunteers working in the thick of reconstruction. It took a left down New Columbus and headed toward Fort Mason, the driver rolling down his window as he drove so he could rest his elbow in the sun. A few blocks down, he stopped his truck in the middle of the road to greet a family moving in, passing them a bushel of blackberries, welcoming the new and wishing it luck, sympathies extended in the greeting.

“But I did love you, Max. I loved your mother, too. But once you really started to grow up, I recognized that nothing would ever happen to change me into some kind of great parent, as much as we all wished it would.”

“So you walked out on us?”

“I couldn't figure out how else to leave you.”

Max looked up at his windows, realizing they needed to be washed so he could see better. It was almost summer, and the sun would be warming the south-facing room. He could get some plants, maybe. Something hearty, easy to keep alive. “You couldn't have sent money? Anything?”

“From a Benedictine monastery?”

Max dropped his gaze, meeting his father's directly. “Right. It was always all or nothing with you. I assume they let you out to make your worldly peace before you go back to them to die? Or are you hoping they'll heal you?”

His father gripped his knees with his hands, anxious, irritable. “Look, Max, I won't mince words. I'm a selfish man. Arguably a pretty cold one, too. It's why I was always attracted to God. I needed someone to guide me toward being good.
You can't imagine what a mess I was around you. Right out of the gate, there were no answers to you, and then you only grew more complicated. Eventually, there came a point when I realized that leaving you was better than staying. I saw how closely you were watching me. Like boys do, I guess. But you needed someone different.” He paused, something soft or sad awakening in his expression. “Or something different, at the very least. I guess I loved you just enough to see that.”

Max let a silent moment pass between them. “Did you know you were leaving before we moved?” he asked. “Why uproot us and then take off?”

Guy passed a palm over his face before speaking. “I knew you weren't like me,” he said after a while. “I used to watch you and worry that you were, but the minute you picked up that trumpet, I knew I had nothing to fear. Your mother said you're teaching music now?”

Max shrugged. “Volunteering at the school until they can pay me.”

His dad nodded. “I can see why you've been hit so hard by your friend's death. I have to say I'm not surprised; I wouldn't have expected any less of you. You were always so different from me that way, able to go so deep and feel what needed to be felt there, instead of always skimming the surface. I'm sure it's a better way to live.” He paused, lost in thought.

“So, Max, there's your answer, God help me, I got you to a place where you could be the person you needed to be, and I gave you over to your mother. If a man can't raise his son the way his son should be raised, maybe he should step out of the way. Let God, the world, whatever do the work. When
the opportunity came to go to San Francisco, I figured it was God's work.”

“That's why we came to San Francisco?”

“Yes and no.”

“Bullshit.”

His father didn't blink. “Then why did you stay? Why haven't you left?”

“I don't know,” Max said, though he might have been lying. “I don't know why any of us are here. Especially now. But we are.”

“Eh,” the old French Canadian in him came through, a million memories in that voice, a father, a preacher, a man Max once hated. “Bad things come and go quickly, and then life sucks you in again. People aren't designed to dwell on dangers. It's not healthy. That kind of thinking alone could do us in.” He watched Max stand up and clear the glasses away as if preparing for one of them to leave. “We're no different from animals that way, and animals are built to think of two things: immediacies and inevitabilities. An earthquake doesn't fit into a life.”

Max sat back down. In recent months, he'd seen so much softening, so much breaking away of the old. He wondered if softening was the only way to get rid of so many stiff, lonely layers of strength. “You're right,” he said at last. “You are a cold man, and love is always more interesting. It makes for a better story, at least.”

“Yes,” his father agreed, “it certainly does.”