Carry Me Like Water (39 page)

“It worked.”

“I’m sorry.” He stared at Jacob Diego. “I bought some books,” he said.

“What kind of books?”

“You know about deafness, about learning sign language—stuff like that.”

“He’s not even two months old. And besides, I know a little sign language, I can teach you some. I’m rusty, but—”

“But what?”

“We need to find him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Diego.”

“We could hire someone to find him—we could hire—” “I want to find him myself. I lost him—now I can damn well find him.”

“OK,” he said, “but can we eat first?”

“You’re the one was out cattin’ around. You warm up dinner.”

“Cattin’ around? Me? Monogamous Eddie?”

She took the baby from his arms and put him in his basket. She
took her husband by the hand and led him into the kitchen. “I’m starving,” she said, “and I want some wine with my dinner. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a glass of wine?”

Eddie watched Maria Elena as she put the baby down, toothbrush clumsily moving back and forth in his mouth. He, in the doorway between the bathroom and the place where he slept, and she, sitting on the bed almost oblivious to his presence and yet she felt him, and she wanted to tell him never to leave her, but she knew he would not, so it was better to think it and not say it. She pulled her hair back, and Eddie trembled, not a big tremble, not the kind of tremble a boy feels the first time he is confronted with an object of desire but a different kind of tremble, one much saner and knowing and familiar, a tremble that wanted, wanted to be touched but no longer wanted to swallow because he had learned not to want everything, not to be greedy, not to demand that she be there for his use—but something beyond all that. When he had first loved her, that is what he had wanted to do—swallow her—swallow and be swallowed as if he wished for a kind of immolation, but now that kind of violent passion was irretrievable, and his body did not miss it. His body had changed and had learned to be more generous, though he did not name it that. His wants and needs were simpler, he wanted to look at her and hold her and sleep inside of her and be grateful for her skin and be at peace. He walked back into the bathroom, finished brushing his teeth, and looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered if he looked all right. Not so young anymore, well, not old, just thirty, this was better, did she think so? He walked into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed. She was undoing her braid.

“I like your braid,” he said. “How come you never wore one until now?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “my mother wore one.”

“Is that why?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

He stared at her.

“What?”

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Since my mother died?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “not that. I wasn’t thinking about your mother at all.”

“What were you thinking of?” She laughed.

He kept staring at her, trying to keep himself from smiling.

“Me,” she said. “You were thinking of me.”

“Don’t be so self-centered—I was thinking of someone else.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s me you were thinking of. Yup. Me.”

He jumped on the bed, and kissed her back.

“Do you remember the first time we made love, Eddie?”

“It was in my apartment. You came over with Hunan chicken. And I was dessert.”

She laughed. “I thought I was dessert.”

“Don’t be so sexist. And besides you practically raped me.”

“Rape is a strong word, Eddie.”

“OK—it wasn’t rape—it was—it was—”

“It was what?”

“It was great.”

“Well, except that your bed broke.”

“Yeah, and I never even made you pay for it.”

She took off her clothes. “I’m a little flabby,” she whispered, “and I think I’ve forgotten how to do it.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, “we’ll take it slow.”

She undressed him, and he let her touch him wherever she wanted. They pressed against each other. Their talk disappeared. They did not need to say each other’s names. They stared into each other’s eyes, not even noticing the soft smiles, just the eyes—and she, she did not care about her own identity for the moment, what she was, what she meant, she only cared and wanted to be a part of him, and not only him, but a part of the world, their child, her brother, the world she had left. She felt poor again, without possessions or the need for them, and she wanted to stop running away from the people and the desert that had formed her and given
her an identity, however changeable and fragile. She, she thinking and knowing their love had changed and was no longer the stuff of idiotic and self-centered lovers who forgot about everybody who lived and breathed outside their bedroom. And he, he felt his heart pounding because he had forgotten about the physical pounding of the heart when it loved, but remembered as he pressed himself into her—and that pounding was not a hurt, but a joy, and he knew it was a joy. And he, too, no longer wanted to exile the violent world because he felt himself to be a part of everything—and was glad—and he wanted to heal the earth and everything that was wrong with it and be grateful for it because it had given him breath, because it had given him this woman, because it had given him a son. And he thought suddenly that there was still hope, and that this hope was not merely for himself because it was no longer acceptable to want it just for himself. And he thought their love had changed and was no longer made of only feelings and silences and privacy, but that it was something that belonged to the communion of the living and the dead. And she feeling the genesis of compassion as if goodness was beginning to arise out of her not because it was pleasurable but because gratitude demanded something in return. And he crying, tears coming out of him like a spring in the desert, and she not recognizing the tears as tears, but as water, a water that was putting an end to the drought that had been her life. And both of them knowing their love had changed. And he thinking that love was work, and happy to be employed in the labor. And she thinking that most things she’d learned were nothing but lies to keep her from looking directly at the world, but just then all those lies seemed insignificant—but so did the necessity for speech, and he thinking that irony and distance were nothing more than masks of inadequate men, masks he had worn because he had not believed intimacy was possible, but it was, it was—and suddenly they, he and she, gasped, together gasped. And there was a moment of nothingness and they wrote the book of hope on that blank page in that instant. And she laughed. And he laughed. And neither of them cared nor wondered about where laughter came from. But still they did not speak. And somehow they knew they weren’t in love with their silence anymore,
with the isolation and despair they’d somehow inherited from the generations that had come before, no longer in love with their senseless and unnecessary unhappiness. And they were both sure they had died a kind of death, and knew that when they woke, they would not be able to return to the old dispensation.

And they slept.

8

S
UNDAY MORNING
, Diego woke up late. The sun was shining, and he saw the bells moving back and forth in the tower across the freeway. He remembered the drawings he’d done for his mother when he was small. Mostly they were drawings about Jesus and his miracles. His mother used to write him little letters about Jesus and how he suffered and died and about how he came back to life. He saw the bells—and for an instant he held the image of a boy holding a picture of Jesus and giving it to his smiling mother. Now, he thought, if only Luz would come back everything would be fine. Maybe she’d learn to get along with Mary now that she talked less about being the Virgin.

Diego took a hot bath and changed into his new clothes. He straightened his tie and imitated Mundo’s strut in front of the mirror. He smiled to himself and walked out the door wondering what Mundo would say if he saw him dressed so fine. He walked past the steps that went nowhere. Today, he didn’t climb them. The sun was bright and there wasn’t any wind, just a quiet breeze, and the pigeons were flying everywhere, their wings moving like the bells. Diego thought they looked like colored paper in a parade. At San Jacinto Plaza he sat on a bench and waited—he was early—but it was good to sit in the spring sun and wait. “It is Easter,” he thought, “everything is alive, maybe even me.” Some tulips were
swaying in the breeze and the yellow dots on the green stems reminded him of the hat he’d bought for Mary. He expected her to arrive in a new white dress with white shoes and a smile wider than the brim of her hat. He waited. By ten-thirty, she still had not arrived. By eleven o’clock there was still no sign of Mary, He undid his tie. He took off his hat, played with it. He waited in the park all afternoon.

He walked back home, put his hat back in the closet and took off his yellow shirt. He took out his suicide note and read it over carefully making notes in the margins. “Crazy gringa,” he said to himself, “she probably just forgot.” He went to the evening Mass at the cathedral. There wasn’t a choir, no Easter songs—just a few people who had missed the morning services.

He thought about Mary all evening. He had the strangest feeling about her. “She didn’t forget,” he kept writing over and over on his pad.
She didn’t forget.
He had a bad feeling, felt uneasy. Something shot through him like a bullet—something was wrong. He knew something had happened. He’d had this feeling before, he remembered. His mother’s face flashed before him. He couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, after lying in bed for hours, he dozed off uneasily and dreamed of Mary. He saw the dead look on her face, and the yellow flowers splattered with blood. He woke up sweating, and looked into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, he lit a cigarette. He tried not to think about his dream, but it seemed so real—as real as the sweat that ran down his back.

On Monday, he asked Mr. Arteago to call his boss at home and tell him he was sick. Mr. Arteago was very nice about it and asked if he needed anything. Diego shook his head. He knew his boss would be furious when he showed up on Tuesday, but he didn’t care. He was going to find Mary. He couldn’t think of what to do as he walked around downtown looking for her. He kept thinking about his dream and kept searching.

By noon he was tired and drenched—confused. He needed help, tried to think. Mundo—Mundo would know what to do. If anybody could find Mary, he could. But he had no idea where he could find Mundo, either. He headed for La Fe Clinic, and went inside to look
for Carolyn, the nurse. “I’m looking for Mundo,” he wrote when he found her. “It’s important that I find him. Can you help?”

She looked at him blankly. “I don’t know, Diego. I don’t know anything about that guy except that he and his friends are always trying to put the moves on me.”

Diego looked at her, lowered his eyes.

She picked up his chin. “Look, Diego, I’ll ask one of the other nurses. I’m sure one of them knows something about him. Everybody around here knows the gang members—they’re everywhere.”

Diego waited for her in the waiting room. The room was crowded with mothers, children, and old people. Usually, he tried to imagine what their lives were like, but today he had to find Mary, could think of nothing else. In his mind, he tried to erase the splattered blood he’d seen on Mary’s hat. Maybe she was all right—maybe he was getting all worked up over nothing. Maybe he was finally cracking from all the years of working in the dark at Vicky’s.

Carolyn returned to the waiting room and motioned Diego over. “Carmen says Mundo moves around a lot. A friend of hers knows him, and she says he’s a member of the T-Birds. I don’t know if that helps much,” She looked at him softly. “Are you in trouble? Are you all right?”

Diego stared into her green eyes. He wanted to fall into them. He shook his head and wrote, “Thanks, I think that bit of information is enough to go on. I hope so, anyway.”

“Let me know if I can do anything, OK?”

Diego nodded. “If you weren’t on duty, I’d kiss you.” She read his note and laughed.

He shook her hand and hurried out the door. He wandered around the Alamito projects until he spotted a group of young men tossing a football down the middle of the street. As they walked toward him, Diego was disappointed. He could see they were too young. Still, he thought, they might be able to help. He motioned them over.

They ignored him.

He motioned them over again.

One of the young men pointed to him and looked at his friends.

They stepped over and one of them asked, “¿Qué quieres, ese? You need somethin’?”

Diego wrote on his pad. “Look, I’m deaf, and I’m trying to find a friend of mine. His name’s Mundo—you know him?” They gathered around the note and stared at it.

“We know lots of Mundos,” one of them said.

“The one I’m looking for has a scar over his eyebrow and belongs to the T-Birds. You know that gang?”

They looked at Diego’s note and said nothing.

“Look, damn it,” he wrote, “I’m not a cop—and I’m not the migra or anything like that. I just need to find him.”