Rafael and Celia glided out into the middle of the pond together, and cautiously, with his hands in his coat pockets, Arturo stepped onto the ice and twisted his boots in small Z’s, staring at his feet.
“How does it feel?” I asked.
“It’s like a floor,” he said. “Come try it.”
Arturo skated backwards on the soles of his boots, looking over his shoulder as he moved to make sure he wasn’t about to bump into anyone. I stood on the bank of the marsh and watched him, the way he wobbled and twitched.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. I jerked my head around. The boy, I thought. But when I turned, no one was there. Had he been there? I felt sure of it all of a sudden, sure that he was watching us, waiting for his chance. I looked back to where Maribel had been standing with Mayor, but I didn’t see her. I didn’t see her or Mayor. I scanned the marsh, raking my eyes through all the bodies moving across the ice, the children in their bright coats and wool hats, shrieking and laughing. “Maribel?” I said out loud. “Mari!”
The next thing I knew, Arturo was in front of me again, at the edge of the bank. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Where did she go?” I said. “Maribel!”
Arturo whipped around. “Mar—” he began to shout. Then he stopped. “She’s right there, Alma. She’s standing with Mayor.”
I tried to focus on where he was pointing. “I don’t see her.”
“She’s right there.”
And then: her dark hair, her thin, coltish legs in her slim jeans, her big coat. I blinked and took a long breath, trying to loosen the fist around my heart.
“I didn’t see her,” I said.
Arturo shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you.”
“I lost track of her.”
Arturo stepped off the ice and onto the bank where I was. “No,” he said. “It’s something else. I don’t just mean now.”
And for one compact second, for no real reason, I considered telling him about the boy. It was nothing more than a block of words, I thought, that I could hand him, like a gift. But what would he think of me now, knowing that I’d been keeping so much from him for so long? The boy coming to the apartment, me going to Capitol Oaks, finding the boy with Maribel that day. Besides, before we left México I had promised him I would handle everything here. I had promised myself I wouldn’t burden him with one more thing. And now here it was: one more thing.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“You’re lying.”
I shook my head, afraid to open my mouth.
“So it’s just my imagination, then? Am I going crazy?”
“You’re not going crazy.”
“So there is something?”
“It’s just the usual things—you being out of work, and the money. Maybe I’m homesick.”
“That’s not it,” he said.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth!”
“Come on, Alma! You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t breathe you and dream you every single day of my life? You think I haven’t been inside you? I know when you’re lying to me. There’s something else.”
And again, for the briefest moment, I thought, How easy it would be. To say, Here. I’ve been holding on to this all this time, but here, if you want it you can have it. When I look back on it now, I see that I should have done it. In that split second, telling him might have changed our fates.
“There’s nothing else,” I said.
I gazed out across the pond, to the treeline and the soft wash of sky. I kept my eyes on Maribel, watching her with Mayor, the way she smiled when she was with him, the way he talked to her without judgment or expectation, how at ease she seemed when he was around. I was grateful for those things.
“Look at her,” I said.
Arturo turned, and together we watched as Maribel drew out a strand of hair that had blown into her mouth. Mayor said something, and she laughed.
Arturo walked to the edge of the frozen grass and stepped onto the ice again, tapping his boots against its marbled surface. He looked at me with a gentle expression.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand.
I didn’t move.
“I’m here,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I took his hand, feeling his rough, warm skin against mine.
“I’m right here,” he said.
I lowered one foot onto the ice. He tugged gently, walking his fingers up to my elbows, easing me down. I picked up my other foot and planted it next to the first as I clung to Arturo’s coat sleeves. And then I was standing on the ice, which I was astonished to find felt as firm as the ground, all of me braced in Arturo’s arms.
THE SUNDAY AFTER we went skating, Arturo asked to borrow the Toros’ radio and we took it home with us after eating lunch at their apartment. Arturo set it on the kitchen table and tuned it to a station playing nothing but the Beatles, which had been his favorite band since he was a boy. He raised the volume and sang along with words he had memorized from a lifetime of listening—“La la la la life goes on!”—smiling wide and clapping. “?Va!” he shouted sometimes, at me or at Maribel, and he drummed his hands on the table, on the walls, on our rear ends. The Beatles sang in their English accents about the sun coming out after the winter. We sang along, even though we didn’t know what some of the words meant. “Little darling … It’s all right.”
And then, in the middle of the revelry, we heard a knock at the door.
“What was that?” Arturo asked.
“What?” I said.
A knock sounded again.
Arturo walked past me to the door and when he returned, he was trailed by Quisqueya.
“Alma,” she said, when she saw me. “Buenas.”
“Quisqueya says she needs to talk to us,” Arturo said.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something? A water?”
“Do you have coffee?”
I started to shake my head—we’d bought neither coffee nor tea in weeks—but then she said, “Oh, don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. I mean, if you have some made …” She craned her neck to scan the countertop for evidence of a coffeepot while she lowered herself into an empty chair.
“I’ll get you water,” I said. If it had been anyone else, I would have been embarrassed by not having something more to offer, but there was something strangely pleasurable about having to disappoint someone like Quisqueya.
“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Quisqueya said, folding her small hands in her lap.
I took a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap.
“Maribel, come say hello,” Arturo instructed, turning off the music and summoning her from the living room.
Dutifully, Maribel walked over, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Say hello,” Arturo urged.
Maribel stayed quiet.
“It’s fine,” Quisqueya said. “I understand.”
Arturo tightened his jaw. “She’s shy,” he said.
“Maribel, we need to talk to Quisqueya for a few minutes. Do you want to wait in the bedroom?” I asked.
After she left, Arturo settled himself across from Quisqueya at the kitchen table. I placed the glass of water in front of her. She took a sip and pushed it to the middle of the table. Then she sat, squeezing her fingers in her lap.
Arturo raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head, as puzzled as him.
“Well,” Quisqueya began, “I hate to say anything.”
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“With me? I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” She fidgeted while Arturo and I waited.
“Well,” she began again, “I was on my way out to the hospital one afternoon. Did you know that I volunteer there? It’s nothing, really. I change bedpans and prop up pillows and deliver lunches. Sometimes the patients mistake me for a nurse, but I tell them, please! Nurses do important work. I simply come and do chores. It’s nothing. Of course, we are all doing God’s work. That’s what I think. Even if we contribute in only small ways.” She stopped and looked at us.
“What you do is important,” I offered, even though I didn’t know where this was headed.
“Yes,” Quisqueya agreed. She reached for the water glass again, but thought better of it and drew her hand back to her lap.