The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

EIGHT

The End of the Story

That’s pretty much it.
We flew down to claim the body. We arranged the funeral. No one there but us, not even AI and Miggs. Lola crying and crying. A year later their mother’s cancer returned and this time it dug in and stayed. I visited her in the hospital with Lola. Six times in all. She would live for another ten months, but by then she’d more or less given up.
I did all I could.
You did enough, Mami, Lola said, but she refused to hear it. Turned her ruined back to us.
I did all I could and it still wasn’t enough.
They buried her next to her son, and Lola read a poem she had written, and that was it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Four times the family hired lawyers but no charges were ever filed. The embassy didn’t help and neither did the government. Ybón, I hear, is still living in Mirador Norte, still dancing at the Riverside but La Inca sold the house a year later, moved back to Baní.
Lola swore she would never return to that terrible country. On one of our last nights as novios she said, Ten million Trujillos is all we are.



AS FOR US
I wish I could say it worked out, that Oscar’s death brought us together. I was just too much the mess, and after half a year of taking care of her mother Lola had what a lot of females call their Saturn Return. One day she called, asked me where I’d been the night before, and when I didn’t have a good excuse, she said, Good-bye, Yunior, please take good care of yourself: and for about a year I scromfed strange girls and alternated between F*ck Lola and these incredibly narcissitic hopes of reconciliation that I did nothing to achieve. And then in August, after I got back from a trip to Santo Domingo, I heard from my mother that Lola had met someone in Miami, which was where she had moved, that she was pregnant and was getting married.
I called her. What the f*ck, Lola—
But she hung up.


ON A SUPER FINAL NOTE
Years and years now and I still think about him. The incredible Oscar Wao. I have dreams where he sits on the edge of my bed. We’re back at Rutgers, in Demarest, which is where we’ll always be, it seems. In this particular dream he’s never thin like at the end, always huge. He wants to talk to me, is anxious to jaw, but most of the time I can never say a word and neither can he. So we just sit there quietly.
About five years after he died I started having another kind of dream. About him or someone who looks like him. We’re in some kind of ruined bailey that’s filled to the rim with old dusty books. He’s standing in one of the passages, all mysterious-like, wearing a wrathful mask that hides his face but behind the eyeholes I see a familiar pair of close-set eyes. Dude is holding up a book, waving for me to take a closer look, and I recognize this scene from one of his crazy movies. I want to run from him, and for a long time that’s what I do. It takes me a while before I notice that Oscar’s hands are seamless and the book’s pages are blank.
And that behind his mask his eyes are smiling.
Zafa
Sometimes, though, I look up at him and he has no face and I wake up screaming.


THE DREAMS
Took ten years to the day, went through more lousy shit than you could imagine, was lost for a good long while — no Lola, no me, no nothing — until finally I woke up next to somebody I didn’t give two shits about, my upper lip covered in coke — snot and coke — blood and I said, OK, Wao, OK. You win.


AS FOR ME
These days I live in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, teach composition and creative writing at Middlesex Community College, and even own a house at the top of Elm Street, not far from the steel mill. Not one of the big ones that the bodega owners buy with their earnings, but not too shabby, either. Most of my colleagues think Perth Amboy is a dump, but I beg to differ.
It’s not exactly what I dreamed about when I was a kid, the teaching, the living in New Jersey, but I make it work as best as I can. I have a wife I adore and who adores me, a negrita from Salcedo whom I do not deserve, and sometimes we even make vague noises about having children. Every now and then I’m OK with the possibility. I don’t run around after girls anymore. Not much, anyway. When I’m not teaching or coaching baseball or going to the gym or hanging out with the wifey I’m at home, writing. These days I write a lot. From can’t see in the morning to can’t see at night. Learned that from Oscar. I’m a new man, you see, a new man, a new man.


AS FOR US
Believe it or not, we still see each other. She, Cuban Ruben, and their daughter moved back to Paterson a couple of years back, sold the old house, bought a new one, travel everywhere together (at least that’s what my mother tells me — Lola, being Lola, still visits her). Every now and then when the stars are aligned I run into her, at rallies, at bookstores we used to chill at, on the streets of NYC. Sometimes Cuban Ruben is with her, sometimes not. Her daughter, though, is always there. Eyes of Oscar. Hair of Hypatia. Her gaze watches everything. A little reader too, if Lola is to be believed. Say hi to Yunior, Lola commands. He was your tío’s best friend.
Hi, tío, she says reluctantly.
Tío’s friend, she corrects.
Hi, tío’s friend.
Lola’s hair is long now and never straightened; she’s heavier and less guileless, but she’s still the ciguapa of my dreams. Always happy to see me, no bad feelings, entiendes. None at all.
Yunior, how are you?
I’m fine. How are you?
Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I’d finally try to say words that could have saved us.
§

But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that’s how you know it’s never going to come true.
Never, ever.
It ain’t too bad, though. During our run-ins we smile, we laugh, we take turns saying her daughter’s name. I never ask if her daughter has started to dream. I never mention our past. All we ever talk about is Oscar.
§

It’s almost done. Almost over. Only some final things to show you before your Watcher fulfills his cosmic duty and retires at last to the Blue Area of the Moon, not to be heard again until the Last Days.
Behold the girl: the beautiful muchachita: Lola’s daughter. Dark and blindingly fast: in her great-grandmother La Inca’s words: una jurona. Could have been my daughter if I’d been smart, if I’d been. Makes her no less precious. She climbs trees, she rubs her butt against doorjambs, she practices malapalabras when she thinks nobody is listening. Speaks Spanish and English.
Neither Captain Marvel nor Billy Batson, but the lightning.
A happy kid, as far as these things go. Happy!
But on a string around her neck: three azabaches: the one that Oscar wore as a baby, the one that Lola wore as a baby, and the one that Beli was given by La Inca upon reaching Sanctuary. Powerful elder magic. Three barrier shields against the Eye. Backed by a six-mile plinth of prayer. (Lola’s not stupid; she made both my mother and La Inca the girl’s madrinas.) Powerful wards indeed.
One day, though, the Circle will fail.
As Circles always do.
And for the first time she will hear the word Fukú.
And she will have a dream of the No Face Man.
Not now, but soon.
If she’s her family’s daughter — as I suspect she is — one day she will stop being afraid and she will come looking for answers. Not now, but soon. One day when I’m least expecting, there will be a knock at my door.
Soy Isis. Hija de Dolores de León.
Holy shit! Come in, chica! Come in!
(I’ll notice that she still wears her azabaches, that she has her mother’s legs, her uncle’s eyes.)
I’ll pour her a drink, and the wife will fry up her special pastelitos; I’ll ask her about her mother as lightly as I can, and I’ll bring out the pictures of the three of us from back in the day, and when it starts getting late I’ll take her down to my basement and open the four refrigerators where I store her brother’s books, his games, his manuscript, his comic books, his papers — refrigerators the best proof against fire, against earthquake, against almost anything.
A light, a desk, a cot — I’ve prepared it all.
How many nights will she stay with us?
As many as it takes.
And maybe, just maybe, if she’s as smart and as brave as I’m expecting she’ll be, she’ll take all we’ve done and all we’ve learned and add her own insights and she’ll put an end to it. That is what, on my best days, I hope. What I dream.

And yet there are other days, when I’m downtrodden or morose, when I find myself at my desk late at night, unable to sleep, flipping through (of all things) Oscar’s dog-eared copy of Watchmen. One of the few things that he took with him on the Final Voyage that we recovered. The original trade. I flip through the book, one of his top three, without question, to the last horrifying chapter: ‘A Stronger Loving World’. To the only panel he’s circled. Oscar — who never defaced a book in his life — circled one panel three times in the same emphatic pen he used to write his last letters home. The panel where Adrian Veidt and Dr. Manhattan are having their last convo. After the mutant brain has destroyed New York City; after Dr. Manhattan has murdered Rorschach; after Veidt’s plan has succeeded in ‘saving the world’.
Veidt says: ‘I did the right thing, didn’t I? It all worked out in the end’. And Manhattan, before fading from our Universe, replies: ‘In the end? Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends’.



THE FINAL LETTER
He managed to send mail home before the end. A couple of cards with some breezy platitudes on them. Wrote me one, called me Count Fenris. Recommended the beaches of Azua if I hadn’t already visited them. Wrote Lola too; called her My Dear Bene Gesserit Witch.
And then, almost eight months after he died, a package arrived at the house in Paterson. Talk about Dominican Express. Two manuscripts enclosed. One was more chapters of his never-to-be-completed opus, a four-book E. E. ‘Doc’ Smith-esque space opera called Starscourge, and the other was a long letter to Lola, the last thing he wrote, apparently, before he was killed. In that letter he talked about his investigations and the new book he was writing, a book that he was sending under another cover. Told her to watch out for a second package. This contains everything I’ve written on this journey. Everything I think you will need. You’ll understand when you read my conclusions. (It’s the cure to what ails us, he scribbled in the margins. The Cosmo DNA.)
Only problem was, the f*cking thing never arrived! Either got lost in the mail or he was slain before he put it in the mail, or whoever he trusted to deliver it forgot.
Anyway, the package that did arrive had some amazing news. Turns out that toward the end of those twenty-seven days the palomo did get Ybón away from La Capital. For one whole weekend they hid out on some beach in Barahona while the capitán was away on ‘business,’ and guess what? Ybón actually kissed him. Guess what else? Ybón actually f*cked him. Praise be to Jesus! He reported that he’d liked it, and that Ybón’s you-know-what hadn’t tasted the way he had expected. She tastes like Heineken, he observed. He wrote that every night Ybón had nightmares that the capitán had found them; once she’d woken up and said in the voice of true fear, Oscar, he’s here, really believing he was, and Oscar woke up and threw himself at the capitán, but it turned out only to be a turtleshell the hotel had hung on the wall for decoration. Almost busted my nose! He wrote that Ybón had little hairs coming up to almost her bellybutton and that she crossed her eyes when he entered her but what really got him was not the bam-barn-bam of sex — it was the little intimacies that he’d never in his whole life anticipated, like combing her hair or getting her underwear off a line or watching her walk naked to the bathroom or the way she would suddenly sit on his lap and put her face into his neck. The intimacies like listening to her tell him about being a little girl and him telling her that he’d been a virgin all his life. He wrote that he couldn’t believe he’d had to wait for this so goddamn long. (Ybón was the one who suggested calling the wait something else. Yeah, like what? Maybe, she said, you could call it life.) He wrote: So this is what everybody’s always talking about! Diablo! If only I’d known. The beauty! The beauty!


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to give thanks to : the pueblo dominicano. And to Those Who Watch Over Us. Mi querido abuelo Osterman Sanchez. Mi madre, Virtudes Diaz, and mis tías Irma and Mercedes. Mr. and Mrs. EI Hamaway (who bought me my first dictionary and signed me up for the Science Fiction Book Club). Santo Domingo, Villa Juana, Azua, Parlin, Old Bridge, Perth Amboy, Ithaca, Syracuse, Brooklyn, Hunts Point, Harlem, el Distrito Federal de Mexico, Washington Heights, Shimokitazawa, Boston, Cambridge, Roxbury. Every teacher who gave me kindness, every librarian who gave me books. My students. Anita Desai (who helped land me the MIT gig: I never thanked you enough, Anita); Julie Grau (whose faith and perseverance brought forth this book); and Nicole Aragi (who in eleven years never once gave up on me, even when I did).
The John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.
Jaime Manrique (for being the first writer to take me serious), David Mura (the jedi master who showed me the way), Francisco Goldman, the Infamous Frankie G (for bringing me to Mexico and being there when it started), Edwidge Danticat, (for being mi querida hermana).
Deb Chasman, Eric Gansworth, Juleyka Lantigua, Dr. Janet Lindgren, Ana María Menendez, Sandra Shagat, and Leonie Zapata (for reading it).
Alejandra Frausto, Xanita, Alicia Gonzalez (for Mexico).
Oliver Bidel, Harold del Pino, Victor Diaz, Victoria Lola, Chris ABaní, Juana Barrios, Tony Capellan, Coco Fusco, Silvio Torres-Saillant, Michele Oshima, Soledad Vera, Fabiana Wallis, Ellis Cose, Lee LlamBelis, Elisa Cose, Patricia Engel (for Miami), Shreerekha Pillai (for spinning dark girls beautiful), Lily Oei (for kicking ass), Sean McDonald (for finishing it).
Manny Perez, Alfredo de Villa, Alexis Pella, Farhad Ashgar, Ani Ashgar, Marisol Alcantara, Andrea Greene, Andrew Simpson, Diem Jones, Denise Bell, Francisco Espinosa, Chad Milner, Tony Davis, and AnYbóny (for building me shelter).
MIT. Riverhead Books. The New Yorker. All the schools and institutions that supported me.
The Family: Dana, Maritza, Clifton, and Daniel.
The Hernandez Clan: Rada, Soleil, Debbie, and Reebee.
The Moyer Clan: Peter and Gricel. And Manuel del Villa (Rest in Peace, Son of the Bronx, Son of Brookline, True Hero).
The Benzan Clan: Milagros, Jason, Javier, Tanya, and the twins Mateo y India.
The Sanchez Clan: Ana (for always being there for Eli) and Michael and Kiara (for having her back).
The Pilla Clan: Nivia Pifia y mi ahijado Sebastian Pifia. And for Merengue.
The Ohno Clan: Doctor Tsuneya Ohno, Mrs. Makiko Ohno, Shinya Ohno, and of course Peichen.
Amelia Burns (Brookline and Vineyard Haven), Nefertiti Jaquez (Providence), Fabiano Maisonnave (Campo Grande and Sao Paulo), and Homero del Pino (who first brought me to Paterson).
The Rodriguez Clan: Luis, Sandra, and my goddaughters Camila and Dalia (I love you both).
The Batista Clan: Pedro, Cesarina, Junior, Elijah y mi ahijada Alondra.
The Bernard-de León Clan: Dona Rosa (mi otra madre), Celines de León (true friend), Rosemary, Kelvin and Kayla, Marvin, Rafael (a.k.a. Rafy), Ariel, and my boy Ramon.
Bertrand Wang, Michiyuki Ohno, Shuya Ohno, Brian O’Halloran, Hisham El Hamaway, for being my brothers at the beginning.
Dennis Benzan, Benny Benzan, Peter Moyer, Hector Pina: for being my brothers at the end.
And Elizabeth de León: for leading me out of great darkness, and giving me the gift of light.


THE END