“I get that,” Sam said. “But you know, after you graduate and have a job and all that. Would you like to get married?”
He looked over at me. “Yeah, I guess, maybe. I’m kinda used to the alone thing. But why not? I think I’d like to marry someone like your Mr. V. Or someone like Marcos. You know, someone decent. Someone who resembles a human being. I think a lot of gay guys are like I be a girl, or they’re the opposite and they’re like I be an animal and shit like that. Why can’t they be like I’m just a guy?”
I don’t know why, but that made me and Sam laugh.
And Fito kept saying, “It’s not that funny.”
And Sam said, “Maybe we’re laughing because the truth is funny.”
“Yeah, hilarious. Yup, yup.” Then Fito turned to me and asked, “What about you, Sal?”
Sam answered for me. “He wants to have four kids.”
“That’s cool. Not me. I don’t want little Fitos crawling around in the world. Bad idea. And anyway, I’m gay. Maybe that’s a good thing. I got a nasty gene pool.”
“Beating up on yourself. That your hobby?” Sam could lecture you by just asking a question.
“My hobby is trying to get by. I went to a counselor once. He told me I lived my life in survival mode. I smiled at him. But I was thinking, No shit.”
“Well, you know, maybe someday you’ll want to adopt a kid who’s in survival mode.”
“Don’t think so. It would be like living my shitty childhood all over again. But you, Sal, I kinda see you doin’ something like that. I’m not like you or your dad. Your dad, when he came over to talk to me at Sam’s place, I’m like, Who is this dude? I’m like, There are fathers like this in the universe? Really? Your dad, he’s like this fuckin’ saint. I bet guys are trippin’ all over theirselves to get at your dad.”
That made me laugh. “I don’t think my dad’s into that scene.”
“Well, that Marcos guy, I like that cat. Looks like they have something going there.”
And out of nowhere, I started to cry. I don’t know, maybe I was getting a fever. Hell, I don’t know, I just started to cry.
I heard Sam say, “Aww, Sally, you’re crying.”
I felt sick and hollow, as if there was nothing inside me, and I heard myself saying, “My Mima. My Mima’s gonna die.”
And then I felt Sam’s arms around me, and she was whispering, “Shhh. I gotcha. I gotcha, Sally.”
Church
IT WAS A GIFT. For Mima. Everybody went to Thanksgiving Mass. And everybody got dressed up. We all knew Mima didn’t go for the dressed-down thing at Mass—?the I’m-dressed-like-I’m-going-to-a-football-game look. Dad and I and Fito wore ties. Mima loved that. She was so, so happy. We took pictures so we could put them on the computer for her to look at.
I felt awful.
I had cotton head. I kept blowing my nose, and everything around me sounded dull and fell on my ears with a kind of thud.
My muscles ached. Everything ached. But I kept smiling.
Fito was a little freaked out. “I don’t really do the church thing,” he said.
Sam said, “It won’t kill you.”
“See, you guys really are, like, these angels.” That’s what he said.
Sam, she just looked at him, and said, “Knock it off with that angel stuff. I’m not an angel. I don’t even want to be one. That’s not what I’m going for.”
I didn’t make it through Mass. Right around Communion time I was projectile vomiting in the men’s room.
Not Fair. Not Fair?
REALLY? WHO GETS the flu at Thanksgiving? God, I was sick.
I missed everything.
And the worst part was that I cried like a ten-year-old boy. But the best part was that Mima sat next to me on my bed.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll get you sick?”
Mima smiled. “I’m already sick.”
Then I started crying, and I felt really far away from myself. I had a fever, and I kept telling Mima I was sorry I got sick. She took my hand and held it, and she put a cold washcloth on my forehead. “For the fever,” she said.
“Why are you taking care of me, Mima? You’re sick.”
“Because I want to,” she whispered.
“I like holding your hand,” I whispered back. It’s weird, the honest things you say when you’re sick. “I want you to stay with me forever.”
“I’ll always be with you,” she whispered.
“I don’t want you to be sick.”
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I won’t be sad. I don’t want you to be sad either.”
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t be.” I didn’t mean it, but I thought it would make her happy. I fell asleep with Mima holding my hand.
I had bad dreams, but at least I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
I remember Sam and Fito standing over me. And I remember saying, “I’m not a puppy.”
I got up from bed on Saturday. It was around noon. And I was really hungry. I mean, I was like Fito-hungry.
The tamales were all made. I missed the tamale-making thing and the everybody-telling-stories thing. I missed all the cussing and all the laughing.
I was sad.
I wasn’t allowed to eat tamales. Turkey soup. Yup. I sat in the kitchen and felt sorry for myself eating turkey soup.
I took a shower and changed and felt a little better. You know, I kind of felt like a T-shirt that had been spinning in the dryer for way too long. I was sitting in front of the Christmas tree with Sam and Fito.
“Crap,” I said. “I missed everything. I always help Mima put the lights on her tree the day after Thanksgiving. Always. Since I was, like, four. It’s not fair.”
Sam looked at me. “Enough with the drama. That’s my job. You’re supposed to be all chilled.”
“Not fair does not qualify as drama.”
Fito kinda stared me down. “You don’t know shit about not fair.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him on the fairness thing. “How are this year’s tamales?”
“Man,” Fito said. “Your peeps are all about tamales. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. They know how to do it right.”
Sam laughed. “Like you’d know.”
“Well, I know how to eat ’em.”
“Right.” Sam was shaking her head. “He ate, like, about twelve. And Mima couldn’t stop laughing. She asked Fito, ‘Don’t they feed you?’ And Fito started blushing.”
“See?” I said. “I missed it all.”
“Ahh, watching Fito wolf down twelve tamales? I’d say you didn’t miss all that much.”
Fito got real quiet. “You got a nice family, Sal. Super nice, you know. Sweet. And Sam here, she got way into making those tamales. You should have seen her. She was like a real Mexican.”
“I am a real Mexican.”
Fito shook his head. “Don’t think so. All three of us put together don’t make one real Mexican.”
I guess he was right.
Then Sam said, “And all three of us put together don’t make one real American.”
Fito cracked up laughing. “Well, gringo over here had a good chance at being a real American. Only he wound up in the wrong family.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Looks like I lucked out.”
“You bet your ass. And they all had lots of good things to say about you, vato. Like you walked on water and shit.”
That made me smile. That really made me smile. Sitting there talking to Sam and Fito. Well, I stopped feeling sorry for myself.
Walked on water. Right. More like, learn to swim, baby. Learn to swim.
Mima. Tired.