FRIENDS. I GUESS I met that word when I met Sam. But sometimes you get to reintroduce yourself to certain words you already know. That’s how it was with Fito. He gave me that word again. It was exactly like Sam had said, about how we had to see people because sometimes the world made us invisible. So we had to make each other visible. Words were like that too. Sometimes we didn’t see words.
Friend. Fito was my friend. And I loved him.
And it killed me to see him so broken.
It killed Sam, too.
And it killed my dad.
It’s hard to fix a heart when it’s been so damaged. But that was our job. That was our job.
Dad went out and bought an extra baseball glove. We had only three. Actually, he bought two extra gloves. One for Marcos. Not that he said it was for Marcos. So we played catch. Sam and I tossed the ball to each other. And Dad and Fito tossed the ball to each other. Marcos came over and watched. Then Dad took a break, and Marcos and I tossed the ball to each other, and Sam and Fito tossed the ball to each other.
We weren’t really talking. Sometimes there isn’t much to say.
Dad was smoking a cigarette on the back steps.
It was a week before Christmas. The day was cold, but not too cold, and the sun was warm on our faces. Then I noticed Lina sitting next to my dad, and they were talking.
Fito said, “You know, my mom, she’s not suffering anymore.”
Marcos nodded as he tossed the ball. “No, she’s not. She’s resting.”
“Good,” Fito said. “She needed to rest.” Then he said, “I shouldn’t have left her. I should’ve gone back. It was my job to take care of her.”
Marcos looked sad when he heard Fito say that. “You’re wrong about that, Fito. It wasn’t your job to take care of your mother. It was her job to take care of you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Man, you are really into beating up on yourself, aren’t you? We gotta get you a new hobby.”
Fito smiled. It was a sad smile. But it was still a smile.
Sam said, “Fito, are you hungry?”
“Yeah. Actually. Yeah. I’m starving.”
So we all went inside, and Lina started making tortillas, and Sam was giving Fito her spiel about the five stages. And she and Fito were Googling about the five stages in the living room. But me, I was at the kitchen table waiting for the first tortilla so I could slather it with butter. Dad and Marcos were talking. Marcos said he knew of a good counselor and it was probably a good idea for Fito to start seeing one.
“I’ll pay,” he said.
Dad looked at him. “You sure?”
He made a joke. “You know what they say about gay men, we have expendable incomes.”
That made Lina laugh. “Send some my way. I want to buy another of Vicente’s paintings, and he’s getting awfully pricey.” She looked at Marcos. “That’s very generous of you.”
“That kid needs a break. I know he just turned eighteen. He’s not a boy anymore. But that doesn’t mean he’s a man. And besides, I’ve been there.”
Lina and I were both studying him.
“My dad died hugging a bottle. He sure as hell never hugged me.” Marcos took my father’s hand. “I’ll talk to Fito about seeing a counselor.”
I wondered if Fito would go for that.
I reached for the butter and the first tortilla. It was so good, the tortilla. I thought of Mima, and I guess I thought I’d never taste one of her tortillas again. And I thought about what Marcos had said about Fito. He’s not a boy anymore. But that doesn’t mean he’s a man. And what about me? What made you a man? What exactly made you a man?
Faggot. That Word Again.
FITO’S MOM DIDN’T have any kind of religious service. I thought that was a little sad. I wondered if God showed up whether or not your funeral was religious. Mima would probably know the answer to that question. But I didn’t.
Fito’s mom had a brother who paid for a sort of service at the funeral home. A few people showed up, including Fito’s brothers, who acted as if they were high. Sam said they were way scary. Yeah, they were a little rough around the edges. For sure. The casket was at the front of the small chapel at the funeral home, and Fito just kept staring at it. My dad was sitting next to him when one of his brothers came up to Fito and said, “So now you got a sugar daddy or what?” He looked at my dad. “A bit old to be picking up little boys, don’t you think?”
It happened pretty fast. Like a bomb going off. Next thing I knew, Fito had his brother on the floor and was punching his lights out. And then his two other brothers jumped in, and hell, I don’t know, it was happening so fast—?but next thing I knew, I’d joined the fight, and I was pulling one of Fito’s brothers off him and I was punching him in the stomach—?then in the face, and when I was about to go for one of Fito’s other brothers, I felt some guys pulling me off and holding me back and then I saw Dad had Fito, and Fito’s face was bleeding. And then Sam was looking at me and she said softly, “Your lip is bleeding.”
I realized that the funeral directors were holding my arms, afraid that I wasn’t quite finished. I started relaxing and breathing, and they let go of me.
Sam grabbed my arm, whispering, “Let’s get out of here.”
Everything seemed so quiet.
I saw Dad walking in front of us, and I saw Fito leaning into him, holding his rib—?or his arm.
Everything around me had sped up—?and now everything was moving in slow motion.
As we walked out the door, I heard a voice yelling, “Fucking faggots!” The words echoed in my ears.
Nobody said a word as we drove off.
Not a word.
Fito sat next to me in the back with his hands covering his face. His fists were a little bloody. He was rocking himself back and forth as tears ran down his face. And I could tell he was in pain.
It was a cold night. Clear sky. I don’t know why I noticed that. Maybe a part of me wished that everything could be as clear and simple as the night sky.
Dad pulled into a parking lot, got out of the car, and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking. He puffed on his cigarette until he was calmer. Then he got back into the car.
I knew my dad was thinking. He was very disciplined that way. He pulled in to the emergency room of the hospital. He looked over at Sam. “You wanna park this thing for me?” He opened the door to the back and gently helped Fito out of the car. He looked at me. “You hurt?”
“No,” I said. “Just a bloody lip.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m good.” He gave me a look. It was strange. I couldn’t tell what was in his head.
I watched Dad and Fito as they walked into the ER, Fito leaning on my dad. I felt the car move as Sam made her way into the parking lot.
I sat in the back, immobile, paralyzed, my heart and head empty. I felt like a bird whose wings were broken but who was still struggling to fly.