Last Flight of José Luis Balboa

by Gonzalo Barr

  I think it’s him tapping. Then the tapping stops. And before I can react, Alan turns to Gloria and engages in frank and flagrant flirting. This is very confusing. Maybe it’s a foreign thing. He reaches across the table to Gloria and places his hand on hers.

  “Aren’t we getting a bit chummy?” Peter says.

  “Mind your manners,” Michael says.

  Alan pulls his hand back.

  “Unlike Michael here, who is all ciphers and formulas,” Alan says, “I’m no cold fish.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Michael says. “He’s jealous because he was never any good at maths, which explains why he’s going to read English.”

  “They’re all ponces in English anyway, aren’t they?” Peter says.

  The waitress comes by with another round of drinks. When she leaves, I ask—

  “Is Michael a cold fish?” Everyone looks at me, making me wish I hadn’t said that.

  “Well,” I say, deciding it’s too late to turn back now, “are you a cold fish?”

  Peter says, “Alan speaks metaphorically. Michael possesses one of the finest minds since Newton and one of the warmest hearts since Keats.”

  ’“Ode on a Grecian Urn,’” I blurt out. I look at the glass of Coke and wonder if someone spiked it.

  “Exactly,” Peter says. “Michael here is Isaac Keats.”

  Michael says, “I’m not entirety about numbers.”

  I wish I had a bon mot, but nothing comes to mind, except the lyrics of “Throbbin’ Like an Aneurysm,” which for some unknowable reason is playing in my mind and I can’t turn it off. My father says that a conversation should be like a tennis match, the ball always in play, floating back and forth over the net. I’ve just watched the ball fly past me. So I pick up my glass and take a sip to occupy my hands.

  Alan says, “Anyone fancy a walk on the beach?”

  My chance, I think, to call it a night. But before I can protest about the time—it is midnight and I know that I’m already in big trouble at home—Gloria says, “Sounds good to me.” Teri nods.

  What’s gotten into Gloria? She has a curfew like mine. Teri too. To complicate things, while we’re waiting for the check, my mother texts me.

  Is everything OK? Why aren’t you home?

  That’s just like my mother to use proper punctuation. I text her back.

  totally ok b home soon

  And I hope she doesn’t call. With text messaging you can limit the communication. On the phone, talking, she’ll ask me a bunch of annoying questions, plus she’ll get to hear the background noise, which will provide her with all sorts of information that I’d rather she not know and I’ll have to explain a lot more than I want to. She’s probably in bed already, lights out, typing her text messages using the built-in blue light of the phone keys, my father sleeping next to her, my mother trying not to wake him because she knows he needs to get a good night’s sleep so he can wake by 5:00 and do his rounds at the hospital, because she also knows that if he woke to discover that it is a few minutes past midnight and I am not home yet, he would take the phone out of her hands, demand an explanation as to why I’d decided to breach such a well-established rule like my curfew, especially on a night when there is school the next day and especially so close to finals, when I should be studying, not cavorting, and by then, he would be out of bed, pacing, not shouting because my father never shouts, but certainly and unequivocally making it very clear, as in I want to make this very clear, that although my life would be spared, there being divine, legal, and moral prohibitions firmly in place against a father killing his daughter (it hasn’t happened since the Greeks), the quality of my life would take a decidedly southward plunge, like being inside an elevator in free fall, and even if my father did not wake and my mother did not actually call with an Interrogation, I will, in all likelihood, be grounded—no car, except to go to school and back, no outings with friends for any reason whatsoever (whatsoever being one of my mother’s favorite words, as do you understand me? is one of her favorite phrases with which to conclude the sentencing, closing the door to any appeal).

  At this point of the night, the only viable explanation I could offer my parents for having missed my curfew is alien abduction. Not that my parents believe in aliens. (They think the immigration laws in this country are way too lax as they are.) If I can convince them that I was whisked away to the other side of the galaxy, show them the puncture wounds in my lower abdomen, quote verbatim my conversation with Amelia Earhart, I might get them to mitigate the sentence, because being without a car in Miami is the same as being an unperson. You might as well not exist.

  Which leads me to the next and last part of this reverie before Michael turns to me and says, “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” as everyone has already stood to leave, and I ask, “What about the check?” and reach into my purse for my wallet. Teri turns around to say, “These gentlemen were kind enough to pay for our drinks.” And Gloria, who is already twenty feet away, trying to get as close to Alan as she can, loops her arm around his, marking him as her sole property, everyone else KEEP OUT. Right before all this happens and we start our short walk to the beach, down Lincoln Road, toward Washington Avenue, I think about what I’m not supposed to be thinking about, what I promised myself I would drive out of my mind, not “Throbbin’ Like an Aneurysm,” which thankfully has played its last reprise, but about the last thing I should be thinking about, whether Rolly is with Lizette right now and what they are doing. And though thinking about him and Lizette is the last thing I want to think about, the thought perversely not only persists but it blooms with details. I make up my mind, I draw an invisible line between then and now, even if the “then” is less than a second ago, about the time it took whatever nerve carried the thought of then-ness from wherever thoughts are born to where they are perceived, less time than it takes for me to realize that Michael is standing next to me, looking at me, that he’s asked me something. Only when I replay the last few seconds, while the rest of the world went on without me, I hear Michael ask me again, “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” and I say, “Yeah,” and stand, too quickly, because I upset a glass on the table, fortunately empty, and Michael catches it and sets it upright before it rolls to the edge, and I say, “Sorry,” so low that I’m sure he didn’t hear me, and he says, “Good thing you didn’t have something stronger,” and adds, “Sorry,” though I’ve no clue what he’s sorry about. And we walk behind the others, sometimes in a group, sometimes dispersing, generally following one direction, Peter next to Teri, talking over his shoulder at Michael and me, Gloria and Alan so far ahead of us that we’ve almost lost them in the crowd of peddlers, tourists, and troubadours, like the pudgy brown man strumming a big guitar and singing “Bésame mucho,” and the small white man strumming a mandolin and yelling “Voe-lah-rscy, hey!,” from one café table to another, people waving both of them away. There’s Disco Man dancing to music that’s blaring a little too loud for the small speakers in a boom box on the street, dressed like Richard Simmons, with enough enthusiasm to light a small city. “You remember this, don’t you?” Disco Man yells. “It’s by the beautiful and sexy Donna Summer. Where are you, Donna, when we need you?” Disco Man yells at the sky. The music starts. Tourists point video cameras no bigger than wallets at Disco Man, who takes a few steps forward, claps his hands, spins, and takes a few steps back. I drop money in his box. “Remember Kojak?” Disco Man yells, “Yeah, baby! And the Brady Bunch?”

  “You’ve a truly kind heart,” Michael says, after I drop the money.

  On Washington Avenue, we walk into a liquor store where Gloria checks her Lotto numbers—nothing—and Teri buys a pack of cigarettes. It’s too hot inside, so I stand at the store entrance. A small, hunched-over old man with a long and dirty beard talks emphatically to the empty space in front of him, waves his hands, stabs the air with his index finger. I look at my watch: 12:45 A.M. I look at the sky: no aliens in sight.

  “What’s he saying?” Alan’s
standing next to me. I turn.

  “Nothing worth translating,” Gloria says, taking Alan’s arm, pulling him away from me.

  Four more blocks, past college students eating slices of pizza so greasy that they lie over their hands like Dali’s clocks, across Collins Avenue, past Ocean Drive, almost peaceful this early Monday morning, an occasional yellow Hummer or black Bentley pumping out beats and long, sustained bass notes that rattle the glass windows, and onto the beach at Fifteenth Street, the glow of the hotels behind us, the flickering pinpoint lights of the ships in the distance, the only sound now that of the palm trees hissing all around us, the dark wind, and our feet landing sharply on the sand.

  17. CLOUDS AS BIG AS ISLANDS

  The moon’s halfway up the sky, big enough to light the sand, the ocean, and the clouds. Teri says something, but nobody answers. When we reach the edge of the ocean, the waves break and glow in the moonlight, before they recede.

  Gloria takes off her shoes and walks through the water up to her ankles, running from each wave. Alan follows her closely. She runs into Alan and the wind carries her laughter. They stay close together, two people against the lit and wrinkled surface of the ocean.

  At the southernmost tip of the island, a cube on top of a tall building lights, from the bottom up, layer by layer, until it is completely lit. I watch it go through two cycles, when I notice that Teri and Peter have climbed the steps of a lifeguard station and are sitting on the narrow porch.

  Michael says, “Shall we stand, or shall we sit?”

  We walk away from the water and find a dry spot. I sit, first crossed-legged, then one leg under the other, then my legs straight out. He sits next to me and says that he’s been planning this trip all year, that he wants to work somewhere, under the table because he doesn’t have that kind of visa.

  “Teri’s father’s a lawyer in a big firm,” I say. “Maybe you can go work for them.”

  “I meant something around here, on the beach. I’m probably going to be stuck breathing recirculated office air for the rest of my working life. Might as well do something different while I can.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I don’t know, count the number of cigarettes butts on the beach. We’re probably sitting on a couple hundred.”

  “Yuck!” I say, and move, and when I do Michael puts his hand on my arm, and I let him, just like I let him lean over and kiss me.

  And it’s like walking through a house you’ve never been in before, kissing Michael. You’re taking in the layout, the furniture, what’s on the TV, the smells and sounds. I half expect him to grope me, like Rolly would have done, but when he doesn’t I relax and let him kiss me some more. And I can tell he’s getting excited, but it doesn’t matter because I know I’m safe. He can’t hurt me. Rolly can’t hurt me.

  Michael turns and gently pushes me back until I’m lying flat on the sand. There are faint stars in the city-lit sky. A big cloud moves over us, and I imagine that I’m looking at the underside of a large airship. Then it’s the stars again. And though Michael’s on top of me, I feel none of his weight. A gentleman always rests his weight on his elbows, I read somewhere.

  Then my phone chirps.

  “My mother,” I say.

  Michael rolls off me, and I rummage through my purse, the inside of which is lit by the phone light flashing blue.

  “Where are you? Are you all right? Why aren’t you home yet?” It’s hard to hear because of the wind. I cup the phone and hope my mother doesn’t figure it out.

  “I’m going home now,” I say.

  My mother hangs up.

  18. THE LIP OF THE OCEAN

  I don’t leave, of course. Michael kisses me again, and I lie back on the sand. If I feel his hands undo the buttons of my blouse, I don’t stop him. And if I feel his hand on my breast, I let him. I’m thinking, Maybe this is the way it’s supposed to happen.

  I arch my body because my lower back hurts, and he undoes the button on my jeans. “Wait,” I say, and I put my hand over his. “Wait.”

  Then a woman screams.

  “What the fuck!” Michael says, rolling off me.

  I snap my bra closed and button my jeans and blouse.

  The woman screams again, longer this time. Michael and I run in the direction of her voice. It’s Gloria. Alan has his arms around her. Peter and Teri are there too, Teri with her hands against her face. They’re standing around what looks like a big trash bag someone’s left at the water’s edge, except that when we get there, I see it’s not a trash bag, but a guy, lying face-down, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, his bare butt and legs gray in this light. The back of his tee shirt reads, I’M A SURFER’S DREAM.

  “You think he’s alive?” Peter says.

  Michael and Alan move to turn the guy face-up.

  “Don’t touch him,” Gloria says.

  “Oh, my God!” Teri says.

  The boy looks like he’s fifteen. His eyes and mouth are closed. His face is drained of all color. Michael and Alan wash their hands in the ocean. Teri says, “Gross!” I look away. There’s a thunderstorm in the distance. The clouds light up silently.

  19. WHERE WE GO WHEN WE DIE

  Michael walks me to my car. On the way, he talks about everything except the dead boy. He asks me about school, about next year, and my plans for college. I tell him what I know, which is that I don’t know where I’m going to college or what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’m thinking about the boy on the beach, about the police who questioned each of us separately, about their matter-of-factness. My father tells me that life is the exception in a universe that’s always on the verge of chaos. He says that the only thing we have is the here and now and our memories of our own past. Other than that, there is nothing. “When we die,” he says, “we’re dead. Simple as that.”

  The parking garage elevator is broken, so Michael and I climb the three flights to where my car is parked.

  “Nice,” he says, patting the car. I offer to drive him back, at least to the corner, a few feet from the café where Alan and Peter will meet him after walking Gloria and Teri to Gloria’s car. It’s 3:45.

  When we reach the corner nearest the café, he asks me for my phone number. He says, “I like you. I know tonight’s been rough, but I’m here all summer. And I’d like to see you again.”

  But before I can answer, my head shakes no. Then I say, “Sorry, but—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he says. “My loss.”

  I drive him to the corner of Meridian and Lincoln Road.

  “Your friends aren’t here yet,” I say.

  “That’s OK. You need to get home.” He stops. “OK, then. Thanks for the lift.” He opens the door. Then he turns and kisses me on the cheek.

  I watch him walk back to the café. Two waiters stack the chairs on the tables and tie them together with a chain and lock.

  I haven’t driven a block before I regret what I just did. Why didn’t I give him my number? Because he’s two or three years older than I am, and I’m not ready to date someone that old. Because he’s here for the summer, and even if I were ready to date someone that old he’ll be gone in a few weeks. Because I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.

  I don’t want anyone right now.

  So this is it, the end of whatever it was I felt for Rolly. It’s like discovering you’ve driven off the road, that sudden rumble of tires scrambling over rocks and dirt and clumps of weeds.

  Over the causeway, I look at the city and its lights shining on the bay, against the sky made gray by the clouds lit from below.

  I think about the boy.

  But all I feel is a blank, like the whiteness of an unmarked page, except it is inside me. I see the boy’s tee shirt, his face. The ocean lit by the moon. The thunderstorm in the distance.

  It is quiet in the car. Peace.

  20. SILVIA

  When I get home, my mother’s at the front door before I’ve finished parking the car. She’s
kinda mad, which I can understand, as it’s after 4:00 in the morning. She’s not saying anything, but her ears are red. She smells of that cream that she smears all over her face. It’s supposed to make you look younger. It has caviar in it and stinks like the sea. Then she starts to talk.

  I tell her I’m sorry, but I don’t mean it. I should tell her about the dead boy, I think, but then decide against it. I’m sure it’ll be on the news. And she doesn’t have to know we were there or that we were the ones who found him.

  I stop at the door to my room. She looks like she wants to come in, but I block her way.

  “OK,” she says, “we’ll talk later this morning.”

  And she kisses me good night. I smell my mother’s cream and think of the boy.

  It takes me a long time to fall asleep. All I can think about is what happened on the beach.

  When I finally fall asleep, I don’t have a nightmare, as I expect. I don’t know if this happens to you, but I have a repertoire of dreams, good ones and bad. There’s one where I’m in class taking a quiz that I haven’t prepared for. There’s another where I’m being chased by someone I cannot see, and all the streetlights are out so everything is dark.

  Instead, I have one of my favorite dreams. I’m on a beach on an island. In the distance, there’s a rocky cliff that goes right into the water, a straight drop. There’s no one else on the island. There’s the horizon, the ocean, the waves making the sand tremble under my bare feet, the unmoving cliff. I’m not thinking of anything, I’m not happy or sad or hungry. I miss no one. I just am.

  21. METAMORPHOSIS

  The next morning, I catch a glimpse of my ex-boyfriend when he speeds down the school’s main drive and turns into the new student parking lot. The lot’s not paved yet, so his tires kick up a cloud of dust when he puts his brakes on. His windows are up. They buzz with each bass note of whatever music he’s playing really loud.