by Mara White
“I just want permission to touch his face. I need some contact. Please.”
The medical examiner looks unmoved by my request. This is New York City. He’s probably seen any number of outrageous things.
“Okay. One little touch. Then I’ll need you to sign these papers and answer a few standard questions about your relationship, and where you were when you saw him last. The police haven’t been able to contact any next of kin.”
I pull back the sheet just a bit more. Ideal’s bicep holds another cursive tattoo. “Genaidy,” it says, and I make a mental note. The baby in the photo. I reach a hesitant finger to gently stroke his brow.
“I want to kiss his forehead.” The words escape me unintentionally. This man will wish they’d done the ID with a Polaroid instead of being forced to witness my awkward impulses.
“All right, make it quick,” he sighs. He turns to a desk, pulling forms from metal dividers and securing them into a clipboard.
I lean forward quickly and plant my lips on his face, laying one hand along his face. His flesh is cool and feels not like flesh at all. Wood or plastic or even wax—those better describe the remnants of this lovely man.
He’s gone, my exterminating angel. I steal another kiss before replacing the sheet.
“How did he die?” I ask
“Two bullet wounds to the belly. Bled out on 158th.”
“Was it gang related?”
“No idea. Why don’t you ask the police,” he says, as I sign the papers without reading them.
“What does it say his real name is again?” I ask. I’m blushing at the intimacy Ideal and I shared as strangers. Have there ever been more unconventional lovers? Connected by one common denominator—Jaylee—where our two lives intersect.
The medical examiner raises a brow, likely doing an inner critique of my need to stroke and kiss a man whose name I don’t know.
“Registration belonged to an Álvaro Hernández,” he says searching through the pages of his clipboard.
“Oh,” I say quietly. “We just called him Ideal.”
Outside the double doors, Emily waits on a bench, bent over, her forehead cradled in her hands. I approach her and massage the exposed nape of her neck, and she sniffs and looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. Emily is crying real tears for Ideal; I’m frozen in stone, my emotions run dry.
“Em, he has a grandfather or at least an old man that he takes care of in his apartment. We’ve got to go there and see if we can get them to let us in.”
Emily nods and blows her nose with some tissues from her alligator bag.
“Let me cover the expenses for an autopsy if they need one. I’ll pay for them to hold him, too—we don’t want him to end up unclaimed and buried out on that terrible island.”
“He probably has some family. We can try to find them.”
She stands up and I take her hand.
“We can’t just let him be forgotten. Not after everything he did.”
I put my arm around her and we make our way out of the dead-end hall.
Chapter 22
Back up in the Heights, we talk to the few men on the corner remaining at this hour of the night. Emily is incredibly relaxed for a girl who’s never ventured out of her neighborhood. The men say Ideal didn’t have any family that they know of; maybe some distant relatives back in the Dominican Republic.
The owner of the corner deli gives us a clearer picture of a man who was raised by a great-uncle and great-aunt after his father went to prison. The aunt passed away years ago, the uncle might have moved back home, he says. I think his uncle must be the man Ideal lived with.
“What are you two, detectives?” The deli man asks us when we start asking about possible kids.
“Good friends,” Emily barks, as this situation is now under her command. I told her in the taxi on the way over that maybe we should alert the police about Ideal’s great-uncle, but Emily said it risked him ending up in a run-down public institution. She wouldn’t have it. She sees herself footing the bill for a state-of-the-art health-care facility. Anything close to Ideal, by association, is now close to her heart.
The super lets us in after he hears the situation. The top door lock he can open, but for the bottom we have to call a professional. A 24-hour locksmith arrives an hour later. As he works and we wait, Emily and I sit on the floor in the dim hallway, our backs against the wall. She smokes cigarette after cigarette, while I plow through a package of powdered donuts and chocolate milk from the bodega below. My mind wanders to Jaylee’s apartment. He’s only a block away, probably still passed out, his heart raw and wounded. I remind myself that Jaylee had an alibi, according to Robert. Maybe he had nothing to do with Ideal’s death.
Emily and I have both called our husbands and explained our need to see this through, and to help the elderly man who seemed entirely dependent on Ideal. Doug is somewhat understanding, although he’s afraid for her safety and insists on sending a guard. Robert is lenient to the point of apathy—he no longer gives a flying fuck about what I do.
“Are you getting divorced?” Emily asks me through powdered-sugar lips. She’s gotten into the donuts too.
“Robert doesn’t believe in divorce. He’s got some medieval views about matrimony and vows, and apparently, about penitence and torture—because God knows we’ve put each other through hell.”
“But you can’t let him just say ‘no’ and end it at that. What about what you want to do?”
“Emily, Robert has ways to get what he wants. He just got Jaylee out of jail with a wave of his magical wand. He threatens me with taking custody, and I’ll never give up Ada and Pearl.”
“I always thought you got the good guy, but Robert is turning out to be kind of a dick.”
“I fucked him over big time, Em. I screwed two other guys. And not just screwed them—I fell in love with Jaylee. I walked away from our trust.”
“I know. Sarah told me what happened when you were gone.”
“Robert cheats too. He keeps condoms in his briefcase. We’re a perfect couple. A picture of wedded bliss.”
I stuff another donut in my mouth and steal one of Emily’s cigarettes.
“You must think I’m nuts.” Tears slide down my face and splash on the floor.
“I think you’re brave,” Emily says, and hugs me. This is maybe the first time she’s been affectionate with me since we were kids. It brings on a whole new rush of tears.
A crash interrupts our moment, as the deadbolt falls to the floor on the other side of the door.
“That’ll do ‘er,” the locksmith says, standing slowly and gently pushing open the door. He puts away the pad he’d had under his knees and packs up his tools into a pouch on his waist. Emily hands him two hundred-dollar bills and grasps my hand. She’s fearless, marching ahead, going first through the door.
The apartment is dark, the only light flickering from the television, painting blue-green phantoms across the walls. The old man is horizontal, seemingly toppled from his usual television viewing position. His legs are still bent as if he were sitting upright, and his two hands are in prayer between his knees. His chest rises and falls in slumber. There is no hint of turmoil or struggle in the apartment. It looks as if no one’s been here since Ideal left.
I turn on the lights, but the old man doesn’t stir, even when I slip a pillow under his head, which is covered with liver spots and patches of white, wispy hair. Remembering Ideal’s tender treatment of this man makes my heart clench. He’ll have to wake to the knowledge that the young man who loved him and took care of him is dead.
Emily is on her blackberry making calls to a ritzy assisted-living facility on the Upper West Side. She’s speaking to the twenty-four hour nurse on-call. She orders me to search out documents—IDs, birth certificates, a Social Security card—anything that might point us to the identity of this man or his family.
That’s how I end up in Ideal’s room, and let my body fall heavily onto his bed. His scent is here—it’s all aro
und me. I pull a discarded white T-shirt across my face and hold it under my nose. I never would have approached him, had I known this would happen. Too much truth in what I told him—the things I said to him on this bed. It’s reverse alchemy, the power of my touch. I can’t love someone without destroying them.
I don’t want Jaylee to end up dead.
I roll onto my side and grab the framed photograph of the baby. Sitting up, I use Ideal’s T-shirt to carefully clean the glass, and then gently remove the photo. The back of the photo says ‘Genaidy, 2010’ circled sweetly with a heart. Dear God, she’s the same age as Ada. Her father is dead, and it’s all my fault.
Emily sticks her head around the doorframe, phone cradled to her ear.
“He’s waking up—I don’t speak Spanish,” she whispers, gesturing for me to come .
I hand her the photo as I pass, and mumble, “his daughter,” trying not to break down and cry fresh tears.
“Oh, Jesus! We’ve got to find her,” Emily says, sounding panicked.
“One thing at a time, Em. We don’t know if they were in contact.” I take out my phone.
I know for certain that Janinie now hates me, but just as certainly, she adores her brother. I quickly text her to tell her that Ideal is dead and that Jaylee is not safe. I’m guessing that the people who abducted Emily killed Ideal for screwing up their reward. But because of what happened earlier in the night, everyone will assume that Jaylee put a hit out on his life. I’m not a gang expert by any means, but I understand some of how these things operate. Ideal’s hit makes Jaylee an immediate target——an eye for an eye, from dust to dust.
I walk down the hallway of the spacious apartment and examine two pictures framed on the wall. One is a black and white portrait of someone in the service; the other is a faded wedding shot in sepia. If they’re alive, we’ll find his family and try to put things in order. I can’t make up for Ideal’s death, but I do have money, and money can ease almost anything in life.
Janinie pings back when I reach the living room. I can see the back of the old man’s head over the edge of the couch.
Thanks for the heads-up. Jay’s still passed out from last nite.
Fear of a tortured and distraught Jaylee attacks me, as I think of the pain I put him through. How do you mend a shattered heart? And if it’s put back together, does it change the way you’re able to love?
I sit next to Ideal’s great-uncle, and gently take his claw-like hand. The skin is baby soft, and his knuckles are stiffened and bulbous with arthritis. I run my thumb over the back of his hand, and hesitantly peer into his milky eyes.
I tell him slowly in Spanish that Ideal is dead, being careful to articulate my words. I don’t know how he and Ideal communicated, but I’m hoping he can read lips, since he’s clearly very deaf.
He nods his head sweetly and smiles at me, demonstrating no change in his demeanor. He’s acknowledging that I’m speaking to him, but little else. I take a piece of paper from my purse and write down what I’ve just tried to say out loud. It seems so callous, though, to write down words like “muerto” and “un tiro,” especially considering the affection between these two men.
He looks at me again sweetly and nods, the hint of a smile appearing upon his wetted lips, the saliva escaping at the corners. He must be suffering from dementia. What will become of this man when there’s no one left who loves him?
I rub his hand and reassuringly pat his knee. He doesn’t understand a thing I’ve said. When Emily comes back into the room I shake my head at her and show her the piece of paper.
“Nothing? No response?” she asks.
“Not that I can tell,” I answer.
“I got him a spot. Best place in the city. Where we had Doug’s dad before he—you know.” Emily shrugs as if we shouldn’t say the word “died” in front of this fragile old man, or so soon after the loss of Ideal.
“I found these,” she says, tossing two file folders on the sofa beside me.
I open them up to see photocopies of various birth certificates and Social Security cards. There’s also what looks like an ancient visa, and a faded five-by-seven color photo of Álvaro Hernández. Ideal looks to be about three years old in the picture. He’s seated on a wooden chair in a button-up shirt, shorts with suspenders, white roll-down socks, and brown boots on his tiny feet. His hair is slicked back and his smile is adorable.
I note the resemblance to his daughter; she’s got his strong, arched brow, and the same sweet smile on her face. I clutch the photo and let the floodgate of tears finally spring open.
Chapter 23
Robert tells me that Jaylee has been transferred to a hotel for security reasons. That they’re “working on resolutions” is all I can get out of him. He won’t give me specifics, only meaningless phrases like “deep negotiations.” I think that Robert feels vindicated by telling me his secrets before, like his confessions gave him absolution and now he has a clear conscience.
I could spill my indiscretions to the entire world, but somehow I still wouldn’t be guilt-free.
I’m still furious with Robert, and I’m angry with Jaylee. I wish I knew more about the steps that ultimately led him to me. I want him to tell me what he thought the moment he realized who I was, or else admit to me that he knew from the very beginning.
I’ve shared some of the most beautiful moments of my life with Jaylee. I know this love. I know it’s mutual. But I still have to ask—because Robert’s assumption of Jaylee’s guilt is an eternal thorn in my side.
Is it possible to set out with one goal but end up with another? If Jaylee approached me with the intent to destroy me, is it possible that the coins of fate flipped on him, so he ended up in love?
Sometimes the poison arrow and its antidote are the same exact thing. I am the source of his pain but I am also the one who can make it go away.
I’m with Carmen in the kitchen, and Ada is upstairs asleep. Pearl has gone to a friend’s house to play for the afternoon. She tried to back out of it, but I encouraged her to go. Cassandra is a new friend from camp, and she seems shy and introverted too. I’m glad they found each other.
Carmen is making her homemade salsa verde, and I love how the kitchen smells from the roasting of chilies and tomatillos, and the peppery scent of hoja santa. I’m supposed to be doing research for my class, but instead I’m copying Carmen’s family recipes into my cooking scrapbook.
“Where do you get the ingredients for this one?” I ask, pointing to the long list under her masterpiece, titled simply, “Mole.”
“There are so many bodegas now that carry Mexican specialties. All of the chilies I need, I can get in the Heights. Five years ago I had to go to Corona in Queens to find most of this stuff.”
My cell phone rings, and I’m surprised to see Janinie’s name across the display. Janinie hates me; she must be calling about business. I pick it up with a touch of unease.
“He’s coming to see you. He wants to explain himself. He’s supposed to be on house arrest in that hotel, so they might come and get him. He should be there any minute. I told him not to go.”
“Okay. Thanks, Janinie. Do you think it’s dangerous for him to be out?”
“Fuck if I know. Just get it over with quick. Break his heart, and then get him out of there.”
“Janinie, I—” But she hangs up the phone.
I walk to the front door slowly and pull back the curtain. He’s coming up the walk, determination etched deeply in his brow.
“Carmen, Jaylee’s here. I’ll just step out to speak with him.”
“Cuidado, Kate. I’m here if you call.”
I linger on the stoop, liking the height I have over him. I’m scared to meet him face to face.
“Did you come to finally tell me the truth?” I fold my arms. There’s a lump in my throat the size of my fist. Or is it my heart on its way out of my body? It’s so overwrought with emotion, maybe now my heart’s given up all hope and is trying to make an escape.
Jayl
ee gives me a look with more pain than any one face should muster. The lump in my throat falls heavily into my chest, then to my belly, bringing with it the weight of the world. He’s known all along. It was an intentional seduction. He knew who I was when he saw me that day.
A sickeningly sweet sadness slips into my bones. How badly do I need to know the truth? It won’t change how I feel.
One of his hands goes to his hip, the other up to his face. The difficulty of knowing and not knowing are one and the same. I want to comfort him like I comfort my children—forgive him for every misdeed and wrongdoing as if it were my own. As if it were a lapse in my judgment that led him astray. Jaylee’s pain is my pain.
If our love can conquer anything, it ought to conquer the barriers between us.
“I’m not asking because I want to use your answers against you. I’m asking because I trust you—I know you have the right answer.”
“I didn’t know when I met you. That was the truth.”
I nod in response but say nothing, waiting for him to open up, to show himself to me, to show all his colors.
“When I found out who you were, I tried to put distance between us—but it was too late for me already. I think I lost my shit the moment I saw you. I fell so fucking hard, and I couldn’t ever catch up. I was always just trying to keep up with the feelings. I wanted to protect you from myself and my past.”
“You and Robert both like to protect me with lies.”
“I admit I dreamed about the day I could finally take Robert down. I dreamed about it my whole damn life. The way you loved me added another level to the plan. I wanted to take him down, and then I got the chance to steal his family. Now that’s fucking revenge like it was meant to be.”
“Destiny,” I say with a cold stare.
“But, Kate, believe me. I never thought about revenge that way—against you and the girls.”
“Look, you and I just need to say goodbye. Once and for all, just end it. We can’t be around each other. It’s dangerous. We do bad things to one another. These origins we have—we can’t undo them.”
