by J. J. Murray
Juan Carlos calls.
“What’s up?” I say, all cool and collected, but underneath, I am not cool or collected. I haven’t spoken to him since he called me a “bunta.” Of the three, I thought Juan Carlos was the least likely to ever speak to me again, and here he is on the phone.
“I am sorry to call you so late.”
It’s only eight thirty, but that’s late for a working-man. “It’s okay.”
“Um, Lana, my mama died today.”
“Oh no!”
“Could you … would you come to the wake? It is tomorrow evening at Valley Funeral Service on Peters Creek.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll be there. Oh, Juan, I’m so sorry.”
Silence, then … “I will see you tomorrow.” Click.
He sounded so devastated! I know I’d be completely overwhelmed without my mama. I wonder what happened. I call Mama. “Mama, would you look in the paper for me?”
“When are you going to get a subscription?”
“As I told you, they don’t deliver the Times way out here.” I’m sure they do. I’m just too lazy to find out and too poor to get a subscription. I usually look at the newspaper at school.
I hear a rustling of pages. “What are you looking for?”
“An obituary.”
“Who died?”
“Juan Carlos’s mama.”
Silence, then … “He called you?”
“Yeah. I just got off the phone with him.”
“That’s so sad. Last name?”
“Gomez.”
Silence. “I don’t see a Gomez anywhere. When did she die?”
Oh yeah. It wouldn’t be in the paper yet. “Today. Juan Carlos invited me to the wake.”
“And you’re going, right?”
“He’s still my friend.”
And he is. He needs me. He needs a shoulder to cry on. I have to go.
The next evening, I arrive at Valley Funeral Service on Peters Creek Road, parking in a nearly empty lot, which means, I guess, that not many people knew his mama. I find Juan Carlos sitting in the front row all alone, wearing a nice suit and tie. He cleans up nicely. I don’t look up at the open casket yet, instead making a beeline for Juan Carlos. I wanted to meet his mama, but I didn’t want to meet her this way. I also really have trouble at wakes because Death (with a capital D) and I don’t get along, ever since my first dog died when I was thirteen.
Juan Carlos stands and hugs me, his body shaking. “She is gone, she is gone,” he whispers.
“What happened?” We sit, and I hold his hand, looking up into his unshaven face.
“Cancer,” he whispers. “There was nothing they could do.”
Cancer? People don’t die suddenly from cancer, which means …
“She tried to fight, but she was not strong enough.”
Oh no! This explains so much. “How long was she sick?”
He nods, wiping a tear from his nose. “Three years.”
No wonder he worked so much. He had to work overtime to pay for her medicine or her chemotherapy. And somehow … My eyes well with tears. Somehow he made time for me. I was his reprieve from being around his dying mama. I was the life in his life.
I feel like such a bunta.
“I did not want you to see her, because she wanted no one to see her most days.” His voice chokes up. “She lost her hair, Lana. She lost her beautiful hair.”
I hold him fiercely, and after a while, I can’t tell who is shaking more. Why didn’t he tell me that his mama had cancer? I would have understood. At least I think I would have understood.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was her wish.” He looks toward the casket. “She was a strong woman. She did not want anyone to know she was not strong. I wanted to tell you.” He looks at his hands. “I was on my way to tell you that night. She was feeling better and wanted to meet you that night.”
That night. So much went wrong that night. I wish I could have that night back to do all over again.
The funeral director comes down the aisle to us trailed by a beautiful dark tan, dark-haired woman. His cousin? Juan Carlos drops my hand, jumps up, and runs to her. They embrace, and then—
She’s kissing him.
On the lips.
Either she’s a kissing cousin, or …
No, they’re using quite a bit of tongue, and at a wake?
They turn to me. “This is Monique,” Juan Carlos says.
Monique seems to be a mixture of black and Hispanic, with lighter skin than I have. She also has some seriously bushy black eyebrows.
“Hello,” I say.
“We are to be married,” Juan Carlos says.
My heart skips a beat. Whoa. They hooked up quickly. They do make a nice couple, but this was my man—or he was one of my men. I have no right to be jealous, but I am. “It’s nice to meet you, Monique.”
She whispers something in Spanish to Juan Carlos, and his face tightens. “Lana,” he says to her without the “ahh” I loved to hear.
And then, Monique kills me with her eyes. Her pupils almost completely disappear, and she literally bares her teeth at me.
“You … you are trash,” she says in a thick accent. “Get out!”
I don’t move. I look at Juan Carlos.
“Perhaps you should go,” he says.
I want to tell Monique what a good, fine, decent man Juan Carlos is. I want to tell her how lucky she is to have such a dedicated, hardworking man in her life. And I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all that happened between us.
“Go!” Monique shouts.
I stand, my legs a little shaky. “I came here to pay my respects.” I look at the casket. “I will pay my respects, and then I will leave.”
“You are not needed here!” Monique hisses.
Again, I look at Juan Carlos, but he is powerless, his shoulders slumping.
I want to tell Monique that I was invited, that I miss Juan Carlos terribly, and that I admire her excellent taste in men. I want to tell him that I shouldn’t have taken him for granted, that I still think about him, and that I still smile whenever I hear a Led Zeppelin song on the radio.
Instead of leaving, I go to the casket and see Juan Carlos’s mama for the first time. Though she is thin and the wig she wears isn’t a precise fit, she is beautiful, the spitting image of Juan Carlos. “I’m glad to finally meet you,” I whisper. “You have a fine son.” I turn to look one last time at Juan Carlos.
“Thank you for coming,” he says.
“Thank you for asking me to come,” I say, mainly to Monique.
And I cry my eyes out all the way home.
Chapter 31
I don’t blame Monique for her anger. She thinks I ruined Juan Carlos, but I could never ruin such a truly golden man who has a heart of gold and hands with the golden touch. My stupidity was her gain. I didn’t deserve him. I didn’t deserve such a golden man.
And then I relive the moments I shared with Juan Carlos. My moving out here was a great hardship on him. I was tearing him in two. He wanted to see me, but he didn’t want to be so far away from his mama. The times he did see me must have been “good” days for her, days when she could take care of herself, and I took him away from those “good” days. I can’t stop thinking about all those times I asked to meet her and the pain that must have caused him. I always thought he was taking care of me, when … maybe … I was taking care of him, giving him a rest from seeing his mama die before his eyes.
The phone rings a few hours later, the caller ID saying ROANOKE MEMORIAL. Who’s calling from the hospital at this hour?
“Hello?”
“This is Pat Swisher, Bobby’s mother.”
Oh no. A lump forms in my throat. “Yes?”
“We had to take Bobby to the hospital this morning.”
“Is he all right?” Please say he has a bad cold or something.
“No.”
No. The end is near? I’m not ready for this! “I’m so sorry. I’ve b
een meaning to come see him.”
“And that kept him going. He had me read that article about you in the paper ten times. I even cut out your picture for him.”
Of me in the purple jacket.
“Can you, will you come to play chess with him one last time?”
Oh, God help me. One … last … time. “Sure. I’d like to do that for him.”
“And, um, can you come tonight?”
Oh God! The end is here. “I’ll be right there.”
I stand in front of my dresser staring blindly through my tears at all the bling, all the gifts from the men who used to be in my life. “Nothing gold can stay,” I whisper, remembering an old poem. Juan Carlos and Bobby—two golden people in my life—and neither of them can stay.
What can I give Bobby, God? I could take him some of my flowers, but you don’t take flowers to a dying child. Balloons? No. He’s a young man now. I need something—
My class ring.
Yes. I never wear it. I don’t even know why I had Mama spend so much on it. I fussed at her for gold when Duralite would have been enough.
Bobby needs this ring.
And a gold chain. I find the first gold chain I ever bought. It’s not as shiny as it used to be, but it holds a few good memories of simpler times in high school, times Bobby won’t ever get to have.
Yes. I am going to give Bobby my class ring on a chain.
I am going to be Bobby’s girl.
I break every known traffic law on the way from Bedford County to Roanoke Memorial, parking in the no-parking zone.
They can tow it. I don’t care.
I carry my magnetic chessboard to the elevator and get in, trying not to think of coming down this or any elevator ever again without Bobby. I go to the nurse’s station on Bobby’s floor, and a nurse leads me to his room. I take a deep breath, and …
“Hey, Bobby Fischer, ready to lose?”
His head shakes slightly as his eyes light up. I will never forget his eyes. So much light! So much life!
I set up the board on his serving tray, willing my hands not to shake. “I have been practicing, boy.” I smile at him, and his eyes get bigger. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been practicing, and tonight you are going to lose.”
His lips twist slightly.
“You don’t believe me?”
He shakes his head slightly.
“Just you wait. Do I still get to go first?”
He nods. Can’t they take off that oxygen mask for just a little while? I want to hear his voice.
“You are going to be amazed, boy.” I move out a knight. “Your move, Bobby, and you better watch out. I’m on to all of your tricks now.”
And then … we play. He whispers which pieces to move to which square, and I move them while his mama sits in an armchair in the shadows.
“When are you getting out of here, man? I miss our conversations in the elevator.” And I will probably never get on that elevator at Patrick Henry again. “Are you still talking to Sunny?”
“No,” he whispers, and I can barely hear him.
“No? Why not?”
“No computer,” he whispers.
I look at his mama. “We’ll have to get him a computer in here, okay?”
She nods.
“So, Bobby, is Sunny your girlfriend?”
“No,” he whispers louder, and his face reddens slightly. Oh God, he’s so pale!
“Good.” My lump returns. “Because I want to be your girlfriend, Bobby Fischer.”
I take the gold chain from my purse and string the ring on it. It takes me a while to loop it around his head and clasp it behind his neck because of all the tubes. A tear escapes and falls before I can catch it.
“This means I’m your girl, Bobby, and you can never take it off.”
And then my lump goes away. It’s as if I swallowed it. I should be crying, but I can’t cry because I see joy in that boy’s eyes. And the lump doesn’t return even when I hear Bobby’s mama sniffling in the darkness.
I squeeze his hand. He whispers another move, and we continue playing. Several moves later, I see his “strategy,” and it breaks my heart.
He’s trying to lose.
He doesn’t want to win our last match.
“You’re going to let me win? What kind of move was that?”
Bobby’s eyes dance.
Wait a minute. He’s not guarding his king, but … Hey, is he trying to take my queen? No. She’s safe … If he moves that bishop there, he’s got me in check…. No … Hey, this is a stalemate. He wasn’t trying to lose.
He wants us to end in a tie.
“Stalemate,” he says, clear as a bell.
My heart leaps, and the lump returns. “You little … We tied?”
He nods.
“That is so unfair!” I smile, and swallow my lump again. “I almost had you.” I squeeze both of his hands. His hands are so cold, God. Can’t you warm him up just a little bit? “Well, I will be back tomorrow, and tomorrow I will beat you.”
“No, you won’t.”
He’s sounding stronger. Thank you, God. Help him hold on to another day.
I kiss his cheek. “You take care of yourself now, man. Get some rest, and don’t think our match tomorrow will end in a stalemate. I am going to whip your tail.”
“We’ll see,” he says. “Bye, Miss Cole.”
I shake my head. “You can call me Lana from now on, okay? I’m your girlfriend now.”
“Okay.” He blushes. “Lana.”
I take the stairs all the way down to my car, which is still there with a nice expensive ticket on it.
And then I cry all the way home.
Again.
Chapter 32
Bobby died while I was walking with Hakeem to the lunchroom the next morning. Rachel pulled me aside to tell me. I couldn’t cry around Hakeem. He wouldn’t understand.
Not that I understand either.
Another man has left me.
And now I’m sitting with Mrs. Swisher at Bobby’s funeral inside a little church stuffed to the rafters with people who knew Bobby. That little boy touched so many people’s lives! That little boy never complained about his condition, about all the things he couldn’t do, about the bad breaks he had suffered. He just … lived … smiling … and blushing at me.
He was a smiling little boy, God, and I hope you’re letting him run around for all eternity on two strong legs. And whatever you do, God, don’t let him play you in chess. He’s good. In fact, don’t let him play chess at all. Let him run … let him fly.
I sit holding Mrs. Swisher’s hand. There doesn’t seem to be a Mr. Swisher in the picture, or any other family members around, for that matter, just the people in this church. They are her family now. I’ve felt sorry for her before for the hardship of raising a dying child, but my heart sinks lower when I realize there’s no one here for her on such a tragic day.
No one except me.
But no one in this church is crying. They file in front of us to view a group of Bobby’s drawings and paintings set up on easels, then continue on to Bobby’s body, and they all walk away smiling, each giving Mrs. Swisher a nod or a hug before they return to their seats. A few even smile and nod at me.
It’s our turn. I help Mrs. Swisher to her feet, and we walk up to see Bobby’s art. He had quite an artist’s eye hiding in those shining eyes of his, using lots of color to draw or paint what he saw from his window: trees, flowers, the house across the street, clouds.
“These are so good,” I whisper. And they are. If I didn’t know better, I’d say a professional artist did these.
“And he was only ten when he did most of these,” Mrs. Swisher whispers.
We then move on to the casket, where a gleam of gold jumps off Bobby’s chest.
My ring on the gold chain.
“He’s so handsome,” I whisper to Mrs. Swisher.
She rests her hand on Bobby’s arm. “Yes. Yes, he is. And he’s still smiling.”
�
��Yes. Yes, he is.”
She leans over and kisses Bobby’s cheek. “Take care of my boy, Jesus,” she says. “I’ll see you when I get there, Bobby.”
And then I hesitate. I know that that’s not my Bobby Fischer resting there, and that his soul is somewhere else. But I can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I straighten the ring on the chain, centering it on his tie. “I’ll miss you,” I whisper.
“He loved you,” Mrs. Swisher says.
And after she says that, I am the only one in the church crying.
Mrs. Swisher has to help me back to my seat, and I feel so lost. Bobby probably did love me, and it was the purest kind of love because it was impossible. He let his heart reach out to me, a woman nearly twice his age, and he did it without thinking. He loved me without a second thought. That kind of love is pure. He gave me his smiles, his kind words, his heart. And all I can give him now are my tears.
A distinguished-looking older man steps in front of the casket, his dark black hair plastered to his head, and he smiles. How can he be smiling? The sweetest child I’ve ever known has died!
“We are all here to send Bobby Swisher home,” he says. “Bobby is not here. He is in heaven.”
Mrs. Swisher squeezes my hand tightly.
“This is a joyous time, not a time for mourning,” he continues. “Bobby is resting in the bosom of Jesus. All his pain and all his suffering are over. And if I know Bobby, he’s smiling down on all of us right now….”
I ride with Mrs. Swisher, my thoughts going a million miles a second in a million different directions. Why does Bobby’s leaving affect me so much? Is it because he was young? Is it because his life was cut short through no fault of his own?
Or is it because … Bobby Swisher truly loved me.
“He was so happy after you left the other night,” Mrs. Swisher says. “He wanted to tell me all he was feeling, but he was having trouble breathing. But I knew, Miss Cole. I knew what he wanted to say.” She puts her two tiny hands on my tear-soaked face. “He wanted to say thank you, Miss Cole, for treating him like a person, not a person with muscular dystrophy. You loved him, didn’t you?”
I can only nod.
“I could tell. Bobby had lots of folks helping him throughout his life, all nice people, mind you, but out of all of them, he talked about you the most. Miss Cole is different, he said. She doesn’t see my wheelchair. She sees me.” She wipes some of my tears away. “Thank you, Lana. You sent my boy to heaven happy.”
