by Michael Nava
“Of course,” I told him, “Trujillo is a guess. She might have divorced and remarried.”
“You don’t have anything else? DOB? Social Security?”
“Just a name and a town,” I said. “I thought you could get anything on the internet these days.”
Freeman snorted. “You think the web’s like a Ouija board. I’ll get back to you.”
The sky was clear and bright above the tiers of half-filled seats in Dodger Stadium. The typical Dodger fan, John had explained to me, arrived around the middle of the third inning and skipped out at the seventh inning stretch to avoid traffic. Out on the field, the visiting Giants were taking batting practice. The sight of the Giants’ black and orange took me back to childhood and going with my father to Candlestick, when the Giants had more Latin players than other teams in the majors: Orlando Cepeda, the Alou brothers, José Pagan and Juan Marichal, the first living Latino player inducted into the Hall of Fame. Almost more than the game itself, I think what my father loved was the sight of those dark-skinned, Spanish-speaking men outplaying the americanos at their own game. Their heroics on the field, and a couple of beers, must have made him feel bigger in his own life—for a few hours, anyway. On the long drive home, we regaled each other by reliving the big plays of the game, a sweet catch by Pagan or a strike-out by Marichal or another Cepeda homer. Those were the happiest moments I ever had with my dad. By the time I was ten, our expeditions to el béisbol were over, and after that there were no happy memories.
“Hey, Henry,” John said, nudging me. He’d gone off to buy a couple of Dodger dogs and had returned to his seat while I was lost in the past. “You with me?”
“I was thinking about my dad.”
“Must have been a good memory,” he said. “You were smiling. Here’s your dog. Con todo, like you said. Mustard, relish, onion—you sure it’s okay for you to eat this with your heart and all?”
“If it’s not,” I said, biting into the hot dog, “I’ll die a happy man.”
He looked momentarily alarmed, then relaxed and grinned. He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a short-sleeved yellow silk shirt, half-unbuttoned to take in the sun. His Dodgers cap covered his graying hair and I could almost see the teenage prospect he had been when he played for the Dodgers farm teams. He must have been a beautiful boy, I thought, and then wondered who I was protecting by putting it in the past tense.
“You don’t wish sometimes you were down there on the field?”
“Ancient history,” he said, then relented. “Yeah, sometimes. I can remember going out to the mound at the beginning of the season and being totally focused on throwing the ball, like my whole life was behind that pitch.” He slurped some lemonade. “Getting the ball over the plate was the easiest thing in the world and the hardest at the same time. I haven’t felt that intense about anything since. Man, I was so alive I could feel the hair on the back of my neck. Pues, if I’d known at the time I was playing that this was as good as life was gonna get, I woulda paid more attention.”
“That was the peak for you?”
“Sure,” he said, cramming the last of his dog into his mouth. “There’ve been other things that were beautiful, like when my kids were born, but playing baseball, that belonged to me. That was my moment. You ever experience something like that?”
“Nothing that intense. Well, maybe my first couple of trials. You have mustard on your chin.”
“I eat like a pig, don’t I? Sorry. You ever play baseball?”
“Only as a kid. I was a decent batter and I could run, but I couldn’t catch a watermelon.”
The Giants finished up, and a local chanteuse came on the field and sang a breathy version of the national anthem that made it sound like a Cole Porter ballad. The line-ups were announced, Kevin Brown threw the first pitch—a ball—to Benard, the Giants’ centerfielder, and the game began. Within seconds, I was eight years old again, mesmerized by nonchalant heroics on the field: balls that whizzed by at 90-plus miles an hour, a hop-up catch at the fence, a runner thrown out from across the diamond, a long slide almost beneath the baseman’s cleats into second.
Somewhere around the bottom of the third, John said, “You having fun, Henry?”
“You can’t imagine.”
“I think I can,” he said quietly.
I glanced at him. “Yeah, I guess you can.” I put my arm around him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. He grinned without taking his eyes off the game.
We were out on the deck finishing a dinner of Chinese takeout and watching the sun set. I was still buzzing from the game. The sky was filled with dusty reds and pinks, and the moon had begun to emerge.
John, standing at the railing, pointed at the sky. “Pretty colors, huh? What would you call that one?”
“Pollution pink.”
He grinned and said, “Gonna be a full moon. Want to do something wild?”
“Sitting out here without a sweater is as wild as I get at the moment. I had a great time today.”
“Me, too,” he said. “You tired? You want me to go?”
“No, not unless you have to…”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“I thought maybe you had a date with your girlfriend.”
He shook his head. “We’re going out tomorrow to Catalina on her brother’s boat.”
“Sounds nice,” I said, experiencing a fleeting jab of envy.
He sat at the edge of my chaise and looked at me with his sad eyes. “I don’t know if you can even call Deanna my girlfriend. She doesn’t want it to be that serious.”
“Do you?”
“You know that thing you said the other night, Henry, about your dick being connected to your heart? And I said so is mine? Deanna’s wired different.” He sipped the Coke he had in his hand. “I asked her to marry me, she told me to lighten up. Things haven’t really been the same since then. It’s kind of winding down between us.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.
He looked at me for a moment, and I could see him working something out in his eyes, the same way he had the first afternoon right before he asked me whether I was gay. “Are you really sorry, Henry? Don’t you like me?”
I was acutely aware of his hand on my leg. I looked down at it. “I like you fine, John.”
“I like you, too,” he said. He scooched up on the chaise and took my hand in his and threaded our fingers together. His hand was warm and callused, a workingman’s hand. My father’s hand. “I like you a lot, Henry.”
It was as if my vision had been blurred, but now, abruptly, my focus returned and I saw him clearly and with such immediacy that my head seemed to snap back an inch. “Are you gay, John?”
He squeezed my hand playfully, then let it fall. “Life ain’t baseball, Henry. There’s more than two teams.”
“Which one do you play on?”
“I never finished telling you about my divorce,” he replied quietly.
“You said you were unfaithful. Was that with a guy?”
He bristled. “I fell in love with a guy. I figured that made me gay. Suzie and I got a divorce and I moved in with Tom. A couple of years later, when that broke up, I was back at singles bars hitting on women.”
“Because you decided you weren’t gay after all?”
He frowned. “I was real confused, but eventually I accepted the fact that I’m attracted to men and women. It’s the person that matters.”
“This guy—Tom—he was your first guy?”
“I had the feelings for a long time, but I liked girls fine so it wasn’t something I needed to explore. More like I was curious, and if the opportunity had come up I might have done something about it. Playing baseball, that didn’t happen. Baseball players are not real open-minded, plus there were always baseball Annies around for sex.”
“No baseball Andys?”
He grinned. “Not that ever came on to me. After I got out of the game, there were a couple of times when I’d let some queen give me a blowjob, but I had to
be real drunk and it never felt right. Plus I got married, had my kids, got into trouble. I had enough to think about. After I got sober, I went to some AA meetings where there were gay guys. First ones I ever really talked to. That’s where I met Tom. I didn’t even know he was gay at first. He was just a regular guy.”
“That was important to you?”
“Look, Henry, you’re mexicano, too, so you know the drill. Men are men. The only homosexual Mexican I ever met when I was a kid was one of my grown-up cousins who lived with his mom and wore more makeup than her. That’s what I thought all homosexuals were like. I was attracted to men. Until I met Tom, I didn’t know someone could be both.” He grinned. “Tom helped me get over that machismo complex. He taught me there are all kinds of men, and some of them like to wear dresses sometimes.”
“What happened between you and him?”
“When I was married to Suzie, I felt like part of me was buried under all the weight of being a husband. A couple of years with Tom, I had the same feelings about being his lover. It’s like you have to choose a side and stick with it. Be all straight or all gay. Man, I like brunch, but I like baseball, too, you know? Whoever I’m with, I just want to be able to be myself.” He looked at me. “You know what I mean?”
“I’m not bisexual, John.”
“No, but you’re real,” he said.
“When did you decide that?”
He laughed. “When I walked into your house that first day. I saw the picture of your lover and then I looked around at your living room, and I thought, He’s gay but he doesn’t have gay furniture. Then we got to talking and I saw that you were just a decent guy. You reminded me of the boys I played softball with in the street when I was a kid. Most gay Latinos I meet are still pretty much into role-playing. One guy’s the man, one guy’s the woman. That’s bullshit. Gay Anglos, man, they treat each other like shit, like they’re taking out on each other all the hate they have to deal with for being gay in the first place. You’re different, Henry. You’re just a person, like me. I think we could get something going. Something sweet. What do you think?”
“Not if being bisexual means you screw guys on the side but if anyone asks, you have a girlfriend.”
His face darkened and he took a deep breath. “When I left my wife for another guy, I didn’t lie to anyone. My whole family knew. Suzie went crazy. I had to get a court order to see my kids. Suzie and I are okay now, but my daughter still barely talks to me. I do things in the open, okay?”
He was so handsome at that moment—his chin tipped forward defiantly but his eyes unguarded and his hair mashed down from his baseball cap. I felt a surge of tenderness and affection for him. He was right—we were like the boys that we had grown up with, we spoke the same language, but we were familiar to each other in ways that didn’t require language at all. I didn’t know what else we’d end up being to each other, but I knew I wanted his friendship.
“I’m sorry if I was a jerk,” I said. “You caught me by surprise. I thought you were just being nice to a sick guy who didn’t seem to have anyone to look after him.”
“Yeah, that too,” he said. “You do need someone to take care of you, but sabes que that’s not all I want to do with you.”
I think I may have blushed. “You know, John, there hasn’t been anyone since Josh. I’m way out of practice with this stuff.”
“What stuff?”
I shrugged. “Don’t embarrass me.”
He hopped up and extended his hand. “Come on.”
I let him pull me to my feet. “Should I get my mitt? You sound like we’re going to play catch.”
He grinned, then pulled my body against his and kissed me. He smelled like cotton left out to dry in the sun. When his tongue touched the inside of my mouth, it was as if I had awakened into my body after a long, gray sleep.
“See?” he said, releasing me. “You remember.”
“Wait,” I said, pulling him back. “I’m not sure. How does it go?”
“Chistoso,” he said, and then we didn’t talk.
The doorbell rang.
“You expecting someone?” he whispered into my ear.
“No,” I said. It rang again. I let go of him. “Someone really wants to talk to me.”
I headed toward the door, but he grabbed my arm. “Wait up.”
At the door, I peered through the peephole and saw a boy standing on the porch. He was maybe ten years old, shivering in a T-shirt and jeans.
“It’s just a kid,” I said. “Selling candy or paper subscriptions or something.”
“At eight o’clock on a Saturday night?”
I opened the door. The boy looked at me with eyes that were both suspicious and hopeful.
“Can I help you?” I asked, recognition slowly dawning.
Then, from behind him, out of the darkness, a woman stepped forward. I had not yet made out her face when I heard her say, “Uncle Henry?”
7.
HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER, John repeated softly behind me, “Uncle Henry?” And then her face emerged, a smooth, dark-skinned moon. She had a smaller, softer version of my own beak of a nose, and the corners of her small mouth were turned upward in a worried smile. Her large eyes were black as figs. She stepped further into the light. Her dark, straight hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing jeans and a rumpled blouse and, unlike Elena and me, she was short and plump. A large crucifix lay between her breasts. The Vicky I had imagined was a streetwise chola who applied makeup with a trowel and beamed attitude. This woman quivered like a small, gentle animal that had barely eluded a predator. And in this, as Elena had observed, she seemed very much like our mother. I glanced down at the boy. There was nothing childlike in the dark eyes that met mine and took my measure. He wore a mucky pair of jeans and a stained Giants T-shirt. His greasy hair framed a small face that startled me with how familiar it seemed. Big saucer eyes, bird’s beak nose, full Indian mouth, skin the red-brown of cinnamon. Elena was right about him, too; he looked so much like me at that age it was like peering at a mirror into the past. From the way he continued to stare at me, it seemed he must be having the same experience in reverse.
I looked at his mother. “Vicky?”
She nodded. “This is my son, Angelito.” She glanced at John. “I’m sorry to bother you…”
“You’re not,” I said. “Come inside. This is my friend, John DeLeon.”
They murmured introductions as I led them into the living room. We all sat down.
“What a beautiful home you have,” my niece exclaimed.
“Who’s that man in the picture?” Angelito asked, pointing to the photograph of Josh on the mantel above the fireplace.
She slapped at the air between them and said, “Angel, silencio.”
“He was my friend,” I said. “We just finished dinner, but there’s lots of food. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
The boy’s eyes brightened at the mention of food, even as my niece politely refused.
“It really won’t be any trouble at all to warm something up.”
“Well,” she said. “If it’s no trouble…”
Angelito said, “I’m hungry.”
“Come on, Vicky, let’s take a look in the fridge. John can keep Angelito company. Okay, John?”
John winked. “Sure. Hey, Angelito, you’re a Giants fan? Your uncle and me went to see them play the Dodgers today—”
I pulled open the refrigerator door and we surveyed the leftovers: macaroni and cheese; chili and a pan of cornbread; a stew; white cartons of Chinese takeout; half a pizza.
“Oh,” she said. “There’s so much.”
“I’ve been recovering from a heart attack and my friends have been bringing me food so I wouldn’t have to cook.” I pulled out the macaroni and cheese, a bag of salad. “Will this be okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry you were sick, Uncle Henry.”
I distrusted the note of solicitude in her voice. “Call me Henry. The microwave will be faste
r than the oven.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, taking the pasta.
I opened the bag of salad, poured it into a bowl and went back into the refrigerator for salad dressing. “What would you like to drink? There’s mineral water, some fruit juice. After dinner, you and I have got to talk.”
Her back was to me, her shoulder tensed. “I’ll just drink water.”
“Milk for Angelito?”
She turned around, her eyes tearing. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry,” I said. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll work something out. Elena will be relieved to know you’re here. How did you find me?”
“I took your address from my mom’s address book when I left her house,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
A host of questions came to mind, but they could wait until after she and the boy had eaten. “I’m glad you did,” I said. “I wanted to meet you and Angel. You take care of things in here while I set the table.”
I went back out to the living room and found John and Angelito on the couch watching clips from the day’s baseball games on ESPN and chatting authoritatively about pitchers and pennants. John said something and the boy responded with a high, soft peal of laughter, the little-solider stolidity momentarily set aside.
“Angelito, come and have some dinner,” I said.
He looked at me over his shoulder, his eyes neither friendly nor unfriendly, and said, “They’re going to tell us the American League scores.”
“You can leave the TV on. John, you want anything?”
John got up and said, “I’m going to cut out.”
Angelito asked anxiously, “Are you coming back?”
“Not tonight,” John said. “But I’m working down the street so I’ll be around. Come and see me. H’okay?”
“H’okay,” Angelito replied.
I thought, John knows the kid ten minutes and they’ve already got a private language going. But then John was a father. I began to panic. What was I supposed to do with my wayward niece and her sullen son?
At that moment, Vicky came in with the food. “Aren’t you staying?” she asked John.
