The whole story
Sanctuary
Two blocks south of that park with the Cuban airplane, my girlfriend’s family hosted their Last Dinner. It was everyone’s Last Dinner that evening, so the streets were empty, dirty. Even Hospital Row had gone mute, lights off, ambulances scattered outside. My father and his malignant wife invited me to theirs—me of all people. But I went to Andrea’s home instead.
It was my first time meeting Andrea’s dad, Ramiro, the veteran, his handshake intent on suffocation. Andrea’s cousins were there. Her twin aunts too. Vallenatos leaked from Bose speakers. The tables were obelisks of pork rinds and pastries, not a zucchini in sight. Andrea’s sister staked out a dark corner of the living room, wiping her eyes and nose as she played with the toddlers.
My father-in-law, I guess you can call him that, Ramiro, asked me to fetch a new round of beers. This was a big deal at the González house, so they oohed and aahed—“Look at you, Jacobo”—while I paraded into the kitchen and popped open the fridge. And what a fridge! It had been weeks since I had seen such a bounty of ham, the jams, the milk! Where on earth did he find fresh milk? I took a six-pack, lugged it to the living room, handed out the bottles while the family clapped. Even the six-year-old got one.
After a few beers and a truckload of stories that made Andrea blush, I took a trip to the bathroom. The one in the hall was busy with three or four bodies tangled up, fleshy. I waited, but the moaning got louder, so I burrowed farther in until I bumped into a locked door. A red-circled sensor woke and read my face. The door hissed open: “Welcome, Ramiro.” I should’ve backed away, but my bladder overruled my brain.
A room with the size and feel of a mausoleum materialized on the other side. A mirror asked for facial recognition, so I offered my face—unshaved, smudged glasses, the sinking-ship look.
“Glad to have you back, Ramiro,” a soothing baritone said. The lights softened, Latin jazz started, slippers slid from under a bed that called to me with its pillows, its silk, its thread count. On the bedside table, a metal case chirped open. Inside, a .38 nested on a tiny pillow. Everything you need.
The bathroom door stood open, a glare of white lights and tan marble. I found myself kicking off my tennis shoes, peeling my jeans, rolling into bed.
“Would you like grapes this evening, Ramiro?” the voice said.
Gears whirred, and a bowl filled with green grapes appeared on a small round table.
“Would you prefer a waterfall or white noise for your sleep?”
I say yes to everything—yes to the overcooked fettuccine my dad offers, yes to the white wine his wife is pouring, yes to the leafy salad my uncle holds in silver tongs. My plate fills, my glass fills, soon we’re talking about the latest on The Incident and debating whether washing dishes is worth the bother.
My two cents: “It’s the tree-falls-in-a-forest problem, except there’s blood everywhere.”
My cousin Carolina’s two cents: “I wash dishes for the presence of it, to fully inhabit the moment.”
Not all of us frown, but nearly. Carolina starts on a ceremony in Bhutan, their way of goodbye and dissolution, and my dad’s wife, bless her sick soul, blasts “Girl from Ipanema” and blames the new turntable.
I carry plates to the kitchen sink, force of habit, and my dad’s wife, Victoria, but call her Vicky, hon, you’re family, sidles next to me and extends her arm, fist closed. I open my hand, and pills pelt my palm.
“Huh?” I say. Seriously.
“Take your meds, hon,” she says. There’s that pink gastritis pill my dad’s been on for years.
“I’m not—” I start. Yes, it’s dark in the kitchen, but not that dark.
“Come on now.” She twists the tap and water falls into an empty wineglass. “Be a good boy, Felix.” She squeezes my cheeks.
“I’m not—” I say again, but this time she shushes me with a long finger to her lips, tightens thumb and forefinger around my wrist, takes me down the hall. In the TV room there’s Carolina on her knees and my cousin Jaime above her. Knew it!
I’m led through doors and into rooms that get darker and darker, until light is a rumor and my body is steered across a sheetless mattress by hands sure as cuffs. Five minutes tops, and I’m on the tiled floor, panting, my back freezing, while the other body roams the bed. Her nails rasp the grooves in the mattress. The sting of gastritis climbs my throat.
“Are you there, Felix, hon?” the voice says.
“I’m not—” I start. Silence. My eyes begin to find patterns in the dark.
Behind the story
On the way.
