Aching For It (11 page)

“What is the matter with you, you drunken sow? Get up! Get
up off the floor!” But Javier’s state of mind and inebriation reduced him to a
sack of flesh, too bulky for the older man, as hard as he tried, to raise and
prop into a sitting slouch.

“And what is this?” Montase demanded, having pinned his
reeking charge against the wall, having picked the machete up off the floor.
“Were you about to slaughter a rooster for dinner tonight?”

Even through his misery, Javier had to laugh, a slow snotty
laugh, his milky eyes searching the old man’s face but seeing only a blur.

“I am the rooster that needs be slaughtered,” he managed to
say.

“Bullshit!”

“But I no have courage to do this thing, to end this life
that should be gone.”

“You have no sense to even think such madness. You have a
boy to raise.”

“I cannot.”

“You can!”
Señor
Montase demanded, shaking the drunk
with a fatherly violence, shaking away the tears suddenly drizzling down a
twisted face. “You can and you will!”

It did not matter that Javier sobbed as uncontrollably as he
vomited.
Señor
Montase, with little sympathy, shook him more, slapped
him hard across his damp and dirty face, slapped the spit and vomit out of him,
slapped him into a little boy cowering, a cowardice that only infuriated the
old man more, who cursed himself for not having his walking stick to cane the
piteous drunkard with.

“You listen to me, Javier Saldano! You are father to a
child, not a pig in a pigsty! So get your stinking ass up off this fucking
floor and wipe those bitch tears from that dirty face of yours and clean up
this place! You cannot bring that child into this mess.”

“I am not bringing him here,
Señor
,” Javier
whimpered.

“So where you take him, to the fucking royal court of
Barcelona?”

“I tell the hospital to keep him. I cannot take care of him
if I do not live.”

“So you
will
take care of him because you
will
live.”

“No,
Señor
. I cannot live without my Isabella.”

“I see, you selfish prick. You only think of you. You no
think of your child. You no think of Isabella’s wants.”

“I want to be with her!” Javier cried out suddenly.

“So when you see her on that great other side, what you say
to her? ‘
Hola, mi amor
, I kill myself and give our baby away so I can be
with you.’ Is that what you say to her? Humph! I am sure that will make her
greet you with open arms! I should take my one good leg and kick your pathetic
ass down the road to the sea just for thinking such foolishness! Now get
yourself and this place cleaned up and go get your baby boy!”

* * * * *

That evening,
Señor
Montase and Javier, after having
explained to the hospital staff that there had been a mistake, in fact a change
of heart, brought the little baby boy back to Javier’s cottage.

“I don’t know how to raise a baby,
Señor
Montase.”

“Nobody does. Love will show you how. Now what is his name?

“Excuse me?”

“His name,
stupido
! What is your son’s name?”

“I have not thought of that.”

“You really are an idiot, Javier. Did you know that?”

“I somewhat suspect you are correct,
Señor
.”

“Look at him. Even he laughs at you.”

“He
is
laughing, isn’t he?”

“And he laugh beautifully.”

“Yes,” Javier said softly, looking down at the infant
giggling in his arms. Then he looked at
Señor
Montase. He too was
giggling.

“What is your name?” Javier asked him.

“What do you mean what is my name?”
Señor
Montase
asked, not taking his giggling eyes off the beautiful child. “Have you lost
your memory along with your sanity? My name is
Señor
Montase, you
imbecile.”

“No,
Señor
. What is your Christian name?”

“My Christian name is Étienne.”

“Then that is what he will be called. Étienne.”

* * * * *

It was no easy task, this child-rearing, for Javier Saldano,
but he did the best he could and learned much from
Señor
Étienne
Montase. It was a good thing
Señor
Montase was far too overbearing to
let Javier care for little Étienne on his own. The old man was at Javier’s
cottage every day, washing, feeding and cooing at his infant namesake. He
scolded the baby’s father for his bumbling helplessness, cursing him out when
he would return from work at the factory empty-handed of milk and diapers and
treats for the child. Rolling his eyes as he grumpily demonstrated to the
imbecile father the proper way to hold a child, hug a child, kiss a child, lull
him into a sound sleep.

In time Javier learned the fine and gentle points of
fatherhood, thanks to
Señor
Montase’s hovering tutelage, and although
the child grew more to look much like his mother, Javier fought as best he
could the sad memories of Isabella the presence of his son engendered day and
night.

This too did not escape
Señor
Montase’s eyes and
heart, but he was firm in his counsel to the young father whom he often had to
rescue from the deep melancholy merely holding his son brought forth.

“Little Étienne is you, Javier,”
Señor
Montase
scolded gently and often. “He is Isabella. He is the both of you. That is the
great gift he is.”

And that is what Javier made himself believe, from the
bottom of his heart, until the day
Señor
Montase died.

Suddenly Étie could not go on. He looked out over the gently
whooshing sea, perplexed, even a bit lost. I reached across the table and took
his hand in mine and squeezed it gently. He turned to me, looked up at me
gratefully with a smile that said, “Thank you,
Papi
. That is just what I
need.”

My smile answered back, “Anything for you, my sweet.”

We paid the bill and left our little café. The warm night
breeze felt so right and needed. Its soothing sigh was a lullaby.

We walked along El Malecón, breathing in the tropical air,
basking in the moonlight. My God, how I wanted to kiss him. And so I did. We
kissed each other desperately. We were both grateful to have each other.

Hand in hand, we walked down to the beach and kicked off our
shoes, dug our bare feet into the warm sand then eventually sat like children,
cross-legged, staring out over the water, staring up at the moon, staring at
each other, giggling every now and then. And then his head was on my shoulder,
then on my chest. My arms wrapped around him. He felt like talking again.

“As much as he try, my father could not raise me as good as
Señor
Montase could. So he give me to
Señor
Montase for raising. But it was
hard work for an old man.

“Within one year,
Señor
Montase is dead too and my
father must take me back. And that is when he see his truth about me.”

Again, Étie could not go on. I felt him shiver in my arms. I
turned him to me and looked into his eyes, eyes that struggled to say what the
voice could not.

“What, Étie?” I asked gently. “What truth did he see?”

Étie turned, pulled away from me, studied the sand beneath
his naked feet. He opened his mouth to speak. His voice was a trembling mumble.

“He see that I am killer baby.”

“Étie…” I almost cried.

“He see that I kill his wife giving birth to me. He see that
I kill his friend who try and raise me. He see that everyone I touch die.”

“Étie,” I said, grabbing him, holding him, pulling him close
to me.

“No,
Papi
.” He finally looked up at me, pulling away
again. “That was his truth. He say when
mi madre
die, he die too. That
is what he say to me. When she die, his soul die. Only pain and sorrow live.

“From the very beginning, when the doctor tell him that she
is gone, he cry. He cry tears of sorrow and tears of anger, angry at baby for
killing the great love of his life. Angry at me for killing her.

“He say if he was really evil man, he kill me too. But he
could not. He thought again to kill me, to kill this evil, when
Señor
Montase die, but he could not. What was left of the holy Father in him make him
not do this thing. So he raise me.

“But he never lose anger for what I do. And so as I grow, so
do his anger. He was in pain to look at me because I look so much like her. I
live to remind him of what he lose, what I was, what I do, and it make him
angry and sad.

“And so he beat me and curse me and hate me for looking like
her, for acting like her, for being like her. The older I get, the more I look
like her; and the more I look like her, the more he hate the reminder.

“He see love for her inside me, but he cannot have her, so
he no want to see me, because it is seeing her without having her. It is
torture that he try to blind himself to, but cannot. So he must get rid of me,
put me out, make me not in his sight. For so many years, that is his truth.”

“But it’s not
the
truth, baby.”

“I know that now,” Étie said softly. “And so did he. When I
am gone out of his sight he think he have peace. But peace did not come. It
become something else, a bad feeling, a worse feeling than before. And in time
he see that he put blame and make his child suffer for something that is fault
of no one. A child bring not death. It bring life, he tell me. For him not to
see that was bad. Very bad, he say.

“But when he finally see this, it is too late. I am already
gone and cannot see him change his way.

“He also ashamed. He ashamed of what he do to me, beat me,
curse me, spit at me and he afraid I will hate him if I see him. So even as he
look for me high and low, he is afraid still. And he know that it is his
selfishness that give him fear, him thinking what I may think of him, instead
of me knowing what he now truly felt for me.

“But when he begin to grow strong in what he know what he
must do, he grow weak with illness. He then believe illness is punishment for
his godlessness. He think it is punishment for forgetting what
Señor
Montase said to him long ago—‘Little Étienne is you, Javier. Little Étienne is
Isabella. He is the both of you. That is the great gift he is.’

“He say that he ache with guilt and pain and sorrow and
sickness when he realize that. So he go look for me. But when he see me working
at
Señor
Trujillo’s bodega, he is afraid. He is happy and sad and proud
to see that I am grown and strong young man, but he is afraid, afraid that I
will not believe that he see bad ways, that he is repentant, that he want
forgiveness from his son, that he love me.

“But he finally go to
Señor
Trujillo anyway and tell
him who he is and say that he want to see me, make it right for me, ask for my
forgiveness. He and
Señor
Trujillo pray together. But when he is about
to come and see me, he is put in hospital. He beg
Señor
Trujillo to talk
to me and that is what
Señor
Trujillo do, remember?”

“Yes, baby, I remember.”

“At first I no want to. But you,
Papi
, you make me
see the right thing to do. Thank you,
Papi
, for what you do.”

“I didn’t make you do anything you weren’t going to decide
to do on your own.”

“Well, I am glad I see him. I am glad we had private time
together. He say to me, ‘In all years I did not know how to say it, did not
have the strength, Étienne, the courage to say it. But now, now I must say to
you what I have not said before. What years have taught me is my truth and that
truth is I love you, my son, my child, my gift…I love you.’ That is what he say
to me.

“In all my life,
Papi
, I never hear those words from
him. I never hear those words from anyone. Only you. I only hear those words
from you.

“It was strangest thing, hearing him say it. I felt like
little child in dream, floating high somewhere, trying to catch my breath, but
not afraid that I would not, like on Ferris wheel or roller coaster.

“I feel me cry,” Étie continued. “He struggle to reach up
and take my hand. I bend down toward him, like praying. My tears spill on his
face. He smile at me. I whisper in his ear. I say, ‘I love you, Father.’ I then
feel him tremble and he kiss me where my tears fell. And now he cry. Tears pour
down side of his face. We hug each other. I hear him then take his last breath.

“He love me,
Papi
.
Mi padre
love me. And he
refuse to go until he tell me so. I am so glad I was able to say same to him,
that I love him. It make me think of you and your
padre
. It is wonderful
feeling for fathers and sons to tell each other they love each other. It is
blessing beyond imagination. Him and me finally be able to share that
blessing.”

I could tell by the way he held my hand, looked up into my
eyes, smiled at me, a slow, sad smile, that the peace he made with his father
was indeed real and I knew that his father had passed on in that peace.

Good fathers of color too often die so young and with little
to no fanfare. Their love moves mountains and changes lives quietly. Their
sense of self-correction, though sometimes slow, is steady when it recognizes
itself and walks along the course of rightness.

* * * * *

On Saturday, June 18, 2001, Javier Marcos Saldano Jimenez
was laid to rest. Étie stood over his father’s open grave where the coffin had
been slowly lowered. The handful of mourners who had attended the services
dispersed. Only Étie and I remained.

“
Papi
?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you know what it is that I do now realize?”

“What, baby?”

“I am a true orphan.”

“Yes.”

“No, no. It is not bad thing. It is sad thing, but not bad.”

“Okay.”

“To be orphan, you must have parents who have gone on. Well,
I have parents. I have a mother and I have a father. And they are now gone. So
I am a true orphan.”

“Yes, baby, you are.”

“But orphan or not, I am a son. And I will always be a son.
Now I am orphan son, but a son with a mother and a father. I am part of what is
called beautiful cycle of life. All what my father say to me about my mother is
what he say about himself. I am their son. And, orphan or not, I am glad to be
their son. I am glad to be his son.”

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just an old, over-sentimental,
hopelessly romantic gay guy from Los Angeles, but at that very moment I knew. I
knew for sure. I could not have loved Étienne Saldano more.

We made beautiful love that night. Perhaps the kind of love
my mother and father made, his mother and father made.

The next day we boarded our flight to the States. It was
Étie’s first airplane flight. He was thrilled beyond comprehension. There were
so many wonderful firsts that lay ahead of him. There were so many wonderful
firsts that lay ahead for the both of us. We would finally be together, living
together in Los Angeles, in America, in a house of love, looked over by our
heavenly fathers.

Still, with all the good ahead of us, I couldn’t help but
think how all of this could go terribly wrong. Once Étie was in America,
legally married to my sister, an American citizen, he would have to spend two
years on probation. During those two years, he and she would be under the
constant scrutiny of immigration officials. The discovery of marriage fraud
could result in Étie being deported and never allowed back in the US again and
the conviction of my baby sister on federal charges.

Yes, I was indeed in bliss. But I was deeply concerned. I
couldn’t help but think about Sylvester Winfrey. And what he knew. And what he could
do with what he knew.

Still, I believed so deeply in the love Étie and I shared.
It was a love that could conquer all. Even Sylvester Winfrey.

The End