A
t Seventy-second Street, we say a quick good-bye. Alan rides on to the Ninety-sixth Street stop. I come up from the train onto Broadway, amidst thousands of snowflakes floating down. The wind is catching them up and swirling them around the streetlights. As strangers pass, we smile at one another, sharing the beauty of it.
At Maria's door, you greet me in your pajamas.
“Get dressed! It's snowing,” I say.
“Mom, we're watching TV.” You're not as excited as I want you to be.
“Oh, come on!” I say. “How often do we get to play in the snow?”
So you get dressed. Maria helps you on with your coat. “Don't stay out too long,” she says.
Outside, we lift our faces to the falling snow. We gather it in handfuls. Everything is being covered in a pristine white blanket. You stick out your tongue to catch the fat flakes.
“Isn't it spectacular?” I ask you.
“It's freezing!” You have snow on your eyelashes. I think of that song from
The
Sound of Music
about snowflakes on noses and whiskers on kittens.
You laugh up at me mischievously. You're making a snowball and want to hit me with it, but you don't want it to hurt. You toss it at my feet, giggling.
“Thanks for coming out to play with me,” I say.
“You're welcome, Mom.” What a lovely girl you are, Minnow. I want to remember this sight of you forever: ten years old, happy grin, snow in your hair. But you're shivering in your lightweight coat, and the wind is whistling in my ears. It's becoming a blizzard.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yes!” you say.
“Let's get inside!”
Maria is waiting for us with hot, sweet tea. We huddle together on the couch and watch the end of a made-for-TV movie. I hold your ice-cube feet in my hands. Hector drifts in and out. We all agree the movie is stupid. Still, it makes Maria cry at the end, which makes us laugh.
After the movie, the eleven o'clock news comes on. They're predicting over a foot of snow will fall, and all the public schools will be closed. You dance around happily as Maria and I make up the sofa bed. “Okay, time to calm down,” I tell you. “Go brush your teeth. It's late.”
“Listen to your mother,” Maria says.
I
n the morning the light hurts my eyes and I have a headache. I'm hungover from the three glasses of wine. I search through Maria's medicine chest for an aspirin, pop three Advil, and remember that Gabriel's number waits in my pocket.
I wake you and we get dressed. Maria asks us to stay for breakfast, but we're ready to go. We say our good-byes to her and race down the stairs.
Outside, the snow is deep and undisturbed. It takes a while to get to the subway. “Carry me!” you plead.
“You're too heavy,” I say. “You can make it! Take big steps.”
We shiver on the cold platform waiting for the express train to Fourteenth Street. By the time we get home, our feet are soaking wet and we're frozen. “Get right into the hot shower,” I tell you. But you don't want to. You take off your wet boots and socks and climb into my bed. The cats meow and complain. I fill their water bowl and give them breakfast; put on a pot of coffee for myself. “Cereal or eggs?” I call to you.
“Pancakes,” you say.
“Cereal or eggs?” I repeat.
“Cereal!”
As we eat our breakfast, I'm thinking about Gabriel when you say, “Does my father still live in Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” I say, startled by our apparent telepathy. “Why do you ask?” It's been a while since you've brought him up.
“How old is my father now? What if he gets old and dies before I get to meet him?”
“He's not that old,” I tell you, but I realize it's not something you're ever going to stop thinking about.
“My father's name is Gabriel and he's a singer,” you say.
“That's right.”
“Can we go to Los Angeles? I want to see him.”
“You met him once,” I say.
“I know. He bought me ice cream when I was a baby. But I don't remember him.”
You look at me with a face that so resembles his.
“Let's see what happens, honey,” I tell you.
I
run all the way from Fourth Avenue.
All morning, I've been working with a Wall Street trader who didn't like any of the luxury apartments I had to show him. He took his time wandering through the last place, pointing out its flaws. I kept checking my watch. Finally, he asked, in an irritated tone, “Am I keeping you from something?”
“Actually, I am late for another appointment,” I said, kissing the commission good-bye.
Out of breath, I arrive ten minutes late at the French bistro on the corner of Eleventh Street and find Gabriel waiting out front in the cold. I remember one of his pet peeves is being kept waiting. “I'm so sorry I'm late,” I say. “Why didn't you go in?”
He shrugs and grunts, but holds the door open, and I go through it.
We're seated in the back at a cozy table. The bistro is new and they've done a good job of it. It's comfortable and stylish with small marble tables; a large antique mirror hangs over a substantial oak bar. Gabriel doesn't notice or care. Our favorite restaurant, during the years we were together, was a neighborhood Cuban-Chinese joint where I learned to order dishes like
bistec salteado,
pepper steak, and
maduros,
sweet plantains. Its casual greasy food was the kind he liked best.
“So, what's up?” Gabriel wants to know. This is after we've ordered. I've told him about the real estate job, and he's described a house he's renovating in Malibu. We hold our coffee cups with both hands to warm them.
“Minnow wants to meet you,” I say.
“Is she even mine?” he asks, quick and sharp. Dear Minnow, don't hold it against him. Human beings are so imperfect. You have his broad cheeks and intelligent eyes.
“You know she's yours,” I say softly. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. “She's a fantastic girl. She loves to read. She's incredibly smart. And she can sing.”
He looks old and tired. How old is he now? Forty-six or forty-seven? Looking at him, I have this thought: During the time I first knew him, he was the best he will ever be.
Somehow, I convince him to come for an early dinner before he leaves for the airport the next day. I promise him he can leave after an hour if he wants to.
“I'll have to,” he says. “My flight leaves at nine.”
“Okay,” I say. I remember when he used to miss his flights on purpose. He'd take too long saying good-bye, and then rush off, only to return an hour later to spend another night in my arms.
Ya te extraño,
he'd say. Already I miss you.
Walking back to the apartment, I think about how excited you'll be. I'm dying to tell you, but promise myself to wait. I don't want you to have too much time to worry about it. Still, when I pick you up that afternoon, the secret is showing on my face.
“What is it, Mom?” you ask. I try to pretend it's nothing but you won't stop asking. I make up answers to throw you off, but you can tell they aren't the real secret I'm keeping.
Finally, you wear me down. We've ordered a pizza for dinner. We're sitting at the table, the TV's going in the background, and I say it: “I met with your father today.”
You couldn't look more shocked if I told you I'd had a heart transplant.
“He's coming here to have dinner with us tomorrow.”
I see your wheels turning. “But I thought he lived in Los Angeles.”
“He lives in Los Angeles, but he happens to be in New York right now. He has to go home tomorrow night, in fact. After he has dinner with us, he's going straight to the airport.”
You don't say anything.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“What if he doesn't like me?”
My girl, it kills me to see my awful insecurity passed along to you. “Minnow, listen to me. He's going to love you. What's more important is that you get to decide if you like him.”
You don't look convinced.
“Come here,” I say, holding out my arms, but you're ten going on sixteen and don't want to be comforted by your mother. “I promise you, it's going to be great,” I say, and reach across to tuck a stray nutty-brown curl behind your ear. “He's going to love you, and everything is going to be fine.”
We spend the next twenty-four hours in a flurry of anticipation. We can't sleep. We aren't hungry. We don't want to go to work or to school. When we do go, we can't concentrate. I clean the house and shop for a special meal. You change your outfit three times.
“Stop,” I say finally. “Why don't you read your book or watch a little TV.”
“I'm too excited to read,” you say, hopping on one foot.
Through the big windows that face Sixth Avenue, we see the snow start to fall. I can't remember another winter when we've had so much of it.
With your nose to the glass, you wait for him. “Mama, do you think he might not come because of the snow?”
“He'll be here,” I say, and pray he will.
Right on time, the door buzzer sounds. You gasp and cover your mouth with your hands.
“Calmate, mi amor,”
I say, trying to calm myself, too. The Spanish words feel good on my tongue.
And there he is, standing in our living room: five foot nine or ten, hat in his hands, scarce hair standing on end, shining brown eyes that peek past heavy lids, broad, ruddy cheeks, a mischievous smile that exposes small, even teeth. “So, we meet again,” he says to you, very dramatically.
“You don't know me,” you say in wonder.
“Of course I do,” he teases. “Don't you remember me?”
Instantly, you fall under his spell. “You bought me ice cream once, when I was a baby.”
“That's true,” he says. “You had a pointy head.”
“No, I didn't!”
“Yes, I'm afraid you did. It was very pointy. It was so pointy, you could only wear pointy hats.”
“Mom!” you exclaim, and look to me for verification that you never had a pointy head. I'm so moved by this silly exchange, tears are stinging my eyes and throat. I quickly wipe them away with the back of my hand, shrug, and smile at you.
“I'm staying out of this,” I say. I take Gabriel's coat. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“Sure,” he says, and then turns back to you. “Do you have a boyfriend?” His teasing is warm and flirtatious. He's always had a weakness for a pretty girl.
“No, I don't,” you say. “I'm ten!”
“I'll bet you have two!”
It goes on and on like this. I light the candles and we sit down to dinner: roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and homemade corn bread. I watch the two of you fall in love and your happiness fills me to the brim.
The snow is our accomplice. He calls to see if his flight is on schedule, and it's been delayed. They say to check back in an hour, so he stays for dessert. I pile scoops of vanilla ice cream onto generous slices of warm apple pie.
Outside, the snow falls and falls, closing the airports and sealing our fate. For tonight, at least, he is ours.
After dinner, he picks up my Martin, gathering dust in its stand; sits down on my bed and tunes it quickly. You curl your legs under as you take a seat beside him.
The song he sings is called “Baby's in Black.” It's one of his favorites, I remember, a song by the Beatles. His rhythmic playing gives it a Latin feel. He shows you a harmony for the chorus. “Can you remember that?”
“Uh-huh,” you say, with serious eyes.
Your voices together blend into one, both reedy and strong. The sound of it rings to the ceiling, beautiful and full. I applaud and whistle. After, you grin and look to him for what's next.
“You wanna play something, Lisa?” Gabriel holds out the guitar to me, and I take it from him. In my arms it feels like a beloved pet left too long at the kennel.
Instead of playing one of my own revealing songs, I try to remember another by the Beatles, one I used to play at the piano when I was a kid. As I sing the words to “I Will,” I hear myself making a promise to wait a lonely lifetime, and it feels painfully personal as if I mean every word of it. Gabriel doesn't seem to notice. “Beautiful,” he says, taking the guitar back from me. “I love that song.”
You stay awake for as long as you can, but finally, just before midnight, agree to get ready for bed. “Gabriel, will you read me a chapter in my book?” you ask him.
“Just one,” I say. “It's very late.”
You take his hand, and the two of you go together into your room. I blow out the candles. The hot wax has burned down the sides of the heavy candlesticks and pooled on the rustic wood of the pine table. I clear the dessert plates and load the dishwasher, wipe down the counters in the kitchen. When I turn the water off, I can just make out his voice saying good night to you.
Gabriel comes in behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. I turn to face him. We're standing so close I can smell the wine on his breath.
“I better go,” he says. We both know he'll never get a cab in this blizzard.
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“She's everything you said and more,” he says. “I want to help her. What does she need? Who pays for her school?”
“She goes to public school.”
“I want to help her,” he says again.
“Okay,” I say, but I don't ask how or when. I dry my hands and get his coat; walk him down the single flight of stairs to the front door of my building. The plows are already coming up Sixth Avenue.
“Thanks for dinner,” Gabriel says, adjusting his hat. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Here and there.” I can't help smiling at him, the way I always have. Even now, after everything, no one else makes me feel the way he does. When he kisses me good-bye, I lean into it. He still wears the same cologne and smells good. “Do you remember when you used to call me Pajarito?” I ask.
“Of course I do,” he says. “You're still a little bird, just a little fatter one.” His accent makes this sound more charming than you'd think. “I'll be in touch,” he says, heading off into the snow.
I don't know why I believe him, but I do. After he goes, I climb the stairs back to the apartment, turn off the lights, and polish off the rest of the wine in the dark. I've spent way too much on it and the meal. I don't know how I'm going to stretch what's left in the bank for another two weeks.
Outside, the snow makes it feel as if the whole city is asleep, or maybe it's Gabriel's absence that makes the night seem so quiet.