Amigoland by Oscar Casares Page B

that his hair had turned completely white on him when he was still in his fifties
     did little to change his overall appearance. The front still rose into what once might have been called a pompadour, though
     on a mature man he believed it presented more of a distinguished look. Whether it had been because of his appearance or his
     manner around her or his interest in her life outside of work, it had been enough to draw her closer to him. Since then, though,
     he hadn’t been sure what he was supposed to do next. He was, after all, supposed to be mourning the loss of his wife, who
     at the time had been gone only a few months.
    Close to an hour had passed when he heard a slight cough from the other side of the curtain. “Still awake?”
    “I thought this medicine was supposed to make you sleep,” Salinas answered. “You never know with these doctors.”
    “When I was a young man, we had different ways of curing a person.”
    “You see me here in this bed only because of my wife. She’s the one who has people on this side. I come from Saltillo.”
    “Close to Monterrey.”
    “You have come to visit the city?”
    “No,” Don Celestino said, “but my family came from Nuevo León, close to the town of Linares.”
    “For many years I had business in Linares.” Salinas used the control pad to adjust the bed into a reclining position. “Maybe
     I met some of your family.”
    “My grandfather came here sometime around eighteen fifty.”
    “Only yesterday, eh?” The man laughed to himself.
    “He used to tell us a funny story about how he was kidnapped by the Indians and brought here, over to this side.”
    “One of my uncles used to tell stories like that,” his neighbor said. “But you know how people like to talk, share stories
     about their families. One never knows whether to believe them, if they’re not just stories made up to pass the time.”
    “It always seemed made up to me, but my grandfather liked to say it was true about the Indians.”
    “And now all your family is from over here?”
    “From here, only that my daughters and my son moved away a long time ago.”
    “But you must have some other people that live close by?”
    For a second he considered mentioning his one remaining brother, but they hadn’t spoken in years. “I used to,” he said finally.
     “One of my daughters lives in Chicago and I have two more in San Antonio, and my son is close to Dallas, all with their own
     families.”
    “And they came to visit you here?”
    “I didn’t want to bother them — the doctor said he would let me go home soon, maybe tomorrow.”
    Salinas cleared his throat as if he were looking for something to say or maybe just the best way to say it.
    “When they were bringing me in this afternoon, I saw a young lady leaving the room.”
    “That was a friend of mine,” Don Celestino responded, hoping he wouldn’t have to say much more.
    “My wife would never let me have a friend like that,” he said, and shook his head.
    “For now that’s all she is.”
    “And someday,” Salinas said, “you think she might be more than your friend?”
    “There are some people who would think she was too young for a man like me.”
    “She looks young, but not too young. The better question is not whether she’s too young, but more whether you are too old.”
    Don Celestino gazed at the silhouette across the partitioning curtain. “That sounds like the same problem.”
    “Not really. If she’s too young, it means she is not mature enough and ready to give herself to you. But if you’re too old,
     it means you have nothing left to give her in return.”
    “And if we’re not living together, how am I supposed to know if I still have enough to give her?”
    His neighbor sat up a little more, tucking the pillow behind him. “Are you asking me how you find out if it will last, but
     without taking any risk?”
    “Something like that.”
    Salinas laughed to himself again. “Then what you really want to