one of you is coming to life,” I said, rising to take down his image. “This will give you courage,” I said, examining the creamy rectangle behind Hector’s picture that had been hiding from the candles’ sooty flames. “Maybe you can push through these walls too,” I said to the faces. To Elena, Alberto, José. I stood on tiptoes to hold Hector’s picture up to Felipe. “Look who is coming home today.” I kissed my finger and touched it to my husband’s lips, and quickly did it twice more for the twins.
Then Hector came.
Two faces peered from each window after Pocked María yelled, “Here they are!” The Buick eased carefully into the driveway, as if Uncle Paolo suddenly remembered a carton of eggs he’d left up on top. When they stopped, three doors popped open, and the uncles disembarked to scurry to the fourth. Uncle Eliseo got there first, opened the door, and reached his hands deep inside. Uncle Luis grabbed Eliseo’s hips from behind to add strength, but he needn’t have bothered, because the form Eliseo withdrew was so thin and brittle. Fat Carmelita said, “Sweet Jesus, Ana. He walks like an old-old man. Like Don Migalito with his popping knees.”
We gathered in the living room prepared with smiles and embraces. María warned the children, but we were still afraid they would rush and cling to Hector begging sweets. But when he finally came into the house, so stooped and narrow, the brightness slid from the children’s faces. They ran to the kitchen to hide behind Fat Carmelita, who remembered just in time about the flan before it burned.
I wanted to hide behind her apron, too, but I made myself stay and look at Hector though it hurt my eyes to do it. To see so many scars like shiny purple worms crawling out of his collar and up his neck. Half of his right ear was missing, and the eye on that side roamed freely, unseeing, disconnected from the left.
Hector would not meet our gaze with his. We weren’t even sureif he was aware of our presence. At one time each of us had stood in Hector’s shoes, the one getting out, and we knew that, for Hector, none of this was quite real. Still, we tried to hug him, welcome him. But no warmth emitted from his skin to say, I accept your kindness. I am happy to be here.
We stood shuffling feet, clearing throats, saying things like, “Well,” and “How was the trip,” and “Yes, those armadillos are muy estupidos!” All the while Hector stared at the floor, slumped forward, like the fluid that once stretched his skin taut had been drained. Finally Uncle Paolo had the wisdom to say, “This is no time for a fiesta. What Hector needs is sleep.”
Everyone gratefully agreed, and when I led them to the alcove, Uncle Eliseo smoothed the ripple of my fear when he said, “It is good. It would not do to have the household running on top of him just now.” We led him to the couch, and Uncle Luis pushed on Hector’s collar bone so he would sit, which he did, with his knees pressed tight together and his arms at his sides.
This was how I found him when I brought his evening tray. Candles flickered in the breeze of my entrance. I saw their reflection in the hand mirror, but not in Hector’s waxy eyes. The only thing I could think to do was nudge his shoulder so he might lie down. In one stiff movement he tipped over, but still with his body pressed into a tight Z. I angled him more evenly on the sofa and covered him for sleep.
For four days he slept just like that. No one dared to wake him, though we wanted to hug him, and cry for him, and rub on the jojoba salve Aunt Tulia sent all the way from Amarillo—Federal Express—and you know that wasn’t cheap! Not even the dog went near Hector, and she begged scraps from anyone.
When I returned from work each day I asked María, “Did he move?”
“No.”
“Is he still breathing?”
“Yes.”
“This can’t be good for his kidneys.”
“No, but what would you have us do?”
I didn’t know, so
Then Hector came.
Two faces peered from each window after Pocked María yelled, “Here they are!” The Buick eased carefully into the driveway, as if Uncle Paolo suddenly remembered a carton of eggs he’d left up on top. When they stopped, three doors popped open, and the uncles disembarked to scurry to the fourth. Uncle Eliseo got there first, opened the door, and reached his hands deep inside. Uncle Luis grabbed Eliseo’s hips from behind to add strength, but he needn’t have bothered, because the form Eliseo withdrew was so thin and brittle. Fat Carmelita said, “Sweet Jesus, Ana. He walks like an old-old man. Like Don Migalito with his popping knees.”
We gathered in the living room prepared with smiles and embraces. María warned the children, but we were still afraid they would rush and cling to Hector begging sweets. But when he finally came into the house, so stooped and narrow, the brightness slid from the children’s faces. They ran to the kitchen to hide behind Fat Carmelita, who remembered just in time about the flan before it burned.
I wanted to hide behind her apron, too, but I made myself stay and look at Hector though it hurt my eyes to do it. To see so many scars like shiny purple worms crawling out of his collar and up his neck. Half of his right ear was missing, and the eye on that side roamed freely, unseeing, disconnected from the left.
Hector would not meet our gaze with his. We weren’t even sureif he was aware of our presence. At one time each of us had stood in Hector’s shoes, the one getting out, and we knew that, for Hector, none of this was quite real. Still, we tried to hug him, welcome him. But no warmth emitted from his skin to say, I accept your kindness. I am happy to be here.
We stood shuffling feet, clearing throats, saying things like, “Well,” and “How was the trip,” and “Yes, those armadillos are muy estupidos!” All the while Hector stared at the floor, slumped forward, like the fluid that once stretched his skin taut had been drained. Finally Uncle Paolo had the wisdom to say, “This is no time for a fiesta. What Hector needs is sleep.”
Everyone gratefully agreed, and when I led them to the alcove, Uncle Eliseo smoothed the ripple of my fear when he said, “It is good. It would not do to have the household running on top of him just now.” We led him to the couch, and Uncle Luis pushed on Hector’s collar bone so he would sit, which he did, with his knees pressed tight together and his arms at his sides.
This was how I found him when I brought his evening tray. Candles flickered in the breeze of my entrance. I saw their reflection in the hand mirror, but not in Hector’s waxy eyes. The only thing I could think to do was nudge his shoulder so he might lie down. In one stiff movement he tipped over, but still with his body pressed into a tight Z. I angled him more evenly on the sofa and covered him for sleep.
For four days he slept just like that. No one dared to wake him, though we wanted to hug him, and cry for him, and rub on the jojoba salve Aunt Tulia sent all the way from Amarillo—Federal Express—and you know that wasn’t cheap! Not even the dog went near Hector, and she begged scraps from anyone.
When I returned from work each day I asked María, “Did he move?”
“No.”
“Is he still breathing?”
“Yes.”
“This can’t be good for his kidneys.”
“No, but what would you have us do?”
I didn’t know, so
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