finally I asked Carmelita, “Should we wake him?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But he must take liquids soon.”
“Yes.” I reached in the cabinet for the tallest glass and filled it with water.
“Wait,” Carmelita said, and stirred in a spoonful of honey. “It’s something, at least.”
I carried the glass like an offering, followed by Carmelita, who wiped her hands on an apron though there was no need. For the first time since Hector’s arrival I noticed how quiet the house was. “Where are the children?” I said. And when I saw Hector’s untouched lunch tray, “And Gringa the dog?”
“María keeps them outside all day,” Carmelita said. “Every time the children come in they remember about Hector and hide. Lupé even got his head caught under the kitchen sink.”
Cousin Hector still had not moved, so I knelt beside him. Palming his shoulder I gave a nudge so slight I wasn’t even sure I’d done it, but Hector’s eyes popped open like he’d been waiting for someone to do just that. He still did not meet his good eye with ours, but when I slipped my hand behind his back to raise him, he did not resist. And when I held the glass to his lips, he drank. I turned to smile at Carmelita, but she had already rushed to the kitchen to heat up chicken broth.
So began Hector’s slow conformation to the patterns of the house. Sleep when it is dark. Awake when it is light. During the day he sat rigid on his sofa, rising only to go to the bathroom with the uncles’ assistance. Everyday we took turns sweet-talking and coaxing.“Would you like to go outside, Hector? To the movies? En Español. How about some ice cream?” Hector would not go outside, but eventually he did take meals with the family, though he ate very little, and always slipped a buttered tortilla into his pants pocket to hide under his sofa. Pocked María scooped them out each morning when he left the room, but no one had the heart to tell him to stop, not even the uncles, who thought wasting food was a venial sin at least.
The children grew accustomed to this new uncle. They no longer hid, and even crouched outside his door sliding metal cars and plastic dolls across the floor into his foot to see if he would move, say a word, blink. I scolded when I found them, but not until the last toy slid, because I hoped their game would work.
And one day it did, which scattered the children back into hiding, and made me freeze in an awkward position. When the ceramic burro hit his foot, Hector tilted his head down and watched it skid across the floor and rest under the candelabras. He rose and walked toward it, no longer with don Migalito’s popping knees, more like a shuffle, as if the weight of each foot was just too much. He bent to retrieve the blue burro, and a red Matchbox car, a rubber dog bone, a Barbie leg, and held them to his chest and stood face to face with all those pictures he had not seen before. Clutching the toys to his concave belly with one hand, he traced the grid between the pictures with the other, careful not to touch one shiny edge. Underneath each photo his finger paused. I waited to see what he would do at Patricia, but his pause was no longer or shorter for her than for anyone else. I thought,
He does not know!
When I brought this up to the uncles, Paolo twisted the worn gold band on his thick finger and said, “You think he is ready to work?”
Luis cleared his throat and said, “Yes, now maybe he is.”
“Uncles,” I said. “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t think Cousin Hector knows about his disappeared wife!”
I looked at the uncles and there was an unbearable pause when their eyes bruised back to the moment when they realized their own horrible losses. Then suddenly, almost in unison, they shook it off and Uncle Paolo said, “He may not even remember he
had
a wife. Does that mean he cannot push a broom? I am sixty-seven and I push a broom.”
I dropped my arms to my sides with a smack. How did they
“I don’t know,” she said. “But he must take liquids soon.”
“Yes.” I reached in the cabinet for the tallest glass and filled it with water.
“Wait,” Carmelita said, and stirred in a spoonful of honey. “It’s something, at least.”
I carried the glass like an offering, followed by Carmelita, who wiped her hands on an apron though there was no need. For the first time since Hector’s arrival I noticed how quiet the house was. “Where are the children?” I said. And when I saw Hector’s untouched lunch tray, “And Gringa the dog?”
“María keeps them outside all day,” Carmelita said. “Every time the children come in they remember about Hector and hide. Lupé even got his head caught under the kitchen sink.”
Cousin Hector still had not moved, so I knelt beside him. Palming his shoulder I gave a nudge so slight I wasn’t even sure I’d done it, but Hector’s eyes popped open like he’d been waiting for someone to do just that. He still did not meet his good eye with ours, but when I slipped my hand behind his back to raise him, he did not resist. And when I held the glass to his lips, he drank. I turned to smile at Carmelita, but she had already rushed to the kitchen to heat up chicken broth.
So began Hector’s slow conformation to the patterns of the house. Sleep when it is dark. Awake when it is light. During the day he sat rigid on his sofa, rising only to go to the bathroom with the uncles’ assistance. Everyday we took turns sweet-talking and coaxing.“Would you like to go outside, Hector? To the movies? En Español. How about some ice cream?” Hector would not go outside, but eventually he did take meals with the family, though he ate very little, and always slipped a buttered tortilla into his pants pocket to hide under his sofa. Pocked María scooped them out each morning when he left the room, but no one had the heart to tell him to stop, not even the uncles, who thought wasting food was a venial sin at least.
The children grew accustomed to this new uncle. They no longer hid, and even crouched outside his door sliding metal cars and plastic dolls across the floor into his foot to see if he would move, say a word, blink. I scolded when I found them, but not until the last toy slid, because I hoped their game would work.
And one day it did, which scattered the children back into hiding, and made me freeze in an awkward position. When the ceramic burro hit his foot, Hector tilted his head down and watched it skid across the floor and rest under the candelabras. He rose and walked toward it, no longer with don Migalito’s popping knees, more like a shuffle, as if the weight of each foot was just too much. He bent to retrieve the blue burro, and a red Matchbox car, a rubber dog bone, a Barbie leg, and held them to his chest and stood face to face with all those pictures he had not seen before. Clutching the toys to his concave belly with one hand, he traced the grid between the pictures with the other, careful not to touch one shiny edge. Underneath each photo his finger paused. I waited to see what he would do at Patricia, but his pause was no longer or shorter for her than for anyone else. I thought,
He does not know!
When I brought this up to the uncles, Paolo twisted the worn gold band on his thick finger and said, “You think he is ready to work?”
Luis cleared his throat and said, “Yes, now maybe he is.”
“Uncles,” I said. “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t think Cousin Hector knows about his disappeared wife!”
I looked at the uncles and there was an unbearable pause when their eyes bruised back to the moment when they realized their own horrible losses. Then suddenly, almost in unison, they shook it off and Uncle Paolo said, “He may not even remember he
had
a wife. Does that mean he cannot push a broom? I am sixty-seven and I push a broom.”
I dropped my arms to my sides with a smack. How did they
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