By: Luis Iglesias-Villacorta

It was late in the evening, and they lay in bed feeling the warmth of each other. The moonlight shone on their feet and a breeze came in through the window. They faced each other and talked of the day, and the father, always feeling most mortal moments before sleep, asked, “What if something happened to me? What would you do?”

“It’s too late for those kinds of questions.”

“But what would you do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

“You wouldn’t remarry?”

“No, I already have you.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I’d understand if you did. I would want you to.”

“Don’t speak like that.”

He fiddled with the ends of her hair in the dark. He felt drowsy.

“What if something happened to me? Would you find somebody else?”

“No, I wouldn’t. It’s too much for me.”

“How is that fair?”

“We’re different,” he said. “I think that you’re capable of loving again. I’m not.”

In the dark, she could see the way he looked at her when he told her this. He turned his back to her and could not believe that she slept with a whole man next to her. He fell asleep soon, and the mother stayed up for a while thinking about what he said.

***

At dawn, the clouds were heavy with rain and darker than usual. The birds did not sing that morning, and the foxes kept to their holes. And the rain began to fall slowly, then fast, as the rolling thunder commenced.

She woke with the father’s arm around her waist, carefully slipping out of bed to get into her scrubs. After, she went over to her daughter’s room. The child was already awake before the mother came in. She was staring at the ceiling, and when she saw her mother, she kicked her legs, took her fist out of her mouth to wave it around, and smiled, showing her gums. Seeing this made the mother smile and feel good inside.

While she dressed her daughter for the day, she thought of her own father. He lived alone, in a homestead, up in the woods, not too far from them. He was a decent man with a gray beard and chopped wood. He wore the same clothes, and his boots would get dirty, and he would clean them by the fire at nightfall. He was a great dad, she thought, and thought about how inconsiderate she had been towards his feelings during her youth because he had struggled to understand her as a single parent, but that lack of understanding does not constitute a lack of effort to understand.

“That’s what it is to be young,” the mother said to her daughter, “You’ll be there soon enough.” The child was left alone on her two nimble feet inside the crib, then fell on her butt, and tried to stand back up.

***

The father woke shortly after she drove off. He dressed and then went to his daughter’s room. He lifted her from the cot, and he nudged his nose against hers. He put on a raincoat for

himself and his daughter and, before heading out, stashed a pair of boiled eggs in his pocket. When they stepped out, the father hovered his hand over his daughter’s head.

When he arrived at the daycare, he parked close by. The rain was heavy now. A seńorita with brown and white hair held the door open and waved for them.

Inside, she said, “Qué lluvia.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Feliz día de padre,” she told him.

“Gracias.”

When he walked back to the car, he felt the rain on the nape of his neck. He got in his car and drove to a cafe for a coffee and then to a small mountain with an overlook so high he could see the earth go flat, and the abundant trees and the skyline in the distance. The ground was made of brick and green with moss, with a brass monument of George Washington in the center on a vandalized cement square. He sat near the edge with his coffee as he shelled his eggs.

For a while, there were no thoughts on his mind. The coffee was both bitter and smooth and he took little sips of it. He sat there for a while, taking in the view. He saw the green of the trees under the grey sky and wondered about the city in the distance, and then his father’s suicide. He thought of his father’s hands tying the noose, and how he did it alone, but doing it alone was the only way. He was past mourning his father, and the anger that came with it had left a feeling of isolation in his heart that would come and go. There was no escaping it; there was only confronting it, and he wondered if his father had experienced this sort of feeling. He wondered; his father and he shared the same blood and worried if he would ever meet the same demise.

Yes, sometimes he felt down and alone, and he would experience it very sparingly, but he pushed those feelings aside, and it seemed to him that these feelings would only get stronger after each bout. He reminded himself of the things he had, but this was not working and then reminded himself of who he was. A husband and a father. He thought, if love can’t save a man, then we’re all doomed. And he shook his head, no, I will never go out that way. He feared becoming old and what it brought. His father was very fit at an old age, but he had seen others who had whittled to nothing, had become docile, in perspective and mind, and were pitied for it. His father had fought against all these things, tried, and in the end he lost, or perhaps, in his mind, won. He wasn’t sure what to think, but he no longer thought about any of it.

***

He drove back home with an empty cup and thought hard about what’d come next. He spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and running errands until it was time to pick up their daughter.

Later on in the day, the weather took a turn with the sun gleaming and raindrops still lay on the leaves. When he arrived home with their daughter, his wife lay on the couch, still in scrubs with her feet up.

“Hi, honey,” he said.

“Hello, darling.”

The father had placed the child on the mother’s chest, and he went on to prepare dinner. Soon, the mother said that she would shower and place the child in the playpen. He heard her go up the stairs, and in a little while, he followed.

The bedroom had a shower attached to the room, and when he entered, he went in barefoot. He opened the window, the crickets ceased, and the sound of the night was let in. He took his shirt off and lay in bed with a leg dangling off the side. From where he lay, he could see his wife shower through the glass panel, and he stared until she got out.

When she came out of the shower, she had a white towel around her waist.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“At my wife.”

She sat in front of the vanity mirror for her night routine and saw her husband lying on the bed with his eyes closed. She wished her husband were not in the room as she did her best thinking alone. But this particular day was difficult, as she had lost a patient with whom she had formed a relationship. The patient was beautiful, had four kids, and a husband who was subpar in looks, but when she heard the pair talk to each other, she understood why they had chosen each other. The patient and the mother spoke about motherhood and the novelty of it all and there was never a time when a conversation was not filled with grateful and humble laughs. In the morning, she was particularly looking forward to her companionship. When she arrived, she had died in the middle of the night, and her husband had his head to the wall, crying himself to death, and she thought of her child, and realized that we are all just babies, very big babies. She didn’t say much for the rest of the day and cried when she went to the bathroom. One of those cries where the soul is on the verge of coming out, and your chest hurts so bad from all the heavy breathing, and after you feel a little bit better, but a headache surfaces.

She had realized that her husband was no longer in the room, and shortly after, heard him call her down for dinner. She gave herself a quick look and went down.

For dinner, they had steak and potatoes. The family sat around the table, and the child was in a high chair. The neighborhood had become quiet except for the faint dribbling of a basketball.

They ate in silence for the majority of the time. Near the end of the meal, the father asked how the workday went, and the mother shrugged and continued eating. When the meal was over, they had a conversation about politics, but neither of them had a strong understanding of it

“What kind of world am I going to be raising my child in?” he asked.

“That’s up to us,” she said.

The mother thanked him for dinner and told him to relax while she cleaned up.

It was nightfall by the time the kitchen was done. He was already in bed by the time she came into the room. He was lying in the dark with a nightlight and a book.

“Come to bed.”

Before settling into bed, she noticed that the shades of the window were pulled down. She pulled the shades up, allowing the dark sky to be in view. They kissed goodnight and slept.

***

In the morning, she woke early to prepare breakfast. She prepared hot cakes with warm maple syrup and homemade whipped cream to jazz. The father soon came down with their daughter in his arms.

“Everything looks delicious,” he said, and kissed her.

“Happy anniversary,” she said.

They sat for breakfast with the front door open, and let the sounds of the neighborhood come in. It was a beautiful day with the sun out, a gentle wind, and almost no clouds.

There was a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” he said, rising from his chair.

He opened the door, and his mother stood there pressing her large glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her hair was dyed jet black, and her body was shaped by weekly Pilates and a low-carb diet.

“Hello, son.”

“Hi, Mom.”

They greeted each other with kisses on both cheeks. She walked in and he explained how they woke up not too long ago, and they were just having breakfast. In the dining room, they all greeted each other.

“And how are you?” she asked her granddaughter.

She touched her cheek and kissed her forehead.

“Would you like some breakfast?” he asked.

“I’m okay, honey, but a cup of coffee would do.”

She placed her belongings on the kitchen island. As she sat, he poured coffee asking if she wanted milk and sugar. She shook her head, blowing steam off the rim. After settling down, they had many conversations about their health, the temperamental weather, and their child. Somehow, the conversation drifted onto the father.

She spoke about how, despite being a quiet child, his actions were not, and the mother asked how. She said that he drew on the walls of his room and kept a worm farm underneath his bed, that he wept to acoustic songs, and asked prodding questions. He nodded his head and drank his coffee.

“There is too much in life to be sad about, not to be happy at the end of the day,” the mother said to him.

They spent the rest of the day lounging and sunbathing in the yard. In the late afternoon, the couple prepared for their evening dinner, leaving their child with the grandmother.

***

“You look nice,” he told her.

The mother wore a black satin dress that exposed her upper thigh. There was a sort of sexual appeal to her, but it was mature. Her skin glowed, and her hair was silky in a lock just behind her neck. She was not to be ogled but respected, and the husband knew this and he had felt lucky for having such a wife.  He took her hand, and led her to the car, opening the door.

They drove in silence with the husband’s hand reaching out to his wife’s. Later on, they came across an oval lake, with a path surrounding the water where families and lines of geese walked along together. A few fishermen coddled the edges of the lake with their lines out. In the distance, among the tall, dark trees, a restaurant stood.

When they entered the gravel lot, they were taken care of by the valet and went in.

Inside, the restaurant was dimly lit, and the tables had a candle in the center. Patrons drank their glasses of wine and conversed. On the patio, the dim glow of cigarettes could be seen, and lined up in the seats of the bar were lone men and paired women drinking. The live music was exceptional and every instrument was played with soul, shown by the beads of sweat on the foreheads.

“Right this way, Mister,” said the host.

At the table, the host pulled out a chair for the Ma’am, then for the Sir.

“Thank you,” they both said.

“You’re very welcome. Your waiter will be right with you.”

She smiled, leaving menus on the table.

They sat across from each other with the little flame dancing in its white dress. He thought of her as very beautiful, and how she looked when she was younger, what time does to a woman, a man, and relationships, and how fast time passes after each year.

 And she looked at him, and she thought of the night he first brought her here. He was thin, very thin, with long, messy hair, and she usually went for big, husky men with blue eyes and big teeth, but he could hold a conversation with her, about anything, and everything, and most importantly, she could be herself.

“We agreed that we’d come here for every anniversary when we first started dating.”       

“Yes, I remember that,” he said. “I think we stopped after the fourth.”

“Why?”

“We wanted to try other kinds of foods.”

In a moment, the waitress came to greet the table. She was an older, heavyset woman with dark teeth, experienced in the art of waiting tables. They ordered a bottle of house chardonnay and calamari for the table.

“And a water for me, please,” she said.

“One for me, too, please,” he added.

“I will get that for you. Please take your time with the menus,” the waitress said, leaving.

“Y’know, I was extremely nervous when I first brought you here,” he said.

“You did a good job masking it.”

“Yeah?” he said, “How did you feel?”

“Mmmm,” she said. “Well, it was very easy to talk to you, and that was strange to me. The men I’ve dated had the conversational capacity of a cardboard box.”

They laughed, and a table next to them also had a laugh.

“It’s surprising to hear that you were anxious because you made me laugh so much that night,” she added.

“You made me comfortable. The anxiousness of it all was there, but we had a genuine friendship. It was easy to talk to you.”

“You were very thin, though. I remember thinking, how can I lie with this man? He’s all bones. I don’t think that now.”

He laughed, and he felt good.

The waitress came with the wine bucket and set it adjacent to the table. She then placed a basket of calamari in the center. She uncorked the bottle of wine and allowed her patrons to sample the wine before filling up their glasses.

“Thank you,” they said. The waitress nodded, smiled, and left. They toasted to their anniversary and sat quietly for a while. Throughout this time, a peculiar thought came to the wife. She used to laugh more in the relationship. He used to be looser with his tongue earlier in the relationship. Saying things, anything that came to his head, without any second thought, but he had changed.

“Would you change anything?” she asked.

“Would I change anything?”

            “Yes.”

“Not much.”

            “Don’t lie.”

            “I’m not.”

            “What about the past?”

            “What’s there to change about the past? The past is cemented, it’s what’s deserved.”

            “Don’t get all sulky on me.”

            “Can we change the past?”

            “No.”

            “Then?”

            “Doesn’t mean we can’t ponder on it, and think about what could’ve changed.”

            “But where does that get us? Nowhere.”

            “You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong.”

            “How?”

            “There is nowhere to get to. The past is the only thing that has an end and is also everlasting. I like to think about it. How else can we better ourselves?”

            He sat and thought.

            “You’re right,” he said.

            She said nothing and raised her glass of wine to her mouth. The live band had commenced again, and a black man played the trumpet. He played it well, with pain, joy, and style.

            “I like this music,” she said, reaching over to hold his hand, and he brought his lips to her hand to kiss, and left it smelling of wine.

“I like it too.”

            Although the couple had their own separate thoughts, beliefs, and worries, at the end of the day, they met somewhere in the middle of the road. Having been married for so long, they learned that not everything has to be said, or shared, but always understood. Somehow, someway.

            As the trumpeter went into a long, painful note, a flock of geese flew in formation, over the lake, past the sun. The couple continued to have the same conversation they always have on their anniversary. They would have dinner, have a walk around the lake, go home, make love, and the next day, simply continue their marriage, as always.