Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World (Aristotle and Dante #2)(18)

I didn’t know if I was crying because of what my father had said. I think that was part of it. But, really, I think I was crying about a lot of things, about me and my desire for another boy’s body, which was mysterious and terrifying and confusing. I was crying about my brother, whose ghost haunted me. I was crying because I realized how much I loved my father, who was becoming someone I knew. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. I was crying because I had wasted so much time thinking shitty things about him, instead of seeing him as a quiet, kind man who had suffered through a hell called war and had survived.

That’s why I was crying.

My mother had said that they were just people, she and my father. And she was right. Maybe that was a sign that I was starting to grow up, the knowledge that my parents were people and that they felt the same things that I felt—only they’d been feeling those things for a helluva lot longer than I had, and had learned what to do about those feelings.

I slowly pulled away from my father and nodded. He nodded back. I wanted to memorize that soft smile he was wearing on his face and carry it with me everywhere I went. When I turned to walk back up the basement steps, I saw my mother standing at the foot of the stairs. Now I knew what people were talking about when they said somebody cried “tears of joy.”





Twenty-Nine


Dear Dante,

I used to wonder about boys like you who cried—and now I’ve fucking turned into one of those boys. I’m not sure I like it. I mean, it’s not that I’m crying for nothing, I mean, hell, I don’t know what I mean. I’m changing. And it’s as if the changes are all coming at me all at once. And the changes, they’re not bad. I mean, they’re good. They’re good changes.

I didn’t used to like who I was.

And now I just don’t know who I am. Well, I do know who I am. But mostly I’m becoming someone I don’t know. I don’t know who I’m going to become.

But I’m better, Dante. I’m a better person—though that may not be saying much.

When I met you, I remember you telling me that you were crazy about your parents. And I thought it was the weirdest thing I’d ever heard coming out of another guy’s mouth. You know, sometimes I don’t know shit. I think I have always loved my father and my mother. Maybe I just didn’t think that my love for them was really all that important. I mean, they were my parents, right? I always thought I was sort of invisible to them. But it was the other way around. It was they who were invisible to me.

Because I wasn’t capable of seeing them.

I think I’ve been like this kitten, born with its eyes closed, walking around meowing because I couldn’t see where I was going.

But, Dante, guess what? The kitten has fucking opened his eyes. I can see, Dante, I can see.





Thirty


THE NIGHT BEFORE WE WERE heading out for our camping trip, the Quintanas invited me over for dinner. My mother baked an apple pie. “It’s not polite to arrive at someone’s house empty-handed.” My father grinned at her and said, “Your mother often engages in immigrant behavior. She can’t help herself.” I thought that was pretty funny. So did my mother, actually.

“Sending over a pie isn’t immigrant behavior.”

“Oh yes, it is, Lilly. Just because you’re not sending over tamales and roasted chiles doesn’t make it not immigrant behavior. You’re just wrapping it up in an American costume. Apple pie? It doesn’t get any more American than that.”

My mother kissed him on the cheek. “Shut up, Jaime. Estás hablando puras tonterías. Don’t you have a cigarette to go smoke or something?”



* * *



I normally walked to Dante’s house, but I decided to take the truck. I had this vision of me dropping the pie on the sidewalk, and I just didn’t want to be the center of all that drama. I was scarred for life when I dropped a porcelain plate loaded with my mother’s Christmas cookies when I was seven. Until recently, that was the last time I cried. And it wasn’t even that my mother was upset. In fact, she was consoling me for some reason—and that made it even worse.

I could tell my mom was in total agreement with my decision. “You’re showing signs of wisdom,” she said.

“Mom, maybe I’m just showing signs of being practical.”

“Well, being wise and being practical aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I just nodded.

“You’re getting pretty good at not rolling your eyes at me. It shows restraint.” I could hear my father laughing from the other room.

“Mom,” I said, “I don’t think you’re ever going to make a very good bullshitter.”

She grinned at me and handed me the pie. “Have a good time. Give my love to Dante’s parents.”

“Mom, they don’t need your love,” I said as I headed out the door. “What they need is your apple pie.”

I could hear my mother’s laughter as I shut the door softly and headed toward Dante’s house.



* * *



On the short drive to Dante’s house, I was smiling—I was smiling.



* * *



Mrs. Quintana answered the door. I felt a little shy and a little stupid as I stood there, holding an apple pie. “Hi,” I said. “My mom sends her love and this apple pie.”