Walker
The gallery is bursting at the seams, people tumbling out through the doors and gathering in knots on the street. There are a few people in uniform, art dealers, art students, friends of Isaac’s, even a few celebrity faces.
As I make my way through the crowd to the bar, someone grabs me from behind. I turn around and am swept straight into a hug that’s more like an attack. I’m about to drown in cleavage when I’m dragged back to the surface.
“Tina, let the guy breathe.”
I laugh, happy to see Sanchez and Valentina, dressed as if they’re walking the red carpet at the Oscars. I wasn’t sure they’d be able to make it. Sanchez nods at me, and then before I can do anything he pulls me into a bear hug to rival his wife’s. We slap each other on the back and then, holding each other by the tops of the arms, we just grin and nod at one another like long-lost brothers.
“The Lord put you on this earth for a reason,” Valentina tells me, her eyes filling with tears and her hand seizing my arm in a vise-like grip. “That’s twice now you’ve saved my husband.”
She pats her rounded stomach. “We’re naming this baby after you, I’ve told Jesús. He wanted Ronaldo after some soccer player, but I said, no, we’re calling this baby Noel.”
“What if it’s a girl?” I joke.
“Then we’ll call her Noelle.”
I laugh and kiss her on the cheek.
“I was thinking Ronalda had a better ring to it,” Sanchez mutters, “but you know, you did save my life, twice. And Ronaldo has only won the World Cup, so no contest.”
Isaac weaves his way through the crowd just then. I introduce him to Valentina, who immediately lets go of Sanchez’s arm, brushes her hair over her shoulder and flutters her eyelashes.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?” she asks, whacking me on the arm. “And so handsome, too.” She beams at Isaac. “You got a girlfriend?”
“Not currently,” Isaac answers warily.
Valentina takes his arm. “You know something? You’d be perfect for my cousin Angela . . .”
Sanchez rolls his eyes at me. “So how you doing?” he asks as Valentina starts selling the benefits of Angela to my brother as if she’s a real estate agent and Angela’s a prize pad in Malibu.
I nod and shrug at the same time. “You?” I ask to deflect the question.
He nods and shrugs too. “Yeah, you know how it is. Hard to adapt.”
I don’t think he’s talking about the prosthetic leg. Adapting to civilian life is challenging. I’m still waking at dawn every morning, though the nightmares are infrequent now, and I’m still struggling without a strict daily regimen. The job and the boat help, and I’m still training hard, thinking also of taking part in a triathlon in the spring.
“I got a job,” Sanchez says, his face lighting up. “Get this. I’m training to be a prosthetist. You know, learning how to make and fit limbs.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug, “third baby on the way. Little Noelle needs her daddy to put food on the table.”
I nod.
“So you seen Didi?” he asks.
I knew the question was coming, but it still hurts, flays off a layer of skin. I shake my head.
“You guys . . .” He shakes his head forlornly. “I had you down to last the distance. What happened? Why didn’t you make up?”
I shrug, not wanting to go there because the explanation makes no sense to me and I can’t bear to hear myself scramble for the words.
Thankfully, before Sanchez can press me for details, I spot two familiar gray heads over the crowd and make my excuses. I wend my way over to my parents, who are standing by the door looking like two straight hellfire-and-damnation Christians who’ve wandered accidentally into a transgender S&M conference. My dad is staring at the art student cohort who are occupying the bar area like a Fox News pundit surveying a room full of liberal women’s rights activists, and my mom’s eyes are popping as she takes in the array of art on the walls.
I greet them both. My dad is clearly here under duress, as can be judged by my mom’s iron grip on his arm and the fact that he’s still wearing his jacket, even though it’s at least seventy degrees inside and he’s already worked up a sweat.
“What is this?” my dad asks, pointing at the nearest of Dodds’s paintings. “Some kind of anti-war propaganda? Was he high on meth when he painted it or something?”
I wince, hoping that the art teacher isn’t within hearing distance. I heard her earlier discussing the anti-war sentiment of the paintings with a member of the media.
“It’s lovely, darling,” my mom intercedes, though her eyes tell a different story. She looks like she’s surveying a scene from Dante’s Inferno . . . which actually isn’t too far from the truth. “Is that a unicorn?” she queries, frowning.
I nod, hoping she doesn’t ask what’s coming out of its rear end.
“What a show!” she exclaims. “Did you organize it all yourself?”
“With Isaac, yeah,” I say.
My dad’s head springs up at his wayward offspring’s name. He covers it swiftly and jerks his head at the paintings. “Who’d want this on their wall?” He leans in closer. “Anyone actually buy this stuff?”
“Actually, I think you’ll find we’ve already sold eight paintings and the evening hasn’t even gotten started.”
It’s the art teacher, Valerie. She’s overheard and has inserted herself into the conversation. She pushes her glasses up her nose and introduces herself to my parents. I take the chance to extricate myself, not wanting to be witness to the conversation I can imagine is about to happen. I head over to the podium where I take the mic and clear my throat. I’ve been dreading this part. I might as well get it over with.
When I look up, the room has fallen mostly silent, except for a faint hum of chatter at the back and the happy clink of glasses. Shit. There are a lot of people. I take a deep breath, spying the chaplain over in the corner. I nod a greeting to him and he raises his glass and smiles at me.
Here goes nothing.
“I didn’t have enough time for Dodds when he was alive,” I begin. “I think that happens a lot. We get so absorbed in our own lives, in our own inner turmoil, that we forget sometimes to look up and see others, to notice what’s going on right in front of our faces.”
The room has fallen completely silent. My mouth is so dry it feels as if I’ve swallowed a mouthful of dust.
“I’ve failed a lot of people in my life,” I say, daring a glance at the audience and seeing a lot of furrowed brows. “I wish I could reverse time. If I could, I’d go back and change a lot of things. For one, I’d be a better friend to Dodds.” I rock back on my heels and stare down at the ground. Was I even a friend to him at all? “But, the thing is,” I continue, “we can’t go back.” My voice starts to crack. “That’s life’s greatest punishment. We can’t go back and right the wrongs, fix the mistakes, undo the tragedies, change our minds, make different decisions, unbreak hearts, take back words. All you can do is own your mistakes, forgive yourself, and keep on living.”
I take another deep breath.
“Dodds told me once that the future’s what you make it. And so it is.” I glance up at the ceiling. “If you’re up there, Dodds, looking down on us now, I hope you’re drinking a Bud and laughing, and I hope you’re happy. I’m sorry.” I choke down the meteor-size lump in my throat and quickly survey the crowd, who are studying me, a lot of them with their heads tipped to one side. There’s pity in some eyes, sorrow in others.
“One other thing he said . . .” I pause. “Actually, he yelled it . . .” A smattering of laughter. “He told me that life was meaningless. For a time, I also believed that—that we were insignificant nothings floating through space, that there was no rhyme or reason to anything. That life was just suffering. But what Dodds went on to say was that the only thing that wasn’t meaningless was love. That that connection was all we had as human beings, and that when we found it, when we were lucky enough to experience love—to love and be loved in return—we shouldn’t squander it.”
Tears film my eyes. I stare down at the floor. I can’t fucking cry now. Not up here, not in front of hundreds of people, but my throat has closed up. I can’t seem to get the words out.
I don’t need to. Isaac jumps onto the stage beside me. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and takes the mic.
“And all proceeds from the paintings will be going to the Veterans’ Association, as per Dodds’s wishes,” he shouts. “So get your wallets out, people, and spend, spend, spend!”
There’s a swell of applause that carries me off the stage.
“You okay?” Isaac asks as he ushers me down and toward the back of the gallery.
I nod.
“Nice speech,” he tells me, then comes to a sudden halt.
“Hi, son.”
My dad is blocking our path.
“Hi,” Isaac answers. He didn’t know that I’d invited our parents, and now he throws an I’m going to kill you later look my way.
My dad casts about wildly, his eyes refusing to land on either of us. Isaac looks about ready to bolt. I step back, angling myself behind him just in case he does try to do a runner.
“Your mother wanted to come,” my dad blurts.
Isaac expels air through his nose.
“This is impressive,” my dad says in a salvage attempt, nodding his head at the gallery.
Isaac narrows his eyes.
“This one of yours?” my dad asks now, jerking his head at a painting on the wall. It depicts a field turning from brown to green, like a time-lapse painting. An orange sun burns neon above it. It’s Isaac’s latest painting, on sale for a cool twenty thousand dollars.
Isaac nods warily. The last time dad commented on his art was when he was seventeen and dad told him one of his charcoal paintings looked like it had been drawn by a toddler with physical and mental delay.
“Not bad,” my dad remarks.
That’s the highest praise Isaac or I have ever heard from him, and I can tell by the way Isaac shoots a sideways glance at me that he’s wondering if Dad’s been occupied by an alien from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“I wouldn’t mind having that on my wall,” Dad muses. “Not sure about this other stuff, though,” he mutters, tipping his head conspiratorially toward us and jerking his head at Dodds’s paintings.
I suppress a laugh. Isaac’s painting is an ironic statement about genetically modified crops and the corporatization of government. The tangerine sun is a riff on a global GMO company’s logo. Neither Isaac nor I are about to explain that to my dad, though.
Then I feel that burning sensation at the back of my neck. The hairs on my arms stand on end and all my attention switches instantly away from Isaac and my dad.
I turn around.
And she’s there. Standing in the doorway, scanning the room, looking for someone. I wait, motionless, until her gaze lands on me.