After the Hurricane(68)
In the center of a large wall in what is clearly the living room is a beautiful painting of a man with light brown hair, looking away from the viewer out to open ocean. His gaze is more toward the water than anything else, but he is rendered with delicacy and care. Elena wonders who the man is to Diego.
“Your home is beautiful,” Elena says, honestly.
“Thank you,” Diego replies. “I burned our dinner, but I would love to take you out to make up for it.”
“You don’t have to, I should take you out.”
“We can fight it out when we get there,” he says, smiling.
“Do you have children?” Elena asks. She knows the answer is no. This is not the home of a man who has had that in his life. There is no trace of progeny, no photo of a young person to be found.
“No,” Diego says, with an odd smile. “He really never told you anything, did he.” But it’s not a question. And it makes Elena so angry.
“Not a fucking thing.”
“I’m gay,” Diego says, calmly. “So kids weren’t really in the cards. I mean, I know couples that have adopted, more now, and that’s wonderful, but back when I was thinking about family, it wasn’t as much of an option. Or at least I didn’t think it was for a gay man. So no. No kids.”
Gay. Oh. Elena looks at him again, and then around at his home. Her father’s law school best friend was gay. That is unexpected, somehow. Not that she thinks her father is a bigot but he’s of a generation that wasn’t exactly always accepting. She has so many questions she wants to ask her father, what was it like when Diego came out to him, how did he feel, what was he taught about homosexuality growing up, how did it impact his sense of masculinity, so so many things she wants to know that she will never know, because even if she finds him, what will he offer her? She feels sick.
“Excuse me, where is your bathroom?”
By the time she reaches it her mouth is already filled with bile, her eyes already clouded with tears. She spits and sobs, silently cursing herself.
“Are you all right?” comes Diego’s voice outside the bathroom. How long has she been in there?
“Of course. Sorry. I realize I should check in with my mother, can you give me a moment?” she shouts.
“Absolutely. Take your time.”
She rinses her mouth out with water and then takes out her phone. There are more emails from work, how are there more emails from work? One just says Call me, now, and it’s from Terrance. She checks the time; the email was sent at 7:00 p.m. and it’s seven-thirty now. She dials.
“Where are the Hoyt Street property documents?” Terrance barks out, no hello, no how are you.
“Terrance, I’m on . . . not a vacation but this is my vacation time, I really can’t—”
“When are you back?” Elena closes her eyes. “I need you back and productive by Monday, Elena.” It is Tuesday. Jesus Christ. What happened to take all the time you need?
“I can’t do that, Terrance, I’m sorry. I have vacation days available so technically—”
“If you can’t do your job, Elena, I’m happy to find someone else for your position.”
“Terrance, I asked you for this time and you said—”
“If I don’t see you Monday, I’ll consider that your two weeks’ notice. The season’s revving up here, Elena, and I can’t work with unreliable people. Understand me?” The call ends.
Elena has worked for this company for three years. Her pulse pounds and spit wells in her mouth again. She swallows it down, her face hot.
She can’t talk to her mother like this. She doesn’t know if she can talk to Diego like this and he’s a stranger.
“You all right in there?” he calls again, like he can read her thoughts.
“Never better,” she says, looking at her eyes in the mirror. Look at you, a liar like everyone else.
Diego’s favorite restaurant is a place called Cowboy’s Cantina, which is rather funny to Elena.
“They didn’t even want to put the name in Spanish?” she says, amused, surveying the meat-forward menu.
“‘La Cantina del Vaquero’ was probably taken. And it doesn’t have that same alliteration for the tourists,” Diego explains, gesturing to a waiter. They place their orders, chuletas for Diego, churrasco con tostones for Elena, who suddenly feels that she could eat her own hand, and drinks. Diego tells Elena about his childhood on the island, the culture shock of college at William and Mary, where he conned his parents into sending him after boarding school because he was able to fool them into thinking it was a Catholic university celebrating the Virgin.
“And William?” Elena asks, laughing. Diego shrugs. He tells her about law school, and gives her stories about her father, how Santiago once drove all night to Providence to visit her mother at Rhode Island School of Design on her birthday to give her a kiss and then drove back to New Haven; how he convinced friends of theirs pursing their master’s in chemistry to make them LSD; how he crafted an argument for one of their mock trials that surprised and impressed their professors so much that years later, at a reunion, Diego learned it was still taught as an example of innovative thinking. Every story he tells is light, funny, every one shows her father in the best possible light. Elena knows what Diego is doing, but she does not stop him, does not push. It’s more than she’s ever had, even if most of it isn’t what she’s looking for. He tells her how supportive her father always was and it floors her, because she has forgotten the part of him that really thought about others and that makes her very sad. But happy, too, because it wasn’t a figment of her imagination. It was real, even if it isn’t anymore.