Have You Seen Luis Velez?(8)

“So what do I call you?”

“Mildred is fine, or Millie. Luis called me Millie. Or . . . calls. I’m not sure. I keep speaking of him in the past tense, and then I correct myself, because I don’t know for a fact. But I have a bad feeling. He would have phoned me, or come by. If he could. I just know it.”

“Didn’t you have a phone number for him?”

“Yes. I did. I had the number of his cellular phone. And now, suddenly, at the same time he is gone, the cellular phone is out of service. I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing.”

“Did you ever try to get a listing for him? Maybe he had a landline, too. Or a new cell number.”

“He told me he did not have a landline. I called directory assistance many times, in case there was a new number. I got many listings. Every Luis who answered was not the one. At some of the numbers nobody was ever home. I tried for many days and got exactly nowhere.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Arm in arm. Raymond said nothing because he had nothing encouraging to say. It did sound like a bad sign.

“So we go next to the tea,” Mildred said.

“We’re right in front of the tea.”

“Oh. Good. I like a strong black tea. English breakfast. Or Irish breakfast.”

“There are two or three brands. Which one do you like?”

“I like best the one that is cheapest,” she said.



He stood beside her in her kitchen, staring into the bare shelves. She had opened all the cupboard doors, and they stood in front of the task together, breathing slowly. As if mentally preparing for a marathon run.

“It’s very important where everything goes,” she said. “I need to know so I can find it all again.”

“I can imagine.”

“Cookies there,” she said, feeling for a jar on the counter, “but not until we’ve had some. Lettuce and of course the other salad vegetables go in the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. Chicken thighs and ice cream in the freezer. Although . . . ice cream in the freezer I suspect you would have figured out on your own.”

“Right,” Raymond said, and set about working on that.

“Salad dressing and milk on the shelves inside the refrigerator door.”

“Check.”

“Oh, and before I forget to tell you—when we go sit down at the table, please take the chair nearer the window. That was Luis’s chair. You’ll see that there are marks on the carpet, made with tape. They show you exactly where to place the chair again when you’re done using it.”

“Got it,” Raymond said.

“You don’t have to put all of this away yourself. You can just hand me one item at a time and tell me what it is. Unless it’s obvious, like the ice cream. Then the item itself will tell me what it is.”

“We’ll work on it together,” Raymond said.



They sat at her round dining table together, Raymond running one finger over the intricate lacework of a doily. He picked up his cup of tea, closed his eyes, and took a tiny sip.

“Wow,” he said. “This is good.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“It’s sweet.”

“Yes, I put in two spoons of sugar.”

“Does it have milk in it?”

“Yes. It’s what my mother used to call cambric tea. I don’t know why it’s called that, only that I was taught that it is. She used to make it for me anytime I needed comforting or cheering up. After a time it grew into something that could make me happy. Or at least more happy. Depending on where I’d started out.”

Raymond took another, longer sip, and did seem to feel a little bit better.

“I didn’t think I would like it. I thought it would be bitter, like coffee.”

“I didn’t brew yours very strong. Not like mine.”

They sipped in silence for a minute or two.

It was dim in Mildred Gutermann’s apartment. No lights had been turned on. Which made sense when Raymond thought about it. The only light came from the avenue-side window, and it had to make its way through a filmy curtain.

Raymond had expected the apartment to be dirty inside. Or at least dusty. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“So what about you, young one?” she asked, knocking Raymond out of his thoughts. “Tell me what it is about your life that is making you so unhappy.”

“I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He struggled inwardly for a moment, floundering in the embarrassment of having been seen. It struck him odd that he’d had to come to the home of a blind woman to be seen clearly. At long last.

“Well . . . ,” he began. “Lot of things, I guess. Hard to put my finger on just one.”

“Then tell me two or three.”

“I just feel like . . .” Raymond paused for a long time. Or at least it seemed long to him. He closed his eyes and listened to the traffic outside. “I guess I feel like I don’t fit anywhere.”

“You must fit somewhere.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about up on the fourth floor with your family?”

“That might be where I fit the least.”