Have You Seen Luis Velez?(88)

“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy my cooking,” Sofia said. “We’re so happy you came. We’re so glad to see Raymond again. He made quite an impression on us. He was so sad because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to give you the help you need. You know. Finding this other Luis Velez. And then when we heard what had happened . . .”

The room fell silent save for the sound of plates being picked up, passed, set down.

“All I really meant to say,” Sofia said, stumbling on, “is that you’re very lucky to have such a thoughtful young man for a friend.”

“And don’t think I fail to appreciate it,” Mrs. G said. She picked up a tiny forkful of chicken and dumplings. “Not a day goes by that I’m not thankful.”

She tasted the food, and everyone watched and waited to see what she would think. Everyone. Even the toddler. Maybe because she had made her love of chicken and dumplings so clear.

“So, is it as good as what you used to make?” Sofia asked.

“No. It’s better. I never made a batch this good in all my days as a cook. And I was a fair cook, if I do say so myself.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.”

They all ate in silence for a minute or two. Raymond was feeling transfixed by the food. It felt satisfying in a way he was not accustomed to feeling. Each bite he shoveled into his mouth grew larger than the last.

Sofia spoke again. “I’ve been thinking about the question Raymond asked me.” She directed the remark more or less to Mrs. G.

“I don’t think I know the question,” Mrs. G said.

“Oh. Sorry. He asked me what you can do for a person who’s going through a bad time.” Raymond felt his face flush hot as she spoke. “And I don’t know, really. The only thing I can come up with is that you need to know people care. Not only about you, although that’s nice, too. But about what happened. About your friend, the one you lost. I thought about it, and I thought that trial would have been very upsetting to me because it would feel like the jury was saying my friend didn’t matter. So I just wanted to let you know that he matters to every single person at this table.”

Raymond watched Mrs. G carefully as she chewed and swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said. “That does help a little.”

“I hope you believe us,” Luis Senior added.

“I do. I absolutely do. Because you understand what it meant to be Luis. I’m afraid that’s where things fell down with the jury.”

They ate in silence for an awkward second or two.

Then Abuela began to speak in rapid Spanish. Raymond waited patiently, both for her to be done, and for someone to translate. He vaguely, distantly wished he had gone on studying the language.

When she wound down and finished, Mrs. G surprised Raymond by answering her directly. “Recuerdo también,” she said.

Raymond stared at Mrs. G for a moment. Everyone at the table did.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked.

“A little. Yes. I asked Luis to teach me some. First I asked him to teach me to say ‘Lo siento, no hablo muy bien espa?ol.’ I wanted to be able to apologize to Spanish speakers for not knowing their language well. Because I noticed that everyone else in this city seems to do the opposite. You know, make them feel bad for not speaking English. But then I decided that wasn’t good enough, because why apologize for not being able to do something that you can just as easily learn to do?”

“No wonder Luis liked you so much,” Luisa said.

“Oh, and the feeling was mutual, my dear. I just adored him. He was like a son to me, except he was young enough to be my grandson. But he was more than just family to me. He was . . . I’m not sure of quite the right word. He was a hero in my life. Yes. That’s not too strong. He was my hero. Here the world is full of all these men trying to model what it means to be a man, but they don’t truly know. They think it means be tough, feel nothing, betray nothing. And then Luis comes along and decides that his definition of a man is someone who is not afraid to be kind. That takes courage. Don’t you think?”

“It does take courage,” Luis Senior said. A bit wistfully, Raymond thought. As if he had a way to go to reach that mountaintop.

“So what did Abuela say?” Raymond asked, hoping to lead the conversation in a less grave direction.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” Mrs. G said, “she was telling us that when she was a little girl, a neighborhood would hold a block party for someone who was down. If the world would not care for a person, the neighborhood would turn out and care. I told her I remember that as well. When I first moved to the neighborhood we live in now, Raymond, we would do that. I remember a man was fired from his job. His wife had just had a baby, their first baby, and they were about to be evicted for nonpayment of rent. So the neighbors threw a block party and took up a collection for them, and it was enough to tide them over until he was working again. But I shouldn’t make assumptions, because my Spanish is far from perfect, and maybe that’s not what Abuela meant at all.”

“No, that’s right,” Abuela said in heavily accented English. “That’s what I meant.”

“You speak English,” Raymond said without thinking. Then he felt embarrassed for assuming otherwise.

“Yes,” Abuela said. “I do. But in my own home I like to speak in my own tongue, the one that’s familiar to me.”