The Accidentals(19)

“Quieres burritos?” Carlos asks. “I found this place downtown. If I go now, we can make it.”

“Hey, Rachel?” Frederick calls. “How do you feel about burritos?”

I stand up and poke my head into the room. “Si, yo quiero.”

Carlos chuckles. “Carne? Cerdo? Pollo?”

“Pork,” I choose.

“Surprise me,” Frederick says. “I just hope it tastes like L.A.”

“Let’s not ask for a miracle.” Carlos turns for the door.

“Carlos?” my father calls after him. “Text Henry and tell him the guitar he lost is found again.”

“Already done,” the driver says on his way out.

Frederick bends over his package. “Every time we ship a guitar, I wonder why I thought it was a good idea. So much can go wrong.” Inside the box is a black guitar case, and inside the case is a surprising quantity of packing material. From the depths, he pulls a handsome wooden instrument. He turns it over in his hands with the smile of a kid on Christmas.

I watch him dance over to the sofa and sit down with the guitar in his lap. And then he says to the guitar, in his warmest voice, “Come to Daddy.”

His odd choice of words propels me back out onto the balcony, where the pages of my English exam are fluttering against the staple. I smooth them down with my hand. From inside comes the sound of strings plucked one at a time as they’re tuned.

Then the warm tones of a guitar chord float out the door behind me. The sound raises the hair on the back of my neck. I’ve heard him play the guitar—both acoustic and electric—on countless recordings. But the strings vibrating at close range send shivers up my spine. I hold my breath while the chords progress and the strumming becomes more elaborate.

The music stops abruptly, but after some small adjustment, it begins again, crashing over me like a wave.

My mother died two weeks ago. I have gotten through each day since with the combined assistance of total numbness, a complete lack of privacy, and the distraction of each strange new thing that’s happened. But Frederick’s guitar seems to stop time. As he plays, I am confronted by the warm night and the gentle rhythm of a guitar I’ve been listening for my whole life.

I have to push my school work away and put my face in my hands. The song is unfamiliar. Even so, it begins to shred my heart into little bits. I manage to hold out until he starts humming to himself, his reedy baritone scaling up and down with the melody. Then my tears run down my face and over my hands. I am drowning in them, shuddering silently until the song reaches its end.

In the stillness that follows, I clamp my lips together. I’m a dribbling wreck, trying not to sniff. I hear Frederick moving around in the room behind me, and the sound of water running in the kitchenette. After a minute, he steps out on the balcony and sets a glass of water and a box of hotel tissues on the table. I can’t look up.

One warm hand lands on top of my head. It stays there for two beats, then retreats. Frederick goes back inside.

I press my fingers to my eyes, willing them to stop leaking. Behind me, Frederick is cleaning up all the packing paper that came with his guitar. He hums to himself while I dig my fingernails into my palms and count the leaves on a banana tree in the courtyard below.





Eventually, Carlos drops off the food. Frederick comes to the balcony’s threshold with two white paper bags. “Do you think you’re ready to find out whether a decent burrito can be had in Orlando?”

“Sure,” I say in a small voice.

He sits down in the other chair and passes me a bag. “Rachel,” is scrawled on it.

We make ourselves busy unwrapping the foil. It smells good, actually. My appetite has been so finicky. Sometimes I can’t eat a thing, and other times I’m famished. I take a big bite and chew.

“What do you think?” he asks. He wipes his mouth with a takeout napkin.

The question seems enormous until I realize he’s only asking about the burrito. “Pretty good.” And it is. The shredded pork mingles with beans and herbs. “Oh!” I make a sound of dismay. “This is full of cilantro!”

The surprise on Frederick’s face makes me realize my mistake. He sets down his burrito. Then he takes one of the plastic knives that came with our order and cuts it in half. He picks up one piece and shows it to me. There’s not a trace of cilantro inside. “Carlos knows,” he says quietly.

“Well. That’s handy.” My voice is shaky. “He reads Spin too.”

“Rolling Stone,” he says. “Hard to forget which reporter you swell up in front of.”

There is another minute of silent chewing. I feel drained.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“Okay?”

He sets down his food. “How long have you known I was your father?”

That’s an easy one. “Forever.”

His eyes widen. “What did she say about me?”

“Nothing. But whenever your songs came on the radio, she changed the channel. By fourth grade, I knew all of them.”

He stands up quickly and slides through the open door. As he reaches for a beer, the refrigerator illuminates him, and I see the look on his face. Like he’s been punched.

I don’t feel the least bit guilty, either.