South by South Bronx (26 page)

28.

the dream was about his father.

he was on the island, that small tin roof house on a hill. slope going straight up. (he used to think, straight up to heaven. walk up to the stars.) palm tree leaves thickly moving from strong wind. water poured down from green, turbulent skies. inside:
“raindrops blasting hell on a tin roof.”
his father, gruffly bearded, creaked the rocking chair. the pipe he sucked on made a hollow sound. he looked just like he did when alex visited him last year, but that house, and that sound of his mother
machucando
in the kitchen, was all from childhood. alex it seemed had his twenty-five-year-old head shoved back into his six-year-old body. sitting there in front of his father's rocking chair. playing with a green dumptruck.

“live and learn,” his father said to him. “women are only good for one thing,” he said. “life.”

alex woke up before her. heard the steady rise and fall of her breath. he thought about his father's words, and how he had never found out if his father had meant “life” like living, or “life” like a “lifetime sentence.” his father never stayed with any woman too long. alex had five brothers and they were all from different mothers. his father was still healthy, vigorous, and still out making more brothers. funny how alex was six in the dream. six was the year his mother died, six was the last of anything he remembered about her. he felt he should have tried to hold onto the dream, to stay. she had been in the kitchen,
machucando
. maybe if he had gone looking for her and found her, she might have told him something. puerto ricans believe the dead visit you in dreams. they tell you things, or sometimes give warnings. many times, though, they just want company and can stay as long as you don't start blubbering or reminding them they're dead. once you do that, they leave. you wake up.

her stirring. soft murmur. his arm was her pillow.

alex wasn't thinking of his father. was thinking about himself as a little boy in puerto rico. walking the beaches near home, collecting shells. he used to take whatever he liked. bright colors, sharp shapes, shiny smooth ones. he would spend all day with them, stuffed in his pockets like marbles. pulling them out to admire them, showing them off to friends who collected crab shells, starfish, and glittery stones. then, as the sun went down, he would toss them back into the sea as far as he could throw. how nothing had changed with him! mink had told him just after belinda: “plenty of fish in the sea, especially if you keep throwing them back.” the old knee-jerk trick. “this is around the time I wake the girl and say, hey, it's time you go. I got stuff to do …” no girl stayed longer than one night. not after belinda. maybe it was still his father's genes. five brothers and they were all from different mothers.

whimpering sounds. like a puppy when it dreams. a shiver, a toss. she gripped his arm. the way a cat scratches.

“david,” she said, her eyes fluttering. “no, david, run.”

he touched her face. soft, slow waking. she looked scared. then she saw it was him.

“hey,” he said.

(his arm was her pillow.)

“you should have seen her face,” he would tell monk one day, “when I walked onto that plane.” she had her eyes closed when he sat down, her head resting on a pillow placed against the small round window. her grin, nonetheless. her hand brushing against his hand. and those words that came dreaming.

“what took you so long?”

a pocketful of seashells he would keep this time