The Assimilated Cuban's Guide to Quantum Santeria (31 page)

“No. Not exactly. I made up my own ebo. But I used it as a guide.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Ms. Anbow.”

“Your assistant principal?”

“Yes.”

Pápi called information and got her number and even paid the extra 25 cents to put him through immediately. “Ms. Anbow? This is Augustín Vedón, Salvador Vidón’s father. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but we need to talk. Now. In person. Would you mind if we went to your house?” He looked at the sink. “I’d invite you here, but my house is a little messy right now.”

I don’t know exactly how long I spent kneeling on that Cal Tech sidewalk speaking cooingly to the pigeon I’d almost punted. I didn’t stop until my cell interrupted my reverie. Caller ID showed the number. Home.

I flipped it open and said “Hi, Mom and/or Dad.”

“It’s both of us,” said Mrs. Dravlin. I mean Ms. Anbow. I mean Mom.

“We heard you on the radio,” said Pápi, his voice younger than it had been for the span of years when he’d been unmarried.

“How’d I sound?” I asked. Fishing for compliments like a ten-year-old.

As always, Mom obliged. “Like a genius,” she said.

And, as always, Pápi said, “Well….” He made that word four syllables long.

“Oh, don’t start, Auggie. He sounded brilliant, and you know it.”

“Of course he did. But that NPR reporter: what an idiot! Couldn’t they find someone who at least knew the first thing about quantum physics?”

“No, they couldn’t, because nobody knows the first thing about quantum physics. Except maybe Elegua.” Suddenly inspired, Mom added, “Hey Sal, you know what would make this moment perfect?”

“What?”

“Your mámi.”

“Don’t say that,” I kneejerked. “You’re my mother.”

“Oh, don’t be so sentimental. I know that. I’m just saying it’d be nice if Alma were here to see this. Don’t you think, Auggie?”

Pápi went quiet; we listened to him think. Then he said, “Well, sure. If only that were possible.”

“You know what,” Mom said, startlingly chipper. “I forgot I need to pick up some things for dinner tonight. I need to run out of the store.”
And then, her voice devoid of connotation, the way only psychologists master, she said, “You boys be good.”

“Love you Mom,” I said. I heard her smile before she hung up.

Pápi and I waited until she shut the front door behind her. Then Pápi said, “Now all we need is a pigeon.”

“No worries, Pápi.” I held out my hand, and the pigeon I’d almost kicked trundled toward it happily, as if it were as pleased by this serendipity as I was. “I’ve got one right here.”

Ashé O.

I recently read an article that called for the end of acknowledgement pages. They all say the same thing, we don’t know any of the people the author’s referring to, it’s masturbatory modestbragging, etc.

What a bunch of comemierdura. It’s not only ungracious, but straight-up inaccurate. Writers gleefully steal from the people they know, the art they love, the ideas that life decides to thrust in their way. They foist their raw, flawful pages onto their beta readers, believing—utterly deluded, every time!—that every word is perfect as-is. They choose what to use and what to scuttle, finally, and there’s an art to that, sure: but at the end of the day fiction is a debate that the writer chooses to end prematurely. The hope is there’s enough left in the prose to be interesting.

Let us begin, then, as writers always should: with their publishers. Bill Campbell, publisher of Rosarium, Milhuevos ain’t got nothing on you, brother. Your whole press is about speaking truth to power with a smile on your face. Thank you for your work, and thank you for my book.

Bizhan Khodabandeh created the amazing cover for the book, which I love with a relentless passion.

Without my family I have no stories, no language, no desire to speak. Mámi, Pápi, Maria and Holmes, Jesse, Bárbii, abuelos y abuelas,
tíos, tías, sobrinos/as y todos: thank you for my me.

I was a member of the SFF writers’ group Tabula Rasa for two years, and in that time, Barbara Krasnoff, Robert Howe, Terrence Taylor, Richard Bowes, Daniel José Older, and Jon Armstrong tumbled and polished many of these stories and helped professionalize me. I want to go forward giving to other writers as generously as you have given to me.

To the Clarks—Gloria, Rick, Emily, Alanna, Maria and Isaac—you were a second family and supported me in every way a writer could ask for. Thank you forever. To Liz Clark I especially owe a debt I can never repay.

Cynthia Hawkins and Margaret Hiebert have read every word of every story I’ve written, often on unforgivably short notice. I have never laughed so hard while getting my ass kicked. Whatever I have is yours, my heart-friends.

Delia Sherman and Christopher Barzak published the title story of this collection in
Interfictions II
; that story is ground zero for more or less all the good fortune I have had as a writer (and a person) since. And Delia and her wife, the inimitable Ellen Kushner, have become both aspirational ideals of how to be an artist in the world and two of my closest friends. I am your most obedient servant.

The long list of intelligent and generous folks who critiqued stories and/or provided invaluable support for the writing of these stories include: Joe Bisz, Ava Chin, Kelly Cogswell, Sarah Cortez, Andy Cox, Amanda DeBonis, Joshua DeBonis, Jeffrey Ford, Jim Freund,
Matthew David Goodwin, Kay Holt, Chris Kreuter, Bart Leib, Richie Narvaez, Ekaterina Sedia, Diane Simmons, Sergio Troncoso, and Erin Underwood. I’ve spent a lovely, heartening time recalling just how many artistically astute people have helped save my stories from me. My thanks always.

Toward the end of putting together the final manuscript, C. S. E. Cooney read or heard aloud every word and caught errors and infelicities I seemed hellbent on including. What an ideal audience you were, Claire. Are.

To all of you, and to anyone I have overlooked: everything I have to offer is better for your intervention. My endless, endless gratitude.

Carlos Hernandez is the author of over 30 works of fiction, poetry, prose, and drama. By day, he is an Associate Professor at the City University of New York, where he teaches English courses at BMCC and is a member of the doctoral faculty at The CUNY Graduate Center. Carlos is also a game designer, currently serving as lead writer on
Meriwether
, a CRPG about the Lewis and Clark expedition. He lives in Queens, which is most famous for not being Brooklyn.

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