The Son of Every Man

Chapter 3.2

Gabe arrived at his floor, hand somehow steady as he brought out his keys and unlocked the front door. Inside smelled no different than out, the faint rot of fish from the market mingling with the sweet freshness of well-tended flower boxes and ocean air. The sliding balcony doors gaped open, their translucent white curtains left undrawn and billowing inward. He kicked off his shoes and walked back toward her bedroom.

Bonnie lay on top of the covers. Her eyes were closed. She had donned a wispy blue dress Gabe hadn't seen in years, and her peaceful features were reacquainted at long last with makeup. Her black hair was clean and tucked neatly back behind her ears. She looked absolutely beautiful.

On the oak nightstand to the left lay three oversized orange tic tacs gathered together in a tidy row. Next to them, a stout glass of diluted liquid stood against the half-golden bottle of El Jimador. A fourth capsule nested in the carpet below.

He crept toward his mother and reached out to feel her arm. She had gone cold in the still heat of the room. He stumbled to her vanity and lifted the yellowing receiver. Don't cry, he begged himself. Don't panic. Yet he struggled when describing the scene to the dispatcher, so violent were his sobs, and new breaths came unreliably to his lungs as he was ordered to remain on the line.

;-;

Sunday, June 13th, 1999

"Are you going to live at our house?"

Gabe was not startled. He had been awake for half an hour already, had heard what he guessed were tiny feet moving across the carpet. He lifted the edge of the down comforter, squinting, eyes meeting with the small round face of a five-year-old. Eddie's oldest. "No."

"But you were sleeping here for three nights."

"I know."

"Are you a kid?"

"No, Gabby."

"Are you a teenager?"

"Yes, I'm a teenager."

"Oh." She sighed. "Your breath smells bad."

"Gabby, what are you doing in here?" (This time, Gabe was startled.) "You need to leave Gabe alone right now."

Through the narrow gap, Gabe watched her grin up at her father. He brought the covers down under his chin, his black hair twisting furiously around itself. "It's okay, sir. It's her house, not mine."

"I told you, you can stop calling me sir."

"Okay."

"We're making breakfast upstairs. Join us if you feel up to it. ...And as for you..." Eddie announced, pouncing on his daughter, lifting her, giggling, into his massive arms, "...we're going to leave Gabe alone now, okay?"

"You can stop calling me sir," echoed her little voice, and then they were gone. Eddie closed the door behind him. Gabe heard her laughter continue up to the main floor.

He was alone. Cold air whooshed through a register in the ceiling. Every morning for three days he had come to the realization all over again—that he was alone. The proof, of course, was that he woke in the cool, pastel quiet of Eddie's suburban home. What other circumstance could possibly have landed him here?

Each day, the path his logic followed was worn deeper. Was she finally, truly gone? Yes, she was. After all, he wasn't still there; he was here now. So, why didn't he cry? Had he cried yet at all? That's right, he had cried himself to sleep last night, and the night before, and the night before that. But why was he still sad? She had been in permanent, unfixable misery for most of her life, especially in the last year. She had been absent for months. Should the mere fact that it was now official make everything different? And yet, Gabe did feel different. He felt a nagging regret, incessant, reminding him that he had done nothing to stop it. Because in a sense, he knew what had been coming.