The Sea of Light (49 page)

I listen to her words. I see the man Sager brushing by the young man Kenny, the young woman Liz, shirtless, barely nodding, eyes set ahead, buttoning the top button of his jeans. It was Sager who followed, bare callused feet on cement. He hardly made a sound.

In the room where her things were she locked the door. Light rose faintly from the bedside table, illuminated the bottom half of a bad painting on the wall, graveled beach streaked red, streaked pink. There was sand inside each shoe. She took them off. Shook them out. Breathing hard. Fingers numb. Then a sound like a crack at the door, the latch snapped easily, just like a dried twig, and it opened. There was Sager. She looked up at him with shoes in her hands.

Okay, he said. The voice seemed funny. A cool tenor. She remembered, suddenly, that he was young.

Get out, she said. He shook his head. In the halfway dark she saw a flash of eyes, fluorescent hallway light streaking in from the cracked-open door, almost but not quite a smile. And he said, No, Kitten, you’ve got it all wrong,
you
don’t tell
me
what to do.

“Fuck you, Bart.”

Something knocked her head sideways so for a second she didn’t breathe. Then twisted it around, smothering, grinding against pillows, and trying to breathe she made a sound. Heard him say, Stupid kid, you’ve got that wrong, too.

Then her forehead went into a headboard, once, twice. She thought, bewildered: There won’t be any blood. Tried to push herself up with arms tangled in sheets. Something ripped. Massive hands around her wrists pulled back, and up, and in the light under the pink-streaked red-streaked gravelly sand she was on the bed on her knees all of a sudden, shoulders wrenched, hands pinned, frozen still, unstruggling, her face in pillows, a throbbing in her head. She told herself: Yell. Instead, froze. What came out were weak muffled sounds. He pulled the hands and arms higher until every ligament in each shoulder strained to the danger point, aching to break. Saying, Big girl, huh? Big animal? Worthless. All that money down the gutter. But remember, Kitten, everything you get comes from me. Every race. Every medal.

He leaned over then to whisper. And every time she fucks you, it’s because I say so.

Oh, she thought, inanely, watch out for the shoulders.

As if he caught the thought on air he lowered both her arms carefully, then, to the small of her back, but kept his grip tight around both wrists. For a second, she wanted to thank him. Thinking, as if it mattered: Too many pushups, maybe, baby those joints. Thinking: Time trials, max out. And National Team. Save them for next summer.

Right, he whispered. He spoke softly now, very calm, almost kind. Gold medal deltoids. Million dollar knees. And we don’t want to hurt them, Kitten, do we?

He was yanking at her waistband. No, she thought, this is not real. Somewhere, clothes ripped. She could not see. Only feel steamed close air against bare flesh, back, thighs, knees hurting. Sucking air desperately through the
pillow cover in her mouth. Between them air, denim, buttons. Then nothing but what he had willed, this piece of him hard and thick and cruel. No, she said, not that, please. But it found what it was looking for and pushed deep inside. Pain burst up through her so that she forgot to breathe again.

Then something left her and went into the aching dull light of the bedside lamp, hovered around bad pictures of gray waves and sand, watching as he did this to her body.

Pain tore up to her body’s intestines, but, watching, she did not feel it. For a minute he closed his eyes. He began to move then, harder and faster. She watched from the bedside lamp. Sand seared. Waves foamed down from the bad pink and gray painting on the wall, bubbled like water in a pot. On the floor were her body’s torn clothes. On the bed two shoes, partly filled with sand.

Big girl, he said. Big girl, huh4? But I’ll show you. Stuck-up little mixed-breed bitch.

She watched, feeling nothing. Until her pinned wrists were yanked up urgently, his head tilted back and pale eyes closed, and he jerked forward in a spasm that distorted his face, made him drop both her arms so that they fell numb on the bed, and he groaned once, sharply, plunged some last piece of himself forward, spilled out of her dripping pale drops, dripping blood. Then collapsed across her back, and there were two human beings stacked one on top of the other, still and flat against a ruined bed. She watched, feeling nothing. But her body cried.

Whoa, he said, whoa.

She watched, feeling nothing, as his lips kissed the neck of her body. Then he groaned as if to sob, hid his face against the back of her body’s neck, but no more sounds came out. For some reason, or for no reason, the hands of the girl who was her groped forward, pulled pillow covers away from a tear-smeared face, turned the body sideways so that she curled halfway into the shadow of him and was still, crying, and he put his arms around her. She touched a thick white-haired arm with cold fingers. Her voice shook. Incongruous.

Bart?

He was barely there. Gave no reply.

When he stood, he stroked her shoulder. She lay motionless. He stuffed himself back inside the denim jeans and buttoned them up in an orderly fashion, bottom to top, perfectly. He spoke and the words came softly.

See, Babe. He was at the door now, broken latch swinging from its insides, and he opened it a crack then quietly closed it, firmly, intentionally.

See, I can do that any time. Come through any door.

In the light, his back glistened. His face looked tired, a little paler than usual, drained. He turned and was gone.

The body that was hers did not move for a long time. After a while, when tears had dried on the face, it rolled off the bed trailing a sheet spotted with dark drops, and she watched emotionlessly as it crawled across the dusty floor, past rug tassels and spiders, to the threshold of the bathroom; as it paused there, swaying on both knees like a wounded animal, then pulled itself across dirty old tiles to a bathtub that was large and rounded at the edges, colonial style. She watched the bruised wrists swell, watched the hands turn rusted faucets. Watched a young woman climb over into the old white rounded tub while cold water spilled in, puddled around her raw nakedness, and once in a while her body panted in short, repetitive sequence, and once in a while it cried.

She watched, feeling nothing. Followed sparking trails of light from the bedside lamp, from the bad oil painting, fused with stained sand and wet air, watched over her from the light itself and whenever she cried stepped back inside her for a moment, stopping her, saying, Shut up, girl. Saying, I am the brains now, I am the fire here, I am the power. I am the water that puts out the fire. I am the flame that can burn through the water. I am you, girl, I am the thing that will save you. This, here, watching. Take it. Have it. When what happens is too hard to bear. When reason does not matter.

I hold her for a long time.

As she sobs I tell her: Don’t worry, child. You didn’t create her—the storm, I mean, Angelita. You didn’t call her, she was there, long before, and all along, waiting. She took that man away. It was good for him to die. It was good for you to live. And everything good costs pain.

I watch her tears dry. Between us, the silence. Hear the measured breaths of this old black woman. Tragic young face of the young one beside her. Remember the crucifixion statue above a church altar outside of Havana, long ago, dimly illuminated by candles, dark streaks staining the ivory skin of Jesus as he hung there, sadly. But I was never ivory. And neither, my child, were you. There is no pure white sterile beginning to curl back into. Only blood of the innards, in all their difficult mingled pain and joy; hard work, scarred hands covered with dark, dark earth; dangerous, wholesome fire—which, now, you must learn to have and control—from the secret burning part of you. Only forward, is there. Into the suffering, and hope. Into the love. And the terror. The pity. The light.

Old twisted black hands. Crooked joints. Pink callused palms. I offer them to her. Saying, here child, hold these, take what they have to give. Out of the darkness, comes my light. Out of this darkness, yours.

She presses both hands into mine. Eyes glimmer shut. Pale lids over tears. There is fire in my hands. But it warms her, will not burn her. I can feel it come alive, now, in her hands too—after staying inside at the secret dark core of her for so long—the heat, the life. Fire doesn’t injure fire. And only dead wood burns.

I tell her it is time.

For what? she says.

To love, I tell her. Use this power for good. Do violence only to protect a beloved. Offer your care and your power to a living creature who needs it. Some child, maybe—one of your own flesh, or of another’s, or even a defenseless animal—what matters is that you give up a part of yourself to nurture it. Heal the sickness of human bodies and minds.
Como una bruja.
A big brown witch. Tender woman. Child no more.

The fire courses through us. Joins at the palms. Feeling it fully, for the first time, she is surprised, mistakes its raw energy for pain, and sobs out loud.

Bear it, I tell her. Woman, you must bear it.

For this you came back.

For this, was Angelita.

She grinds her teeth, and between wet gasps tells me about the crash, the sea, the storm. The light that was cold, then warm. Small, then all-surrounding. Gleaming from wrecked metal onto mirroring gems of water. Wanting to take her in.

I tell her of Guillo’s child, come out of me too early in a billowing wash of blood. Smoke of the fields. How I walked among stumps of cane. Walked through the miles. Arms outstretched, offering myself. How the flaming ground let me go—though I begged of it to seize me—let me go, and left no burns.

Go back, it said. The water next time.

*

Later, in sweating twilight, I show her how to touch her fingertips to the wicks of candles. She does. And speckles the room with light.

“I always wondered, Tita.”

“What, girl?”

“Why you never had any matches on the altar.”

“Sure,” I laugh. And snatch a drugstore matchbook out of my pocket. “But you have to keep them around. The Powers aren’t yours—they come and go. You’re just their vessel. And sometimes, who knows why? the magic doesn’t work.”

She pauses, unsmiling; “What do I do then?”

“Reason. Use your reason.”

Ah, she says, of course.

I boil water in the square place, making
arroz con frijoles negros.
We eat it with bread, and drink more soda. In the electric light she looks younger, beaten down.

“I think my mom and dad are breaking up.”

I nod.

“They’ve just been beating on each other since Christmas. Since before then, probably. It’s really depressing, Tita. Jack, and Roberto—and Teresa, she’s just a kid—they’re going crazy.”

“Pobrecitas.”

“Jack says they might sell the house.”

“Yes,” I say, “some things don’t last.”

“I’m missing lots of tests and practice, just coming down here. I mean, I’ve like really messed up.”

“Ah,” I say, “that’s not important.”

We go back to the room of candles, wiping off sweat with bright kerchiefs. We eat sugared fruit, drink strong black coffee. I search a drawer for hidden pleasures. Smoke forbidden cigarettes.

Tita, she says, show me more things.

In a while, I tell her. Next time you’re here.

She tells me that will be in the summer. Kenny’s parents are having him cremated tomorrow. No service. No invitations. And buried in the ocean, on his birthday, some time in July. She told them she would come down for that. Go out on the boat with them. Take ashes in her hands.

“So,” she says, “I’ll see you then, too.”

“Good.” I wheeze, blow out clouds.

Before she leaves I tell her to give my regards to the family. To eat good food, work hard, be kind to those who deserve it, fight those who are wasteful and cruel, even win more medals if she wants. I remind her about the fire. Patience, I say, use it in love. With age, it gets stronger.

She must go, get on an airplane. At the door our hands meet. Old fire. Young fire. Soon, I’ll pass it all to her. Then give myself up completely. To the ending, and the light. And feel my bones grow cold. Inside me, smoke and dust.

When you visit in the summer, I tell her, bring nothing but yourself. Go straight to Kenny’s parents. Don’t be afraid. Then travel out in a boat with them. On a bright, clear-sky day. With healing in your heart. Dig your hands in deep, and help throw his ashes on the sea. His weightless, well-burned ashes. The pieces of his poor tired body.

Be glad that you were broken, I say. In your body, and your heart. Be not happy, but glad. Which means accepting.

Accept, now, all the love and hate. The father and the mother. And black, and white. Accept, now, the suffering.

Be glad for Angelita.

Finals

(
BREN
)

Delgado does come back, finally, after missing too much practice and nearly all of her final exams. I know, because her teachers complained; word got around to a couple of bigwigs on the scholarship committee; and sooner rather than later—after being tipped off by a maliciously gleeful McMullen—I had a lot of explaining to do.

In the end, though, the kid’s rear end is saved, and so is mine. What it all comes down to—as I knew it would, after all the fuss and annoyance—is winning. She has been crucial to our terrific record this year. Her presence is necessary at the Divisional Championships. Number-one ranking is in sight. Alumni contributions are up. Babe Delgado is not expendable.

She doesn’t show up for her one-on-one chat, though—she is the only one of the team to miss it—and it makes me feel helpless, more than a little angry, like I have given her too much leeway and now have to pay back the Spoiled Brat Piper. In her appointed time slot, Ellie Marks shows up instead. My irritation cools.