Tiger Eyes (13 page)

“Yes,” I say.

“And he’s handsome too.”

I nod.

“Some day he’s going to have a big job at the
Lab. Group leader … division leader … maybe even Director.”

“We’ll see, Dad,” Wolf says. “We’ll see.”

Mr. Ortiz holds the dancing bear out to Wolf. “Wind it for her,” he says. “She likes to see it dance.”

Wolf winds up the bear and sets it on the table, where it dances in circles, until it wears down, moving more and more slowly until it stops completely. Like Mr. Ortiz, I think.

Mr. Ortiz closes his eyes and whispers, “I have to sleep now.”

Wolf kisses his father’s cheek. “See you tonight, Dad.”

We walk out of the room together. At first we don’t speak. We walk down the corridor to the elevator and I push the button.

“You’re surprised to see me here,” Wolf says.

Surprised is an understatement. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m surprised. Aren’t you surprised to see me?”

“Sure.”

“How come I haven’t seen you here before?” I ask.

“I’ve been working at the Lab in the afternoons. I took the semester off to be with my father. I usually visit here at night.”

The elevator door opens and we step into it. There are two nurses and a doctor standing to one side.

“I’ll drive you home,” Wolf says.

“I have to get my things,” I tell him.

“I’ll wait outside,” he says.

“Okay … I’ll only be a minute.”

I grab my jacket and books from the closet in the volunteers’ office and dash down the hall to the revolving door. Jane is there, waiting for me, her hat pulled down over her forehead.

“I’ve got a ride home,” I tell her. I push my way through the revolving door. Jane is right behind me. Outside, Wolf waits in a battered Toyota pick-up truck. He toots his horn at me. I wave. “See you tomorrow,” I tell Jane. She looks confused and hurt. I don’t blame her but I don’t have the time to explain now.

I get into Wolf’s truck and we take off. “I live in the western area,” I say, “only a few blocks from here … on 45th Street.”

Wolf nods. He knows his way around town.

“I didn’t know you were going to be a physicist,” I say, glancing sideways at him.

“I don’t know if I am,” Wolf says.

“But your father said …”

“It’s what he wants for me.”

“You must be very smart,” I say.

Wolf laughs.

I fiddle with the pom pom on my hat, which I hold on my lap. “What did you mean, it’s what
he
wants?”

“Just that. He has my life all planned.”

I think about Mr. Ortiz and the way he decided I should go out for the swim team, without
finding out if I have an interest in swimming. I think about Jane’s parents and how her father wants her to go to MIT and her mother wants her to go to Wellesley. I think about Walter and the way he is pushing me to go to college without finding out what’s important to me. I nod at Wolf. I understand what he is saying. “What do
you
want?” I ask him.

“That’s the big question, Tiger,” he says. “And I haven’t come up with the answer yet.”

“This is it,” I say, as we pull up in front of the house.

Wolf turns off the engine and looks at me. “Did your father die of cancer? Is that why you’re so close to mine?”

“No,” I say. “My father …” I pause, about to tell him the truth. But then I change my mind and say, “My father died suddenly.”

“It’s tough either way,” he says, “isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He rests his head on his arms on the steering wheel. I lean over and touch his hand. “Will I see you at the canyon over the weekend?”

“No, I’m spending all of my time with my father now.”

I nod. “Then I’ll see you next week, at the hospital.”

He doesn’t respond and even as I say it I know that by next week it could be over. That by then Mr. Ortiz could be dead. I open the door on my side of the truck.

Wolf sits up. “Goodbye, Tiger.”

I nod again. If I try to speak now I know I will cry. I get out of the truck and run into the house.

“W
ho was that in the pick-up truck?” Jane asks the next day.

“A friend.”

“I know that. But who?”

“Mr. Ortiz’ son.”

“He’s cute.”

“There are things that matter more than being cute!” I snap.

Jane’s face turns red and tears spring to her eyes.

I walk away feeling like a creep.

That night I call her. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Davey,” Jane says.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “It’s just hard to see Mr. Ortiz dying … that’s all.”

“We’re not supposed to become emotionally involved with the patients.”

“I know … but I’m human … I can’t help it.”

There is a long pause. Finally Jane says, “Look, we’re going down to Santa Fe on Saturday to do some last minute Christmas shopping. You want to come?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”

A
t dinner the next night my mother says, “I’m thinking seriously of looking for a job after Christmas. Something part time.”

“A Casual,” Walter suggests, buttering his baked potato.

“A casual what?” I ask.

“That’s what we call part time employees at the Lab,” Walter explains. “I think I can help,” he tells Mom. “Maybe pull a few strings.”

“That would be wonderful,” Mom says. “I’ve got to get into a routine. I need some place to go every morning. A reason to get out of bed.”

“I get out of bed because I have to pee,” Jason says.

“Not at the table,” Bitsy tells him.

“No, not at the table,” Jason says. “In the bathroom.”

I begin to laugh. Once I get started I can’t stop. I laugh and I laugh, until my side is splitting.

TWENTY-FIVE

In Santa Fe I feel so exhilarated, I can’t get enough of the street life and the people. I realize that one of the things I miss most about Atlantic City is people-watching. I used to go to the Boardwalk and just watch, fascinated. In Los Alamos there is no one to watch, except the housewives in the supermarket and even they have a sameness I find boring. In Santa Fe, the tourists mingle with the natives—the Spanish, the Anglos, the Native Americans, all together.

We walk around the Plaza, admiring the windows of the shops and the festive decorations. This part of Santa Fe seems to be a village, not a city. It reminds me of
Christmas in Other Lands
, a book we studied in fourth grade. I feel as if I am in another land. I see a window full of piñatas. I want to buy one for our family, but when I go into the store and price them they are too expensive.

The Palace of the Governors dates back to 1609, Jane tells me. Groups of Indians sit under its portal, displaying their wares on colorful blankets. There are delicate silver and turquoise earrings and necklaces, strings of heishi, chunky
silver bracelets and rings. I want to buy something for my mother. I go from blanket to blanket admiring everything and finally decide on a pair of earrings. They are ten dollars, which is more than I can afford but I splurge because they are so pretty.

After a while we go to the French Pastry Shop which is adjacent to La Fonda Hotel. We order apricot tarts and herb tea. When we have finished Jane asks her parents if she and I can shop on our own for the rest of the afternoon.

“Yes, but be careful,” her mother says. “Stay off the side streets and don’t speak to any strangers.

Outside, the Albertsons head in one direction, and Jane and I in the other. As we are walking up Palace Avenue, a group of boys comes toward us. Jane clutches my arm.

“What is it?” I ask. She is trembling.

“They’re Spanish,” she whispers.

“So?”

“Don’t look at them. Look away. Look across the street.”

“Jane …” I say and start to laugh.

“Do you know how high the rape statistics are in this town?” she whispers.

“No,” I tell her.

“High.”

“Nobody’s going to rape you in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of town.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

The boys pass us.

“You see,” Jane says. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear them?”

“Hear them what?”

“Make those sounds.”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t hear anything. I don’t think they even noticed us.”

“They’re all like that,” Jane says anyway. “They’re all out to rape Anglo girls.”

“Jane, that is one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard!” We stop walking and face each other.

“You’re new around here,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

I think of Wolf and inside my head I say
No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand
.

We browse in the Villagra Bookstore, where I find a paperback copy of
Computing for Fun
. I think of Walter immediately. He could use a little fun, and since he is so into computers, I buy it for him.

I get a small leather pouch for Jason, in a shop down the street. He can keep marbles in it, or stones he has found, or shells, when we go back home. I know he will like it.

At Doodlets, a funny little shop crammed full of gifts with cat motifs, I get Bitsy a pot holder with a cat face on it and a set of catnip toys for Minka. I buy two rolls of cat wrapping paper, and while Jane is off searching for gifts for her
family, I bought her a cat mobile, to hang in her room. There, my shopping is finished. I feel very good about it. I am almost wiped out financially, but maybe I can pick up a babysitting job over the holidays. And then I see the candle. It is round, with five wicks on top, and depicts the New Mexican sunset. My father would love it, I think. He collected unusual candles and then waited for special occasions to light them.

“Would you like one?” a saleswoman says to me. “They’re just $3.95.”

“Yes,” I tell her, “but I’m going to have to return one of these rolls of wrapping paper.”

“All right,” she says. “I’ll credit you $2.50 for the paper.” I reach into my wallet and pull out my last two dollars. The saleswoman wraps the candle in tissue paper and I put it into the bag with the other gifts.

I won’t tell anyone I bought a present for my father. Who would understand?

Jane and I meet her parents for an early dinner at The Steaksmith, and when we come out of the restaurant the farolitos, which line the flat topped roofs of the buildings downtown, have been lit. They are candles set in sand, inside brown paper bags, and are the traditional New Mexican Christmas decorations. The Plaza looks beautiful, outlined in soft lights.

Jane’s parents walk hand in hand. Tonight, they remind me of my parents, happy and loving. Tears come to my eyes. This must be a very
hard time of year for my mother, I think. Facing the holidays without Daddy.

When we get back to the car we see that someone has written on the hood with a magic marker.
Los Alamos Sucks!

The Albertsons don’t say anything. But they look at each other in a way that lets me know this isn’t the first time it has happened.

“How did they know we were from Los Alamos?” I ask Jane.

“The LASL sticker,” she says.

“Oh, right. I forgot.” Every car that has parking privileges at the Lab has an ID sticker in the front window.

It makes me angry, this two-way hatred. I don’t understand it. I wonder how much of it is caused by fear?

The lovely mood is spoiled. I fall asleep on the ride home.

TWENTY-SIX

On Christmas morning Bitsy brings out a menorah. “It belonged to
your
great-grandmother,” she tells Jason and me. Even though Hanukkah fell early this year we light all eight candles and recite the Hanukkah blessing. Then we go into the living room and open our presents, which are under the tree. It is nice to celebrate both holidays, I think. If I ever have kids that’s what I’ll do.

We have a quiet Christmas, a sad Christmas, although each of us pretends to be happy, pretends to be excited by our gifts. Underneath we are all thinking the same thing. It is our first Christmas without Daddy. But we don’t talk about it.

Bitsy and Walter have invited some people in for Christmas dinner. Two men from the Lab, both of them divorced and lonely, a single woman they have known for years and a young kindergarten teacher who belongs to Bitsy’s Tuesday night group. I think it is nice that Bitsy and Walter have asked these people to join us, even though the kindergarten teacher drinks too much wine and gets silly, and I don’t like the
way one of the divorced men keeps looking at my mother.

That night, when the company has left, when the dishes have been washed and dried and put away, I go to my room and take my father’s present out of the trunk. “Daddy … this is for you.” I light all five wicks on the candle and watch as the New Mexican sunset disappears. “Merry Christmas, Daddy. I wish you were here.” In fifteen minutes there is nothing left. Nothing at all, except a pile of wax.

T
he next day it snows. I sit in front of the picture window in the living room, watching the flakes fall. My breath makes the glass frosty.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Mr. Ortiz is in a coma. He will probably never wake up. Wolf sits at his bedside, an opened book on his lap. But he’s not reading. He never turns the pages. I ask if I can get anything for him.