The Genealogies: Chapter 7, "Time and Coffee Spoons," Part Two

Jessie fluttered about the house, greeting everyone, getting them ready for Carlos and Marcelo’s arrival, “They’re on their way, they’ll be here any minute, oh, let’s close the blinds so he can’t look in.” About 20 people had shown up, a good showing, evenly distributed between family and friends. Allison Flor kept jumping around, girlishly excited about the card she had made for her uncle. Everyone had a plastic glass with varying levels of liquids, and everyone chattered away. Horace and his partner, Gary, volunteered for grill duty, which obviously had to be delayed until the brothers arrived and the surprise was sprung. The fridge was overflowing with grilling meats, hamburgers and hotdogs, chicken breasts and marinated carne asada from a Mexican butcher close by. Jessie discretely salivated at the thought of all that meat grilling, the smoke rising up into the sky like some burnt pagan offering, flesh charring, cooking, the taste and aroma being coaxed out by the burning coals. Jessie loved cookouts, loved the food one had at cookouts, and the relaxed, easy nature of them, standing around the fire, drinking beers, getting that charcoal smell dug into clothing and hair so that you had to shower afterwards to be able to sleep. And she loved doing things like this for Marcelo, was sad, when she thought about it, that she didn’t get to do them enough. Their relationship had worn into a settled groove, not bad, mind you, but somewhat boring, predictable, staid. She had planned something for the following weekend, just the two of them, a drive up the coast, which he loved, a room at a hotel in Cambria, wine tasting, visiting Hearst Castle, the whole Central Coast experience. Maybe that would kickstart things, jar them out of their rut. She had to do something.

***

Carlos arrived first, as he lived close by, freshly showered, but letting everyone know that Marcelo would be close behind, such a stickler for punctuality he was. After a while, they heard another car pull up in front of the house. Everyone had been ushered inside, and urged to keep as quiet as possible. Now they went completely silent. The doorbell rang, and Jessie went to answer it. She looked through the keyhole to make sure it was him. All the guests had parked their cars blocks away, so as not to tip off Marcelo. Jessie looked over her shoulder at the assemblage, silently miming for them to prepare themselves. She flung open the door, and “Surprise!” rang out onto the street, voices of all pitches and tenors vibrating, and the look of shock on Marcelo’s face, boy, you could really have knocked him over with a feather, he was just gobsmacked as the British would say. He had no idea, had never expected something like this. He stood rooted in the doorway, almost unwilling to go inside, until Jessie and Carlos drag-pushed him in, with Allison Flor grabbing at his leg and pulling him in as well. The women kissed him, the men shook his hand or hugged him, all swarming around him. Tio Roberto, who was also his godfather, gave him a huge wet kiss on the cheek, and cousin Art grabbed his shoulder with his big, meaty hand. Mamá seemed on the verge of tears, and cousin Anna and her husband Rey grabbed him both in a bear hug. His mind swam. He wasn’t sure what the big to-do was about. He was only turning 33. It wasn’t even a numerically significant birthday, except for Marcelo himself, because he did take half-seriously that whole there Jesus-and-Alexander analogy, except, wait, he was 32 when he died. He felt a little bit of comfort in that he felt like Caesar when confronted with Alexander’s achievements at his age, rueful and despondent. Of course, looking around, there was no one in the room who could truly appreciate that rarified joke, not the way he did, not Jessie, not even Maria. He moved through the room like an ionized particle, not really touching anyone.

Thomas, smiling as always, “Man, you shoulda seen your face. Bam! It was priceless.”

Horace and Gary, arms around each other’s waists, “Happy birthday, Marc—everything gets so much easier after this.”

Lexie, hugging her brother tightly and, raising up on tiptoes, kissing him on his nose, “Don’t frown tonight. Jessie went to a lot of trouble for you.”

Jessie went over with a cup full of beer, handing it to him, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. “Are you surprised, baby?”

“Yeah, surprised ten ways to Sunday.”

“Today is Sunday.”

“I meant next Sunday. Good thing I’m taking off tomorrow. I plan to attain a hangover tonight.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “Good. This night’s for you.”

Jessie pulled away, helping to get some of the meat out of the fridge so that Horace and Gary could begin cooking. The smell of smoking coals began wafting in from the backyard. Off beyond him, somewhere, he thought he heard the word “fag” uttered. He shrugged it off. If anything, he knew that whoever said it would keep it to himself, if only because Horace and Gary were guests in his mother’s house, and she wouldn’t tolerate any unpleasantness. Her thoughts on the couple, however, intrigued him. He spun out what Mamá might be thinking, wondering what intricate calculus she was performing to explain them. She, at times, surprised him with her liberality. He sighed, and lost, didn’t notice Maria sidling up to him and putting an arm around his shoulder.

“What’s up bubeleh?”

“I find your recent uptake of Yiddish to be disturbing and out of character for a South Bay surfer girl.”

“Do you always have to cause me so much tsouris?” She laughed.

“Where are your better half and my pseudo-nephew?”

“They’ll be here. He has hockey. I sacrificed a hockey game to be here with you. I hope you appreciate it.”

“I’m touched.” Marcelo smirked, then softened, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “This doesn’t get you off of taking me out to dinner.”

Jessie bounded back to where Marcelo and Maria stood.

“I hate to make you work on your birthday, but the fire won’t stay lit.”

“I always have to keep the fire lit. I was hoping to make it through tonight without smelling like mesquite.” He rubbed Maria’s head and went out to the backyard.

Outside, a group was gathered around the barbecue as Horace tried to fan a forlorn flame. Marcelo asked Jessica to go grab some newspapers out of the garage. His mother had a subscription to La Opinion. She never actually read the paper, but liked the routine of going out to the front lawn every morning and picking it up. Every once in a while one of the children would pick it up to keep fresh on their written Spanish. Mamá kept the old papers stacked in the garage; she saved them for an old Mexican neighbor who would take them and sell them to a recycling plant. She felt—not sorry for him, but rather proud, that old as he was he still found a way to keep himself occupied. Since she’d stopped working at the store she knew—it was so hard to keep doing things. Jessie returned with a bundle of paper, which he took and ripped into sheets, stuffing them strategically into the coals, dousing them with lighter fluid then lighting them.

“You always have to have a base. In the absence of kindling, newspapers will do.” He looked down at the fire as it took hold over the charcoal, spreading a grey ashy film over the black mesquite, taking in deep whiffs of the smoke. He did love a fire. There was something primal about it, the ability to control one of nature’s basic forces. He saw no irony in the fact that he had it significantly easier than his ancestors, with barbecue pits, self-lighting charcoal, Bic lighters. No rubbing two sticks for him, no, no depending on chance friction for the survival of the tribe. Fire was now a luxury, a ritual performed without any connection to its life-giving function. Still, it had an indelible pull. The best part of camping was building a fire so huge that it attracted people from adjacent lots to gather around, sharing beer, sharing weed. Yeah, a camping trip. That was what he needed. Pack up the car, drive, get out of the city. Pretend he didn’t need all of the city’s comforts, luxuries, services. Pretend, for a weekend, that he was self-sufficient.

“There, that should do it.” The fire was flickering now, licks of flame dancing around the bowl, sparking, jumping out. Marcelo grabbed his beer back from Jessie and went to sit on a swinging bench. He had bought it for Mamá a couple of years back, with the selfish purpose of using it frequently himself. His apartment didn’t have a balcony, so such rural luxuries were not afforded him. He swung himself on the bench, lazily swinging back and forth, the late afternoon sun hitting him, almost sunk below the horizon, beneath the house roofs and the telephone poles and the trees. It was fall, and the days would get shorter and shorter, the nights cooler, the mornings more crisp. It was a lie that L.A. had no seasons. Perhaps they didn’t have the vibrancy of Eastern seasons, the garish colors of autumn, the sepulchral whiteness of winter, and perhaps the occasional 80-degree day in January gave traction to the lie, but difference did exist. Soon sweaters and jackets would adorn the citizens; soon one would see one’s breath in the night, and covers and warm pajamas would become necessary; soon, if they were lucky, the rains would come, storms ambling through the Southland every two or three days, maybe once a week, storms that varied from pitiful patters of rain to deluges, pounding down upon the concrete earth. He much preferred this time of year to the just-passed summer. Rain and chill—like unhappy families—were much more interesting than eternal sunshine.

Various guests went to Marcelo on his perch, talked with him, wandered off only to be replaced by others, some who sat, some who stood. He didn’t feel the need to mingle, particularly. It was his birthday, and if he wanted to be a bit solitary, well, it was his right, wasn’t it? He wasn’t being anti-social, after all, not pushing away anyone. He quite amiably spoke with whoever approached him. But he was quite comfortable on his swing, quite comfortable in the back yard of his mother’s house, paid for by the life insurance settlement after Papá’s death. He just wanted to be still for a few moments.

Papá’s death was probably the final act of his love for his wife. He was farsighted, as an immigrant with no command of English or America’s myriad financial and insurance schemes, to have selected on a life insurance plan for himself soon after he set up his barbershop, to pay it faithfully for years, more so after his first heart attack. He had always known Mamá would outlive him; once it happened, he hadn’t wanted her to struggle. He had always known, more or less, that he would survive to see all his children attain adulthood, more or less; they’d be able to stand on their own. But Mamá; at long last, he had wanted her to stop struggling, to stop worrying, stop striving to keep things afloat; he wanted her to be at rest. So, his death, a day after his youngest child’s 18th birthday, was a final act of devotion. Soon after, a check for a substantial amount was provided to Mamá, whose frugality and common sense would keep it stretched out until her children laid her in the crypt next to her husband. The house was paid for, she was on Carlos’ health plan, she was a doting grandmother, everything was easeful, at long last, especially after her parents, in their turn, passed on. Marcelo swung again, kicking up his feet, marveling at the foresight and chance that led to this afternoon under the eaves of an avocado tree, a backyard full of assorted friends and family. He drank a sip of beer in silent memory of his father, and wondered if he should have the same perspicacity and get life insurance like him. He smiled to himself, shrugging off such thoughts. Unlike Papá, he wasn’t married and with a family. And he didn’t see acquiring either wife or children any time soon. He had no life to insure.

“Marc! Mom wants you!” Lexie’s nasal alto cut through the party chatter, and Marcelo grudgingly rose off of the bench, making his apologies to Shawn and Steve and their interchangeable girlfriends. He picked his way into the house, to find Mamá in the kitchen, of course, stirring the pot of black beans.

“What is it, Mom?”

She fixed him with a look.

“Are you having fun?”

“Me? Yeah. Of course I am.”

“Well, good. We went to a lot of trouble for you. Jessie did, especially.”

Marcelo arched an eyebrow. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Mamá stretched out her hand and patted his cheek. “You never disappoint me. But I think you get disappointed easily.”

Marcelo kissed her hand in their practiced way. “I’m never disappointed.”

“Ay, you’re always disappointed. Every time you talk to me it’s about another disappointment. Your whole life is a disappointment, and it shouldn’t be. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

“Yeah, Mom, you’re right.”

“Hmm. Tonight’s about more than just you. Just like Papá’s funeral was about more than him—it was for us. I know you didn’t want to celebrate this birthday. Just try to enjoy it, for Jessie’s sake.”

“Aside from not being too sure how to take having my birthday compared to a funeral, ok, I’ll try to enjoy it. And I am enjoying it. See?” He smiled. “Enjoyment!”

Mamá shook her head and shooed him out of the kitchen. “Go, talk to people, be a good host.”

Marcelo circulated around the room, going from knot to knot of people, introducing and bridging his various friends and family, and slowly he got into the swing of the party, swung happily, his empty cup miraculously replaced by a full one, as he began to act as if the party wasn’t just about him. An appreciation for Jessie’s effort began to creep over him; it must’ve been hell to organize this, contact all his friends from various disciplines, get the beer, get Carlos to go hiking—hey, just how long had she been planning this? The little sneak. He’d have to ask her that when he had a moment. This obviously wasn’t a slapdash affair. Thought and care had been put into the event, a thought and care that he knew bespoke of love. He looked at her across the room, chatting with Maria, about what he wasn’t sure. She wasn’t a tall woman, which was good, because he wasn’t a tall man—Carlos had received all of their grandfather’s height genes, while he and Lexie were left with the scraps. She wore her long auburn hair in a thick ponytail, sunglasses perched on top of her head, buried in her strands, her ensemble consisting of a somewhat too-tight t-shirt and shorts and flip-flops—there was just something about a woman in flip-flops, just the way her feet looked in them that he couldn’t explain, but man!—and as he looked at her, he recalled the way he had felt about her at first, meeting her at a mutual friend’s barbecue, much like this, a friend with whom they had both fallen out of touch, and she had just looked so delicious then, so round and alive. He had been hooked almost immediately. She looked like that now, burnished in the glow of all the work she had gone to organize the party. He could almost fall in love with her again.

Gary, piping in from the sliding backdoor, “Ok, who’s coming to get the meat, cuz it’s ready!” Jessie rushed into the kitchen, grabbing a platter she had pre-positioned just for this moment, hurried out into the yard, the smell of charred flesh wafting in through the open door, suffusing the house, that and the odd whiff of cigarette smoke. Marcelo wondered if cigars would be at hand later. It wasn’t quite a birthday without a few puffs on a cigar, maybe a fine Cuban snuck in over the border from TJ, or you can get them on the ’net now, no muss, no fuss, no stern-looking Uncle Sam glaring over your shoulder telling you you’re aiding and abetting the enemy. Fuck Uncle Sam and his stupid embargo. It was a sentiment Marcelo wouldn’t share with his family, at least not the older generation. They were all die-hard contra-Fidelistas, dreaming of the day they would land in the harbor or the airport, bringing decades’ worth of life lived in the free world, with all the knowledge and wisdom that entailed, all to bestow it, magnanimously, altruistically, on their poor, imprisoned compadres. Mamá had mellowed out somewhat—she was even a Democrat, ay, que Dios la vendiga—but Evelina and Roberto were quite adamant in their anti-communism, so much that they were even hesitant to send money to relatives on the island, fearing it would just prop up a sclerotic regime. No one said counter-revolution—or liberation, take your pick—would be easy. Their kids, Art and Anna, had inherited their fervor, Anna coupling it with a disturbing, recently-acquired Christian fundamentalism that had led her to be baptized again, as if the first baptism, at which Mamá had stood as godmother, had been somehow fraudulent, since she had been only a baby and hadn’t chosen it of her own free will. Mamá chewed off Marcelo’s ear about that, o boy did she. Mamá sent what she could to Papá’s family when she could, as all her own family had managed to emigrate, and she organized shipments of medicine with the kids. She didn’t like Fidel any more than the next exile, but she also didn’t want him to be the cause of privation in her family, if she could help it. Carlos leaned more towards his aunt and uncle’s view of things, though recently he had grown disgusted with all forms of politics, domestic and external, and was a declared political agnostic. Lexie thought the best way to change Cuba was to flood it with American tourists and American dollars; Fidel could never compete with Ryan Seacrest. Marcelo, befitting the middle child, was torn: yes, Fidel was a petty tyrant who, in trying to create his own vision of tropical utopia, had stunted his people’s political and spiritual development, and the island would be better off after he had died and afterwards the Party lost control of the country without the magnetic force of his personality to hold everything together; but, really, was he that much worse than Machado, than Batista, than the myriad corrupt interests that had ruled the island until 1 January, 1959? And what hope did he really have, really, embargoed by his largest market? And hadn’t he provided almost universal literacy, and universal healthcare? Hadn’t he done more, materially, than any Cuban caudillo that had come before him? At that point, Marcelo would shrug off his thoughts and open a book. He was leaning more towards Carlos’ position. Politics were hopelessly muddled and confused; it was best to be Switzerland.

Estelle, office manager extraordinaire, slid up next to him.

“Hey there, birthday boy.”

“Oi, don’t remind me. I would’ve been happy with a little dinner at Taylor’s.”

“You can be such an ungrateful bastard.”

“So I’ve been told.” He shoved her in the arm. “Thanks for coming, though.”

“Hey, a party for you? Wouldn’t have missed it.”

Marcelo looked around. “I see you’re alone.”

Estelle sighed. “Yeah, I left him at home. Really, it’s best for all concerned.”

“How is he doing?”

“Oh, you know, one day at a time. You know, you’d like to think it gets easier, but it doesn’t. It’s a struggle, every day.”

“Yeah, but the hardest part was taking that first step, no? Admitting the problem, admitting you have a problem, admitting you have no control over it.”

“Yes. Giving it all up—all the booze, all the weed, all the drugs. God, he’s even afraid to take aspirin. And he definitely couldn’t handle all this—” she shook her hands about, waving them to encompass the entire house, or maybe the entire world. “The temptation would be too much. We normally stick close to home. He doesn’t even go out with his friends, because he’s lost most of them. All they had in common, really, was drinking, and when that went away, so did they.”

“Well, I think Marty’s a brave man.”

“Sometimes I think that.” She paused. “Sometimes I think he’s a stupid asshole who fucked up his life entirely and was lucky to see the shithole he was in before it caved in on him.” She let out a long breath.

“Blimey.”

Estelle shrugged. “I still love him, though. I can’t seem to manage to change that. We’re stuck with each other.”

Jessie popped her head into the house. “Soup’s on!” she yelled.

A mass exodus ensued, two dozen-odd people trooping out, grabbing paper plates, piling on rice and black beans, pasta salad, fruit salad, chicken and sausage and carne asada, grabbing chunks of bread, sitting down at the rented tables—rented tables! She really went all out, didn’t she?—and eating hungrily, digging into the food, chatting across at each other, laughing, crumbs falling to the ground to be licked up by the dog, the dog nudging at knees and feet, trying to score some free food, maybe bits of gristly meat or fatty chicken sinew. The sun was just setting, so Mamá turned on the backyard klieg light, bathing the area in a harsh yet warming glow, much like that of a strict parent. Jessie slipped into the empty space on Marcelo’s right, Maria sitting on his left, and leaned over and kissed him on his cheek. He smiled at her, not drawing away from the kiss, and quietly thanked her for all the trouble she had gone to.

“It wasn’t anything. I knew you’d love it.”

“It sure is startling.”

The low, modulated buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed over the yard, a murmuring, spoken music. Allison Flor squealed at one end of the table as the dog stuck his snout against her leg. Anna’s step-daughter squealed in sympathetic unison, her and Allison Flor having become reacquainted and fast friends over the course of the afternoon. They had the right idea, Marcelo thought. Time and distance didn’t matter to them. They may not have seen each other for months, but it wasn’t important; there was a muscle memory there, a recollection of laughing and hugging that transcended space; they knew they had never disliked each other, at least not to any extent that would militate a break in relations, so there was nothing for it but to get along again like sisters separated for a time by being sent to different summer camps. Children had the right idea—at least when they weren’t being diffident and cruel to each other.

The meal passed thus uneventfully. People went up for seconds, and eventually paper plates and plastic cutlery were disposed of into a roving garbage bag hauled by Jessie from guest to guest. Everyone repaired inside, where Mamá was brewing strong, sweet Cuban coffee and the more prosaic American kind. All the family, of course, opted for the demitasses of espresso; Marcelo’s friends would settle for Folger’s. Jessie, too, had grown to appreciate the teasing sweetness of Mamá’s Cuban coffee, the way it went down your throat with something akin to the effect of smooth tequila, burning just enough to make you feel it. Marcelo, of course, had grown up drinking it, first in a mugful of boiled milk with buttered toast for breakfast, then graduating to it on its own, drinking it like an adult with Papá and Carlos after dinner.

Everyone was shooed out of the kitchen and into the living room, whereupon the swinging doors into the kitchen were shut for the first time all day, and, truthfully, for the first time Marcelo could recall in quite a while. Of course, he knew the reason. It was so transparent. And he vowed silently to bear it gamely, because it was being done out of affection and love.

He found himself sitting next to Anna and Rey. He and Anna had a strange history. They’d gone from not being able to stand each other, to becoming close during their teenage years, to going through a present estrangement, or maybe not estrangement, since there was no rancor between them. It was merely a separation that years and life create, drawing people into more and more distant orbits around personal lodestars.

“Hey cos,” Anna said, sipping on her demitasse.

“Hey yourself. How are you guys doing?”

“Oh, just great. Our lives are really blessed.”

“Very blessed,” Rey piped in.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. We really need to get together more often, and not just during big family kafuffles like this.”

Anna laughed. “Oh Marc, you and your strange words. Where did you get that one?”

“Not sure. Saturday Night Live?” He shrugged.

“Well, we’re glad your other half invited us,” Rey said.

You’re family, Marcelo thought. Not much choice in that, is there?

“Oh, I imagine she was pretty thorough with the guest list.”

“When can we expect to be invited to your wedding,” Anna nudged him in the ribs.

“Well, not for a while yet, I don’t think.”

“She doesn’t want to get married?”

“We don’t really discuss it, honestly. I don’t know her opinion on the subject.”

“Marc, she’s a woman. She wants to get married.”

“And she’s a Christian too, isn’t she, Marcelo?” Rey had an earnest look on his face.

Marcelo sucked in a quiet breath. “Yeah, yeah, she’s pretty Christian.”

Anna nodded her head in understanding. “If she is, and I have no doubt she is, then she must really want to get married, even if she doesn’t express it to you. You know, to sanctify her love in the eyes of God. I mean, for a true Christian, this situation can’t be satisfying.”

“I guess I don’t give it much thought. Seeing as I’m a heathen and all.”

Anna and Rey chuckled. “You know I’ve tried to get you to come to our church.”

“Sorry cos, but you know how I feel about that. I can’t remain self-righteous about not going to Mass if I start going to one of your worship services.”

Rey reached out a hand and tenderly touched Marcelo’s shoulder. “That’s how I was too, Marc. And Anna. But then, really, one day we realized we needed more in our lives. And it was so obvious what the answer was.”

“New kitchen tile?”

Rey laughed. “Always the kidder. But just wait—if you remain open, it’ll happen. Just stay open, Marc.”

“L.A.’s a bit of a scary city. Better to stay closed.”

Mamá swung open the kitchen door, through which walked Jessie, bearing a large, rectangular cake covered in chocolate frosting, 33 multicolored candles burning on its surface. The room erupted in applause, and Jessie began singing “Happy Birthday,” the rest of the guests joining in. Marcelo hid his face in his hand, watching the cake approach him. A space had been cleared on the coffee table, and as the song ended Jessie placed the cake on it. More applause followed, after which everyone started to yell for him to make a wish and blow out the candles. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, inhaled a great draught of breath, then let out a long stream of air, the candles flickering, then going out one by one, all with the same breath. Marcelo was rather proud of his lung capacity; it allowed him to blow out candles in one breath, or hold a long, continuous monologue.

“Speech! Speech,” Gary cried out. Marcelo thought something uncharitable, but then pushed it down. Not his fault, after all, he was just being in the moment. Soon the rest of the guests were calling for a speech, even Jessie, even Mamá, both of whom knew how much he hated making a spectacle of himself. Marcelo had a slight stammer when faced with making a presentation before any sized group of people. He often wondered what it would be like to have a severe, sustained stutter, like George VI or Porky Pig or that character from a M*A*S*H episode, and was thankful his stammering was only elicited by infrequent stressors. He sighed, and rose up off of the couch from beside Anna and Rey.

“O-okay, okay, speech.” He cleared his throat. He looked from face to face, his eyes squinted, focused on each one momentarily in the way he did when trying to think quickly and on his feet. Those were not his better moments.

“Well, as you all know, I’m not much of a public speaker, and especially not an extemporaneous one. In fact, I wish I’d been told a week ago about this party so I could have prepared something, or taken a sudden trip to Vegas, because I would’ve known you bastards would’ve made me talk.” Chuckles around the room.

“But, well, you’ve cornered me, haven’t you, and you’ve all come all this way into the wilds of Inglewood from your safe little bailiwicks, so I can’t be so ungracious as to deny you the traditional speech.” Glances passed from person to person, eyebrows arched, everyone wondering if Marcelo could keep his speech short and understandable.

“So, a speech. Well, I don’t have much to say, really. This party truly caught me unawares. That’s the way it is in life, isn’t it? You go along, unperturbed, everything happening in orderly, monotonous succession until BAM you get blindsided by something so singular that it leaves you shocked. I was expecting to pass my birthday quietly, no muss, no fanfare, a dinner out with Jessie, maybe another dinner out with the family, one more dinner with Maria—we’re Latin, our lives revolve around food—and maybe a lunch this week with the folks at work. A drink with friends. All pleasant, and all fun, but all expected. And here I walk into what I think is the safety of my mother’s house, the ground zero of predictability, a place where almost nothing untoward ever happens, and I get this. Craziness.

“So, a speech. But tonight isn’t just about me. A party is as much for the person throwing it as it is for the person for whom it’s thrown. A lot of times I find it hard to think I rate something like this, and am always a bit taken aback when things like this happen. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m fortunate, or blessed, or however you want to construct it. Mom, I love you for opening your house to me and friends and family for something that is probably more bother than it’s worth. And Jessie, I can’t thank you enough, not only for organizing this whole shindig, but for putting up with me the past few weeks. And I’m sure Maria and Lexie had a hand in this, so thank you guys, and I love you. And of course, Carlos, for serving as the party’s beard and dragging me off to sweat. If that doesn’t show brotherhood, I don’t know what does. And then there are all of you trudging out here for someone who can be difficult at times. Thanks to all of you.

“Every birthday that comes along is hard for me. It’s not so much that I mind getting older. Well, there is that, but not only that. I always judge myself on what I haven’t done, what I could’ve done, what I should’ve done. Of course, that’s really a recipe for disaster—you start comparing yourself to saviors and dead conquerors, and who can live up to that? Not me, that’s for sure. So, I’m starting over this year, and I’m starting small. Doing little things that make me happy, hoping that will lead to bigger things, but if they don’t, that’s all right, because most of life lies in the little things. It’s sort of appropriate for our times—we live in a time of littleness, where things close to home become more and more important as things far from home become bigger and more complex and really i-incomprehensible. That’s my goal for the next year, then, to pay more attention to the small details of life, cocoon, nest, try to make the lives of those around me as pleasant as possible, and maybe that’ll bring me happiness. That’s it.”

The living room remained silent for a few heartbeats. No one moved. Then suddenly, the space rang out in applause, whistling, appreciative screams. He sure knew how to give a good speech, man, no one talks like Marcelo, he just gets rolling and you can’t stop listening. Whether everyone understood everything, or wanted to, was beside the point. It was almost a point of pride that they knew someone who could declaim like him, and sound as if he was treating subjects of great depth.

Jessie handed Marcelo the knife, squeezing his hand as she passed it off.

“First piece is for the birthday boy, but don’t hog it all up!”

Marcelo smirked, then slid the knife silently into the cake, pulled it out, slid it in, pulled it out, then grabbed the spatula and brought his piece away from the cake. The cake itself was fudge, the frosting a light chocolate, and he sniffed at it, luxuriating in the smell of the cocoa and sugar. Just the smell of chocolate was enough to soothe him at times, and the taste of it was enough to sedate him in a way that few other things did. Not even sex had such an anodyne effect on him. At work, both Horace and Estelle kept little bowls of bite-sized candies on their desks, specifically for the purpose of ameliorating Marcelo in his moods. Anyone who had ever seen him consume chocolate would have to laugh: he pops the chocolate in his mouth, letting it settle on his tongue, precursor chemicals already setting off signals. The he swallows it, whatever it is—candy, cake, ice-cream, it doesn’t matter—and one can see a visible change come over him, washing across his face, a calm, a peace that is so out of character for him. One could almost call it happiness.

He placed the cake on a plate Jessie held, handed the knife to Carlos and picked up a fork, walking back next to the kitchen and leaning against the wall, watching as his brother cut slices for the guests, children first, of course, everyone eagerly awaiting their pieces as he slowly placed forkful after forkful into his mouth, savoring each bite. Maybe this wasn’t that bad, after all. No, really, not that bad at all. I mean, look at it—good food, generally decent people, all a lot of bother for me. Can’t really complain, now can I? Except, maybe, for the wish. But it was a silly wish. Will never happen. Things like that never happen in real life, or at least the real life of anyone I know. And it’s better that it doesn’t.

Jessie slid up next to him, a smallish piece of cake balanced on her plate, counting points for her perennial return to Weight Watchers. She stood nearly level with him, just a hair shorter, and leaned over to kiss his lips after he swallowed a bite, tasting the cake on his tongue.

“I think I’ll take my cake that way, sir.”

“Well, aren’t you the little pervert? Good Baptist girl and all.”

“No one goes to church out here! I don’t want to go by myself.”

“My mom goes to church. Anna goes. Hey, maybe you can go to Anna’s church. They seem to be as crazy as the Baptists.”

“Don’t mock my faith, mister.”

“I never mock faith. Religion is entirely another subject.”

The doorbell rang. Lexie went to answer it. She opened the door, and there stood Gloria, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, face scrubbed clean, top and shorts and sandals. Lexie let her into the house, and she looked around the room, noticing all the people eating and drinking and laughing. Her eyes finally fell upon Marcelo, standing next to Jessie. His eyes had never left her.

“There’s Lexie’s friend.”

“Yep, my other little sister. I remember when she wore these huge glasses. Looked like the biggest dork this side of the 405.”

“Well, she’s all grown up now, isn’t she?”

“Little sisters tend to do that, however much you push down on their heads.”

Gloria smiled at him, walking towards where he stood.

“Hey you. Happy birthday.” She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I hope you like your gift.” She handed him a box wrapped in shiny, blue paper.

He sucked in a breath. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ll love it. Hey, go get yourself some cake. We’ll be here.”

“Ok.” She smiled, almost shyly, and turned away, walking towards the diminishing cake.

Jessie chuckled. “Careful, Marc—little sisters can fall in love with big brothers.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not something I would wish for, now is it?”

The party wound its way for a couple of hours more, no one really wanting to leave, even though most everyone had to go to work the next day. Finally, around 9 p.m., the first guests began leaving, Anna and Rey with their little girl making the rounds of family and kissing them on the cheek goodbye, then Carlos and Allison Flor, whom he had to get back to Brigit. That started the flood, triggered the switch that allowed everyone to leave. Marcelo’s co-workers hugged him, telling him to enjoy his Monday off, lucky bastard. Tia Evelina and Tio Roberto hugged and kissed him, leaving and driving the few blocks to their house. One by one the house emptied out, until it was just Lexie and Gloria and Maria, Mamá and of course Marcelo and Jessie. Maria left first, having to get back to her boy, who was probably sunburned and ill-fed after a day with his father. Lexie and Gloria decided to go catch a late movie somewhere, or maybe a drink, they were undecided. Gloria gave Marcelo a hug, tight and lingering, or lingering to anyone paying close attention, which, thankfully, no one was. Jessie wanted to stay and help Mamá clean up, but she would have none of it. She shooed them out of the house, kissing each of them goodnight.

“I’m always surprised by how much you folks kiss each other.”

“I think it’s rather nice. Better than a handshake and a pat on the back.”

“Yeah, it is.”

They got into the car and debated whether or not to go for a nightcap at Largo. Deciding that they were tired, they instead went home, up La Brea, west on Beverly, north on Poinsettia, still technically in the Fairfax District, close to the Grove, in the heart of everything Marcelo loved.

***

Marcelo stood watch at the livingroom window as Jessie busied about the apartment, feeding the cats, washing up, changing for bed. The window faced out onto the quiet street. Occasionally a car would glide by, its headlights casting brilliance on Marcelo.

“So did you like it, babe?”

“What? The party?”

“Well, of course, the party.”

“Yeah. I loved it. Thanks for all the trouble you went to.”

She snuck up behind him, patted his ass and bit his earlobe. “It was no trouble at all.” Jessie went about the flat, picking up strewn-about newspapers, books, shorts. “I think everyone liked it. They were all happy to do something for you. You do so much for them all the time.”

“Not really. I really don’t do much.”

“You do. But still. People like celebrating. It makes them feel good.”

“I’m glad to serve as an excuse for good feelings.”

Jessie stopped in her progression. “You can be such an asshole sometimes.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

Marcelo had continued facing the window, watching Jessie in its reflection, when he wasn’t entranced by the darkness outside. He was minding her only half-attentively, other thoughts crowding in him. He recalled the speech he gave earlier. They wanted a speech, so he gave it to them. They seemed to enjoy it. He could always pull out the right thing to say for any occasion, comical, tragical, comical-tragical. He didn’t necessarily have to mean it. Just as long as they believed it. The words were all that mattered, the effect they had on listeners. Did it matter that he felt completely distant and disjointed from everyone in his life? Did it matter that he had grown to loathe being the child Mamá depended on the most—that just once, Carlos, the oldest, should take charge of things? Or that Lexie was still swimming in her prolonged adolescence, floating from job to job, not really doing anything meaningful? Did it matter that when he made love to Jessie, he did it by rote? It wasn’t even fucking—he didn’t get that animal thrill of the mere physical act. Jessie wore on him, and he wasn’t sure why. Or at least he didn’t want to acknowledge why yet. No, better to let things go as they were. There was comfort in that. The security of the known. He continued looking out into the street as Jessie turned off the lights in the apartment, one by one, until the darkness inside was deeper than the street’s darkness.