Page 38 of Life Out of Order

“Thank god you’re here,” Gomez says, lighting up. “It was getting crowded in that room. You’re the only person I know who smokes anymore.” We wander north along Halstead, attracting dirty looks from passersby.

“I’m trying not to,” I say, but he ignores that. We smoke two cigarettes each, and I feel my brain unclench. An involuntary ah escapes me. Gomez grins.

“Long night?” he asks.

“Yeah. I spent a lot of it wishing I hadn’t agreed to Alba’s plan. When I saw Rosa speed up I thought—well, I realized there were possibilities I hadn’t sussed out because I figured Alba wouldn’t be pushing us all into this if someone had died.”

“I have had some complicated emotions while watching that CCTV video,” Gomez says. “Charisse and I had a long talk with Rosa this morning.”

“Oh?”

Gomez lights up another cigarette and I join him, though my stomach is growling and I’m queasy from last night’s fast food. He says, “I’ll tell you the same thing we told her: You need to tone it down. Don’t do spectacular stuff that’s going to make the news; I had to exert myself to get your faces and plate numbers scrubbed from the CCTV video. You just risked all of us to get one guy, and he was only a random murderer; he wasn’t ours to get. We have to do things quietly, and we must make sure we are tackling the root problem, not stray randos. Okay? And don’t tell me it’s all on Alba. You can say no to Alba, she’s not God and you’re not Job.”

“Clare was just yelling at me about that.”

Gomez says, “Don’t mess with Clare, heaven knows I don’t.” His face belies his words; I have often observed that Gomez has a soft spot for Clare. “Listen, I understand. Alba is a lot like her father. You should ask Clare how to cope. She was the only one who could.”

I am curious about the DeTambles, but everyone seems wary of discussing them. “What do you mean?”

“It was as though all the damage came down on her at once, when Henry was killed. We thought she knew how to live that strange, out-of-order life because she’d known Henry since she was a kid. But it turns out it had a delayed effect. Beck saved her. I don’t know what Clare would do without Beck.” Gomez finishes his coffee and looks for a place to chuck the cup. “Why are there no recycling bins on this street?” He folds up the cup and stashes it in his pocket.

“I feel as though I’m dating two girls simultaneously. Alba-in-the-present is wonderful; we get along really well and things feel pretty equal most of the time. But future Alba is something else: She knows too much.”

“Charisse and I found Alba unnerving even when she was a child because she used to blurt out random pieces of the future. I was always afraid she was going to tell me I was divorced, or that my children had become Republicans. It took Clare a while to train her not to terrorize people.”

“So you’re saying you think Alba is dangerous to know? Because I was thinking of marrying her.” I hadn’t intended to confide in Gomez, but I’m second-guessing myself. He gives me a sideways glance, then looks pleased.

“Hmm. Yeah. I could see the two of you making a go of it. I mean, you’re pretty young, yet. Though Charisse was twenty-three when we got hitched—” He halts abruptly. As we’ve been walking, we’ve become aware of a hubbub in the distance; we’re approaching Belmont and can hear people yelling. A young white woman in cycling Lycra comes running toward us flat out; her face is bleeding. Gomez barks, “What’s the trouble?!” and she turns back and yells, “Immigration raid! Tear gas!” and continues running. Gomez says, to me, “Sorry, we might need to—” and his phone rings. He listens for a few moments and says, “Tell the mayor to send ambulances. Get some reporters over here.” To me he says, “What are the Feds doing gassing people in the 44th Ward? I thought we’d established some protocols. Fuck them.”

More people are running now, and we can see ICE and some marines in riot gear forming a line blocking off Halstead in front of us. “What do you think?” I ask.

Gomez hesitates. “This isn’t our ward and we aren’t dressed for the occasion.” We’re wearing T-shirts and jeans; we don’t have goggles, water or anything that could be used as defense against tear gas. “Oh, well. Let’s see what we can do.” He texts Charisse in case we get arrested or worse. “I am too old for this.”

“I could use some exercise,” I tell him. “Maybe Alba and I can have matching concussions.”

“You are both incorrigible,” Gomez says approvingly. “I don’t know why I put up with either of you.”

As we continue ambling toward the riot, I feel my worries evaporate. We do what we can. If there are consequences, I accept them for myself and hope that others will be spared. We arrive at the barricade, and enter the fray.

Monday evening

Alba: I wake up still in the hospital, still in bed. The pain in my head blots out all the other pain in the rest of me. The light is too much. “Turn it off,” I say, shielding my eyes. My voice isn’t working; it comes out ur i au.

“Okay,” says a little faraway voice, apologetically. It’s Lucinda. She gives me the yellow legal pad and the pen.

Are you here by yourself? I write. I’m sure my handwriting is awful. I can’t see the paper very well.

“Yeah.” I hear her bangles slide up her arm, and the light clicks off. Her voice moves closer. “Everybody else went downstairs to eat dinner.”

I struggle to sit up. Lucinda helps me arrange pillows. It must be sunset; I can see red and orange between the slats of the blinds. Lucinda gives me water.

Don’t you want dinner? I ask her. You don’t have to stay here, I’m going to sleep.

“I had two of my wisdom teeth out today and I don’t feel like eating,” Lucinda says. “They’ll bring up some yogurt or applesauce or something.”

This reminds me: Did the dentist give you your teeth to keep? I ask her.

Lucinda giggles. “How did you know? I thought it was kind of gross. She put them in cotton for me. It’s not like the tooth fairy’s gonna come for them.”