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“C’mon,” Jorge said, raising his glass, eyes alight. He didn’t have to wink. “A little fun with the American girls.”
“Careful,” Oscar said, his face darkening.
“C’mon,” Jorge said. “Don’t make it more than it is.”
“I said be careful.”
The playful light vanished from Jorge’s eyes. “You be careful,” he said to Oscar. Hadn’t he the right to speak openly? Would he watch his brother be made a fool of? A man who hurt easily, Jorge refilled their glasses. “You be careful,” he repeated.
The next morning Oscar hugged his father. It was good to see him. Better than he expected.
“But where’s your girl?” Papá asked, oiled and ready.
“She’s sleeping,” he lied to his father. “I didn’t bring her because she’s sleeping and I thought it was best, you know.”
The old man frowned. He had a big comical moustache, the ends curling and shining with Brilliantine. Short and round, he looked all the world like little Mario in Donkey Kong. He still thought himself good-looking. He had the unassailable vanity of the once-handsome. Today he wore an expensive sport coat, brown. It set off his flashing hazel eyes.
“I’ll bring her tomorrow,” Oscar said.
“I want to meet her now,” Papá grumbled. “Let’s take my car.”
“Papá, you’ll meet her.”
“When? What is this?” He had been a cattle-buyer. He knew rough dealing when he saw it.
They talked. The old man complained about Mexican business, his many enemies. He said he hoped Oscar stayed in America. “It’s better there. If you’re going to get cheated get cheated honestly.” Oscar didn’t quite follow that one. Papá was retired, a bull who had chased the matador from the ring. Snorting, furious, but there was no one left to fight.
A maid brought coffee. Oscar watched her closely. Broad-faced, matronly, he couldn’t help thinking it would have been his mother, should have been his mother, had she not died ten years before. The thought made him wince.
The old man moved from business to his second-favorite topic, marriage. “Tell this boy to get married, María!” he shouted at the maid.
“Oh, you,” she teased him. “How come you don’t call my sister?”
“I intend to. I am preparing the proper introduction.”
“Yes, I know.” She smiled at Oscar. She knew. She knew as well as he knew. And it dawned on Oscar as the old man prattled away about girls and money what a great lie it all was. It was a lie because there would never be another woman for Papá, who could not speak of his mother, who was so heartbroken he clammed up and never spoke to the boys of his grief or consoled them in theirs. He put her pictures away and busied himself with his enemies and after that the comical pursuit of nonexistent women. Right then and there Oscar knew that he, Jorge and Papá lied to one another and all the world every day. His father lied when he said he was cheated by Mexico. His brother lied when he said he would marry. He would never marry but instead form a much more permanent union and make money his mistress. Jorge would love money and never cheat on her and in twenty years tell his nieces and nephews a sad story of being left at the altar by the most beautiful girl in Mexico. He would tell them how all the angels cried for him but all along he and they and everyone knew he had married the richest girl: money.
“Papá,” Oscar said. “I want a picture of Mamá. I want the big picture we kept in the hall when she was alive.” He saw these words were like a whip upon his father.
“There’s no pictures,” he said. “I’ve thrown them away.”
“I don’t believe you. I want a picture of her. I want to start remembering her again. I want to remember her every day.”
“There’s no pictures. And don’t talk about it.”
“Please, Papá.”
On the patio beyond their chairs birds flitted among the banana trees. “A man,” his father said, looking away, his voice subdued. “A man lives his whole life with a plan. That plan can’t be changed.”
“Sometimes our plans change,” Oscar replied.
“No. Not my plan.”
“You need to adapt.”
“To what? Failure?” The old man rose. “I have to rest now. You’ve worn me out with your foolishness.”
While his father lay in his room Oscar spent time in the neglected garden, meditating. It was his mother’s garden. In her absence it had grown and changed. He hardly recognized the banana trees, the bushes and banyans. The garden grew all by itself. Soon it was time to go back to the hotel and pick up Melissa. At the door María stopped him. “It’s from your father,” she said. “He told me to give it to you.”
