— Eres tú, no? he says. The one on the left. It’s you, Consuelo.
She can see her own smooth younger flesh, her thinner neck, her more delicate shoulders, the green and orange shawl from Huajuapan draped over one shoulder and one breast, sees the hard dark nipple of the other, and remembers sitting for hours on the edge of the bed in the studio in Cuernavaca, while music played, and Señor Lewis stared hard at her, all of her, and made a feathery caressing sound with his brush on the canvas.
— Sí, Señor Lewis, she says. It’s me.
— After my wife died, I could put you both together. First in the lobby. Then here. On that wall. For an audience of one. Me.
It is her turn to squeeze Forrest’s hand. And then they are talking in a mixture of Spanish and English, as they did long ago. The hurt eases. She hopes her English is now better than his Spanish. She can see his lips making words that he does not say. Uncertain. Unable to remember. Then he clears his throat.
— How old were you then, Consuelo?
— Seventeen.
— Diez y siete, he whispers. Seventeen. Hijole!
— Y tú? she says.
— Old, he says, and laughs. Un gringo viejo. Even then.
She laughs too.
— I was madly in love with you, Consuelo. Muy, muy loco.
There’s a beat of grave silence.
— Yo también, she says, her voice lower. Me too.
He must have heard the note of sadness in her voice.
— I… I don’t know why I…
— Ni modo, Señor Lewis. Como se dice, it was a long time ago.
Forrest stands there for a long moment, as if seeing nothing at all. Not the old paintings. Not her. Not anything in the world.
Then he takes her elbow.
— Come, he says. Sit beside me on the couch. I’ll call down for coffee.
— You have a coffeepot and all that? I can make it.
— No, no. I gave the damned thing away. You know, I can’t see much, mi vida, and I keep making a mess. Pouring coffee on the floor instead of in the cup.
He chuckles and then goes on.
— Anyway, I gave the pot away, and kept the cups. I’ll call Jerry, down at the desk. What do you want, querida?
They talk it over. Just black coffee? Sí. A bagel? Sí. Con mantequilla? Sí. How about a cheese Danish too? No, no, Señor Lewis.
He picks up the old black telephone from a table and talks to Jerry downstairs, while Consuelo gazes around the long narrow apartment, at the shelves full of art books and volumes of poetry, at the paintings leaning against each other beside the walls, the long flat metal cabinet that she knows from Cuernavaca must be full of drawings and prints and watercolors. He hangs up the phone and walks her to the tan dirt-streaked couch, which is three cushions wide. The cushion on the far right is stacked with more drawings. Forrest grips the left arm of the couch, turns around to sit with a sigh, and points Consuelo to the center cushion. She sits straight up on the edge, hands clasped on her lap. The dog moves around to the side, and stretches his legs on the floor. There is a silent awkward moment.
— Well, Lew Forrest says, what brings you here, Consuelo?
She waits for a long beat, gathering words, and strength, and will. Telling herself: Just say it. Say it straight out.
— You said, that time, the last time, when you went to New York, you said to me, Consuelo, if you need help, call me. You wrote the name of this place for me. On a small piece of paper. I was so hurt I just went away. I kept the paper.
She shows him the folded sheet from a composition book, but then holds it, for he cannot see.
— I thought I was coming back, he whispers. Alone.
She lets those words grow cold in the stale air.
— Pues. Here I am, señor. I came back to see you again.
— You did. Why?
— I need help.
— What kind of help, Consuelo?
She starts to speak but the doorbell rings. Forrest grips her hand.
— Could you…?
— Sí, Señor Lewis.
— Here, he says, taking bills separately from each pocket.
He hands her four bills.
— That’s a ten-dollar bill, and three singles, verdad?
— Sí, señor.
— Okay, that includes the tip.
She walks to the door, the dog first stretching, then padding after her. She opens the door. The delivery boy is Mexican, wearing a Mets cap. Well, maybe he’s un guatemalteco. He squints at the dog, but seems relaxed. He is holding a gray corrugated cardboard tray with slots for the two coffee containers and the wrapped bagels. He seems surprised to see Consuelo’s face in this doorway that he has come to in the past.
She takes the tray and hands him the bills.
— Gracias, joven, she says.
— Por nada, señora, he says. Then smiles and adds: Y que viva México!
She bows, holding the tray with both hands, and smiles, closing the door with her foot. She moves across the studio to the small kitchen.
— Hay tazas, señor? Cups?
— Sí, sí, Consuelita. On the shelves.
The sink is filthy. She takes two unmatched cups from the shelf, rinses them in the sink, dries them with paper towels from a roll lying on its side. She can hear Lew Forrest singing in a dry choked voice. A scrap from the past.
A dónde estás,
A dónde estás…
She is washing a grimy plate, blue designs on white, her eyes suddenly wet. A song from those days. Cuco Sánchez again. A dónde estás. Where are you? She dries the plate with a fresh paper towel and uses its dry edge to tamp the corners of her eyes. She unwraps the bagels and puts them on the plate. She moves to the couch, pulls over a chair, and lays the plate on the seat of the chair. She goes back quickly for the cups. Forrest stops singing. The aroma of coffee is winning against the sour odor of the room.
— Aquí, señor, she says, taking his painting hand and placing it on the handle of his cup.
— Qué milagro, he says, chuckling. What a miracle! Coffee in a cup! Not cardboard! A true miracle.
— Sí, señor, she says. Y bagels también!
— Watch out for that dog. He might think they’re for him.
He feels for the plate, takes a bagel, and pulls it into halves. Then pauses.
— Okay, what kind of help, Consuelo?
— A job, Señor Lewis.
— Start from the beginning. When you went home to Oaxaca.
She tells him the short version of the long tale. Huajuapan. Raymundo. Marriage. The two of them slipping across the border west of Laredo. The long ride north in a bus. New York. Cleaning houses, then cleaning offices, studying English in the church, teaching English to Raymundo, who found work in a coffee shop, first delivering orders and washing dishes and cleaning grills. Then cooking. Getting paid more each year. Not a lot. But more. After little Eddie was born, they moved to a one-room studio apartment in Brooklyn, and after the second child, the girl Marcela, they found this house in Sunset Park. Two floors. Parlor floor and basement, the Irish woman called it. Pretty high rent, for a place that was a wreck, but with Consuelo and Raymundo both working, they managed. They fixed up the rooms. They made the little back garden bloom with flowers. Then, three years ago, the Irish lady died and they started sending the rent money to some company. Money orders. Then everything started to collapse two years ago, and now she had lost her job. Now they could be evicted. With three kids now. Eddie, Marcela, Timmie.