He said, “You’re a cop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he’s... who he is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How come I don’t remember you?”
“I wasn’t at the trial,” I said.
“Never?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
A few houses over, a leaf blower howled to life.
Ivan Arias stepped back. “Come in.”
The house had a typical midcentury layout, with kitchen, dining room, and living room forming an L around the carport. One dining chair was pulled out, manila folders stacked up on the table next to a laptop whose glow alone dented the gloom. I’d interrupted his work.
He pointed me to a sectional and went to a rear sliding glass door, tugging the chain to open the vertical blinds. The plastic slats swished and tapped as they parted, sallow light flashing on the carpet like a distress signal. In the backyard a flower bed enclosed by a brick border ran along one fence. There was a patio with a charcoal grill and a suite of sun-blasted outdoor furniture. It made for a forlorn tableau.
“I have water, orange juice, and Coke.”
“No, thanks.”
“Drink something,” he said, making it sound like a command.
“Water would be great, thank you.”
He put out coasters. “I have beer, too.”
A test? He’s an alkie like his brother? Drinks on the job?
“Water, please.”
He went to the kitchen sink, shutting the laptop as he passed.
While his back was turned I slid over to look at the photo on the end table. It showed the whole family, the three children still children. Rosa wore a slender ruffled dress, her black hair pinned up and two glossy spirals hanging free. She carried the baby on her hip. His chin glistened with drool. The older boy smiled through large gapped teeth. The boys sported matching party outfits. The daughter, Stephanie, clung stubbornly to her father’s leg, refusing to acknowledge the camera. Ivan’s beard was dark. His face was red and happy.
My stomach churned. I had no right to be here, no right to his memories.
There were more photos in the dining area, staggered on the shelves of a wall unit. Too far to make out details, but I could see several male faces, a few of which had beards.
The faucet ran. Outside, the leaf blower ground like an auger.
Could I risk a quick look?
Ivan Arias was slumped over the sink.
I started to put my weight down. My boots sank into the pile.
The faucet shut off.
Ivan raised his head.
I sat back.
He brought two glasses of water and set them on the coasters.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He eased into a corduroy recliner. “I can see it now. The similarity. He was a lot younger then. Now he must be, what. Forty?”
“Forty-one.”
“Why” — with a soft exhalation he bent for his glass — “why does he want forgiveness now?”
“I guess he’s had some time to think about what he did.”
“He’s had time. He had time in prison. What changed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So he sent you here to... set it up.”
I skirted the lie. “For what it’s worth, in my opinion, he’s not the same person he was.”
“I really hope not.”
“I’m not defending him, Mr. Arias. No excuses.”
“You should defend him. That’s what family does.” He sipped, ran his lips over each other. “If he does call and ask me to forgive him, I’ll have nothing to say.”
I nodded.
He wagged a finger at me. “You think I can’t forgive him because what he did was unforgivable. That’s not it. To forgive you need to feel. I feel nothing toward him. To me, he’s not a person, he’s a thing that happened. Like the weather. You don’t forgive the weather.”
He took another sip and nestled his glass carefully in the carpet. “Who else does he want forgiveness from? My kids? Janet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you talked to them yet?”
“No, sir. I came to you first.”
“Good call.”
“Why’s that?”
“I loved my wife. I loved my niece. To lose them was more painful than I can describe. But the pain had a shape. It had borders. I could remember my wife and my niece. My children didn’t have that. They were too young. Christian, he used to wake up at night and scream. I’d have to hold him for hours till he calmed down. I knew what he wanted, he wanted his mother. But he couldn’t express that, and I couldn’t explain to him why it was me, not her. My oldest son was six. Stephanie was barely four. You don’t know your mother at that age. She’s not a person, she’s a presence. Like God. So yes, they understand something was taken from them. But they have nothing to grab onto. It’s an abstraction. I mourned for my Rosa. They’re mourning for themselves. That never goes away.”
I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Did he send you here to apologize?”
“No, sir. I’m on my own.”
“You didn’t come to the trial, though.”
“No, sir.”
He sat back, still wanting an explanation.
“I was angry at him,” I said.
“You were.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“He was an embarrassment.”
“To you.”
“To our family.” I’d never spoken these words. “I hated him.”
“Do you, still?”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve forgiven him.”
“I don’t see that as up to me.”
“Well, if it’s not up to you, and it’s not up to me, then who’s it up to?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe he doesn’t get forgiveness.”
“Hard way to live.”
“Not compared with you.”
A cold smile. “It’s not a competition. Everyone suffers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your parents? How do they feel?”
“I think they were embarrassed, too.”
“You think? You never talked about it?”
“No, sir.”
“It must be strange for them,” Ivan Arias said. “Him. And a cop.”
The sound of the leaf blower died away.
“Your parents never said a single word to me,” he said. “Not before the trial, not during, not after. It’s okay. They were probably following their lawyer’s instructions.”
“What would you have liked to say to them?”
He thought a moment. “I would have told them about Rosa. Not to make them feel guilty. I gain nothing from that. But I do want the world to know what it lost. Afterward I had lawyers calling me left and right, wanting me to go after him in civil court. ‘No, thank you. I don’t need to watch the sequel.’ Besides, what could we have gotten from him?”
Luke: unemployed, uninsured, sleeping under the freeway.
“Not much,” I said.
“Correct. You start out fighting him but end up fighting yourself. Like my kids. Fighting who knows what. I’m pretty sure if he’d contacted them, they’d have told me. But let’s find out.”
He tapped a text, sent it off, and put the phone on the coffee table.
“I’m going to make a prediction,” he said. “Stephanie will write back first. A minute or two. Max’ll be five to ten. Christian,” he said, chuckling, “we might get an answer next week.”
I forced myself to smile. “Busy guy.”
“Oh yes, yes. He’s a double major, biology and physics.”
“Wow.”
“They’re all like that. Smart, ambitious.”
“What does your daughter do?”
“She’s in law school. She wants to be a prosecutor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll work with her one day. That would be ironic, don’t you think?”