would.
Elena called at six-thirty the next morning. I got out of bed and remembered, just as I reached the door, to pull on a pair of pants and a T-shirt so as to spare my niece the shock of seeing me in my boxers. The door to the guest room was tightly shut, but I had the disquieting sense that they were awake in there. I picked up the phone in the kitchen.
My sister exclaimed, “Henry, I’m sorry to be calling so early.”
“That’s all right. I’m surprised you didn’t call last night.”
“We were at a play and didn’t get home until after midnight. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to get your call. How are they?”
“They seem fine,” I said. “Vicky and I didn’t exactly hit it off.”
“What happened?”
“We discussed religion,” I said, and gave her a synopsis of my conversation with my niece.
Elena replied, choosing her words carefully, “I don’t have any sympathy for that kind of Christianity, but that church may have saved her life.”
“The charlatan who runs the church is the one who encouraged her to call Pete,” I said. “You’re not suggesting we should turn her and Angel over to these fundies, are you?”
“That’s her decision,” she said, “but the fact that she keeps coming back to us tells me she’s looking for an alternative. We have to offer her a substitute for what she’ll lose if she gives up her church.”
“What alternative?”
“A family, Henry.”
After a moment, I said, “You were right about Angel. He’s extraordinary. I want to help him.”
She said, “Well, that’s a start. I can’t get away until tomorrow evening, but I’ve already made a plane reservation.”
We talked logistics for a couple of minutes and then I let her go.
I went into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and then came back out into the living room and stretched out on the sofa while it dripped. I closed my eyes and my head spun with fatigue. I struggled to stay awake, but the weight of my weariness dragged me into unconsciousness, sleep closing over me like water. When I opened my eyes, Angelito was standing in front of me, watching me as intently and as inscrutably as a cat. The room, which had been dim with the first light of morning, now blazed brightly around me. I heard the drone of the vacuum cleaner in the background.
Angelito watched me rouse myself into a sitting position, then asked, “Are you dying?”
“What?”
“You look sick.”
“I was sick but I’m getting better. What time is it, Angelito?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s a clock in the kitchen, could you check?”
He withdrew a shade further into himself. “I don’t know how.”
I was still emerging from sleep and it took me a moment to understand. “You can’t tell time?”
“I know the names of all the presidents in order.”
“You do? That’s impressive.”
“Should I say them?”
“Could you bring me my watch first? It’s sitting on the table beside my bed.”
He looked at me as if I were making fun of him, but then he padded off, returning a moment later reverently carrying in the palm of his hand the heavy, gold-plated railroad pocketwatch that had belonged to my father and was the only thing of his that I owned. My mother had sent me the watch after he died, with a note reminding me that he had taught me to tell time on it. I had forgotten that, but I did remember watching covetously his nightly ritual of removing the watch from his pants pocket just before he went to bed and winding it for the next day.
“Thanks,” I said when he reluctantly handed it over. It was past ten-thirty. I’d been asleep for four hours. “I learned how to tell time on this watch,” I told Angelito. “I could teach you, if you want me to.”
“Okay,” he said neutrally, but his eyes were eager.
I lay the watch on the coffee table between us. “You see the numbers that go around in a circle?” He nodded. “Those are the hours. There are twenty-four hours in a
Elena called at six-thirty the next morning. I got out of bed and remembered, just as I reached the door, to pull on a pair of pants and a T-shirt so as to spare my niece the shock of seeing me in my boxers. The door to the guest room was tightly shut, but I had the disquieting sense that they were awake in there. I picked up the phone in the kitchen.
My sister exclaimed, “Henry, I’m sorry to be calling so early.”
“That’s all right. I’m surprised you didn’t call last night.”
“We were at a play and didn’t get home until after midnight. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to get your call. How are they?”
“They seem fine,” I said. “Vicky and I didn’t exactly hit it off.”
“What happened?”
“We discussed religion,” I said, and gave her a synopsis of my conversation with my niece.
Elena replied, choosing her words carefully, “I don’t have any sympathy for that kind of Christianity, but that church may have saved her life.”
“The charlatan who runs the church is the one who encouraged her to call Pete,” I said. “You’re not suggesting we should turn her and Angel over to these fundies, are you?”
“That’s her decision,” she said, “but the fact that she keeps coming back to us tells me she’s looking for an alternative. We have to offer her a substitute for what she’ll lose if she gives up her church.”
“What alternative?”
“A family, Henry.”
After a moment, I said, “You were right about Angel. He’s extraordinary. I want to help him.”
She said, “Well, that’s a start. I can’t get away until tomorrow evening, but I’ve already made a plane reservation.”
We talked logistics for a couple of minutes and then I let her go.
I went into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and then came back out into the living room and stretched out on the sofa while it dripped. I closed my eyes and my head spun with fatigue. I struggled to stay awake, but the weight of my weariness dragged me into unconsciousness, sleep closing over me like water. When I opened my eyes, Angelito was standing in front of me, watching me as intently and as inscrutably as a cat. The room, which had been dim with the first light of morning, now blazed brightly around me. I heard the drone of the vacuum cleaner in the background.
Angelito watched me rouse myself into a sitting position, then asked, “Are you dying?”
“What?”
“You look sick.”
“I was sick but I’m getting better. What time is it, Angelito?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s a clock in the kitchen, could you check?”
He withdrew a shade further into himself. “I don’t know how.”
I was still emerging from sleep and it took me a moment to understand. “You can’t tell time?”
“I know the names of all the presidents in order.”
“You do? That’s impressive.”
“Should I say them?”
“Could you bring me my watch first? It’s sitting on the table beside my bed.”
He looked at me as if I were making fun of him, but then he padded off, returning a moment later reverently carrying in the palm of his hand the heavy, gold-plated railroad pocketwatch that had belonged to my father and was the only thing of his that I owned. My mother had sent me the watch after he died, with a note reminding me that he had taught me to tell time on it. I had forgotten that, but I did remember watching covetously his nightly ritual of removing the watch from his pants pocket just before he went to bed and winding it for the next day.
“Thanks,” I said when he reluctantly handed it over. It was past ten-thirty. I’d been asleep for four hours. “I learned how to tell time on this watch,” I told Angelito. “I could teach you, if you want me to.”
“Okay,” he said neutrally, but his eyes were eager.
I lay the watch on the coffee table between us. “You see the numbers that go around in a circle?” He nodded. “Those are the hours. There are twenty-four hours in a
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