day—”
“It only goes up to twelve,” he said suspiciously.
“Every hour comes around twice, Angelito, once during the day and once at night. Right now it’s ten-thirty in the morning. In twelve hours, it will be ten-thirty at night.”
He nodded and said, “Twelve times two is twenty-four,” but, after staring at the watch, “What’s the thirty?”
Angel listened to my explanation of the workings of my father’s watch with the absorption that marks a deep intelligence, and when I finished, he repeated to me my explanation in a way that demonstrated he had understood it completely. Then he began asking questions about the mechanics of clocks that quickly exhausted my paltry knowledge, and I had to give him an intellectual IOU.
“I want a watch like this,” he said when we finished the lesson.
“It belonged to your great-grandfather, Angel. My dad. I inherited it from him after he died. I don’t have a son, so you’re next in line, kiddo.”
He smiled. “I can have this when you die?”
I laughed. “Yeah, but I’m not dying anytime soon.”
“My mom said—” he exclaimed, then caught himself.
“What did your mom say? You can tell me, I won’t be upset.”
He weighed my credibility as carefully as a judge. “My mom says you’re a joto and probably have AIDS.”
Jota was Spanish for the letter “J,” but in the vernacular, joto meant, essentially, faggot. To hear the word from him was like being stabbed, but I knew better than to be angry with him, so I calmly explained, “Joto is not a nice word, Angel. Please don’t use it again. I don’t have AIDS and I’m not dying.”
“My mom’s friend Laura died. She got AIDS from a dirty needle.”
“Does your mother use needles?”
“No,” he said. His expression told me I had crossed a line.
“You were going to tell me the names of the presidents. Remember?”
The eager light slowly returned to his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Angel, que ’stas haciendo?” My niece sounded one breath short of panic. I looked up. She was standing at the doorway with the vacuum cleaner.
“Nothing,” he said, sullenly.
“I was teaching him to tell time. What are you doing with the vacuum?” I asked sharply.
“I was cleaning your house,” she replied docilely.
“Angel, let’s do the presidents later. I need to talk to your mom for a minute.”
Without a word, he slipped out of the room.
“You don’t have to clean my house,” I said, still angry at what she had told Angel about me.
“I should do something to pay you back.”
I got up and approached her, saying, “You can. Stop scaring Angel about me. I’m not going to hurt him.”
“I know, Uncle,” she said meekly, but her eyes were defiant.
“And I won’t hear the word joto in my house again. Or maricón or any other gutter words you’ve taught him to use about people like me and your mother. Remember something, Vicky, our blood flows through your veins. Whatever we are, you and Angel carry inside of you.”
“Not that thing,” she spat.
“I know you think homosexuality is a sin, but that’s because you’ve been taught by ignorant people. I’ve got to get dressed and do some work. Please put that vacuum away. You’re a guest here, not the maid.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said, but as soon as I turned my back, she started it up and vacuumed furiously for the next hour.
8.
E DITH ARRIVED THAT EVENING with a bag of groceries, said to Vicky, “Will you help me with dinner, dear?” and disappeared with her into the kitchen.
“You need a hand in there?” I shouted after her.
“We’re fine, Henry,” Edith replied. “You men relax.”
I smiled at my nephew. “Maybe we can catch some baseball on TV.”
We burrowed into the couch. I turned on the tube and flipped through the channels until I found a Yankees-Indians game on cable. I listened with one ear to the murmur of conversation coming from the kitchen but was unable to make
“It only goes up to twelve,” he said suspiciously.
“Every hour comes around twice, Angelito, once during the day and once at night. Right now it’s ten-thirty in the morning. In twelve hours, it will be ten-thirty at night.”
He nodded and said, “Twelve times two is twenty-four,” but, after staring at the watch, “What’s the thirty?”
Angel listened to my explanation of the workings of my father’s watch with the absorption that marks a deep intelligence, and when I finished, he repeated to me my explanation in a way that demonstrated he had understood it completely. Then he began asking questions about the mechanics of clocks that quickly exhausted my paltry knowledge, and I had to give him an intellectual IOU.
“I want a watch like this,” he said when we finished the lesson.
“It belonged to your great-grandfather, Angel. My dad. I inherited it from him after he died. I don’t have a son, so you’re next in line, kiddo.”
He smiled. “I can have this when you die?”
I laughed. “Yeah, but I’m not dying anytime soon.”
“My mom said—” he exclaimed, then caught himself.
“What did your mom say? You can tell me, I won’t be upset.”
He weighed my credibility as carefully as a judge. “My mom says you’re a joto and probably have AIDS.”
Jota was Spanish for the letter “J,” but in the vernacular, joto meant, essentially, faggot. To hear the word from him was like being stabbed, but I knew better than to be angry with him, so I calmly explained, “Joto is not a nice word, Angel. Please don’t use it again. I don’t have AIDS and I’m not dying.”
“My mom’s friend Laura died. She got AIDS from a dirty needle.”
“Does your mother use needles?”
“No,” he said. His expression told me I had crossed a line.
“You were going to tell me the names of the presidents. Remember?”
The eager light slowly returned to his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Angel, que ’stas haciendo?” My niece sounded one breath short of panic. I looked up. She was standing at the doorway with the vacuum cleaner.
“Nothing,” he said, sullenly.
“I was teaching him to tell time. What are you doing with the vacuum?” I asked sharply.
“I was cleaning your house,” she replied docilely.
“Angel, let’s do the presidents later. I need to talk to your mom for a minute.”
Without a word, he slipped out of the room.
“You don’t have to clean my house,” I said, still angry at what she had told Angel about me.
“I should do something to pay you back.”
I got up and approached her, saying, “You can. Stop scaring Angel about me. I’m not going to hurt him.”
“I know, Uncle,” she said meekly, but her eyes were defiant.
“And I won’t hear the word joto in my house again. Or maricón or any other gutter words you’ve taught him to use about people like me and your mother. Remember something, Vicky, our blood flows through your veins. Whatever we are, you and Angel carry inside of you.”
“Not that thing,” she spat.
“I know you think homosexuality is a sin, but that’s because you’ve been taught by ignorant people. I’ve got to get dressed and do some work. Please put that vacuum away. You’re a guest here, not the maid.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said, but as soon as I turned my back, she started it up and vacuumed furiously for the next hour.
8.
E DITH ARRIVED THAT EVENING with a bag of groceries, said to Vicky, “Will you help me with dinner, dear?” and disappeared with her into the kitchen.
“You need a hand in there?” I shouted after her.
“We’re fine, Henry,” Edith replied. “You men relax.”
I smiled at my nephew. “Maybe we can catch some baseball on TV.”
We burrowed into the couch. I turned on the tube and flipped through the channels until I found a Yankees-Indians game on cable. I listened with one ear to the murmur of conversation coming from the kitchen but was unable to make
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