Lynda Sandoval - One Perfect Man

Lamplight mellowed the mango-colored walls to a peachy gold, and the air remained redolent with the smells of chicken and green chile. His daughter was, as usual, cloistered in front of the computer in her room, working on homework—he hoped. She had finals in a few weeks and was a conscientious student. In any case, he had every parental control known to man on the computers in this house, so he didn’t harbor many chat-room nightmares about Hope. He still wished he knew a little more about how she spent her time on that darn thing sometimes.

“So, anyway, she thought I was gay,” Tomás told Ruby, with a rueful smile.

“The event planner?”

“Yup.”

For a moment, his grandmother just grinned. “Well, did she mean happy or homosexual?” She knew full well which.

Tomás snorted.

Ruby sipped, swallowed, then shook her head. “I don’t know what possessed people to change the meaning of a perfectly acceptable word,” she mused, mostly to herself. “It’s confusing for everyone, and homosexual is as serviceable a term as any.”

“You’re missing the point, Rube. A good-looking, single, twenty-eight-year-old woman thought I was—”

“You don’t date. What’s she supposed to think? And I didn’t miss the point, I was just thinking aloud.”

“How would she know I don’t date? Today was the first time I’ve ever seen her in person.”

“It’s the vibe, sonny.” She grouped the fingertips on one hand together and shook them. “You give off a vibe.”

He pondered his reflection in the window over the sink. “Maybe I need a new style. Or a tattoo. Something manly, like a power tool.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. What do you care if she thinks you’re homosexual anyway?”

“I…I don’t.” He wasn’t truly bothered by Erica’s mistake, but it was fun to joke about it. If he’d given it more thought, allowing her to believe he actually was gay might’ve been smart. At least there wouldn’t have been questions. Any time she sensed him watching her or felt his attraction, the attraction he couldn’t seem to overcome, she’d have written it off as her imagination. But, for whatever god-awful reason, he simply hadn’t been able to walk out of that room without making his sexual orientation very clear to her.

“She’s a looker, this woman?”

Sometimes Tomás wondered if Ruby could read his mind. His maternal line had always been a little bit psychic. “Yeah. And a real go-getter.” He tossed a sharp look at Ruby over his shoulder. “She’s also hired help. Period. I hired her for what she could do for Hope, not what you might be thinking I want her to do for me.”

“That would be the day,” Ruby scoffed. “It’s no wonder you have this reputation as a flamboyant homosexual.”

“Flam—” Tomás twisted around to look at his grandmother, who he knew was simply goading him. She always did love a good debate. “You know how I feel about bringing another woman into Hope’s life.”

“Indeed. How could I forget?” His grandmother sighed, running fingers through her artificially magentaed locks.

“Are you saying you disagree with the way I’m raising Hope?”

“Ay-yay-yay, and they say women are bad.” Ruby gazed heavenward, as though pleading mercy. “Men are tiring. Tiresome, too. Here.” She held out her mug. Tomás took it, slipping it beneath the bubbly surface of the sink water. He knew when a subject had been dropped by his grandmother. He also knew she never, ever intruded on his parenting. He appreciated it most of the time. Every now and then, he could have used a dose of wisdom. He was sure his mother would have given advice periodically, were she still alive. Then again, she had been very much Ruby’s daughter.

Tomás drained the sink water, hung the dishrag over the faucet and turned to face Ruby. She looked great, vibrant as ever. He knew only too well how deceptive MS could be, though.

“How are you feeling?” He didn’t ask often, and only offhand when he found he couldn’t stop himself. His grandmother was matter-of-fact about her condition and didn’t want nor tolerate mollycoddling. A lot of people were worse off, she never failed to remind him. Save your moonfaced sympathy for them, she’d say. I have a life to live and you’re on my last good nerve.

“Tired,” was her only response. She waved vaguely toward the small glass vial resting atop the counter. Its cap had been punctured by a hypodermic needle, and the whole mess had to sit until the medication had liquified within the saline. “Let’s get that shot over with so I can go to bed. It’s been sitting long enough, I think.”

Tomás quickly dried his hands, then rolled the small vial between his palms smoothly, so as not to bubble the mixture. Ruby, meanwhile, fished in her medication dispenser and popped a pain pill, dry.

“How do you think Hope’s going to feel about it?” No need to elaborate—Ruby knew what he meant.

“You should ask her.”

“Come on, Rube. I want your input.”

“Hope will be fine,” she said patiently, in a tone meant to convey her opinion that he spent far too much time worrying about Hope for no good reason.

He drew up a syringeful of Copaxone, then checked the chart they kept on the refrigerator to remind them which injection site to use. “Right arm,” he said, then squatted next to her. She’d already begun to roll up the loose sleeve of her blouse. They’d both grown so used to the intricate routine of these shots, Tomás found it hard to believe he’d ever been nervous to give them.

Alcohol swab, one swift jab, pause, then depress the syringe. Tomás administered the medication, removed the needle, then slipped it into a sharps disposal box mounted in an out-of-sight spot on the wall next to the refrigerator. He handed Ruby a Band-Aid. While she put it on, he crossed to the freezer to retrieve an ice-pack. The first half hour after each injection burned like a snakebite, according to Ruby.

“What I mean is, do you think she’ll be disappointed that a stranger is helping her plan this instead of her father?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “For goodness’ sake, sonny. I think she’ll be overjoyed to shop for clothes with someone of the female persuasion for once, if you want the truth.”

Tomás pursed his lips. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d always tried his damnedest to be both parents for Hope, shopping for clothing with her and learning the purposes of all the various pots of makeup, in case she ever wanted to start wearing the stuff—which she didn’t need, mind you. He wasn’t some clumsy, clueless male. He was her father and her mother—had been since she was six weeks old.

He needed to think about this a little longer, come to terms with how he felt about letting a stranger replace him in Hope’s life like that.

“Stop worrying so much,” his grandmother urged, reaching out to pat his arm. “People would think you’re the old woman in this household instead of me. Hope will be fine, like I’ve told you a million times. It’s you I worry about.”

He didn’t need her worry. Hope was his concern. “You’re missing the point, Rube—”

“You always think I’m missing the point,” she said, aiming a gnarled finger at him. She smiled, to soften her words. “Someday you’ll find out it’s been you missing the point all along, m’ijo. But people learn when they’re ready to learn.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “I just hope I’m still around to witness the swan song. Good night.” Without waiting for reciprocation, she deftly maneuvered her wheelchair around the table leg and sped from the room.

Poised to push open his daughter’s bedroom door, Tomás checked himself, paused, and then knocked. He had to constantly remind himself Hope was a young lady now, an adolescent who deserved—and demanded—respect for her privacy.