Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“That was God,” Carla said. She smiled a crooked smile.

Max nodded. “That’s what I thought. I thought, God killed my daddy.” Tears came up in his eyes. Carla’s black despairing eyes focused on him with an intensity that might be hatred. Her crooked smile smoothed to calm resignation. She nodded agreement. Max was fascinated by her long mouth and full lower lip, quite red even without lipstick. Her jaw was long and perfectly drawn by its creator. Her chin has great dignity, he decided, the dignity of a judge. “Scared the shit out of me,” Max admitted to her. He hadn’t explained it to anyone that simply. There had been such fancy talk about the effect of his father’s sudden death and what did it amount to? Was it as precise and truthful as that it scared the shit out of him?

“What did your father do to make God want to kill him?” Carla asked. It was clear from her erect posture and alert black eyes that she meant her question literally.

Her mother proved that by her reaction. “Carla!” she chided her.

“I couldn’t figure that out,” Max said. “He was a religious man. He was hardworking. He was kind to my mother and to me and to my little sister—” Max’s tears had returned, blurring his vision. He paused because they had also welled in his throat.

Carla leaned forward. She thrust her beautiful and sad face at him, studying his eyes, apparently checking on his tears. She nodded. “You loved him,” she said and leaned back, again with a judge’s dignity.

“Yes,” Max said. “I didn’t know why God had killed him. There was no reason to kill him and so I decided that meant there was no God.”

Carla’s mother made a noise, something in between a gasp and a groan of disapproval. “Mama!” Carla said. She almost whispered, but there was rage in the breathy wind: “Leave us alone!”

The little woman shut her eyes and sighed, standing still for a second. She scurried out a moment later, calling back, “I’m in the kitchen. Ask him if he wants coffee.”

“Do you want coffee?” Carla said, again with a crooked smile.

Max was amused. She was in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, her eyes were exhausted, her hair was chaotic, and there was no heat coming from her, no sexuality, but he wanted to take her out of the apartment and change all that. He looked at her left arm, pointing languidly at him as part of her question. The underside was smooth, its color a creamy white. One blue vein showed through, cutting across her arm until it ran into bone and disappeared. He declined her offer of coffee and she returned the arm to her side. He was impressed by the knob of her elbow, sharp, its tip pink from friction with the sofa. He wanted to kiss it. He couldn’t remember if he had ever kissed a woman’s elbow.

“I know it’s stupid to believe in God,” Carla said. “I can’t help myself. But you’re smart. You’ve been to college, right?”

Max chuckled. She was funny and not depressed at all, it seemed to him, in spite of what Perlman had said, and in spite of her enervated appearance and despairing voice. He didn’t think it was really sorrow; she was angry. He couldn’t express those thoughts so he merely chuckled. “Yes, I went to college.”

“And you’re Jewish, right?” She hardly waited for his nod before continuing, “Do Jewish people actually believe in God? I know Jews don’t believe in Jesus, but tell you the truth — and I’m sorry, I know I’m being rude — but I ask because it don’t really seem like most Jews believe in God the Father either. Except for the ones with all the hair, the Hassicks — I don’t know how to say it—”

“The Hassidim.” He leaned back and laughed. “You’re right. They’re like really devout Catholics. Jews like me — we’re more like Mario Cuomo.”

“You got it.” Carla snapped a finger at him to indicate he had won a point. “People who go to college don’t really believe in God. People who really know about things don’t believe in him. I’m too ignorant not to believe. But I’m not so stupid that I’m going to believe Monsignor O’Boyle when he tells me that my Leo is with God somewhere playing a harp.” She spoke in an annoyed tone but her face was in pain, as if she were about to cry.

Max didn’t want her to cry. He said, “Maybe he’s playing a trombone,” as though the subject were absurd.

Carla was surprised. She leaned back on the sofa and her deep brown, almost black eyes looked up at the ceiling. Her face smoothed while she looked. Finally, she said calmly, “You’re right. If he’s playing something it would make a lot of noise.”

“But it’s all pretty ridiculous,” Max said. He had no desire to be sympathetic. Anyway, it was obvious that pity only made her mad. “It’s just that everyone is scared by the idea that life and death happen without any reason. They think you’re born because your mother wanted you so much or because God wanted another great home-run hitter to play for the Yankees. And they think you die because you’ve been bad or careless — you smoked or you committed adultery or you forgot to put on your seat belt. That way, even though you can never be good enough or careful enough to live forever, at least you can try. But if it’s out of our control, if it makes no sense and just happens, then there’s no reason to do anything.”

“There’s no reason to love,” Carla said to the ceiling.

“People don’t so much believe in God as that they choose not to believe in nothing.” Max didn’t think this was much of a philosophy, but it was the best he could do.

Carla lowered the ancient and lovely form of her face to his level and looked straight at him. Her dark eyes were wide under her thick circular eyebrows. Max watched her pouting and tempting mouth. Being with her in the perfect little living room he felt serene. After a moment of consideration, Carla shook her head no. She said in the relaxed voice of honesty, “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I believe in him. He may be a fucking bastard — He was a fucking bastard to me—” Max’s worst fear came true; her eyes filled with tears and she was crying.

“No.” Max took her hand. He stood up, pulling her hand at the same time. It was cold to the touch. That shocked him. The apartment was hot and she looked hot — in her dark hair and dark eyes and white T-shirt — but her hand was cold and unloved.

His touch stopped her tears. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“No!” She pulled to free her hand; it was not only as cold as ice but just as slippery. It slid out. She hid it under her leg. “I don’t go outside! Didn’t they tell you?”

“Yes. But you’re safe with me. Nothing bad can happen to you with me. Didn’t you read about me in the papers? Everyone with me lived. With me you’re safe.”

Carla frowned; then she smiled her crooked smile. “You must think I’m very stupid,” she said in good humor.

“No!” Max was appalled. He slid off the love seat, dropped to his knees and pleaded. “I’m not lying. You are safe with me. I can’t explain why. But I’m not lying.”

“You’re serious,” she said, more as an observation than a question. “What are you telling me? There’s no God but there’s you?”

Max leaned toward her on his knees and extended his hands in a plea. “Come with me, Carla. I promise you’ll be safe.”

Carla beamed at him, as if he had done something delightful. From behind he heard her mother make a noise.

“What are you doing!” the old woman said. He felt her hand on his shoulder, pulling at his sweater. “Get up. Get off your knees.” She abruptly let go of Max and added softly, “Carla…?”

Carla was laughing. She had opened her mouth — it turned out to open very wide — and was letting go of volleys of laughter, aimed at Max by her bright eyes.