Daniel Alarcón - At Night We Walk in Circles

At this point, everything was fine.

They sat in the sun, the three of them enjoying this last instant of calm. Then Noelia asked how he knew Rogelio, and Henry smiled.

It’s true he was prepared to unburden himself.

“We met at Collectors,” he said.

“What’s that?” Noelia asked.

He let out a long sigh. “The prison. We shared a cell there, just before he died.”

Then there was silence, long enough for Henry to realize something was terribly wrong. He saw it in their faces, in the way the women stared at him. Mrs. Anabel’s eyes got very small, and he watched the color drain from the old woman’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Mrs. Anabel turned to her daughter. “Did he say died ?”

There was terror in her voice.

“No, Mama.”

“What does he mean?” She was speaking in a whisper now. Henry glanced toward the door, just a scamper across the courtyard. Five running steps, seven at most.

“There must be some mistake,” Noelia said.

The early-afternoon sun was blinding.

“Rogelio is not in prison,” said Noelia. “Rogelio is not dead.”

“He isn’t.”

“He lives in California. He has for years.”

There was something very hopeful in her tone.

“I know,” Henry said, because he wanted more than anything to believe it. Maybe he’d gotten it all wrong. Maybe Rogelio was alive.

“Rogelio is a mechanic, like my brother Jaime. He lives outside Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles,” Henry repeated.

Noelia paused. “Are we talking about the same person?”

Henry didn’t — couldn’t — answer.

“My Rogelio,” said Mrs. Anabel, her voice cracking. “My baby.” With every sentence she uttered, she seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, curving her back and sinking lower in her seat, as if attempting to disappear.

Suddenly Noelia got up and walked off.

For a moment, Henry was left alone with Mrs. Anabel. Her friendliness had all but vanished, and she seemed to cringe in his presence, as if she were afraid he might attack her. He closed his eyes against the bright sun, and tried to remember everything Rogelio had ever told him about this woman. His mother.

He came up blank.

Instead, he said this: “Everything’s going to be fine.”

She raised her eyes to look at him, but didn’t respond.

Just then Noelia returned with a photo, one of the framed images that he’d been too frightened to look at before. She thrust it at Henry.

“Is this him?”

He bent his head toward the photo, using his sleeve to wipe the glass clean. He sat back with a start. It was the face of a young man, a boy. A miracle of a human being. The image was faded and old, but those were the same dashing brown eyes, the same narrow face and high forehead. The same Rogelio. He rubbed the glass some more, and smiled. He had to withstand the urge to jam the frame into the pocket of his coat and flee with it.

Mrs. Anabel and Noelia were waiting.

“No, this isn’t him,” Henry said. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake.”

Noelia let out a breath.

“See, Mama? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I’ve upset you both. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Call Jaime,” said Mrs. Anabel. “I don’t trust this one.”

Noelia stood. “Don’t worry, Mama. He’s going now. Say good-bye.”

Henry met Noelia’s stare, and felt ashamed. He handed the photo to Mrs. Anabel, who accepted it without comment. There were tears welling in her eyes. With one hand she took hold of her daughter’s arm, and was gently tugging at her sleeve, like a child demanding attention.

“Where is Rogelio?” she said. “I want to see Rogelio!”

“He’s coming, Mama.”

“Is he dead?”

“Of course he’s not dead!”

Henry stood. There was nothing left to be done. He bent forward in a formal and exaggerated bow, drawing his hands behind his back so that Noelia and Mrs. Anabel wouldn’t see them shaking.

“I beg your pardon,” Henry said. “I’m very sorry to have disturbed you both. I’ll see myself out.”

HENRY HURRIED BACKto the hotel in a state of alarm. “I wanted to leave town right away,” he told me later, but that was impossible. The bus that had brought them to T— that morning had already returned to San Jacinto, and there would be no way out until the next morning. T— felt menacing to him now; a place where people died and were never mourned. He’d thought a great deal about Rogelio in the previous weeks, thoughts which had only intensified since coming upon that map in the window in San Jacinto. He’d imagined many different versions of this encounter, wondering all the while if attempting to make this kind of peace with his former life was a sign of maturity or selfishness. I believe him when he says none of what came after was what he intended. It simply hadn’t occurred to him that Rogelio’s family would not know that their son was dead.

Henry went directly to the Imperial, where he convinced the owner to open the second floor veranda, and bring him a drink. There was only beer, but that was fine. It would do. Henry sat at a table overlooking the plaza, while the owner kept his distance, huddling in a far corner and listening to his transistor radio with the volume down low.

When Patalarga and Nelson appeared an hour later, Henry was halfway through his third beer. He wasn’t exactly happy to see them, and would’ve preferred to be alone for a while longer. Still, he stood to greet his friends, and when he did, his glass tipped over. No one moved to catch it. The three of them watched it roll slowly and stop at the edge, while the beer spread over the surface of the table and then tumbled over in a long thin line.

“Graceful,” said Patalarga.

Henry righted the glass, shook his fingers dry, and called for a towel.

“Leave it,” the owner shouted from across the bar.

Henry wiped his hands on his jeans. It was midafternoon; the sun was high. The entire valley was bathed in light, and the streets of T— looked like an unused stage set. It all gave him a headache.

“Well, what is it?” Henry said.

Nelson was fully recovered, or seemed so. He beamed with satisfaction. “We have a show tonight. The mayor is going to open up the auditorium for us.”

“Tonight?”

Patalarga frowned. “Yes, tonight. This is good news, Henry.”

“It was,” he answered. “Two hours ago it was great news. But I’m not sure it’s so good now.”

Nelson and Patalarga waited for an explanation, but Henry had no idea where to begin. If he were just quiet long enough, he thought, maybe they could avoid the show altogether. His friends stared.

Finally he relented. “I went to see the family of an old friend of mine who died in Collectors.”

“Okay,” said Patalarga.

“That’s why we’re here. Why we came. But my friend’s family, his mother, his sister — they had no idea he was dead. I upset them. They accused me of lying. They threw me out.”

“They threw you out?” Nelson asked.

“Sort of.”

The three friends were quiet for a moment.

Nelson seemed unconvinced. “And?”

It seemed so simple to Henry, so obvious.

“And I feel bad.”

Nelson laughed in spite of himself, and turned to Patalarga. “He feels bad?”

Patalarga didn’t answer, just shook his head and turned away.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Henry said.

Nelson glared. “Why’s that exactly? What don’t I understand?”

“That I can’t do the show.”

“You’re canceling?”

“Henry, you can’t cancel,” Patalarga said.