Anne Korkeakivi - Shining Sea

That’s another thing margaritas can do — make one’s tongue slippery. “Well, whatever you do, I’m sure you’ll do it well.”

She looks around brightly. But Kenny — dear, earnest Kenny — is not going to be put off so easily. She’s stepped right into the den of snakes, and there’s no escaping. It’s almost as though Kenny has been waiting for a chance to talk about this with her. Probably he has. God knows she’s done her best to avoid it.

“My own father,” he says, “last time I saw him, he hit me up for fifty dollars. I was nineteen . I didn’t let him know I’m graduating from medical school today. I’m not sure even where I’d reach him. But Ronnie was always there for me. He always had my back; he was better than a father. Certainly better than my father.”

She really wishes she hadn’t brought this up.

Kenny takes a breath. “I want to give something back. I won’t be able to help Ronnie, but maybe I can help others who have AIDS, in his honor.”

Although she knew it was coming, it hurts, hearing her grandson put it out there like that. She sets her drink down. “Now, hold on just one minute, mister. Your step-grandfather died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. That was the official cause of death. You know that.”

“Yes, but—” Jennifer starts, then stops and fingers a tortilla chip.

She shoves the salsa dip toward her.

“Grandma,” Kenny says.

The waitress returns, balancing three heavy plates on her arms—“Here we are!”—and doles them out, giving her Kenny’s fish and Kenny her steak.

“Here we are, indeed,” she says. She switches the filet of fish for the sizzling strips of sirloin, picks up her knife, and carves into it. Charred on the outside, the inner flesh is pink and tender. Her and Ronnie’s relations, such as they were, always were swift and in the dark. So different from…Oh, my God— Michael . She didn’t know bodies could feel the way he made hers feel; so many years ago, and still, when she closes her eyes, she can almost feel him. But who’s to say her experience with Ronnie wasn’t the more normal one? And they did have relations. It happened.

And yet. The sudden string of illnesses, the cancer. The doctor treating Ronnie didn’t ask her — her, a lady in her sixties — to be tested for HIV for no reason. She’s not an idiot. Something happened, sometime, somewhere behind her back. And it probably didn’t happen with another woman. She knows that. The truth is she knew all along, like it was a pact she and Ronnie had. A pact of silence. Ronnie was different. Patty Ann said so from the start. But she needed him, and, in his way, he needed her. And in the end, they did love each other. Not in the same way as she loved Michael, but in their own way.

She can’t fault him when she willingly signed on for that silence. She’s glad he never told her what he was doing, if he was doing something. If he had, she would have had to leave him. How stupid that would have been. They were happy.

“Your step-grandfather and I were married longer than me and your grandfather. We had a real marriage,” she says. “I don’t appreciate anyone suggesting otherwise, especially not my own grandson. Ronnie was a good man and a good husband.” She gives him that look, the one that over the years has told him there will not be a second piece of cake or another half hour of television. “Kennedy. We’re going to leave this subject now. If Ronnie chose to take something private to his grave, we can give him that much.”

She’s had almost seven years to think about this. Ronnie can lie peacefully in the cemetery in Scottsdale. She’s not going to remember him for something she never knew. She’s going to remember what she did know.

“So Jennifer,” she says, “Kenny says you are from here.”

Jennifer doesn’t miss a beat, just smiles and nods, as though they hadn’t just aired their dirty laundry in front of her. The girl will make a good social worker.

“Right here, in Manhattan.”

“And your father was a dentist.”

“Orthodontist. How’d you know?”

“Hmm,” she says. “Just a lucky guess.”

Jennifer flashes those perfect teeth again. “My parents would love to meet you while you are here. If you can find the time, I mean.”

“Of course,” she says, and smiles back. The conversation about Ronnie is over.

Jennifer swallows a forkful of lettuce. “Kenny told me he doesn’t look like you, but when you smile I see a resemblance.”

“Kenny is tall like his grandpa and has the same hair color as his father. But he looks most like my side of the family.” Those misty mornings in San Francisco so many years ago, her father and brother fishing from the pier while she wandered along the shore looking for clams or saltwort. Many a time, a wave would get the best of her, knocking her down— Papa, she would cry, her mouth full of salty water, her freshly washed and ironed dress ruined, knowing a slap on the rear awaited her at home. Her father and brother would turn to look, and she can see her brother still, fishing line in his hand, grinning down at her. “He looks like his great-uncle Tomas. Or how I think Tom would have looked, had he lived to be a man.”

“That was my grandmother’s brother,” Kenny explains. “He died during World War II, in France.”

“I’m sorry,” Jennifer says.

“A lot of boys died,” she says.

“Well, hello, Aunt Barbara!” And there is Molly, as tall and cheerful as ever, wearing a navy blue tailored suit with leather sneakers, making her way through the restaurant to their table, then bestowing hugs on everyone. “Congratulations, Kenny! Nice to see you again, Jennifer. Ugh, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get out of this deposition any earlier.”

“We started without you,” Kenny says. “Jennifer was famished.”

Jennifer shakes her head and smiles.

It is love between these two. Something tells her she is going to get to know Jennifer much better.

Molly pulls out the fourth chair. “Tell me everything!”

After Molly has ordered, Kenny and Jennifer describe the ceremony step by step, reliving each speech and each stride toward the podium. She interjects “It was wonderful” or “So exciting” every once in a while, and Kenny beams in response. Any earlier disagreement seems to have been forgotten. Molly smiles and nods good-naturedly to everything in between bites of her tacos.

Suddenly Kenny stops talking. He holds up a finger. “Hey, listen. There’s Uncle Francis’s song, in Spanish.”

Wafting over the din of the restaurant: Y sobre los mares ondulados, nos alcanzamos. Y sobre la tierra quemada…

She may never have really mastered Spanish, but she understands each word perfectly: And across the rolling seas, we reach our hands. And across the scorched earth… After all, she’s heard the original enough times in English. And not just on the cassette she’s kept in her car for something like eight years now — for a while, it was impossible to enter the grocery store without hearing it. Or to turn on the television once they used it for that commercial. Funny to think that of all her children, quiet, reclusive Francis would end up being the famous one.

“He seems happy on his farm,” she says. “He and Georgina. I don’t think he’s even interested in making a second album.”

“He never enjoyed performing,” Molly says, shrugging. “He had a tale to tell, and he told it. It wasn’t ever about the money.”

Molly probably knows better than she what goes on with Francis. Always so simpatico, those two, and then Molly became his lawyer. But at least she has a phone number she can call on his birthday now, an address to which she can send a Christmas card or present for little Mia. At least she knows he is safe. For a long time, even after he reappeared, she wondered what she could possibly have done to Francis to make him disappear for so long. One day she realized it was he who’d done something to himself. Things have been easier since.