Daniel Alarcon - War by Candlelight - Stories

She had no interest in ever waking up.

“I could tell you a story, Rafa, but I’m not sure you’d even believe me,” Mario said, breaking the silence. He took off his dress shirt, draping it over his head. “It’s too bizarre, almost unbelievable.” Rafael didn’t answer him, but only looked on. Mario sighed.

“Whatever…I was ten. We lived on 181st. I liked to ride my bike all over the place, I mean all over. Down to 116th, to Riverside, all around Dykman. Me and some kids rode all the way to Yankee Stadium a couple of times. I mean, we just loved to go places, see things. My moms couldn’t really keep an eye on me, she was working and all, so I was sort of left to mind myself. I did all right, not great but all right. We were good kids. Then one day, I’m out and I’m alone and I’m riding by myself, and I swear to God, I’m there just cruising down the sidewalk, and there’s a shot, and before I have time to look up — you won’t believe this — this body has landed on me. Fell from the second floor, third floor — what do I know? A man. Straight knocked me off my bike. I swear to God! A fucking body. Straight knocked me over. I didn’t even look at him. I didn’t even breathe. I got back on my bike and rode and rode and rode, don’t know how I got home, but I did. Then I put that bike away and started playing video games, kid. Full-time. I mean, I got fat. You couldn’t get me out of the house, I was so fucking scared. I mean months. I watched TV and played video games and never got on that bike again.”

Mario sighed, laughing, shaking his head. Rafael just stared. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You ever told anybody?” he asked.

“Naw. Not my moms, not a soul. No one would have believed me. I don’t know why I just told you…,” Mario stammered, “but I did. And you can do what you want with it. Fuck it, forget it.”

Rafael shook his head. “Can’t forget that, cousin.”

He thought of the body he had seen, not even a hundred yards from where they sat. Rafael had never told anyone either. He thought of the plastic bag clinging to the man’s foot and was suddenly ashamed. His mind curved down a spiral of dark thoughts, but he turned away, stopping that chain of memories cold. Instead, he smacked Mario playfully. “You look like a fucking habibi with that shirt on your head!” Mario laughed his big laugh and Rafael smiled, eyes closed against the sun.

All dead men don’t fall from the sky. They don’t all float down the Hudson and come to rest against smooth moss-covered rocks at the water’s edge. Some of them are your fathers, your uncles. Some of them lose the battle slowly. Some die hating the world. Rafael wondered what his father was thinking or if he was at all anymore. Beyond the trees, there was shimmer: a glaze of hazy sunlight hung over the water.

They sat in silence a while, submerged in the sounds of the park. The game ended and another began. It was a joke, all of it. Nameless, faceless dead. Bodies raining down on city sidewalks, throwing children off bicycles. They’d been gone for hours now. The breeze picked up plastic bags and candy wrappers and carried them off to the river. From there they would ride to the ocean. It was time to head back. There were still hours of light left, but in Rafael’s apartment it would be dusk. In Rafael’s apartment they would be waiting for news and his mother would still be asleep. He would come home and they would tell him nothing. And this would go on for two more days before they would tell him the only thing he didn’t want to hear. Rafael saw his father then, extinguished, his skin sallow and ashen, his arms at his side. They buried him. A week later, the family was home again, under an empty Caribbean sun, receiving condolences from people with faces and names Rafael didn’t recognize. The Spanish they spoke slipped off their tongues too fast, and he couldn’t be sure of what he heard and what he misunderstood. It was like a dream. On the tenth day, his mother’s sleeping pills ran out and he fell asleep to the muffled sound of her sobbing. He thought of his father. Every minute of every hour, he thought of his father, and of Mario and the park. He thought of the water lapping over the dead man’s body, and the plastic bag around his foot. He thought of bodies falling from the skies. He wished he had been there to see the body fall. He wished he could have been there to catch him. To hold him up. To look him in the face and say, “Live! Live! Live!

I owe many people for many gifts. It’s a bit self-indulgent to try to thank them all, but I’ll give it a shot. My teachers, who have given generously of their time and wisdom: Paul McAdam, Mark Slouka, Colin Harrison, Ethan Canin, Chris Offutt, Edward Carey, Elizabeth McCracken, and ZZ Packer. Alan Ziegler and Leslie Woodward have been friends and supporters for many years. Kathleen McDermott has always looked out for me. Frank Conroy challenged and encouraged me to work harder; for this I am in his debt.

I rely on good friends for inspiration and, often, for sanity: Antonio Garcia, Agustin Vecino, Maggie Berryman, Laura Rysman, Danny Rudder, Andre Morales, Zea Malawa, Adrienne Brown, Josh Seidenfeld, Pascual Mejia, Stacey White, Scott Wolven, Claudia Manley, Clay Colvin, Caroline Wingo, Neil Roy, Wayne Yeh, John Green, Emmett Cloud, Shazi Visram, and Sean Titone — all beautiful people with big hearts. Sonia Gulati, with love. Carlos Aguasaco, mi compa. Mario Miche-lena, mi primo, mi colega. Jai Chun, wherever you are. The Class of 2003 at Bread and Roses Integrated Arts High School in New York, for putting up with a first-year teacher. To Olivia Armenta, for innumerable gifts.

In Lima, the Aronés family looked after me while I lived in San Juan de Lurigancho. All of my friends from AAHH 10 de Octubre and AAHH Jose Carlos Mariátegui, especially Vico Vargas Sulca, Jhon Lenon Mariño Yupanqui, Geral Huaripata Vasquez, Cesar Ortiz, Jorge “Koky” Ramos, and Roller Li Alzamora. The Diaz Tena family from Cruz de Motupe, especially Carmela. Everyone involved with the Defensores de La Paz Project, especially Carla Rimac, Jenny Uribe, and Olenka Ochoa from Incafam. The folks from Fulbright in Lima were great, always helpful and supportive, especially Migza and Marcela. Carlos Villacorta, for his friendship and his poetry. Pepe Alvarez, Felipe Leon— hermano ! Lucy Naldos, Betsy Zapata, Mauricio Delfin — these are friends I can count on.

My family: the Alarcón clan, from Lima to Arequipa to La Paz; the Solis Diaspora, from Lima to Sweden to New York to Belgium. Claudy is my friend and confidante. I couldn’t have written this book or any book without the folks I met at Iowa: writers, poets, artists, and all-around wonderful people — too many to name. A few people deserve special mention for being great friends and great readers: Dave Sarno, Lila “Stealthy” Byock, Vinnie Wilhelm, Mark Lafferty, Kerrie Kvashay-Boyle, Sam Shaw, Grace Lee, and Mika Tanner.

Thanks also to Guillermo Martinez, Hugo Chaparro, Alejandra Costamagna, and Cristian Gomez for their advice and encouragement. Connie Brothers, Deb West, and Jan Zenisek have made my life easier. Thanks to the Foxhead, for existing, to Prairie Lights, to the Wobblies, for a winning season and a shot at glory. Ricardo Gutierrez, for the book recommendations. Nicholas Pearson, for his insight. Susan and Linda at Glimmer Train, for buying my first story. Julio Villanueva Chang from Etiqueta Negra. Leelila Strogov at Swink. Deborah Treisman, for the education and the opportunity.

An extra-special big dawg thank-you to my comrade in the struggle, Eric Simonoff, who made it happen, and my editor, Alison Callahan, for her guidance and confidence. Thanks also to René Alegria, mi patrón at Rayo and a good friend.