Chapter 12
How reckless the attraction is between people; how fatal.
Even now, despite everything she took from me, the Louise who calls to me out of the past, whom I dream of, is still the one who stood in the doorway that afternoon, waving through the sunlight pouring into my car.
The Louise holding the bunch of flowers, her handsome smile, her flashing teeth; exhorting me, Promise you’ll come back soon!
And still I catch myself calling back to her, I will!
For as soon as I’d reached the car, I’d begun to calm down, telling myself, so what if Louise took our picture?
She probably didn’t even realize it. It was only a coincidence, another strange point of connection in a town small enough that people inevitably collided.
I became magnanimous. I took Henry to the market for his licuado.
When we picked up Ida and she asked for a treat like Henry had, I said, “How would you like to get fresas con crema in the square?” Sensing my generosity, my uncharacteristic decisiveness, Henry asked, “Can we get toys, too?”
Yes! They could have toys! They could have and do whatever they wanted!
They cheered, unable to believe their luck, the three of us hurrying along the narrow sidewalks, gaily jostling into people, laughing.
I remember it for its sweetness, the perfect harmony between us.
The fact they were still young in that particular way, simple to delight and take delight in.
One of those perfect days about which everything retains its vividness.
The swept gray cobbled streets closed to traffic, the square packed full with people.
The silent, towering scaffolding of fireworks to be lit in celebration of El Grito.
At dusk, I sat on a bench surrounded by the assorted remains of our food—half-drunk apple sodas, roasted corn on wooden sticks, slender salchichas with grilled onions and melted orange cheese—while Henry and Ida played with a pack of other children.
It pleased me beyond anything to see them in their school uniforms, bouncing the rubber balls with mylar tails I had bought them high into the air.
When it was dark, I bought a glass of wine at El Rincón, watching the dueling mariachi bands make their slow circle, occasionally losing sight of the children and then finding them again like a passive game of hide-and-seek, suffused by contentment, a feeling of having been blessed by this place, as if nothing bad could ever happen to us here.
Finally, near midnight, the crowd gathered tightly for the lighting of the castillo.
There was a noise as it began to catch, a series of sharp reports.
An older woman gestured to me, handing me several sheets of a newspaper.
“Here, take this,” she shouted over the clatter, “like this,” showing me how to hold it spread over our heads.
“I’m scared!” Henry screamed with crazed joy as the hot sparks rained down.
“It’s like falling stars!” Ida hollered, the sparks thudding the newsprint over our heads.