Chapter 9

Toni

It was lunch time when they got Roberto's clothes stowed in the closet and the dresser. She'd told him to take the space the other male clothing occupied – and to keep for himself any of that clothing that he wanted, since it probably would fit him. She took care not to say where it had come from, not to speak the name of the person it had belonged to. That was a name she had hardly uttered in the past five years – not at all, not even in the deepest corners of her mind, in the past two years. Some things are too painful. It was true. It hurt just knowing that someone had once had his clothes in her closet, and that his life had intertwined with hers. It was not his fault, of course, but it was with ... him ... that she'd fallen from righteousness and become the ... thing ... that she was today.

She sat on the bed and watched 'Berto stowing his things. She enjoyed watching him. Physically he wasn't much – skinny, young, a few pimples still, and that ludicrous attempt at a mustache. If someone had shown her pictures of 25 men and asked her which one she would most like to take into her house, 'Berto's would have been the last one she'd have picked. And yet he was the man who was here, moving in, suddenly as dear to her as her own right arm.

But that was uncomfortable thinking. "As dear to me..." That is not how I'm going to deal with this. It is what it is, and it's glorious, at least so far, but I know from experience that the greatest joy brings with it the greatest sorrow. I lost my virtue, and I lost my God, and I lost my man, and now whatever happiness I receive from 'Berto is gravy.

She kept her face carefully blank. The last thing she wanted to do was get 'Berto inquiring into her sadness. It was always with her, it touched everything she did. When she laughed with 'Berto, or while she cooked his supper, that sadness was always there. So much is gone. My life, my hopes, my future ... But I will not dampen his happiness with my sorrow.

And so she put on a serene, even a happy face. It wasn't, really, hard to do, for though the sorrow touched her happiness, it was a very real happiness. 'Berto gave her joy in ways she didn't understand and couldn't catalog. Skinny he might be, but she liked to watch him move. A mere boy, yes, but he was the center around which, suddenly, all her dreams revolved. Somehow, in the course of the previous afternoon, he had found the center of her heart and come to dwell there, and now if someone had asked her to define life she would have said, 'Berto.

She liked that diminutive she'd fallen into without thinking about it that morning. Roberto his parents might have named him, but that was a man's name, the name of someone dignified and perhaps a bit gray. Her man was still a boy, young in years and attitudes, and for him the shorter 'Berto was perfect.

He hung a last shirt in the closet and turned, looking across the room into her eyes. "What are you thinking of, Toni?"

"Just that I love to look at you." She didn't change the word – after all, she was talking about loving to look, not loving him.

"I love to look at you." He blushed as he said it.

Toni had a sudden mischievous idea. "What about me do you like to look at most?"

"Your face, I think. It's so soft, and smooth, and calm, and ... and ... and beautiful."

A rush of gratification came over her. Unless he's lying – and he's not that good an actor – his attraction to me isn't just physical. It was a fierce pleasure, then, the pleasure of a woman who knows that she is physically attractive, but also knows that her man cares about more than her body. "I've told you that I don't believe the beautiful part ... but I confess I like my face." She raised her hands and gently brushed her palms and fingers across her cheeks. "It's my mother's face, mostly, and my mother's skin. She's always had soft skin, and I inherited it."

"It's as soft as a baby's skin," 'Berto told her.

She touched her cheeks again, and realized he was right. "I hadn't thought of that, but it is like a baby's skin."

"And your skin's soft everywhere. It's not just your face, but your arms and hands, your back, your legs, even your feet. Touching you is like touching a baby, except you're not a baby."

She giggled. "No, I'm not a baby. I'm a grown woman. If my skin is soft, so be it, but I'm older than you think I am."

"So how old are you?"

"How old do you think I am?"

They were at an impasse. He came and sat down on the bed, taking her hand in his. "I think you're my age."

"And as I said, I'm older than you think I am."

"How much older?"

She considered how to respond. "I'll tell you what. If after two weeks you still want to know – if you're not satisfied just knowing that I'm an older woman – then I'll tell you my age."

"Come on, Toni!"

She smiled. "That's the deal, 'Berto. It's my fun."

"Okay, then, Toni – I'll let you have your fun. And in two weeks..."

"In two weeks, my lord—" My gracious, where did that come from? "—I shall satisfy your vulgar curiosity, should you still want to know."

"All right then, my lady – in two weeks."

I don't know where "my lord" came from, but I find that I do love "my lady." Maybe I'll remember that. It was a thought. She remembered the endearments she'd used before, and that ... he ... had used, but 'Berto was a different person, and she wondered what pet names they would find for each other. Perhaps "my lord" and "my lady" will be the first ones.

She stood up from the bed, pulling 'Berto with her by the hand. "Let's go see what we can find for lunch. Or we may have to go shopping – it's been a couple of weeks since I went to the store, and I wasn't planning on cooking for two."

'Berto

Roberto found that Toni split her shopping between the Albertson's on Montgomery and San Mateo, and the Wal-Mart on Carlisle between Candelaria and Menaul. Both were close, and being so close she could afford to go back and forth between them finding the bargains. "I work for a living, 'Berto," she told him as she set out for Albertson's. "I don't make minimum wage – more than that – but I have house rent, and the car payment, and the tags and the smog test, and I've got to eat and I've got to have clothes to wear, and I've decided I like my own scrubs better than the ones the hospital issues. So I don't waste money on food when I don't have to."

"Hey, Toni, I was just wondering. No need to bite my head off!"

She reached over and laid her hand on his leg, and he felt a thrill go through him at the touch. He always felt a thrill at her touch, whether it was just a hand on the shoulder in passing, as her custom was; or a reassuring pat such as he'd just received; or the intimate touches they'd experienced the night before. Many women had touched him, but none had found a way to move his heart. Toni merely laid her hand on his leg, and his heart shook and trembled. But she was speaking, and he wanted to hear that soft gentle Hispanic voice.

"I didn't mean to bite your head off, 'Berto. I'm sorry if I did. Friends?"

He covered her hand with his. "Always friends, Toni. Always friends." And his mind added, Such friends as I've never known could exist.

Her hand turned over, and she took his fingers in hers. She was slender, yes, but those fingers had strength in them. She used it now, letting the pressure tell him more than her words could. "I have long wished for one true friend, a friend to whom I could tell anything. I had one such friend once..."

"Toni, are you all right?" The sudden pain in her voice sent him into a near panic.

"I'm fine, 'Berto. It's just an old, old memory, one that doesn't mean anything anymore."

"Are you sure, Toni?" An old memory wouldn't, he thought, have the power to scrape her throat so raw in the space of a second. It had to be more than that.

"I'm sure. Please, Roberto, it's all right. I'm fine."

He knew somehow that her reversion to his full first name meant an end to the topic. But she's not fine, he thought. No, she's very far from fine. His heart ached for his friend. She's so young to hurt that way. It sounded like someone had torn her heart out and chopped it up and shoved it back any old way. I don't think I've ever heard anyone sound so hurt. Nevertheless, he knew better than to pursue it. A friend is someone to whom you can say any fool thing that pops into your head, and know it won't be cause a feud. But a friend is also someone whose privacy you respect – not as you hold back from a stranger because he's a stranger, but in a more personal way. A friend is someone who, when there's nothing else to do, will simply sit with you and hurt with you and not ask another probing question. 'Berto didn't understand all this, not completely, but he knew that his friendship with Toni was too precious for him to pursue the matter, and that the best thing he could do now to be a friend was to let her deal with the suffering in her own way.

That's no good, man, he thought. I never thought that being a friend meant keeping my mouth shut while someone bled. He remembered something he'd once heard his sister say, that young, wise sister he loved so much. She'd said to their mother, "I can't help Sam because she's my friend, and it hurts so much to be her friend."