Even If the Sky Falls (8 page)

A
S THE DAYS PASSED,
I
EXPERIENCED A LEVEL OF QUIET FROM
Adam that I hadn't known before. Not that my brother had ever been loud, but he was always accompanied by sound: the music he played in his room, the laughter from his friends, the general clumsiness of his movements through the house, an overall disregard for noise levels in his daily life.

When Adam left for duty it was the quiet that was most unsettling—an entire life, a space usually occupied now vacant and gaping—the quiet multiplied and invaded all the spaces he used to live in. As much as I tried I could not re-create the soundtrack that was my brother and I did not want to—his absence should be felt, as if somehow we kept him safe by missing him.

Eventually we got used to it, his noise becoming a memory and the absence of him becoming the reality to the point that when Adam returned I didn't notice right away that the old noise hadn't come with him. Often I would look up from my homework or reading and find Adam standing by the door, staring, before he turned away and went to his room like he hadn't been there at all.

A
ND AS MY
brother muted, those around him insisted on filling the void: my parents, his friends, strangers in church—one-sided conversations that canceled out the gaps he left behind.

Maybe that's why it took me so long to see the shifts, the differences, the brand-new soundtrack . . . because everyone else was so damn loud.

T
HE
S
UNDAY AFTER
my brother left his room for the first time during the day was an exciting one for my mother. It signaled to her that Adam was ready to enter the world, which she couldn't wait for him to do. We would attend church as a family, and we'd finally get to sit with Adam in public where everyone would see what a miracle he was.

After Mass everyone shook Adam's hand and patted him on the back, thanking him for his service. To one person after another, Adam nodded and offered a thin-lipped smile. When I was ten my mom gifted me an
Emily Post's Etiquette
book for Christmas; I never read it, but I wonder
if there was a section on this sort of situation . . . perhaps a whole chapter called “On Giving Thanks for Military Service” or something.

Tavis was there. He came over, giving Adam the most awkward hug, telling him how good it was to see him and how they should hang out again soon even though the last time they'd hung out had been in kindergarten. He'd pulled me into a hug before I was able turn away. Tavis and his family have been going to this church for years, and as the neighborhood started becoming more diverse, more and more Latinos joined the congregation. Now Father Lopez slipped into Spanish with every other sentence. Tavis's family didn't seem to mind and continued to attend.

W
E TOOK OUR
seats closer to the front than we usually did, the crowd parting to let us through. When the service started Father Lopez acknowledged my brother's return,
Le damos las gracias al Señor,
thanking God for his safekeeping and that of other loved ones also returned. My mother squeezed my brother's arm, then looped hers around my father's.

I hadn't seen my parents this happy in a while, it was amazing to see that full-watt smile again—for so long it was just a ghost, a crescent moon. My brother kept his gaze down, staring at the faint scratches and dents in the back of the wooden bench in front of us. Despite his silence, having him physically sitting right next to me felt like a miracle. When Father Lopez asked us to rise to recite the peace at
the end of the service, I noticed the fresh line carved into the wood where Adam sat, the dark stain under his thumb.

After the service my brother gave my mother a kiss on the cheek and left with old friends. He arrived home hours later, smelling of beer, knocking on my door.

“What are you doing?”

I held up my book. “Knitting.” It was amazing how I felt like a child then, glowing because my brother was paying attention to me, simultaneously thrilled and afraid that at any moment I might say the wrong thing that would make him go away.

Adam nodded and slumped down on the bed, my stuffed unicorn, Mr. Pointy, crashing down on the floor. I tucked a blanket over him, slamming into the rank smell of beer. I swatted at it like a fly.

“Tired?”

“All the damn time.”

I
HAVE LEARNED MANY THINGS ABOUT
N
EW
O
RLEANS IN THE
last thirty minutes. First is that streetcars are quite fun, but only when they aren't full of very drunk, very grabby people. Although being shoved up against Miles during the course of our ride was not too shabby. And second, if Miles is right he won't let you forget it.

“Okay,” I shout out into the night. “Once again, you were a hundred percent correct about the streetcar.”

“I'm sorry.” He places his hand against his ear. “I did not hear you. What was that again?”

I hop down the street ahead of him, then turn, walking backward while still facing him, and say, “Miles was right! Miles was right! I will trust him in all things.”

“That's all I ask.” He catches up.

“I just wanted to do something New Orleansy.”

“I understand,” he says, looping his arm around mine. “And I know I'm not supposed to be planning or strategizing, but there happens to be a New Orleans institution just round the corner.”

“Really? What is it?”

He shrugs. “I think we need another sugary pick-me-up. Don't you?”

C
AFÉ
D
U
M
ONDE
is sprinkled—no, not sprinkled, it's
swimming
in powdered sugar. The chairs, the floors, the customers all dusted in the same sweet sugar as the confections they produce. Miles and I wait in line with other fairies and demons of the night until it's our time to order, watching tray after tray of beignets coming out of the kitchen topped with mountains of delicate powder, so much that I can't even see the beignet underneath. There might not even be any, just a plate of powdered sugar ready to be whisked away by the breeze, sweetening the air around us.

There's still a bustle in the Quarter. It is noticeably quieter than the parade route in the sense that we no longer have to shout in order to hear each other, but it is by no means silent. Pockets of music tumble out of bars and conversations between friends hover in the air.

When we reach the window our order is waiting for us.
Miles gives the young girl behind the counter a quick hug before we scoop up the treats.

“Friend?”

“Sort of. Been giving her free guitar lessons in exchange for food. Not bad, right?”

I peek into the bag. It's piping hot and the beignets smell amazing. And even though I've already eaten my fill today, there is always room for more beignets. Bloody hell. It's still warm from the fryer, and the heat helps melt the sugar on my tongue. We walk and talk, licking sugar off our fingers. For a moment I fantasize about licking the flakes of powdered sugar that stick to the side of his lips. I sip at the hella strong chicory coffee and pass it back to Miles, watching as his lips touch where mine once were. The coffee is bitter on my tongue despite the shot of warm milk and sugar.

We stop by a statue of a man on a horse that is nowhere near as interesting as Miles's lips, but I pretend that it is. “Are we in Jackson Square?”

“Well, look who read the brochure!” Miles jokes, but he's pretty much right. Before we came to New Orleans I wrote down a list of places I wanted to see (Kara and Em would be so proud if they knew), and Jackson Square was one of them. The little square looks as lovely as the pictures online, the glow from the lamplights in the night giving it a particularly romantic tone.

Miles pulls me over toward a relatively quiet corner away from the tarot card readers and opposite what
appears to be a store dedicated completely to Tabasco sauce. “Really?”

He passes the coffee back and Miles follows my line of sight and laughs. “Yeah, it's pretty popular. Normally this wouldn't be a great place to park, but most people are still up in Carrollton and Oak or over on Bourbon Street, and other touristy stops.”

“Jackson Square isn't touristy?”

“Not during Mid-Summer.”

Looking around, there are still quite a few people in the square, but I can breathe and feel like the air is my own instead of sharing with my neighbor. We pass the café au lait until we drain the last drop. Tossing our garbage in a nearby bin.

The cathedral in Jackson Square is much smaller than the one at Loyola. Three towers reach out to the sky over its white facade.

“It's beautiful,” I say to no one in particular.

“And haunted,” Miles says.

“Really?” I turn and come face-to-face with Miles, who has moved closer to me without my noticing. The lamplight bounces off his eyes, pulling out the hints of gold hidden within. “Granted, most places in New Orleans are.”

“Really?” I mentally remind myself to expand my vocabulary.

“A couple of fires, hurricanes, and the yellow fever equal a ghost in every corner.” He leans in close, and I
lighten at the familiarity of his body language. It's amazing how Miles makes me feel like I've known him forever. “Even a vampire or two.”

I laugh, feeling the warmth of Miles's proximity bubble through my body. “Vampires?”

Miles swings around a post, reminding me of an old Fred Astaire movie my dad watched not long ago. He stops inches from my face. His eyes flick down to my lips then back up to my eyes. “We got everything here: vampires, ghosts, voodoo, fortune-tellers, music, food, alligators. You name it. Except maybe dry heat.”

He isn't kidding. My shirt sticks to my skin as we walk, and I know from the times I spent visiting family in PR there is no amount of deodorant that can help me now. I try not to think about it too much as we continue, and the wind has been kind enough to pick up, keeping the situation from getting worse. Although I'm pretty sure my hair is a constant vortex of strands above my head.

“Even the St. Louis Cathedral has a resident ghost.”

We look up at the peaks of the cathedral piercing the sky. “I didn't think you could haunt a sacred place.”

“He doesn't really haunt, more like cohabitate.” The way Miles is looking at the cathedral it's almost like he can see the ghost itself. “He was a friar or something—loved this place so much he just stayed even after he died. There was a fire a few years back and people say they saw his ghost running in and out of the building with the local
firemen, pulling out painting after painting.”

“How did they know it was him? I mean, if New Orleans has a ghost in every corner couldn't it have been your friendly neighborhood ghost?”

Expecting this, Miles continues, “It could, but you see, inside St. Louis is a painting of this particular friar, and our friendly fireman was a perfect match.”

We weave through a mass of people huddled together.

“That sounds really sweet, actually.”

Miles leans in conspiratorially. “They say if you are walking around in the early morning you can catch him taking his daily walk.”

“Gotta keep that healthy living even when you're dead, I guess.”

The Tabasco store is amazing. It's closed but we peek through the windows at all the Tabasco-branded items. My favorite is the crate of baby Tabascos with a taxidermied alligator (or is a crocodile?) sticking out of it.

“What about this place? Does the Tabasco store have a ghost or a vampire or two?”

“I don't know. Friendly ghosts stories are one thing but vampires . . . could be dangerous. They could hear me.”

“I'll protect you.”

“You? You got a wooden stake in that bag of yours?”

“I got a cross. Vampires hate that, right?” I pull out the small silver cross I keep tucked under my shirt. A gift from my grandmother before she passed away—so light that I
often forget I'm wearing it. I always think I should switch it out for another piece of jewelry, but I never do—because of her more than anything else.

“That looks special.”

I think of lying, of shrugging and moving the conversation back to surface things that will keep the thoughts at bay. But I don't.

“My abuela gave it to me,” I say, and wait for the panic to rise but it doesn't come. Abuela Julia is a safe memory.

“She pass on?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Tone—you can always hear it in the tone,” he says, “when someone's special in your life. Good or bad. Tell me about her.”

“I thought no baggage?”

“Your grandmother is part of your baggage?”

I run my fingers up and down the necklace, thoughts of her bubbling up, birthdays, talks over the phone. My eyes tear a bit, but again the darkness doesn't push through. “No.”

I smile—finally something I can offer.

“All right then, tell me about her, or we can go back to Questions, Questions. I still don't know what your favorite color—”

“Blue.”

“Damn, there goes at least a solid minute.”

“Okay, okay. She was—great.”

“Great sounds good, keep going.”

I push him, he makes a show of almost falling over before straightening. As we continue on, it starts to rain like a switch has been flipped. We dash from covering to covering, avoiding the worst of the downpour.

“She was born in Puerto Rico but moved at a pretty young age to the States with my grandfather, so her main language was Spanglish, as my mom would say. She always wanted to move back permanently but never did. She went back every year to visit family and stock up on
recao
and spices, though.”

We pause under a tiny red awning. The next one is farther away, and we plan our attack. “That's a pretty dry story.”

I nod and think back to how my abuela Julia would recite the story like she was reading off a grocery list. “You aren't far off. She said she and my grandfather had the most boring courtship in all humanity.”

We jump over a widening puddle like little children and duck under another awning. As quickly as it started the rain stops. We risk a look and lean over to peek at the sky. The rain cloud is gone but there are more off in the distance, so many that eventually we won't be able to tell the difference between them and the sky.

“I find that hard to believe. Did she love him?”

“Yes, but I think if you knew her you would understand. She was very frank and didn't really care for flowery
language. Things were a simple yes or no in her life. I asked her once if she loved me.”

“And?”

“She said ‘of course,' but it was in such a factual way—you know? Like she had no time for oversentimentality but that didn't mean she didn't love me.” I shrug, there are times I wish I could handle things the same way. “I never met my grandfather—he died before I was born—but I wonder if his side of the story was different.”

“He from PR too?”

“Yeah—they met in high school, came over here together. Here being the US.” It's really hard not to splash into puddles as we continue walking but I know future me will hate the wet sneakers. “So do you think the cross will do?”

Miles reaches over, playing with the necklace but being delicate at the same time. Does he notice my breathing becomes a bit shallower when his fingers graze my collarbone? “Cross is only as good as your faith, every vampire hunter knows that.”

“Well then,” I say. “I guess you're toast.”

I try to make my tone light, but it doesn't come out that way. Still, Miles smiles and releases the cross, careful not to touch me. “We'll have to be cautious then.”

“Yeah.”

“So does this mean you speak Spanglish?”

“Claro que sí.”
I beam. “One hundred percent fluent.”

“I know a little bit of French, mostly food, and about ten words in Arabic that I learned to impress girls.”

I laugh. “Did it work?”

“You tell me, Lila.
Anta tahbisu anfasi.
” He reaches for his hat, remembers it's gone, and tips an imaginary one toward me. “Are you impressed?”

“Erm.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together. “
Un poquito,
but very little. I think you still owe me a vampire story?”

“Forgive me. Now—my details are a bit fuzzy from hearing it told by different people, with completely different versions.”

“Which means you can't remember how it goes,” I interject, teasing.

Miles arches a brow, picking up on my tone. “I remember the important bits.”

“Mmm.” A pair of cops walk by us, and a group of neon goldfish run past, tossing a pair of beads at them with a wink. One of the cops shakes his head, as he and his partner continue on.

“Our story starts in the sixteenth or seventeenth century in France.”

“France?”

“Oui.”

Miles flips his banjo around and strums it, adding a tune to the story.

“So this man, everyone loved him, ladies wanted him,
men wanted him, etc., etc. You get the drift.” As he tells his tale, Miles switches up the tune to match the words. He never looks down as he plays, confident that his fingers know what they are doing. “But like in any good story there was something off about our guy, a few things that stood out if you were paying attention—which some people were, obviously, or this story would not exist.”

He changes the beat to something more soft and mysterious. “One: in the time that he was in France, around twenty years, I think, he never aged. Not even a little bit. People explained it away—I think he had some obsession with cosmetics, I don't know, but people found an excuse for his seeming fountain of youth. Like if he was around today people would say it was all due to the vegan lifestyle and avoiding sugars, right?”

“He'd be totally shooting the wheatgrass.”

Miles and I sync up, our steps falling in line with each other, echoing on the cobblestones.

“Exactly. So that's one, then two: no one ever saw him eat, not one bite, not ever. They only ever saw him drink.”