Let’s go now, Vicky said.
She tried throwing a pebble at Gaspar’s window: the shutters were closed, but—and this was simply unheard of—there was music playing. Not very loud, but enough that they could hear it from the street. He must be alone, thought Vicky. It was unimaginable that Gaspar’s father would allow music that loud, when you could barely talk in that house without bothering him. Convinced that the music was keeping him from hearing the pebbles and that he was alone in the house, Vicky rang the bell. The music’s volume didn’t go down and Pablo reached up to bang a fist on the shutter. When the door opened, Vicky was prepared to see Gaspar. But no: it was Juan Peterson, and she took a step back. Pablo, behind her, sucked in his breath. He was afraid of Gaspar’s dad too.
Juan Peterson didn’t yell or get angry. He looked at them with a certain indifference and told them to come in. His hair was very long for a man’s and his beard made him look less pale, though he was very thin—his pants were too big for him and his cheekbones stood out. Vicky and Pablo went inside but stayed close to the door, and they watched as Gaspar’s father went deeper into the house. They heard the sound of a door opening and the music grew louder, and they didn’t understand well but they thought they heard a “your friends are here.” And then nothing, for a while. The music became quieter and there was no other sound, no footsteps, no one even coming to close the door.
The music stayed very low, and then Vicky finally heard footsteps, but they were distorted, slow, one foot dragging. Gaspar appeared looking very serious, wearing only his soccer shorts, barefoot and shirtless. Then they saw he was limping and had scrapes healing on his shoulders, his arm, his chest.
Vicky had a sudden and horrible idea that made her keep her distance from Gaspar, made her not want to hug him as she would have done any other time. They’ve switched places, she thought. He looks like his dad. His eyes are the same.
Pablo did react. He went over and hugged Gaspar and clapped his back; Gaspar was favoring one of his feet, and he didn’t return the hug.
“What happened to you?” Pablo asked.
“We had an accident and I got a little banged up, I hit my head, too. My foot is sprained, I twisted it.”
“You hit your head?”
“Yeah. I was in the hospital. Or so they say, I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?”
Gaspar lost his patience, got angry. Though he was tanned, there were circles under his eyes. Plus, he never got annoyed at them, never yelled at them the way he was yelling now.
“I don’t remember! What can I say? What do you want, why are you here?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Vicky said. She wasn’t mad, just worried.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” said Gaspar. “Nothing! I just want to be alone.”
And with that he went back to his room, limping but fast; he looked ill, he was dishevelled, a little dirty. Vicky took Pablo’s arm to keep him from following Gaspar, and the two of them left the house, closing the door carefully so as not to make any noise.
That night, Pablo and Vicky met up with Adela. They watched movies at Vicky’s on the VCR Gaspar had lent them and had never asked for back. All three agreed that the redhead’s dress in Pretty in Pink was awful—they’d expected something amazing! The whole movie was built around that dress! They were surprised when Lidia got home from the hospital. Aren’t you on duty tonight? asked Vicky, and her mom said she was, but she’d gotten her period and had cramps. She’d switched shifts with another doctor, and she would make up the hours next week. Lidia went to the kitchen to make tea and then sat down with them.
“What’s with you guys, so serious?”
The kids looked at each other, and Vicky spoke:
“Nothing, we watched a movie.”
“Something’s up, I know you all.”
Then Pablo ventured:
“We went to Gaspar’s and he’s being weird, he didn’t want to hang out with us.”
Lidia sipped her tea, put her feet up on the coffee table, and said:
“You’re going to have to give him time. He had an accident and he’s not dealing with it well.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw Juan, I went over for a drink yesterday. You have to have patience with Gaspar, kiddos. He had a cerebral concussion, slight, but he reacted very badly, he was confused for a few days. Don’t forget his mom died in an accident, he’s reliving some ugly things. And Juan’s condition is very, very serious. You’re going to have to help your friend, because he’s going to lose his father.”
“Really?” Vicky asked.
“It’s just so sad. I know you kids don’t much like Juan, or you’re scared of him, I don’t know, but he’s a good guy. A little different, maybe. But good.”
Vicky thought, how can you say that, he hits Gaspar and he’s crazy, but she didn’t want to fight.
“Who’s going to take care of Gaspar?”
“His uncle. They already started the paperwork so he can be Gaspar’s guardian, and then he’ll adopt him.”
“So, he’s going to die that soon?”
“Sweetie, no one knows exactly when he’s going to die.”
“But how can we help him? Gaspar doesn’t even want to leave the house,” said Adela.
“You have to give him time,” Lidia said, finishing her tea.
Gaspar found that the easiest way to stay distracted was to watch soccer and read every word of El Gráfico. He got a little bored reading about River Plate and having to stomach their unbeatable team, though he had to admit he wanted to play like Francescoli; there was no other player he liked as much, not even on the San Lorenzo team. He hated River Plate because they had Francescoli, plus some brutal defenders who would foul players left and right. But that’s a good thing, Hugo Peirano would tell him, they’re no sissies. They had watched together when Veléz won the championship against River Plate 3–0. It was like being in a movie. When the movie ended, reality was his dad lying in bed, sometimes at home but more and more often at the hospital; sometimes he even went out alone, Gaspar didn’t know where, and when he came back he was either angry or so tired he couldn’t even speak. Gaspar saw the medications piling up on the table and the house filling with papers, sketches, notes that made no sense. Was he not taking his pills? What were those drawings? For all those reasons it was better to be in the soccer movie, or even to study for school while he listened to music, so he didn’t have to hear his father’s steps upstairs or see him carrying the oxygen tank around. He couldn’t read poetry or stories or the things he usually liked: they didn’t distract him enough, and some of them had even made him cry. He’d taken a book by an English poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from his father’s room, and when he opened it, the poem read: “ENOUGH! we’re tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us.” It seemed intentional. The Spanish translation was terrible, to top it off. He couldn’t stand reading things that were beautiful or sad. He would rather learn fractions. His foot still kept him from swimming, but he was anxiously awaiting the day he could return to the pool. It was easy to think about something else under the water.