Apology by Jon Pineda (books to read this summer .txt) 📕

He climbed inside.

“Where to, Tio?”

Mario was still wearing his scrubs. He was going back after lunch.

“What was it you do again?” Shoe said.

Mario laughed. He knew what his uncle was up to.

Mario announced it with more flair than he normally would have. “I’m a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon.”

“I’m guessing anyone can be one of those,” Shoe said.

“That’s right,” Mario said. “Anyone.”

It was warm outside. Shoe welcomed the breeze through the open window. They pulled up to a light. A woman in her mid-forties stopped alongside them. She was driving a faded black BMW. The color made Shoe think of water. A body of water, in particular, one in a poem he had read so often that he had memorized it easily.

In the prison library’s possession was a collection by the poet A. R. Ammons. Shoe’s favorite was “Corsons Inlet.” He liked the way the person inside the poem spoke to him. Of the many lines he loved, in crossing the yard, he would repeat the final line in his head, That tomorrow a new walk is a new walk.

“Tio, tell her she looks good in that car,” Mario laughed.

Shoe looked at the woman and smiled. He knew she could hear his nephew.

“Your car’s beautiful,” he finally said to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to face him. “What was that?”

She was wearing designer sunglasses. She had salon-blond hair. She lifted the glasses so that he could see her green eyes.

“Nothing,” Shoe said.

The woman replaced her glasses. Her jawline clenched.

The light changed, and the woman drove away.

She had reminded him of someone.

Paul Guzman was happy to see his brother. He could embrace him in his own home. Mary came around the corner, where she was busy cooking a huge meal. She hugged him quickly. Her hair carried the scent of roasted chilis. She was crying.

Shoe didn’t know what to do at first. He thought she was going to tell her son to take his uncle back where he had found him. But then he remembered her letters expressing such gratitude. She kissed Shoe on the mouth. Paul had done the same.

Mario’s sisters, who had both driven up from Florida, were there with their families. The children, who had been running around in the backyard, were now busy darting into the house, assuming the roles of entitled grandchildren.

“This place is exactly how I remember it,” Shoe said.

“We’re so glad to have you home, Exequiel,” Mary said. “You’ve brought us good luck, you know that?”

“That’s right, Mano,” Paul said.

“Yes,” Mario said, trying not to cry.

Shoe looked around the room at everyone, then focused on the floor. There was his right foot, turned just slightly askew as if it might walk out the door on its own.

“I just wanted your life,” Shoe said quietly, “to be different from mine.”

Mario had been the only one to hear his uncle. He found he could barely breathe. The others started clapping, Paul suddenly overcome with the need to vocalize a grito, surprising his family as the joyous scream lifted and sank like netting in the wind.

Someone turned on music, something traditional already programmed in the iPod. Paul took Mary’s hand. Even though she playfully refused at first. He coaxed her into the widening circle of the room. He held her close. As they spun, he saw his younger brother’s face.

“You’re a silly man,” Mary said to Paul. “It’s your brother’s turn to dance.”

Paul nodded and handed her over to Shoe. Shoe only shook his head. He pointed at the floor, as if the toe of his boot had been nailed into place.

The meal was a number of dishes that Shoe had only been able to dream of for so long—panes rellenos, yuca frita, pupusa, arroz con chorizo, more spices than he knew.

Shoe could not eat the meal without being reminded of Mary’s skin. The way her neck and hair had smelled when she had embraced him and tried to get him to dance. He did not like to dance. He could not move his body gracefully like the others.

After he finished his meal, his nieces cleared the dishes and brought out a plate of flan from the refrigerator and sat it in the middle of the table. Some of the younger children asked if they could have ice cream instead, and this made Shoe laugh. The other adults laughed too.

Mario looked at his watch and apologized to everyone, especially his uncle. He explained that he needed to get back to the hospital. He took a deep breath. His mother wanted to send him off with a Tupperware container full of food.

“Leave him be, Mariposa,” Paul said. “Your son has to go save more lives.”

Shoe glanced at his older brother. He could see the pride on his brother’s face. He wondered if it was showing on his face as well.

eight

Mario didn’t know why he had found it suddenly difficult to breathe. He should have been happy, standing there in his parents’ house with his sisters up from Florida, his nieces and nephews having the run of the house. But then there was his uncle, in the middle of it all, among the food and the music and the happiness.

He parked in the reserved space and went inside.

Everyone he passed knew him, knew he was a rising star on the surgical team. He went to conferences all over the country. He never stopped trying to learn about the latest techniques. Even though computers were taking over, a mind was still required to guide the machine.

And then there were instances when all was abandoned for the skill of the surgeon, the steady human hand. He had that. He had cultivated the evenness. Now, though, he was having difficulty breathing. He smiled as he passed nurses and other attendants. He could not shake the way his chest felt. Closing in on itself.

He could label every sheath, every piece of tissue and bone that would converge