DEAR DANTE,
Sorry I haven’t written. I really am.
I can walk like normal now. Just so you won’t feel guilty anymore, okay? The x-rays look good. I’ve healed, Dante. The doctor says a lot of things could have gone wrong, beginning with the surgery. But, as it happens, nothing went wrong. Imagine, Dante, nothing going wrong. Okay, I’ve broken my own rule so that’s enough about that particular topic.
I have a new dog! Her name is Legs because I found her the day I got my legs back. She followed me home from the park. My dad and I bathed her in the backyard. She’s really a great dog. She just stood there and let us bathe her. Really tame and mellow dog. I don’t know exactly what kind she is. The vet’s best guess was that she’s part pit bull, part Labrador and part God-knows-what-else. She’s white, medium-sized, and has brown circles around her eyes. Really good- looking dog. My mom’s only response was: “The dog stays in the yard.”
That rule didn’t last. At night, I let the dog into my bedroom. The dog sleeps at my feet. On the bed. Mom hates that. She gave in pretty easily though. “Well, at least you have a friend,” she said.
My mom doesn’t think I have any friends. That’s sort of true. But I’m not good at making friends. I’m okay with that.
Not much to report other than the dog. No, wait, guess what? I got a 1957 Chevy pickup for my birthday! Lots of chrome. I love the truck. A
real Mexican truck, Dante! All I need are hydraulics to bounce around in. Like that’s going to happen. Hydraulics. My mom just looked at me. “Who’s going to pay for it?”
“I’ll get a job,” I said.
Dad gave me my first driving lesson. We went out on some deserted farm road in the upper valley. I did pretty well. I have to get the gear thing down. I’m not very smooth about shifting and I killed the truck a couple of times trying to shift into second. It’s all timing. Push in the clutch, shift, gas, clutch, shift, gas, drive. Someday soon I’m going to learn to do all of those things in one smooth motion. It will be like walking. I won’t even have to think about it.
After the first lesson, we parked the truck and my dad smoked a cigarette. He smokes sometimes. But never in the house. Sometimes, he smokes in the backyard, but not very often. I asked him if he was ever going to quit. “It helps with the dreams.” I know his dreams are about the war. I sometimes try to picture him in the jungles of Vietnam. I never ask him anything about the war. I guess it’s something he has to keep to himself. Maybe it’s a terrible thing, to keep a war to yourself. But maybe that’s the way it has to be. So, instead of asking him about the war, I asked him if he ever dreamed about Bernardo. My brother. “Sometimes.” That’s all he said. He drove my truck back home and didn’t say another word.
I think I upset him by bringing up my brother. I don’t want to upset him, but I do. I always upset him. And other people too. I guess that’s what I do. And I upset you too. I know that. And I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can, okay? So if I don’t write as many letters as you do, don’t be upset. I’m not doing it to upset you, okay? This is my problem. I want other people to tell me how they feel. But I’m not so sure I want to return the favor.
I think I’ll go sit in my truck and think about that.
Ari
