Page 23 of Love Without Demands

Once she’s out the door, I flip the electrical breaker and turn off the water going to the old hot water heater. Then I drain it before disconnecting the hoses and electrical conduit. Using a dolly, I wheel the leaky heater out of the small closet and load it into my truck.

Deciding to clean the floor before I install the new one, I grab the broom and mop from Mama’s pantry. While I’m mopping, I notice a couple loose floorboards and pull the hammer and some nails from my father’s old red toolbox, intent on hammering them back in place.

I’m not sure what makes me drop to my knees and lift the floorboards, but I do, peering down into the hole by the light of a flashlight. A blue shoebox rests inside the opening.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter, lifting the box and setting it on my lap.

There are letters inside, hundreds of them, addressed to Benjamin Estrada, my father. All of them have a return address in New York, from someone named Paul Bouvier.

Who the hell is Paul Bouvier?I think, opening the envelope on top and reading the handwritten words on the enclosed page.

I frown at the letter and read it again. Who is this guy? Some friend of my dad’s? Or maybe an estranged family member? From the tone, he’s obviously someone my mother doesn’t approve of.

And the bike… I remember my dad coming home with a blue bike for my sixth birthday, and it had a silver horn with one of those big black rubber bubbles I could squeeze to make it honk. It was loud as hell and sounded like an old car horn. I absolutely loved it.

Flipping through the rest of the envelopes, I notice they were sent to a post office box and not to my parents’ address. Was my dad hiding these letters from my mom? Is that why they were concealed beneath the floorboards in the water heater closet?

I rub a hand over my lips as I stare down at the multitude of letters. Would it be wrong to go through these? I mean, my dad’s been dead for over a year, but does death negate your right to privacy?

My brain wars with itself. On one hand, my father wouldn’t have kept these letters for so long if they weren’t important. The first one dated back to when I was six, and I seemed to be the subject. But on the other hand, he wouldn’t have hidden them if he wanted anyone to look at them.

Fuck. I’m so torn. Huffing out a breath, I close the lid and carry the box out to my truck. I have to get this heater replaced and then get to work. I’ll sort through all this in my mind and decide what to do later.

“Hey, Mama. How is the hot water heater working?” I ask when she picks up the phone the next morning.

“Fantastic. Thank you again for being such a good son.”

“It’s what I’m here for, Mama. I want to take care of you.”

“I know you do, mi hijo, but I’m doing okay now. I still miss your father every day, but I feel like the fog is lifting a little. Like the world has finally started turning again. So you can stop fussing over me so much like a mother hen.”

I chuckle. “Is that your way of telling me I’m getting on your nerves?”

“Never, but I worry about you, Cruz. You never do anything with your friends. You’re young and handsome so you shouldn’t be sitting at your mama’s house every weekend.”

“Some of the guys invited me out for Friday night. I was thinking about joining them,” I say thoughtfully.

“You should. But don’t drink and drive,” she adds quickly. “You call me, and I’ll come pick you up. Day or night. No questions asked.” That was exactly the same thing she used to say to me when I was a teenager.

I fight back a snicker. “Okay, Mama. Or I could just call an Uber like a normal person.”

“It’s not nice to tease your mother,” she scolds.

“Just pointing out that I’m thirty years old and fully capable of finding a ride home.”

“I know how old you are. I gave birth to you, remember? Almost ten pounds. In labor for twenty-seven hours.”

Before she could retell the entire story of my birth—because that was where this was headed—I break in. “Mama, did you know the floorboards were loose in the water heater closet?”

She gasps. “Nooo, there weren’t mice in there, were there?”

I chuckle. My mother hates rodents of any kind. “No, there weren’t any mice. I just didn’t know if you were aware that the boards were loose.”

“No, I never go in that closet. Your father—God rest his soul—took care of all that stuff. Do I need to call a handyman?”

“No, ma’am. I nailed them back down.”

“Oh, okay. Well, thank you, son.”

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