Page 5 of Nights Without Night
I’m snapped out of the memory by the chime of Ezra’s phone. He picks it up, his expression going goofy.
“Urgh. I can tell it’s Joaquin by the look on your face,” Iva says. Ezra sticks out his tongue at her, typing away. “Tell him to bring the pasta for tonight by the way. Forgot I don’t have any,” she asks. Ezra nods.
With a sigh, we collect our things not long after, the never-ending slew of work waiting for us. Before we part, Ezra stops me, looking at me steadily.
“I wouldn’t treat Isadoro like glass if I were you. I don’t mean not to be considerate, but…stand your ground,” he says. I frown but nod.
“Okay. Back to business,” Iva says as Ezra leaves and we start walking back to the studio. I sigh, nodding.
Back to business.
**********
When we were little, Isadoro and I used to play games of pretend. I’d be a mage, he’d be a warrior. I’d be Pikachu, he’d be Charizard. I’d be a wizard, he’d be a dragon-wrangler. On, and on, and on.
La Porterawas the detailed map at the start of the fantasy book. Water reservoirs were seas. Orange trees were spooky forests or thick jungles. Every hill a mountain, every dip Death Valley.
One time, when we were eight, we’d been battling an Ash Dragon—although to those with an untrained eye it would look like the piled remnants of burnt tree clippings. We’d defeated it, of course, but I’d been terribly injured, a streak of ash across my leg depicting the infected wound. We were caught in the fantasy, and Isadoro had rushed toward me, inspecting the imaginary wound. In this iteration of the game, I was a mage and instructed Isadoro on what to get me for the poultice cure: an orange, some dirt from our favourite unploughed field, leaves from our Mesa Oak. I’d rested in the shade as Isadoro ran madly out of sight despite the scorching heat. He’d come back sweating but triumphant, looking ridiculous with his pockets heavy with dirt. He’d watched me with real concern as I mixed the orange with the dirt, applying the paste on with a leaf.
Even at that age, I wanted that. The focus of his attention. Isadoro, all for me.
I’d sprang to my feet, cured, and the smile he gave me was blinding.
We’d soldiered on, deciding on a much-earned snack of mandarins. We’d eaten them below the powerlines of a cable tower. We pressed our fingers against each other’s and felt our skin buzz, electricity passing from one to the other, and smiled.
**********
I text Isadoro to get a few things from the supermarket, Iva’s mention of food having inspired the idea to cook together.
Despite all his years with canteen food in the army, Isadoro isn’t a bad cook. He used to spend time in the kitchens of las titas, hoping to lick a spoon but getting chores instead. They’d been an inspiration for his charm, even if his grandfather tempered that with discipline.
I can’t help but feel a little resentful towards Isadoro’s grandfather. Without him, Isadoro would never have gone off to war. Not because Frank talked about his time in Vietnam, but because the composition of his morals had seemed to have solidified in his service. I could spot the exact grooves in Isadoro’s moral compass that had been carved by how inflexible Frank had been about his idea of right and wrong.
To me, Isadoro’s desire to enlist had seemed almost like a type of stubbornness. The decision was a mollusc, clinging to its perch the more you tried to argue against it. Not the bad press following the invasion of Afghanistan, not the documentaries or the protests, or my own largely unspoken but obvious opinions on the matter, could alter what wasright.
Even then, I didn’t think he’d do it. War—that was something which happened to other people. Until it wasn’t.
I’d laughed when he told me he’d enlisted. I’d thought it was a joke. But he’d looked at me, expression set, and my own face had fallen. I’d been dumbfounded. And I could see it then, what the clench in his jaw meant.
There was nothing I could do to change his mind.
I’d swallowed my opinions whole. Even when they choked me or sat heavy in my stomach, I kept them mostly down. There was nothing much to say—we could have the conversation in our heads. I thought it was sick that he was joining a corrupt system for a faulty cause. He believed it was a duty to change corrupt systems from the inside out. I scoffed at the idea that the primary reason for the U.S. invasion had been to protect us. He maintained that regardless of motivation, the threat was real, and the damage already done—it was our responsibility to fix it.
And on, and on, and on.
So, we hadn’t said anything at all. It would only create fissures I couldn’t afford, fearing they would widen with his absence.
I open the apartment door and take my coat off. It’s late, and Isadoro is home, waiting for me on the couch. He looks unfairly attractive in loose sweatpants and a sweater, but the fact barely registers in my desensitized mind. He’s flipping through one of the sketchbooks I keep lying around. He does it a lot, and I don’t mind. I keep the ones filled with drawings of him in my wardrobe. They would give me away in a heartbeat.
We argue briefly about the recipe before going into the kitchen to cook. The scene is disgustingly domestic as we talk about our days, moving around each other to chop and stir as if this is the norm. He mentions his morning run and I heckle him for running in shorts in the January cold. He tells me about his visit to the dog shelter, his voice going soft as he talks about what he won’t admit is his favourite dog, an old mutt with scraggly fur but a no-nonsense attitude.
“He reminds me of you,” he says and laughs when I punch him in the chest.
“Jesus, are you made ofrocks?” I whine, clutching my hand.
“Drama queen.”
“Just you wait. Imma get you one of these days. Just. You. Wait.”
