Page 46 of The Plus-One List

Eloise seems to have hit her limit at the word “we.” Or maybe it’s the “more” that’s scaring her. Either way, she shoots to her feet, her cheeks flushing with color. “I need to walk the Pack.”

“Sure, sure,” Miriam says agreeably. “If you two ever do any cooking again, though, you know where to find me.”

21Eloise

I practically shove Agustín out of my apartment as soon as he’s packed up his things.

He offered to help me clean the kitchen, but I steadfastly refused.

I need a minute. I need several minutes. A whole bucket of minutes. Probably hours. Possibly days. My muscles are twitchy and sore, my heart thumps tiredly against my ribs, and my brain feels like it’s on fire. So much talking. So much newness. I just want to snuggle in bed with the Pack and an iced tea and reread Murder on the Orient Express. I want to be a Victorian invalid and take to my room, refusing all visitors. I rinse off the knives and cutting boards, clean the skillets, put away the leftover aguachile, and stare at the two sopes that are left.

An idea springs to mind, an idea that sounds very much like it’s being whispered into my brain by Agustín’s voice. I swat it away, because Victorian invalid. Tea. Agatha Christie. Just let me be.

The voice whispers again.

I stand there debating for what feels like hours before I decide I may as well just do it, or else I’ll be standing here until midnight. I put the two sopes on a plate, leave my door on the latch, and creep down the hall, my sock feet making no sound on the plush green carpet, the Art Deco lights illuminating the walls. I hesitate halfway down and start back home, then stop and turn around. The indecision is killing me. But I look like an idiot just walking back and forth over the same patch of carpet and the more time I spend in the hall, the more chance someone comes out of the elevator or leaves their apartment. I take two more steps forward. I’m level with Weed Dude’s door now. I pass it, then Soul Cycle, then Gretchen in 9C (I can hear Mansion wailing), then I hover for a moment. This is so stupid. I’m so stupid.

I run the remaining few steps to 9B, put the plate down on the ground, ring the doorbell, then flee back down the hall, like I’m some asshole kid playing ding-dong-ditch. I wait by my door, heart in my throat. Then I hear the click of a lock. Mr. Bloom’s face pokes out. He looks down at the plate, frowns, and looks up. His eyes meet mine.

“I made them,” I say.

He picks up the plate. Sniffs the food. Gives me a nod. Then shuts the door.

22Agustín

What makes someone a hero? How do we reconcile those we idolized with the truth of their actions? In researching my grandfather’s life, I learned so much more about him than the stories I’d been told throughout my childhood. And yet, there’s still so much I don’t know. I’m left with the burden of unanswered questions and the silence of the dead.

It’s impossible not to wonder. Did he ever think about us, when he was standing at that podium on the steps of City Hall? Or when he put his son to bed at night—a son who was younger than his youngest grandchild? Did he feel shame? Or did he not care—perhaps he was able to simply wall up his past, his history, his family in Mexico and live his life in New York without a second thought about us.

I sit back and stare at my computer screen, wondering if I should cut that series of questions in the second paragraph.

Tinkering with the article has become a compulsion. There’s nothing left to do on it until I get the interview. And I can’t help thinking that there is someone who can give me answers—Ricardo would know more about Abuelo’s life in New York than all the old footage or archival research in the world. Ricardo would know what kind of man Abuelo was here.

I can’t deny that part of me resents Ricardo for that. I know I’m only supposed to get the interview so that Neil can say we’ve done our due diligence, and show readers that we’ve gotten an alternate viewpoint from someone else involved in El Rasca’s life. But I can’t help wondering if any of Abuelo’s lies, the secrecy, the cheating … if any of it was passed on to his son. If Ricardo is some twisted, perverse version of my grandfather, inheriting all the bad parts. And I’ll have to face that in real life, when I talk to him.

My phone buzzes on the table next to my computer.

Eloise: I think I have to cancel tonight.

I kind of guessed this text was coming. I glance at the clock on my stove. It’s T-minus three hours until Rachel and Diego’s engagement party. Apparently, it was supposed to be in the spring, but they had to move it because Rachel got busy with her makeup line, and Diego got sent to deal with some issue in the Buenos Aires office of Grupo Real. Eloise has been hoping they’d push the party back again—or more likely she was dreaming they’d just not have an engagement party at all. Eloise is a master at wishful thinking.

Me: You can’t cancel.

Eloise: Rachel will understand. I think I’m coming down with something.

Even if I hadn’t gotten to know Eloise so well over the past month, I’d still be suspicious of this excuse.

Me:

Eloise: Seriously. I think it’s probably the flu. Or something even more contagious. The plague. Yeah. It could definitely be the plague.

Me: The plague.

Eloise: I hear it’s making a comeback.

Me: I don’t think we can put the plague in the same category as low-rise jeans.

There’s a pause long enough to make me turn back to the article. I wonder if Ricardo looks at all like Abuelo. The thought makes my stomach squirm.