If Birds Fly Back Read online

Dad takes a sip of milk and carefully rests the glass on the table. “You know, I really loved that book when I was your age.”

  Say what? Truth be told, I always thought of Dad as a guy who never read anything besides medical textbooks and the occasional presidential biography. He’s too . . . stiff. Even on the weekends, he irons his shirts—and his jeans, a perpetual joke between Grace and me.

  Dad says, “Have you gotten to the part where Eduardo has to say good-bye to Agustina?”

  I shake my head. Pizza grease dribbles down my chin, but I’m too stunned to wipe it away.

  “Great scene. Very sad.” Dad clears his throat and pushes back his chair. “Anyway, I have some paperwork to do before your mom gets home.” Standing up, he begins to take his plate to the kitchen but then stops, squints, peers down at my feet. “And Linny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you have something on your shoe.”

  14.

  Sebastian

  “I find the extreme properties of physics particularly fascinating—materials that weigh billions of tons per teaspoon, for example. Sometimes the smallest objects yield the most interesting research.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 17

  A GENERAL RULE FOR SMALL-SCALE OBJECTS IN RELATION TO FATHER-BASED MYSTERIES

  Never ignore any element, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

  Turns out The Emperor’s House isn’t about an emperor at all. It’s a metaphor for places that feel like home. All Sunday, I race through its chapters. Getting to know my dad.

  Okay. Full disclosure: every page I read, I’m one step closer to discussing it with Linny.

  When I get to Silver Springs at eight on Monday morning, she’s already set up in the game room. At a corner table, like the mafia.

  There is a half-naked man sitting next to her. He smiles and waves at me as I pull up a chair. He’s largely toothless. His robe’s completely open in the front. I really hope he’s wearing underwear. Or at least a washcloth. A fig leaf, even.

  Sitting down, I say to him, “Hello there.” He continues grinning. Bobs his head. Says nothing.

  “Right,” Linny begins, putting down the folder she’s holding, “we should get started.”

  “Um . . . are you . . . ?” I turn from her to the man and back again. “Is he going to . . . ?”

  Linny shrugs. “He was here when I got here. It was the only open table.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I’ve assembled a list of people to talk to as well, based on Midnight in Miami. It mentions Joe’s Stone Crab a lot—that restaurant on Washington Avenue? Maybe that’s Joe! Do you think that’s Joe? We could talk to some of the waiters there, see if anyone knows anything. Also, I did some digging, and I think the hotel he talks about is the National Hotel in the Art Deco District. The one with the infinity pool? Oh, and there’s also his real estate agent, Juan Ramirez. He sold Álvaro’s house in South Beach right before he disappeared.”

  I process this. As does the half-naked man, who nods vigorously. Like he’s intimately involved in the conversation.

  “What about The Emperor’s House?” Linny asks.

  “I loved it. There’s this car chase on the causeway that—it’s just—it’s really sweet.”

  “That’s great . . . but did you find any, like, clues?”

  “Oh no. Don’t think so.”

  She draws in a deep breath. On the exhale—“Okay, we’ll just work from what I have, then.” Gathering up her papers, she adds, “We should go say good morning to Álvaro.”

  “Wait . . . What if . . .” Where am I going with this? Put on the brakes! “What if the explanation is different than we think?”

  Perking up, she says, “I’m listening.”

  I lick my lips. Chest pounding. “Have you ever heard of A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities? Or The Twilight Zone?”

  “Please tell me you are not one of those people.”

  “What people?”

  She giggles. “The type of person who believes in aliens and stuff.”

  “For your information, evidence of life may have been found on Mars. And . . . I just think the real reason for his disappearance could be a lot more complicated, that’s all.” I cross my arms, lean back. Defeated.

  After a moment, Linny pokes me with her voice. “Hey.” And when I don’t respond: “Hey, Sebastian. I don’t think you’re a nerd or anything.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Well, maybe a little bit. Maybe a lot. But it’s . . . it’s cool. You know what you’re into and you don’t apologize for it.” Standing, scooping up the rest of her papers—“You coming?”

  For a moment I just look at her. Game-room lamps washing her in light. Freckles on her nose. Shirt slipping off her shoulder again.

  If I didn’t already suspect I was into her, this is a big fat clue.

  God damn it. What happens now?

  What happens is, after four hours at Silver Springs, we sit too close to each other at the Miami Beach Regional Library. The reference desk librarian drops a pile of something she calls “microfiches” by an ancient reading device. I incorrectly pronounce them “micro-fishes.” Like minute sea creatures.

  “What are these, exactly?” I ask Linny when we’re alone. Yes, alone—but does it count if you’re in a public reading institution?

  “Old newspaper clippings,” she says, sliding one of the microfiche strips under what appears to be a microscope. “Anything that references ‘Álvaro Herrera.’ Like”—pressing her eye to the scope, removing it quickly—“look at this one.”

  I read the opening sentences aloud:

  “Friends of Álvaro Herrera now wonder if foul play is involved in his disappearance. Richard Gonzalez, Mr. Herrera’s long-time dentist, spoke yesterday with the Herald. ‘Álvaro’s such a fixture here in Miami. I can’t imagine why he’d want to leave. No, it doesn’t make any sense. Something must’ve happened to him.’”

  Lifting my head, glancing at Linny—“You actually think someone, I don’t know, kidnapped him?”

  She makes a face. “And left him visibly unharmed for three years, only to drop him off safely at an old-people’s home? Seems unlikely to me.”

  “What about this Richard Gonzalez guy?”

  Whipping out her phone, she does a quick internet search. “No luck. He passed away last year.”

  I grab another newspaper clipping, peer through the scope: “Hey, get this:

  “Álvaro Herrera was spotted with 12 Bandits film producer Robin Carlisle over dinner at Joe’s Stone Crab on the eighteenth of February. The two reportedly shared seventeen martinis and—”

  Shoving me (almost gently) out of the way, Linny says, “Let me see. . . . Yes, okay.” She snatches her backpack from the floor and pops up. “That can’t be a coincidence. To Joe’s!”

  “But we just got here.”

  “I don’t want the trail to run cold.”

  “Linny. It’s a three-year-old mystery.”

  She rolls her eyes and slides on a pair of black sunglasses. “Then it’s high time we solved it.”

  I follow her for two miles before she bolts directly into the restaurant. As we’re waiting in line at the hostess stand, Linny squares her shoulders to mine. “Just act cool, okay? I’ll do the talking.”

  But maybe someone should have warned her to act cool, because when we get to the hostess, Linny attacks her with enthusiasm: “Hi! Hi. We’re looking for Joe!”

  The hostess, a girl in her midtwenties, grins toothily. “And has he already been seated with the rest of your party?”

  Linny: “No, I mean Joe, of Joe’s Stone Crab!”

  Hostess: “Ha. Good one.”

  Linny: “No, really.”

  Hostess: “Uh.” She waves us along, smile a bit more menacing. “Next in line, please!”

  Linny: “But—”

  Hostess: “Next in line, please.”

  Googling it outside, we discover that Joe Weiss of Stone Crab fame opene
d his lunch counter in 1913.

  “So,” I say, “he’s either Guinness Book of World Records old or very dead. I’m thinking dead.”

  Linny groans.

  Our additional investigations crash and burn in similar ways. We get kicked out of the National Hotel because we’re not guests and can’t afford infinity pool passes. We call Juan Ramirez, who tries to sell us a condo in South Beach for “a cracking good deal” before realizing we’re not even eighteen. He hangs up shortly after that.

  No closer to solving the mystery. But I am getting closer to Linny. Whether or not that’s a positive thing is undetermined. In this situation, doesn’t it make me a shitty person for thinking so much about a girl? I mean, 72 percent of the time, questions on my mind include: What sort of shampoo Linny uses. If she’s ever had a boyfriend. What exactly did she think when I said she was hot?

  Yeah, definitely a shitty person.

  Nine days into my time at Silver Springs, I still haven’t spilled the I’m-Álvaro’s-son beans. Not to Micah. Not to Linny. Especially not to Álvaro, even though I urge myself every day to tell him. The longer I wait, the more I wonder: What if he doesn’t like me? What if I say, “Guess what? I’m your son!” and he jumps out the window? What if he has no interest in being a dad?

  Linny and I track his movements. He does the same thing every day.

  Mornings: orange juice, eggs with hot sauce.

  Midmorning: dominoes, cigarillos, and more cigarillos.

  Lunch: Jell-O and a rant about the lack of high-quality cable channels.

  Afternoon: Jeopardy! and crossword puzzles.

  Evening: Marla tells us that, at night, he spends hours at his typewriter. Clacking away. Probably working on his new novel.

  Most days, he holds court in the game room or by the pool, entertaining anyone who’ll listen with stories that make his hands fly up in exaggerated motions, and Linny captures it on film (Álvaro insists she should).

  “Eight kilometers of sea,” he says. “The Malecón in Havana, near my old neighborhood. You know it, yes? You must; everyone does. Lovers! Poets! Philosophers! Everyone meets there at sunset and— You’ve never seen it? I will tell you. Sometimes the waves become so big”—expanding his arms to full wingspan—“they thunder over the wall. Boom! Boom! Boom! Sweeping into the street. On those days, the road has no cars, and you can walk barefoot and wet through the empty lanes. I tell you, it is freedom.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Linny says, probably zooming in.

  He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Everyone in Cuba is a poet.”

  Linny: “Did you ever want to write poetry?”

  “Of course! To many women, when I was very young.” Stretching his arms again, grandly—“‘My heart is a winged bird that only flies for you. . . .’ I am much better at writing other things.” Then he bursts into laughter.

  When Álvaro’s in a silent mood, he picks out works of Cuban novelists to shove into our backpacks—Alejo Carpentier, Cirilo Villaverde, and Guillermo Cabrera Infante—and we watch movies on Linny’s laptop. Better than the crap on TV in the game room (kind of agree with Álvaro on this one).

  Anyway.

  Today we’re watching Roman Holiday in his bedroom. It’s the Anya-gets-her-hair-cut scene. Absentmindedly, I pick up one of Álvaro’s typewritten pages from the floor behind me. Get through three words—hold the avocados—before he frantically snatches it away.

  His eyes bug out. “It is not ready! It’s not ready!”

  “Your new novel?” Linny says, half watching the movie.

  He just repeats: “Not ready,” louder this time. Loud enough that I’m afraid the nurses will come rushing.

  Everything is cryptic with him. Like the small scraps of paper he keeps in his chest pocket. At random moments he scribbles down words with his fountain pen and crams the note in with the others, right next to his heart. He looks like he’s growing a boob.

  On the way to lunch today, one of the scraps falls from his pocket. Linny scoops up the note and flashes it at me. SeasHore, it says. No additional context.

  (See A GENERAL RULE FOR SMALL-SCALE OBJECTS IN RELATION TO FATHER-BASED MYSTERIES)

  Once Álvaro disappears around the corner, I say, “What do you think this means?”

  “It says ‘Seashore,’” Linny says.

  “Obviously. But why did he write it on a scrap of paper and keep it in his pocket?”

  She presses one of her curls between her lips. Thinks. “He seems a bit off sometimes, doesn’t he?”

  “No. He’s just . . . eccentric. Most writers are eccentric,” I say, like I’ve known a single writer other than Álvaro.

  “Mm, you’re probably right.” But she folds the note in the palm of her hand and tucks it in her pocket.

  Wouldn’t it be awesome if words came out as bubbles like in comic books? Then we could prick them and watch them disappear. But since real words are unprickable, I’m halfway through a bona fide sermon about space ice cream.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never tried it, Linny. It’s freeze-dried and vaporized, and it’s kind of like a brick that crumbles, and the spoon! It comes with this mini plastic spoon. . . .”

  Jesus. Just shut up. Cállate, cállate, cállate.

  How did I even get onto this topic?

  Linny sits cross-legged in front of me. Her hair falls in spirals across her shoulders.

  She’s listening. Álvaro’s not. He hovers by his bathroom door in a silk robe. Because I obviously can’t cork my mouth, he does it for me.

  Shuffling across the room to his desk—“There are a few things I’d like you to find.”

  It’s almost eerie, the way he says it. Like he’s delivering a prophecy. Briefly I wonder if I could be the Chosen One.

  Unlikely.

  He jots down something on a piece of paper, then crinkles his eyes, stretches his neck, and writes down more. Flipping over the sheet, adding another item, he stabs the pen to dot the page. “There!” He hands it to me. I read the list to myself as Linny peers over my shoulder.

  212 SeasHore Drive

  Manuscript—chapter Two

  Montblanc Pen

  Pictura

  Humidor

  “What’s this?” Linny says.

  A few years ago, I read about an Italian biologist who attached transmitters to goats to see if they could predict volcanic eruptions. The answer is, yes. Six hours after they fled Mount Etna, lava spewed. Now, my senses aren’t that developed, but somehow I just know that Álvaro’s answer will, in one way or another, erupt my life.

  Again.

  Álvaro scratches his chin and responds slowly. “I’ve been working on this book for years . . . too many years, but I must finish. It would be very nice for you to pick them up, these things I need. I left very quickly, you see. It’s . . . la mesita de noche. They’re on the nightstand.”

  Linny cups the paper with both hands. Like she’s cradling a baby bird.

  212 SeasHore Drive

  A REVISED PRINCIPLE FOR SMALL-SCALE OBJECTS:

  The unraveling of a great mystery can be attributed to one said object.

  15.

  Linny

  WHO: Formula One driver Louis Lind

  WHEN: Three weeks in 1967

  WHY: Basically, he completed the last lap of a Grand Prix in record time, and he never achieved first place again. He disappeared one night in Monte Carlo so he could see his face in the papers one more time. Eventually he got sick of hiding, reappeared, and traded in his race car for a truck.

  NOTES: Will Grace get sick of it, too? Sometimes I wonder whether, if I care less—if I stop my search—the novelty will wear off for her. Is that too optimistic?

  “I need to borrow your truck tonight,” I say when Ray answers his phone.

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Hey—sorry.”

  “Why are you panting?”

  In an attempt to pump ideas into my brain, I’ve been circling my neighborhood for the pas
t forty-seven minutes. My legs no longer feel like legs, but on the bright side, I have come to the following conclusion: asking MomandDad to borrow the family Volvo is too risky. That would reveal that I’m planning on driving halfway across Miami in the dark, with a strange boy, to knock on a stranger’s door.

  Plus, they haven’t let me drive since Grace disappeared. I think they’re afraid that behind the wheel I’d follow the same instinct—drive off into the sunset or something.

  “I’m not—panting,” I lie, propping my bike against the garage. The front tire resembles a limp balloon.

  “Yes, you are. If you took me up on some of those four-hundred-meter sprints every once in a while, you’d—”

  “Ray. The truck. Please?”

  He takes a moment to consider it before saying, “Are you and Cass still at each other’s throats?”

  In order of topics I want to discuss, my fight with Cass ranks somewhere alongside ingrown toenails and my parents having sex. Through a groan I manage: “Did she tell you about it?”

  “More or less. I hope you don’t expect me to pick sides, because Cass scares the shit out of me when she’s angry. It’s her eyes. Like a wolverine or something. A lady wolverine. A wolverina, if you will.”

  “Pretty sure that female wolverines are still called wolverines. Is she really, really angry?”

  “Does the pope have a balcony?”

  I guess that’s a yes.

  I sink down to the bottom step of the porch and kick out my legs. Three stars blaze back at me from my left Chuck. Every night I hide my shoes in my desk drawer so Mom doesn’t sneak in and scrub off the marker.

  “If I could get you both on the track,” Ray’s saying, “you could run out all your frustrations. There’ve been studies, you know. The more you exercise, the happier you feel, and I just think . . .”

  As much as I love him, he doesn’t understand. How could he, without knowing Grace? I was still in my heavy-mourning period when Ray crash-landed into our trio; it’s almost impossible to forget the one-to-one exchange—how he’s here and she’s not. And although his hip-to-hipness with Cass is generally adorable, it’s also a reminder that things are different now. That we’re different now.