The Sum of Our Days Read Online Free PDF Page B

that it would not be that simple. It wasn’t just taking a basket to the hospital to pick up the baby when they released her in a month or two. There were matters to be taken care of. The judge had already determined that she could not be handed over to Jennifer, but the man she lived with was still in the picture. I didn’t believe that he was the father because Sabrina didn’t have his African features—though I was assured that she was not purely Caucasian and that her skin would darken over the course of the weeks. Willie asked for a blood test, and although the man refused to take one, Jennifer had confirmed that he was the father, and that was all that was needed legally. From Chile, my mother advised us that it would be insane for us to adopt Sabrina, that Willie and I were worn too thin for a task of such magnitude. Willie had enough problems with his children and his office, and I had no break in my writing and traveling.
    â€œThat baby will have to be cared for day and night. How do you plan to do that?” she asked.
    â€œThe same way I cared for Paula,” I pronounced.
    Nico and Celia came to talk with us. Your brother, slim as a birch and still with the face of a runny-nosed kid, had a child in each arm. It was obvious from her belly that Celia was six months pregnant; she looked tired and her skin was sallow. Once again, I was amazed when I looked at Nico, who inherited nothing from me; he is a head and a half taller than I am, composed and rational, he has elegant manners, and is blessed with a gentle sense of irony. His intellect is pristinely clear, focused not only on mathematics and science, which are his passions, but also on any human activity. I am constantly surprised by what he knows, by his opinions. He finds solutions for all kinds of problems, from a complex computer program to another, no less complex mechanism for hanging a bicycle from the ceiling with no fuss. He can fix almost any object of practical use, and does it with such care that it comes out better than it was originally. I have never seen him lose control. He has three basic rules that he applies in his relationships: it isn’t personal, everyone is responsible for his or her own feelings, life isn’t fair. Where did he learn that? From the Mafia, I suppose. Don Corleone. I have tried in vain to follow his path of wisdom but . . . for me everything is personal, I do feel responsible for the feelings of other people, even those I scarcely know, and I have for more than sixty years been frustrated because I can’t accept that life is unfair.
    You had very little time to know your sister-in-law well, and I suspect that you weren’t overly fond of her since you were rather stern. I was a little afraid of you myself, Paula, I can tell you that now: your judgments tended to be concise and irrevocable. Besides, Celia raised people’s dander on purpose, it was as if she took great pains to shock everyone. Let me remind you of one conversation at the table.
    â€œI think they ought to ship all the queers to an island and make them stay there. It’s their fault that we have the AIDS epidemic,” said Celia.
    â€œHow can you say something like that!” you exclaimed, horrified.
    â€œWhy do we have to pay for those people’s problems?”
    â€œWhat island?” Willie asked, to be annoying.
    â€œI don’t know. The Farallons, for example.”
    â€œThe Farallons are very small.”
    â€œAny island! A gay island where they can take it in the ass until they die!”
    â€œAnd what would they eat?”
    â€œLet them plant their vegetables and tend their chickens! Or we can use tax money to set up an airlift.”
    â€œYour English has improved a lot, Celia. Now you can articulate your bigotry to perfection,” my husband commented with a broad smile.
    â€œThank you, Willie,” she replied.
    And that was how the conversation went as we sat around