“Lifelines“ by B.J. Hollars
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III.

         Manuel married early, not to Tina Suarez, but to the guapa Vanessa--a white girl from three blocks down. Grateful for someone who could turn door knobs for him, and pickle jar lids, he took quickly to the taste of her mouth. She babied him: lotioning the dry cracks from his hands, washing his mittens daily. She hummed like she enjoyed it; she told him he was special.
         They were married the summer after high school, and each night they knelt and prayed, their hands piled atop one another’s.
         “For a happy and healthy life,“ he said, and she repeated his prayer.
         In August, when the nights were hottest and he could not push the windows wide enough, he began drinking great quantities of water. Holding his palm to the glass, he watched the vibrations inside. He added ice, and felt his hearts slow to the cold. As his blood flowed softer, quieter, he ran to the bedroom, hoping the cool might last for sleep.

IV.

         A year into the marriage, and already, it was clear that Vanessa wanted a child. “Why not now?“ she pressed. “What do you think, Manny? A little boy just for you?“ But Manuel, far from convinced, tried to stall her.
         “What if he comes out the same as me? All broken up in halves?“
         “Oh Manny,“ she whispered, her thin fingers wrapped around his shoulders. “What a miracle it would be to have a son just the same as you.“
         For three years they debated. Meanwhile, Manuel worked a factory job that required little from his hands. He made spigots, and he pressed a yellow button every five seconds and a red one every ten. It wasn’t hard worked, though numbing. Steam wheezing out of cracks and the metal machines always scalding to the touch. But for Manuel, the work was simple. His hands like metronomes, he measured the time without trying. Often, Mr. Brown, the floor manager, hailed him as the example.
         “We should all be as diligent as Manuel,“ he announced. “How lucky we are to have him!“ Sometimes applause followed, sometimes not. But always, Manuel beamed at the recognition. His heart beat a little faster.

V.

         Manuel, on occasion, spent his evenings frequenting Las Llomas with his friends. They’d drink a pitcher of the cheapest beer and shoot pool until the quarters vanished. Pool was a game he enjoyed, and sometimes, he removed his mittens to get a better hold on the cue. When he returned home late to Vanessa, he smelled of cigarettes and spigots. She’d grip his hands accusingly. “You didn’t take off your mittens today, did you?“ His hands did the talking for him.
         “If you loved me,“ she cried, “if you loved me fully, then you would take every single precaution!“
         “But they need air,“ he pleaded, sweating, “and have you ever held a pool cue with mittens?“
         Some nights, on the cool nights, she pulled his ear close to her chest. She told him to listen and understand it. “See how it sounds?“ she asked, cradling his head. “You see? This sound means I love you, you know.“
         Feeling guilty, on one such occasion he made love to her as if afraid of losing her completely. They stripped all the sheets to the floor. When it was over, they lay on the mattress and he fingered each rib.
         Later that night, as the moon crept entirely into their bedroom, he promised, “For you, my love, I’ll wear my mittens always.“ Vanessa kissed all ten fingers to thank him.

VI.

         Within weeks, she realized her pregnancy. Manuel, terrified, wept as he made spigots.
         “Manuel, we will be happy,“ Vanessa promised. “We will all be so happy, you’ll see.“
         For nine months, he marched straight home from work and cooked large dinners to build her strength. He opened pickle jars and turned door knobs and cared not of the risks he was taking.
         On the day of their child’s birth, a blackbird perched on their windowsill. “A fortuitous sign!“ cried Vanessa, though she was only guessing.
         When the child was born, in the afternoon, thankfully, his heart was not split. No pulses in his wrist, no need to rethread all the ventricles.
         “A whole heart!“ Vanessa cried, ecstatic. Though, even whole, it was cold and unmoving. Their little blue baby, so quiet and good, did not rustle or scream when he came. The round, stiff muscle held still in his chest, a form to be admired.
         The doctors ran away with the body and left them alone in the room.
         “Where are they taking him?“ she asked, smiling. “Darling, where are they taking our boy?“ He hushed her, buried her head in his chest, told her they were both very young.
         In the coming days, with no one to do depend on, Manuel took to rubbing his own hands with lotion. And at night, while Vanessa mourned, he clamped his hands tighter in prayer. Prayers in Spanish, prayers in English, hoping that something might take.

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