Free What You See in the Dark by Manuel Munoz Page A

identify it, could not place words against what it was. Teresa sank at the possibility that the dark space inside her would spark into one of those emotions, a tiny match struck in the dark—how easy it would be to become her mother upstairs in that room with its single bed under the window and the empty kitchen table with two chairs.
    When Cheno finally did appear, her relief came as a surprise. Even from two blocks down the street, she could tell it was him, the gleam of his white T-shirt, his small frame waiting patiently by her door. He’d returned after all, and even if it hadn’t been love that stirred within her, she sighed at the release of the mysterious grip within, grateful to have Cheno back.
    The closer she walked to him, the more she could tell he was holding something, a large, bulky object, and when she crossed the last street and neared the apartment, she could finally make out the rounded curves of a small guitar that Cheno held in his arms.
    “Un regalito,” he said, handing her the gift.
    She took the guitar. “Where have you been?” she asked him in Spanish.
    “Al norte,” he said. “Pueblitos.” He’d gone way north of Bakersfield, staying in small labor camps, following whatever crops he could and saving his dollars, and she knew his motivation without needing him to declare it. Even after presenting her with the guitar, Cheno kept his hand on the fret board, holding his fingers there as he told her about the day he’d seen her in front of a store window and how, after she’d walked away, he’d gone to see what she’d been watching. The show had ended, but he asked someone, who told him the young girl always watched the afternoon variety show to see the singers.
    “But a guitar?” Teresa asked. “I don’t know how to play.”
    “I’ll teach you,” Cheno said, his voice so sincere and small that Teresa could do nothing but smile and clutch the guitar to her chest, embracing it, before dipping her hand into her purse and extracting the key. She had no worries about Cheno doing anything untoward. Even as he followed, his steps feathered up, as if he were hardly there, as if he were floating, as if he had been down on the street corner as he’d always been, alighting with his small boots in the air and coming right through the open window of her small room, the light blue curtains parting for him.
    How long did this go on? It had been late summer when he’d given her the guitar, her apartment still orange in the late evening. Cheno left whenever daylight started to go. She kept the guitar in the closet on his urging, covering it with a light cloth, and whenever he returned, he’d turn the instrument round and round in his hands, checking for cracks before handing it to her. He taught her a few chords and they’d share whatever treat he’d brought her—lemon drops or dried, sugared mango—as he listened to her practice, his patience infinite. She got to thinking, at times when she watched him demonstrate a chord she was finding difficult, that he was the only person who’d been in the apartment besides her mother, yet her mother’s dark presence was long gone, and as the months drifted into fall and sundown came earlier and earlier, she finally made it clear to Cheno that it was okay for him to stay a few minutes longer after she turned on the bare bulb in the center of the room.
    You’ll understand one day, her mother had said at the bus station. When you find a man of your own, you’ll know why you’ll run toward him.
    Teresa served him dinner once—just once—a small bowl of beans with onions and two corn tortillas, which Cheno ate with relish, his thanks never ending. He refused a second plate. It was getting dark, he told her, and it was best he got home. She watched him from the window as he went down the street, hurrying, and part of her wondered if his secrecy was meant to protect her, to keep anyone from seeing a strange man close the green door at the base of the