Free I, the Divine by Alameddine Rabih Page A

before I could show my concern.
    “He’s going to be the death of me. Not AIDS. He’s going to kill me. It’s the Catalan blood. Angry and unforgiving.”
    Jay and I disagreed on practically everything when it came to politics. The tension grew between us when he became involved in anti-immigrant policies. This was long before Governor Wilson adopted his anti-Mexican stance to further his career. In his own way, Jay was a visionary. He wrote letters to newspapers that would be used by the proponents of California proposition 187 after he died. He wrote about the illegal immigrant population draining the resources of the state. He was the first to actually use the argument that the increase in population due to illegal immigration was destroying our environment, which was later appropriated by the Sierra Club.
    As time went on, I began to argue vociferously with him. Instead of maintaining a nonjudgmental tone, I became polemical. I pointed out that were it not for immigration, he would not be in this country. Legal immigrants were not the problem, he would say, though he felt legal immigration should be reduced. It was illegal immigrants. It was those damn Mexicans who crossed the border, the parasites who sucked California dry and never bothered to learn the language. He wanted those damn Mexicans, those intruders, those uninvited guests, out.
    He had been vilified all his life, had whined incessantly about being discriminated against. Yet he turned against a group even less fortunate. He was unyielding in his criticisms.
    It was at his funeral that I finally understood. He had been my client for over two years and I thought I knew him. I did not. He lay in his coffin, surrounded by friends, but not family. A priest began to read to the mourners asking them to pray for Jésus’s soul. It confused me at first until I realized he meant we should pray for Jay’s soul. I looked down at the memorial announcement and saw that Jay’s real name was Jésus. I questioned the woman next to me, a coworker from his days at the FDA.
    “Oh yes, he always went by Jay. He didn’t like the ribbing he got when people found out his name was Jésus.”
    “I can understand that,” I said. “In the Middle East, the Arabic name for Jesus is not uncommon either.”
    “Well, with Jay, his father was José, his mother was Maria. So of course, they named the eldest Jésus. A fairly common Mexican name.”
    “But they were Catalan.”
    “By way of Mexico. His mother was born in Mexico City, but her parents had emigrated there from Spain. That’s why she learned flamenco. I believe his father is Sonoran, but I can’t be sure anymore.”

Sarah wakes up, but does not wish to get out of bed. She turns over on her side, closes her eyes, in hopes of catching a little more sleep. It is too early in the morning. The sun is still not up. It is July 4. Doesn’t the sun come out at some ungodly hour in July? She turns over again, lies on her right side. Where does she put her right arm? Is it too squished? With her left arm, she reaches behind her for her Piggy, her stuffed toy. She hugs it with both arms. Closes her eyes again. She feels herself slipping, the pig pressing against her stomach, her left shoulder attempting to join her right on the mattress. This position hurts her back. She leans over with her left arm again and brings a pillow, places it between her legs. The chiropractor had said a pillow between her legs will prevent her sleeping on her stomach. The pillow feels too sexual. She takes it and puts it behind her. She lifts her head slightly, noting the time on the digital clock. Four twenty-three. Damn. It is much too early. She closes her eyes again. She must sleep, especially today.
    Sarah looks at the clock again. Four forty-one. She must have dozed a bit. Try again. Closes her eyes. She curses. She should have taken Restoril. Too late now. She should have taken melatonin even though it makes her feel bad. Should she take a