Pedro is known to make a puppet-horse of his stump. He nods it up and down, unbends his knee to stretch it out straight as though pulling against a harness. He turns it to face me, the eye an old smooth chafing scar (from early months with the prosthetic) looking at me. The eye stares unblinking above the knee bone that gives the long nose an aristocratic dignity. Gravity pulls what\u2019s left of the calf muscle into a horse face, flat on either side of the rising and falling nose, and the stubbed end is like lips ready to quiver all over an apple. In all the times he has shaken it side to side like this, snuffled it into my crotch as he often does, we marvel at its ability to conjure the happiness of horsey characters \u2013 Merrylegs, Mr. Ed, My Friend Flicka. Though for me it\u2019s also wrapped up with the horror of Godfather horseheads, because I can\u2019t look without imagining gore, without remembering what he\u2019s told me, the doctor with tears in her eyes, the gangrene from diabetes too far gone, the fact the surgeons used a chainsaw. He is the love I\u2019ve taken on precisely because he reminds me of how brutal life is, how I\u2019m not the only one who has suffered. And he swings his horsey nose back around, provides the sound effects of snort, nicker or whinny.<\/p>\n

This time he pushes the hospital tray about roughly, like horsey wants better food, nosing the domed plastic so it slides off the half eaten cheeseburger and fries. I\u2019m trying hard not to calculate fat content.<\/p>\n

The stump horse has the problem of his Siamese brother, the other leg, the one whose foot is being rebuilt, keeping us all here in the room of controls and knobs on flat panels, of gray cotton gowns and machines beeping for attention. This is crunch time, the last possible surgery \u2013 so many bones removed already to cast out the osteomyelitis \u2013 because only so many surgeries can be done, particularly on a diabetic, before we\u2019re looking at double amputation.<\/p>\n

But Pedro\u2019s hopeful aspect springs and springs. Not eternal, no. But he\u2019s not the kind to acknowledge the finite.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s 2007 and I\u2019m here because Pedro has the pass to vote. Obama is all about hope too. And audacity. Pedro is both of these incarnate, his Obama T-shirt with the Shepard Fairey<\/em> portrait, all abstract swirls of inspiringly sophisticated postage stamp red, white and blue. Like, yes, America, but without the bullshit this time. Pedro is hope against reason: hope that he can keep eating junk food, that I\u2019m his wife one day, that his leg will be fine after just one more surgery. He is audacity: reminding me to be careful of his leg hair when I tape him up for a bath, to please remember how much he hates onions when I cook dinner (every dinner), to wear some make-up when we go out, be his hot girlfriend, stop being so grumpy.<\/p>\n

I should have, but hadn\u2019t expected horsey nose when I turned into his room. I had expected dressed, in your wheelchair, ready to go. He knows I\u2019m in a hurry, but his mood seems is more scold than contrition. This is a day of greatness, he seems to tell me without saying anything, with only the special reverence he pays the process of dressing. This is a day for big change, great optimism.<\/p>\n

So, yes, be patient. Let the guy dress. Haven\u2019t you already given the ultimatum? Only this time with all the weird and warm domesticity to go along with it? Get your surgery and stay with me those six months while you can\u2019t walk on your remaining foot, won\u2019t be using the prosthetic, where you bump your way down the stairs on your ass to get to work, and the home nurse comes with her fresh dressings, and the medical supplies arrive every day on the porch in their cardboard, and my children bounce around you reading them Mr. Tickle<\/em> and you keep my TV on too long and I seethe at its blue line under my bedroom door. And you turn in late and anyway I\u2019m grateful for your big, big chest and back. Your cool, cool skin. Yes, stay all that time, be with us, be our patriarch, yell at the girl when she won\u2019t get out of bed, make the boy eat his vegetables.<\/p>\n

And then, when you can walk again, it\u2019s over. This is what I promise. Over. I can\u2019t do it anymore. I can be your nurse, but after this I can\u2019t be your girlfriend.<\/p>\n

Those shitty terms and still, Mr. Hopeful. Mr. Makes Me Laugh, Mr. Smells Good, pushing out of the hospital room with the devil cat tattoo playing peekaboo under his t-shirt sleeve. Each swipe of the wheels a display of impressive arm strength, and the nurses noticing. And for all the toil of folding up the wheelchair and shoving it into the too-tiny trunk of my hybrid, resentment disintegrates when he plays me a mixed tape with music I haven\u2019t heard before \u2013 Cousteau, Cold War Kids, some obscure Nick Cave — and it\u2019s all so good. Pedro\u2019s taste is always beyond question.<\/p>\n

And how many more changes can you make to the man? Hasn\u2019t he already quit drinking, gotten into AA? All for you,<\/em> his friends love to tell you, all for you. He could lose his other leg, damn, they say. And he keeps writing new music, singing in his band, going to his day job, playing with your kids, wow.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s so true. But I want to hold up evidence that I\u2019m not really that bad. I\u2019m simply not as<\/em> hopeful. Does hope have anything to say about the evidence? Exhibit one: Cheeseburger on the hospital tray. Exhibit two: My empty bed on those nights you\u2019re not there, those nights when you\u2019re in the hospital for each of the four surgeries you\u2019ve gotten this last year. Exhibit three: My daughter, seven and too wise, her suspicious look that says mom is all too likely to take on distractions from where mom is really needed, mom all too suspected of pushing those burdens someday onto new beasts.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

We\u2019re at the church where the voting happens, the old black ladies dressed pretty even though it\u2019s not Sunday, pastel pants suits, hats with flowers or a touch of net. I walk around to the trunk, wrestle out the chair, get pinched during the unfold like every one-out-of-four times. But I\u2019d bet that\u2019s on purpose. I don\u2019t put my fingers in a pinch-clear zone because that might mean I\u2019ve gotten to a place where this really is my life.<\/p>\n

He swings over into his seat where I\u2019ve placed it, shifts up the padded arm, and wheels in, his stump free under flopping demin, his remaining leg a mummy baby propped before him.<\/p>\n

Inside, the ancient women man the tables and clipboards, the voting booths flank the room, and Pedro breathes life into the scene. \u201cThey sprung me from Montefiore for this. I wouldn\u2019t miss it!\u201d he crows and the room cheers.<\/p>\n

Kindly smiles for me \u2013 volunteer, I\u2019ll bet they\u2019re guessing. Or maybe not. One time I had the humbling realization that they\u2019re not looking at me at all. If you see a person getting pushed in a chair, you either look at the person in the chair or you don\u2019t look. The pusher is all but invisible, a part of the chair itself.<\/p>\n

And then he\u2019s done. Voting doesn\u2019t take long, does it? It\u2019s anti-climactic in its efficiency. Pedro\u2019s chattering away, and he\u2019s a hero. And then we\u2019re back in the car and he\u2019s directing his crooked, toothy smile at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need a Starbucks,\u201d he says. \u201cYou too. They\u2019re giving a free coffee to people with voting stubs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI tossed mine,\u201d I say, and he pouts.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow could you forget?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I voted after dropping the kids at school, in a hurry to get on a conference call, and maybe somewhere there\u2019d been the memory of the Starbucks deal. Maybe I tossed the stub on purpose. A small move of spite.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take you anyway,\u201d I say. Isn\u2019t there always a Starbucks on the way?<\/p>\n

Waiting in line, he\u2019s all smiles. It\u2019s a long line and I want to be irritated. But of course it feels good. Obama\u2019s going to win, the world around us is full of people refusing to believe in every man for himself, wanting to believe that we\u2019ll help each other, that we have a capacity for hard work and kindness, that they aren\u2019t mutually exclusive. And in that context it feels very right that I\u2019m helping him. I almost want to forget my ultimatum. His big spirit is infectious \u2013 he likes the attention, of being admired for that fun personality in the face of obvious adversity. My resentment again tries to sneak in: his illness has been a drain on society that he could have prevented by losing weight. He\u2019d been 400 pounds at his heaviest, a couple of years and an extra leg before he started dating me. But, then, everyone screws up. He\u2019s paid a huge price for his love affair with the cheesiest, stickiest, sweetest and most unhealthy products America has to offer. Probably it could have happened to any of us. In the golds and browns and deep reds of the store, the whirrs and whines of the barista\u2019s machines, he pulls me close, that arm wrapping me up, that kiss buried into my sweater, its impact reaching my hip. I run my hand over his short salt and pepper curls. He could walk again. He could be more independent. There are all kinds of reasons to believe in him. These are the thoughts I\u2019m having when he orders his coffee, shows his stub, then pulls his head back and scans the pastries.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd\u2026 how about a slab of that marble pound cake?\u201d he says, looking up at me, smiling, already tasting the butter and sugar.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, Pedro\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have a couple bucks? I totally forgot and left money at the hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n

His brown eyes looking up at me are clear and warm and expectant as a child\u2019s.<\/p>\n

I yank out the cash, thrust it at him. \u201cI\u2019ll be in the car.\u201d<\/p>\n

So much for my near-swerve into the hope lane. Now I\u2019m back in the mean bitch HOV.<\/p>\n

Through the windshield I watch him as friendly Starbucks patrons help him out, his over-enthusiastic nods making me think of his horsey head. His coffee and pathetic bag of pound cake jiggle in his free hand above his lap, threatening to spill.<\/p>\n

He makes it to the car and yanks open the door. \u201cWhat is the problem?\u201d he wants to know. He reaches his long arm over to deposit the coffee and cake on the dash, gets in. He can\u2019t close the door, though. The chair waits for its attendant.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust eat your pound cake,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just pound cake,\u201d he responds.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, is pound cake health food now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, but there are much worse things aren\u2019t there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot for you!\u201d<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve had this argument so many times. There\u2019s nothing but audacity in hoping that this scenario will change.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine, I\u2019ll throw it out,\u201d he says. And I want to reach over and smush it all over his face. But instead I pop the trunk, get out my side, go around to his, collapse the chair.<\/p>\n

This is bead one-thousand in the strand of moments like it. I don\u2019t realize I\u2019ve made a decision until months later, when he\u2019s walking again on a cane and we\u2019ve gotten most of his stuff moved back in to his apartment, and he asks in a shy, sweet way if we can go out on a date, if he can call me in a week or so. And the vote is no.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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