As Clay was giving the punching bag his all, in a different part of town, a young man named Ivan was preparing to leave the local hospital where he gave his time as a volunteer. He’d been there all night with an old man who’d suffered a heart attack and had no family to comfort him in what was to be his last hours. Ivan stayed with him, even though he couldn’t be sure that the old man knew he was there. It felt important to Ivan that the old man have someone to witness his last hours; even if they were strained and incoherent, everybody deserves a witness.
The old man died just as the sun was coming up and Ivan sat next to his bed with both his hands on the man’s arm, head bowed in prayer. Ivan was asking nothing in particular to accept the man’s soul into peace he may not have known on earth; truthfully, Ivan had not gotten to know him that well, only that he spent most of his life as a soldier and had probably suffered from PTSD that made it hard for him to maintain close relationships. Still, Ivan felt responsible for helping to nudge the old man’s soul toward tranquility because even though he wasn’t sure what that tranquility could possibly be, he knew that the old man had a soul that was most likely very confused and scared, detached from its body. When Ivan finally left the hospital, he allowed himself to cry, mostly afraid that it could be him someday dying alone in a hospital room.
When he made it home, he climbed the stairs of his apartment building. They always made a sound that unnerved him when he stepped onto the first step, a screeching of metal against metal like a screw was loose somewhere. The complex where he lived was old and cheap enough for his family to afford; his father worked in construction and his mother was a homemaker who cared for the younger of the family’s five children. Neither of Ivan’s parents had legal immigration status, though Ivan and his siblings are US citizens, and as the oldest he had been the official spokesperson for his family since he was old enough to speak both Spanish and English fluently. It was hard at first, talking to grown ups who always seemed annoyed to talk to a kid who was obviously intimidated and struggling to keep all the words in his head, but over time he got much better at it and eventually he was translating like a professional.
When he made it to the third floor where his family lived, he sighed deep, letting his shoulders rise and when they fell he tried to let go of the sadness. Inside, his family’s apartment was as busy as usual, there were always noises; the sounds of cooking in the kitchen, the noise from TV shows or video games, the commotion of his siblings. Ivan was met with the sizzle of breakfast that his mother was making and the smell was a nice welcome home. He sat at the kitchen table after kissing his mother on a cheek.
“I’m gonna be with your aunt all day getting ready for their party, but Luis has soccer practice later. Can you take him?” She brought a plate to the table and then went back to the kitchen to finish cooking.
“I have to sleep mami, but when I’m up, yeah I can do it. Where’s papi?”
“He’s still sleeping now, but he has to be at work later this morning. Luis doesn’t have to be there until the afternoon. That’s plenty of time to sleep. How was the hospital? They paying you yet?”
Ivan knew that his mother cared about him, he could taste it in the way she prepared food for him, but he wondered sometimes if she understood him at all. Since he started volunteering at the hospital, his mother had been badgering him to take a job that paid money so he could help with bills, but Ivan liked to feel that he was doing good at the hospital, money or no. His father kept silent about the situation, there were many things about Ivan that seemed to disappoint him and rather than fight and argue, he left it to Ivan’s mother to articulate their concerns. Like that Ivan didn’t have a girlfriend despite the many pretty girls he spent time with.
“Mami, I told you, working at the hospital isn’t about money, it’s about…” but before he could finish, he was interrupted by what sounded like loud gunshots.
“Ay dios!” his mother screamed, dropping the fork in her hand and grabbing her chest.
Ivan went to the window in the kitchen and stared down at the parking lot that looked quiet. He heard more gunshots and they seemed closer, louder than before. His mother screamed again and the other members of his family began to emerge from their rooms. Ivan went to the front door of the apartment and stared out.
“Hijo, get back in here before you get hurt,” his mother said, but Ivan ignored her and walked out to the stairwell as more shots rang loudly.
His neighborhood was normally quiet in the mornings and generally very peaceful, though there was no way to know for sure what everyone in the complex did behind closed doors. There were many Spanish speaking families in the community, most from Mexico like Ivan’s family, but some from Honduras and El Salvador. It was odd to hear the shots and Ivan was sure as he slowly descended the stairs that he was hearing a gun that made its way up the stairs of his building. He stared down at the second floor and saw a relatively young man shooting out at the sky and when his downstairs neighbor peaked out curiously, the man fired into the door before moving to the next one.
Ivan heard the door to his apartment open and he saw his father in the doorway. “What the hell is going on?” Ivan put a finger to his lips to silence him, but it was too late. The man started up the stairs and Ivan stood still where he was. When the man saw Ivan, he leveled the gun at him.
“I’m gonna take your life the way y’all did mine.”
Ivan put his hands up before the man could squeeze the trigger, and the man stopped.
“Y’all come over here, work for cheap, put me outta work so I can’t make a honest living. Can’t feed my kids.” The man tightened his trigger finger again, ready to blast Ivan away, but before he could, Ivan slowly shook his head.
“It don’t matter now, right? It’s already over. They dead down there, you dead, I’m dead. It’s already over.” The gun started to shake in the man’s hand, like he was trying hard to squeeze the trigger that wouldn’t budge. Ivan nodded his head, slowly up and down.
“It’s on me, it’s my choice, I know that. But I ain’t got nothing now. Y’all took everything! My wife don’t think I’m a man no more cause I can’t provide for my kids. A man ain’t nothing if he can’t provide for his kids. It’s over.” The man seemed to lower the gun even though he clearly didn’t want to, it was as though the weight of the gun was too much for him and it was getting heavier the longer he pointed it.
Before the man had put the gun on the ground, police sirens cut through the early morning, and Ivan took his eyes off the man. And in that split second, the man fired and shot Ivan in the leg. He collapsed just as the man turned the gun on himself.
Soon after, Ivan was back in the hospital where he had spent his night with the dying man. The doctors called him lucky that he had only suffered a flesh wound; the man with the gun had killed five other people and himself. His mother questioned his sanity for walking out of the apartment; his father had hugged him and said very little.
Eventually, Ivan was left alone in his room and he finally got to sleep; the lids of his eyes were heavy and he didn’t even have a chance to mourn his fallen neighbors before he drifted off into sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, there was a young man about his age sitting in the chair next to his bed. He was black and he was lost in a magazine; Ivan had no idea who he was.
“Hey,” Ivan said cautiously as he sat up. “Do I know you?”
The young man stood next to him. “I was hoping you did. I came because I knew you were hurt. I came to protect you.”
Ivan laughed. “Did someone send you, why do you want to protect me? I’m fine by the way.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Something made me come, something told me I had to be here for you. You’re Ivan Santana, and someone hurt you. I can’t ever let that happen again.”
Ivan was more uncomfortable than he had been when he stared down the gunman. “Who are you?”
“I’m Clay. It’s weird, I know, but you called me here. I could hear you in my head, loud and clear, just like you sound now.” Clay moved closer to Ivan and reached out to touch him.
“When? How did I call you?” Ivan searched Clay’s face for anything he might recognize, but nothing. Though, when Clay’s hand touched his, he knew. “You…”
Clay pulled a chair close to Ivan’s bed and the two never let go of one another.
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