I.

"Dad, if you want me to stay a few more days, I can, it's no problem…" Rick spoke to his father, who sat with his back to him on the patio. He was looking out at nothing in particular. The last week since Lucy's funeral was like nothing either of them had experienced before. They had seen an outpouring of sympathy and care from their friends and the community and they had had moments of laughter at certain memories. There would be breaks in Ricky's mostly silent demeanor, when he would randomly speak wistfully and dreamily about some memory of his wife. In those moments, his eyes would light up and he seemed transported to another place and time. But as quickly as the moments appeared, Ricky would return to his withdrawn state, his eyes appearing dead to the world.

Rick had tried to pack away some of Lucy's things from the bedroom, thinking that perhaps his father would sleep better without the constant reminders which were visible in whichever direction he turned his head. But Ricky had stopped him, replacing her small items to the same positions where Lucy's hands had last left them.

Rick had tried to get Ricky to play the guitar with him one night as they sat under the night sky. He had even asked his father to sing. But the music could not be forced from him. It had seemed as though Ricky had forgotten how to play or sing a note.

Rick had asked his father to come back to New York with him; to close up the house for a while and enjoy the club with him. To work with the band and take in the city with him. But Ricky simply shook his head, thanked him for the offer and went back to his empty stare and internal thoughts.

The sound of his son's voice was the only thing that brought Ricky back to the present in these last days, and hearing him now, offering to stay, Ricky turned his face toward it again. "No, son. You have to get back to your life. How long can I keep you from that?"

Rick walked around to sit in front of him. "Dad, don't say things like that. I'll stay for as long as you need me. And my offer about coming to New York still stands…"

Ricky looked up toward the sky, where a blue jay sat on a high branch, chirping loudly. "I want you to go. You need to go," he stated firmly.

Rick followed his father's gaze up to the tree in time to see the bird fly away, dropping them again into silence. "I'm worried about you. I don't think I should leave you alone here."

Ricky stood up shakily. He had seemed to grow so frail in such a short time. "I'm gonna go lie down. Dun't worry about me. Go back to New York whenever you need to."

Rick sighed as he watched his father disappear into the house. He did need to get back to New York. He'd left his trusted friend and drummer, Roberto, in charge of the club for too long already. He was torn between his responsibility to the business that his father had entrusted to him and his responsibility to that father. He ran a hand through his hair and spoke under his breath. "God, what do I do now?"

II.

Ricky walked into the bedroom that he had shared with his wife of thirty-three years. Every day that he stayed in this room without her, he felt himself growing more bitter. He was angry at himself for not recognizing sooner that she'd needed to see a doctor. He was angry at her for not recognizing it herself…or for refusing to recognize it. He was angry at the world for continuing to move as though nothing had happened.

He looked down at the bed, where Lucy's pink robe lay rumpled next to his pillow; lying with it was the only way he could get even the little sleep he could muster during the night. And now he was angry even at it, for beginning to lose the scent of his wife from its fibers. He sat at the edge of the bed and took it into his hands, looking at the faint spots that had been left in the silk by his tears. He looked over toward the closet and felt what seemed like an irrational moment of relief that there was an entire wardrobe of her clothes that may still carry Lucy's familiar fragrance.

Placing the robe carefully near his pillow, he stood up and went to the closet, opening the door with renewed energy, as though he were going to find his wife, herself, standing on the other side. He pulled the chain that hung from the ceiling, lighting the bulb that illuminated the treasures inside Lucy's closet.

Ricky stood before the rack of clothes for a moment. He winced as he heard his own voice in his memory, admonishing Lucy for spending what he perceived to be an exorbitant amount of money on clothes. There were certainly times when he either gifted her with beautiful clothing or gave her his blessing to buy whatever she wished, he reasoned. "But you were a brute to her other times," he said out loud, referring to the times he ranted at her about her spending. "You could've let her buy whatever she wanted and still have the money you have now," he continued scolding himself as he stared at the contents of the closet. "What good is that money now? Who cares? You should've let her have every dress and hat in New York!"

He pawed through the dresses, looking at them one by one and remembering the sight of his wife in every one of them. They were varied between casual dresses, smart skirt suits and formal gowns. He felt rationality leave him again as he smelled them and grew despondent that they were, for the most part, freshly laundered and hadn't been worn since their return from the cleaner. Any physical trace of Lucy was replaced by the fresh scent of clean clothes.

Ricky's exploration took him all the way to the far corner of the closet. The last thing hanging on the rack before he would hit the wall was a large garment back, zippered tightly up to the top of the hanger. He stared at it for some time, trying to figure out what could be inside and not wanting to open it. Finally, curiosity overwhelmed his hesitation and he pulled gently from the rack, bringing it into the light. He carried it gingerly into the bedroom, where the sunlight from the nearby window splashed onto the garment bag.

He fought with the very old zipper, which was snug and partially rusted into place. He turned, remembering that there was a hook on the closet door, and affixed the hanger and garment to it. Now with both hands free and feeling determined to see what was encapsulated in this bag, Ricky pulled relentlessly on the zipper. He focused his grief and anger into the task, tugging at it until he heard the snap of metal and the small piece separated from the bag between his fingers.

He noticed, however, that the teeth of the zipper had begun to separate. Ricky dropped the small mechanism onto the nearby vanity and with both hands, pulled the zipper open until the garment bag fell to the floor.

Lucy's bright white wedding gown, with its intricate embroidery and crisp taffeta, seemed to glisten in the light, to which it hadn't been exposed for more than thirty years.

Ricky stared at it, unsure of how to feel. His hand slipped up to touch the waist of the gown and the tactile memory of his arm encircling his wife in that gown on the day they were married overcame him. He breathed in and happily found the traces of the perfume Lucy had worn that day, having been perfectly sealed in the bag's environment for all the years they'd been married.

He pulled the dress from the hanger and held it in his arms as though Lucy occupied it. He was flooded with the memories of that day. He remembered slipping her wedding band onto her finger gently. He remembered the uncontrollably broad smile he wore when she was declared to be his wife, and that lovely, warm first kiss he graced upon her lips as her husband. He remembered the soft laughter that sprinkled their quiet conversation over the dinner that they barely touched that night, and the eagerness with which he whisked her away to the privacy of the suite where they whiled away much of the next two days. He remembered the first moment he saw her nude figure before him, how she was a vision of perfectly sculpted porcelain, and how her sweet red lips breathed his name as he made love to her.

Ricky was warmed by his remembrances, until the cold harshness of reality washed over him. His arms were wrapped around an empty dress; without Lucy gracing it, it was just that. The wedding band that he had so lovingly placed on her hand was in the ground now, with her. He could no longer bring himself to smile now; in fact, only his tears were uncontrollable at this point, and her lips would never kiss him or speak his name again.

He looked at the gown in his hands and the darkest feelings he'd ever known rushed through him. He let the dress slip away from him and sink to the floor in a pile of white.

Ricky walked to the window, which overlooked the garden, waving the blue jay away from the glass as he approached. Rick was still sitting on the patio, seeming deep in thought.

Ricky walked slowly out of the bedroom and across the hall to the freshly cleaned bathroom. Rick had cleaned it the previous evening, making a half-hearted joke that it would've been Lucy's proudest moment as a mother.

Ricky stood in front of the sink and looked in the mirror. "You're an old man," he said to his reflection. "There are only two thin's that made your live worth livin' and one of 'em is dead. And you'll be a burden to the other one."

Not wanting to look at himself any longer, he opened the medicine cabinet, turning the mirror away. His razors sat on one of the shelves. Ricky took one casually from the cabinet and released the blade from the razor handle, turning it over in his fingers carefully. "Lucy…it wouldn't take long. I could be with you again very soon. I can't go on without you. But maybe I dun't have to…"

III.

Rick sat on the patio sullenly, thinking about his next course of action. Would he stay with his father a while longer and leave the club in someone else's care? Or would he go, as his father had all but demanded, and leave him here alone?

He scowled, annoyed as the blue jay sat on the windowsill above him, squawking loudly and incessantly. He looked up when it flew away as a figure came to the window and then moved away. Something in the way the shadow moved slowly away from the glass troubled Rick. He stood up slowly, feeling a heavy sense of dread fall over him.

He tried to brush the feeling off, dismissing it as a symptom of his grief and confusion. Even so, he wandered into the house. "Dad?" He received no response.

He went to the living room and was confronted with a still silence. "Dad," he called again as he began up the stairs. He quickened his pace when he heard a sound in the bathroom, not even sure of why the sound alarmed him.

Rick found himself standing in front of the open bathroom door. His father was standing calmly at the sink, staring at what appeared to be a razor blade and holding it precariously close to his wrist.

Rick swallowed hard and his heart pounded. But he spoke quietly, not wanting to startle his father into any sudden movements. "Dad…please…put that down and come talk to me."

Ricky turned his head to look at his son, the blade still positioned against his skin. He didn't speak. His eyes were so dull and so dark that Rick didn't recognize him.

Rick walked slowly into the bathroom. "Daddy, please give it to me." He held out his hand. "Todavia necesito a mi papa. Por favor no se lo llevara…"

Ricky blinked and he breathed for what seemed like the first time since Rick found him. He put the blade in Rick's outstretched hand and Rick exhaled shakily with relief.

Rick quietly reached into the cabinet and took the other blades off the shelf. "Dad, please come downstairs with me, ok?"

Ricky nodded, as if he was emerging from a dense fog.

As they walked out of the bathroom and turned toward the stairs, Rick looked into the bedroom across the hall, puzzled by the white fabric that lay in a large heap on the floor.

They descended the stairs, Rick keeping a hand on his father's shoulder. He led Ricky toward the couch. "Sit down, Dad."

Ricky sat down slowly and watched his son, who sat next to him.

"Dad…I don't really know what to say, except that…I need you. Do you have any idea what it would've done to me to come and find you on the floor? Because, if I had waited any longer to come in the house, I have a feeling it would've been too late. Am I right?"

Ricky's voice was calm and even. "I think so."

Rick looked down at the razors that he still held carefully in his hand. "Well, actually, now that I think about it, I do know what to say. I've made a decision. You're going to come with me to New York. For a while, until you're feeling more yourself and have time to clear your head. We'll close up the house, have someone come to mow the lawn and watch the place. We don't have to do anything else yet. Mom's things can stay where they are until we can make better decisions."

Ricky looked at his son, a flash of his indignant personality breaking through. "Oh? Who is the father here?"

Rick dropped the blades onto the nearby coffee table, matching his father's tone. "Right at this moment, it's not you."

Under any other circumstances, a retort such as that would've launched Ricky into a fit, full of his characteristic Cuban machismo. But today, Ricky knew that his son was right. He was a shell of himself and the blades which rested ominously on the table in front of him were evidence enough that he was not in control of his senses. Although he doubted that any amount of time spent in New York would make him feel more like "himself," he relented easily. "Alright. Whatever you say, son."