“This is Mr. Ramirez’s room.” They reached a bare door with a greenish light glowing from under the doorway. “I’ll just leave you here. Give a little knock before you go in.” Was it just Lupe’s imagination, or was Ginny afraid to enter Mr. Ramirez’s room? Lupe called out and opened the door. A familiar gruff voice responded.
“Bueno, Lupita? Venga. Come in.”
The place smelled like pine incense. The green glow under the door came from a lighted mirror on the wall. Below the mirror a small china bowl and a little shot glass were placed on a shelf. The bowl appeared to hold a few pieces of Ramirez’s dinner, and the glass was half-full of an amber liquid. Was he allowed to have whiskey in his room? Lupe wondered.
Mr. Ramirez’s wheelchair was positioned in front of a framed picture of a baseball player hung beside the mirror. In the picture, the man was bent on one knee, a bat propped on his shoulder. She stared at the player’s face.
“It is his week. I remember him every day, but this is his special week.” Mr. Ramirez’ words were full of reverence. Lupe had no idea who this old player was. It wasn’t a West Coast team uniform; she recognized all of those colors and emblems.
“Who is it?” Lupe asked. Mr. Ramirez stared at her and shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“Ay, chica. You tell me you love softball, and yet, you don’t know who this is?”
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