I couldn’t stop them.
It was the onion.
I swear.
A loud thud shattered my deep sleep, and I awoke to my grandmother hauling my suitcase into the room. She leaned over and placed her hands on her knees, gasping for air.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “What are you doing? I could have brought that in. What time is it?”
When my hand dropped back to the bed, it landed on something. I grabbed the object and brought it close to my face. A lemon? I turned to my grandmother and raised it up.
“What’s this for?”
My grandmother finally stood back up, her breathing returned to normal. She looked as she had before, white French braid and all. The only difference was her clothes. She had on blue capris and a plain yellow shirt that buttoned in the front.
She squinted at my hand. “Ah!” Holding one finger up, she turned and left the room.
The yellow skin of the lemon sparkled in the soft light. Wait a minute . . . my attention turned to the table at the end of the bed. The candles still burned and the wax hadn’t melted any lower. I must have fallen asleep for only a few minutes, even though it had felt like hours.
My grandmother returned to the room a few minutes later with a bowl in hand. She came and stood at the foot of the bed and said something to me in Spanish.
“I don’t know Spanish, remember?”
She made a frustrated noise deep in her throat. She pointed to my hand that held the lemon and pointed at the bowl.
“You want me to put the lemon in the bowl?” I placed it in the bowl.
“No. No,” she scolded then continued spitting out more words.
“You said to put the lemon in the bowl?” Good God, this was becoming ridiculous. I just wanted to sleep.
She grabbed the lemon and held it out to me. I reached with my right hand to take the lemon, but she shook her head. She nodded to my other arm. Why the hell did it matter? I slowly reached out with my left. She pushed the lemon into my hand. Then before I could ask what to do, she grabbed my wrist and yanked it over the bowl. She turned my hand over so that the lemon was closest to the bowl, then placed her hand directly over mine and squeezed.
“Hey!”
She didn’t stop but kept squeezing my hand until the lemon was crushed beneath our grips and the juice spilled onto my palm, down my fingers and into the bowl. She continued to squeeze my hand until the last bit of juice left the lemon.
Satisfied, she smiled. At what, I couldn’t say. She let go of my hand and shook hers toward the bowl so that drops of lemon juice flew into it. A few drops hit my hand that still hung suspended. I stared at the woman. I was dumbfounded for a few seconds, and she had to take the lemon from my hand and place it in the bowl. Once she did that, she made the sign of the cross over me and then the lemon juice.
She snapped her fingers in front of me a few times and said something. I had no idea what the woman said or why she had done the freaky lemon thing. I wiped my hand on a blanket and lay down to go back to sleep, but she wouldn’t let me. She pestered me with foreign words until I got up and followed her to the bathroom, where she pointed to the shower.
“Lady, it’s the middle of the night; can’t I just take one in the morning?”
She half-smiled and pointed to a clock on the wall: Six o’clock in the morning. Forget that. I walked past her to the bed and flopped down. I needed at least three, maybe four, more hours of sleep. The moment my body hit the bed she began slapping my leg.
“Okay! Okay! Stop,” I said. I fought not to groan, but instead muttered, “Goddamn it.”
Her head whipped around so quickly that I threw my hands up. “Okay, sorry. Won’t happen again.”
She gave me one last, cold stare before snapping her fingers and pointing down the hallway. I hurried down. Don’t say God’s name in vain. Got it.
Having not showered for days, I had hoped for a long hot shower—but not in Laredo. My grandmother flushed the toilet after I had been in the shower five minutes? The hot water turned icy cold, and my hollering mixed with her laughter.
After the shower, my grandmother made sure I didn’t fall back asleep by checking on me every few minutes. When she was satisfied that I appeared decent, she beckoned me to follow her down the hall. There were two other doors in the hallway besides the bathroom, but both doors were closed, so I couldn’t see inside. Our destination was the yellow kitchen. My grandmother had turned the lights on since darkness still reigned outside. My eyes burned.
She said something I didn’t understand and pointed to the table, where breakfast had been laid out. I sat down, instantly ravenous, since I hadn’t eaten dinner the night before. In the background, my grandmother rummaged in the cabinets.
Breakfast consisted of a plate of scrambled eggs and a tortilla. I hated scrambled eggs—fried was the only way I ate them. I picked up the fork next to the plate and moved the eggs around, debating whether I should eat them or ask her to make me some the way I liked them. After a few minutes, the banging ceased in the kitchen. I looked up to find my grandmother glaring at me with a towel held against her hip. Over her wide body she wore a white apron that had red flowers stitched around the edges. Her lips pursed and her tiny eyes narrowed sharply at me.
“I don’t like scrambled eggs.”
“Come.” She pointed to the plate. Co-may?
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but could you just fry me some eggs instead?”
“¡Come! Eat now.”
“Thought you couldn’t speak English,” I muttered beneath my breath.
I stabbed a few pieces of egg, a little more forcefully than needed, and placed them in my mouth. Cold eggs. Great. My mother had just abandoned me—one fried egg wasn’t a crazy request. My grandmother watched me until I swallowed. When she was satisfied I would eat, she turned around and started muttering to herself as she did whatever it was she had been doing before.
I ate my breakfast in silence, while my grandmother prepared something. At least “something” is the only way I could describe it. Bowls and jars filled at various levels with powders, spices and other tiny things I didn’t recognize sat on the counter. Every once in a while she poured different items into a boiling pot on the stove. Other times, she threw in spices and a few times she even went to the plants by the door, tore some leaves off and threw them into the mix. Gradually, a horrible smell began to permeate the room. The words “rotting flesh” came to mind. It didn’t take long for the smell to become so pungent that I had to put down the cold tortilla I had just taken a bite from and breathe slowly through my mouth to keep from heaving up the eggs I had just finished. I decided to go to the bathroom at the same time the front door opened.
“María!” a shrill voice rang through the house. More words followed, filled with the changing of excited tones.
I sprang out of my seat to leave the kitchen. I didn’t want to meet anyone, especially not another Spanish-speaker. Unfortunately, my grandmother turned to me, pointed a knife she had been holding and said something that I imagined meant, “Move and I cut you.” I sat without thinking. Respect God and sharp pointy objects. We were really getting to know each other.
Seconds later, a short woman with thin folds of skin hanging from her neck carried a large burlap sack into the kitchen, never ceasing her chatter. My grandmother wiped the knife on her apron, put her hand on her hip and waited. The woman appeared the same age as my grandmother. Her skin, wrinkled and stretched, hung on her wiry frame, and her roots had a grayish tint. The woman spied me and her words stopped mid-sentence. Her thin, wrinkled lips pursed together and she looked at my grandmother, then at me. She nodded her head a few times, crossed her arms and then said something in Spanish.
A quick burst of laughter escaped my grandmother’s throat. “No, no, no.” She shook both her hands in front of her, to emphasize the “nos.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed at my grandmother. She walked to the table and put her bag down before turning t
o me with a smile. I struggled not to tell her that her lipstick had smudged onto the skin above her top lip.
The woman spoke. I caught the name Gloria, but that was it. She grabbed my hand and, without warning, bent over and kissed me on my cheek! No one had ever kissed me. I couldn’t even remember the last time my mother had kissed me.
When she pulled back, she placed her hands on my shoulders and waited for a response.
“Uh . . . ” was all I could manage.
Her forehead creased and her black eyebrows narrowed together. Something about those small movements triggered something in my mind. It looked familiar. I wanted this woman away from me, as in five to ten paces. I looked to my grandmother, my face screaming for help. By now, she laughed so hard that tears rolled down her face. The woman looked over her shoulder and yelled something at my grandmother.
Through her tears and laughter, my grandmother strung a few words together. Something she said hit home for the woman still holding my shoulders, because her hands tightened on me and her body stiffened. Slowly her head turned towards me.
“¿Martha?” But instead of pronouncing the ‘h’ in my name, it sounded more like “Marta.”
I nodded regardless.
I closed my eyes when the tiny woman grabbed me in a hug and kissed both of my cheeks this time. I opened my eyes in surprise when she put her hands on my face and spoke fast in Spanish. She pulled my face to her and gave me one last smack on my left cheek and then finally let me go. She smiled wide with thin lips and straight white teeth.
My body wanted to run but I couldn’t. The woman’s smile faltered. She spoke a string of words and pointed to herself with both her hands. Through the slur of words, I picked out the name “Gloria,” repeated over and over.
Finally, my grandmother spoke up. One sentence, simple and short.
Gloria didn’t even turn around to look at my grandmother. Her lips pursed, and in a split second, a thought came to my mind. A moment later, Gloria spoke, confirming my thoughts—well . . . kind of.
“What do you mean my great niece don’t speak Spanish?”
For the next half hour, my grandmother and newly discovered aunt chattered and twittered in a language that felt harsh to my ears and annoyed my whole being. I finally crossed my arms on the table and laid my forehead on them, trying to tune out the words that flew around the room. I considered sneaking in a nap, but their gibberish prevented sleep from taking over my body.
As soon as my aunt had discovered my identity and the fact that I couldn’t speak Spanish, she quickly switched to English to Spanish and began to hammer at my grandmother. My grandmother cleaned my breakfast dish and continued to brew her potion over the stove as she replied with short answers and sometimes with that backhanded flick of her wrist and a loud “Pah!” sound.
The noxious fumes assaulted my stomach, and I prayed for the smell to disappear or to lose my sense of smell altogether. Thirty minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Another visitor? I had to stifle my groan. My grandmother picked up the boiling pot with two potholders and shuffled out of the kitchen. She called out something over her shoulder and walked into the hallway. My aunt responded, and with a narrowing of her eyes in my direction, she left the kitchen to answer the door.
Gloria greeted someone in the living room. My aunt walked in first, followed by a tall, dark, chestnut-colored woman holding a plastic garbage sack that bulged and stretched with its items. My aunt said something to the woman in Spanish and motioned to me.
“She don’t speak Spanish. Can you believe it?” Gloria said, then turned her attention to me. “Martha, this is Doña Lorena.”
What an odd name.
Doña Lorena had a frown on her very large lips. Her expression said she pitied my lack of Spanish. She had on a white dress with lace trimmings that hung loosely on her small upper body. Her hips were so wide that she looked like a bloated pear in a white-laced napkin. I couldn’t bring myself to speak, so I just nodded once. Doña Lorena nodded back and then turned to Gloria.
“Where should I put this?”
Gloria pointed to the side of the kitchen, against the wall. As Doña Lorena went to set the black trash bag down, a six-year-old boy walked in. Walked isn’t exactly the right word. He limped into the kitchen, but it had to be the oddest limp I had ever seen because he limped on both feet, which were encased in brown, dirt-caked sandals. He moved slowly, walking on the heels of his feet. His face was strained and he bit down on his lower lip as he struggled to walk.
“Oh, m’ijo.” Doña Lorena stood up and looked at the boy.
I knew he was her son from the tone of her voice.
Gloria took her chair and dragged it over to the boy so he didn’t have to walk any further. “Pobrecito,” she cooed.
The boy took even longer to sit down in the chair. Once he did, he wiped at his eyes. All my thoughts of what my mother did left for the moment. My hands became restless in my lap so that I had to clasp them together to keep from reaching out. I wanted to help him, but what could I do that his mother couldn’t?
The little boy’s body sagged as if he had just run a marathon rather than walked into the kitchen, and perhaps it was the same. Gloria and Doña Lorena started a conversation in Spanish. Doña Lorena couldn’t have been family. I figured Gloria would have let me know by then. If she wasn’t family, why were they here? Gloria fetched a glass of water for the boy. He accepted it with a murmur.
The boy had shiny, black hair cut straight across his forehead, and his heart-shaped face resembled his mother’s. He had the same dark brown skin, too, but unlike his mother, he was skinny. His thin and faded shirt complimented his jeans that had a hole over the right knee. He sipped his water, and as he did, he noticed me. It must have been the first time he realized someone besides Gloria was there. I smiled, which caused him to blush and look down at his cup. It was cute.
Seconds later, the squeaking of the floorboards warned of my grandmother’s slow approach from the hallway. When she arrived, Gloria and Doña Lorena’s conversation stopped. Doña Lorena moved to my grandmother and spoke to her. She pointed to the sack that lay against the wall, and as she spoke, my grandmother nodded every few seconds. My grandmother didn’t have the stern look she had given me or Gloria a few times, but rather her features had softened to an understanding, concerned look. She walked over to the young boy and bent over, resting her hands on her knees.
She spoke to him and he smiled. She stood back up and he handed the glass of water to Gloria. He took a deep breath, bit his lip and stood up carefully, wincing as his feet touched the floor. He walked oddly as he had before, following my grandmother out of the kitchen and into the hallway. The slow procession ended with Doña Lorena, shoulders slumped, following at a slow pace. Gloria and I were left alone in a claustrophobic silence, interrupted a few seconds later by the sound of a door closing down the hallway.
Gloria walked over to the backyard door, pushed aside a few potted plants with her foot and then opened it. She pulled a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket, stood by the door and began to smoke. I hated smoke and how it burnt the canals of my nostrils. My mother used to smoke sometimes at night in our apartment, and each time I’d go to my room and get under the covers to escape the acrid odor. There were times when my “room” was the couch, and then, there was no escaping. Thinking about my mother made my stomach churn.
Gloria broke the silence. “I can’t believe you don’t speak no Spanish.”
I shrugged in response.
“Don’t tell your grandmother I’m smoking, ’kay?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your tía.” As if there would be any other reason.
“What’s tee-ya?”
“Tía. Not tee-yuh,” she said emphasizing the ‘yuh.’ “Your aunt.” She shook her head as she blew out the smoke.
“I’m bored.”
“Of course you are. Sorry that Laredo isn’t New York or all the fancy places you’ve been.”
“I’ve never been to New York. My mother and I were in Memphis last. Not really what you’d call fancy.”
She shook her head. “Your mother . . . that girl!”
I snorted. “Yeah.”
Gloria looked at me sideways. “She always caused headaches.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth. That’s your mother.”
“But you just said . . . ”
She flicked a few ashes off her cigarette. “I know what I said. But that don’t mean you disrespect her.”
I looked away and rolled my eyes. Adults.
We sat there for a few minutes, Gloria smoking and me bored out of my mind.
“So how come you speak English and she doesn’t?” I asked.
Gloria blew out a puff of smoke. “I worked in the cafeteria at the Air Force Base for twenty years. Had to learn para los gringos.”
I gave her a blank stare. Why did she keep using Spanish?
She rolled her eyes, “White people, Martha. Híjole.”
After a few seconds, Gloria asked, “Your mamá didn’t tell you about me?”
“Nope.”
Her eyes hardened. She shook her head back and forth as she muttered things in Spanish. Once she stopped, I laid my head back on my arms and relaxed. Maybe I could get a nap. Unexpectedly, a shriek cut through the house.
“What the hell?”
Gloria put out her cigarette on the door frame and pointed it at me. “Watch your mouth, muchacha!”
“What’s going on back there?”
Gloria closed the door and walked back to the table. She sat down and threw the cigarette in her bag as she answered me. “What you mean? She’s healing him.”
“Healing him of what? Why is he screaming?”
“From el Diablo. Didn’t you see how he walked in here? She has to purge el Diablo from his pies.”
“What? Speak English.”
She slapped her open palm on the table. “Ah, tu mamá teach you nothing! The Devil! The Devil has poisoned the boy’s feet. Large sores cover his feet and threaten his life. Tu abuela is cleansing him of the disease. Why do you think she made that awful stuff?”
Secrets of the Casa Rosada Page 3