The Serious Kiss

by Mary Hogan

  “Yeah,” Mim yelled, “why not!? You still have my suit?”

  “Maybe later,” I called out as I tugged on Barbara’s sleeve.

  “It’s so clean in here,” she said. “All the little front yards are so neat!”

  As I pulled Barbara further into Sunset Park, I noticed, for the first time, what she was talking about. We passed a trailer with a bonsai garden in the front. A tiny bridge spanned smooth, black rocks. A white Buddha meditated beneath a miniature tree. Another trailer had a winter theme, with small white rocks as snow and a fake deer with his nose painted bright red. They were actually kind of cute. I’d passed them every day and never noticed before.

  “My grandmother lives here,” I said, leading Barbara into Nana’s kitchen and introducing them to each other.

  “Wow!” Barbara said over and over inside Nana’s home. “Wow! This rocks!”

  “Would you girls like a little kiwi fruit salad?” Nana asked.

  “Yes! Wow!”

  We ate our after-school snack, then I braced myself for the moment of truth.

  “Our trailer is this way,” I said, swallowing, motioning toward the back door. Barbara followed me outside.

  “Trailer? No way. I’ve seen trailers. This is no trailer!”

  “Well, technically, they call them mobile homes, but—”

  “It’s so cool in here!”

  A blast of air-conditioning hit our faces the moment we walked through the door.

  “My house is so hot, you sweat in the shower!” said Barbara. “It’s like iced tea in here. Refreshing!”

  Refreshing? Living in a trailer? In Barstow? With a bunch of old people?

  That’s when I noticed that the refrigerator was gone and Dad had acted like a normal dad by getting off the couch and looking for a job. With the huge, white elephant missing, our living room looked incredibly normal. I could hear Rif’s CD player down the hall. Barbara said, “Show me your room!”

  I showed her my room. It had four walls and a window and a bed that was perpetually unmade. It had a white desk and a wicker chair and a bookshelf stuffed with stuff. My closet was filled with my same old clothes, and my pyjamas were hanging on a hook on the back of my door, where I’d left them that morning. Standing there, in the middle of my room, seeing it through Barbara’s eyes, was a revelation. It looked oddly normal. Maybe living in a mobile retirement home wasn’t so weird after all.

  Refreshing!

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nana had been planning it for weeks – all year probably – and the whole trailer park was grateful. Thanksgiving dinner in the rec room was the event of the year. Nana was in charge, everyone was invited, and each year had a different theme.

  “This year, it’s Chinese!” Nana announced at a meeting she held to elect the decorating committee. “Szechuan turkey!”

  “We can string lanterns around the pool,” Charlotte suggested.

  “Or one of those paper dragons!” squealed Mim.

  Frieda, a widow who lived on Heavenly Way and had a stroke the year before, shouted, “Fawaahs!” but nobody understood her because one side of her face was all droopy. Nobody but Gracie, that is.

  “Fireworks,” she translated.

  “Fabulous!”

  That year, Nana had decided to combine Thanksgiving with our trailer-warming party. Mim was asked to make sesame noodles instead of her famous baked beans; Charlotte made a cake with a layer of green tea ice cream. Everyone was excited about the big event. Everyone but me.

  “Should I invite him?” I asked Barbara.

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’ll know I really like him.”

  “So don’t invite him.”

  “He already told me his dad wants him to spend Thanksgiving at his aunt’s house in Riverside, and he doesn’t want to go. I would be doing him a favour.”

  “Then invite him.”

  “How can I invite someone I barely know to meet my whole family? And the whole trailer park!”

  “Then don’t invite him,” Barbara groaned.

  Barbara was beyond tired of talking about Warrenville. She rolled her eyes every time I mentioned his name. Barbara was spending Thanksgiving weekend with us. Her dad and stepmom were taking her step-siblings to Disney World in Florida. An experience she’d had before.

  “I needed another vacation after spending my vacation with the brats,” she told me. So I’d asked Mom if Barbara could spend the night in our trailer and join us for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d told me to ask Nana, who, of course, said yes. “Invite the brats, too! The more the merrier.”

  “I’m not going to invite him,” I said to Barbara, suddenly remembering the promise I made to myself when Nadine made me feel like a loser for not having a boyfriend. “It’ll be just us.”

  “And the whole trailer park,” Barbara said.

  “You’re right. Should I invite him?”

  She sighed. “He’s pretty strange, you know,” she said.

  “And you’re normal?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t even like Aqui!”

  “I know. But I like him. What can I say?”

  What could I say? The click I heard in my brain was loud and distinct. Warren and I fitted together. I just knew it. We were both outsiders. It felt right being on the outside with him.

  A few days ago, at school, Warren appeared behind me and asked, “Ever sing a polyphonic secular song?”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “You should, because you’re a Madrigal.”

  Another time, he cupped his hands over my eyes, the way Greg Minsky used to do, and stood there behind me, silent, until I said, “I know it’s you, Warren.” I always knew when Warren was near me. His whole being radiated heat. Unlike Greg Minsky, I didn’t care if Warrenville stood so close to me I could feel the muscles in his body.

  Since I met Warrenville, everything looked different. Desert sunsets were the most spectacular things I’d ever seen. Purple wild heliotropes were awesome. Sand swirls and scrub and tacos and centipedes were incredibly beautiful. Even watching Dirk watch the TV was wonderful because of the angelic look on his face. Seeing my mom all flushed from a great day at Wal-Mart filled me with joy. Nana’s fingers, covered in wonton dough, were suddenly rays of sunlight that made me happy just looking at them.

  Was it the beginning of love? I didn’t know. Was he the guy I wanted to seriously kiss? Definitely.

  “I should invite him,” I said. “Unless you think I shouldn’t.”

  Barbara groaned even louder and walked away.

  Mr Belfore wore a satin robe as a kimono and sweat socks with his flip-flops. He lived on Nirvana Street and was considered eccentric by everyone at Sunset Park. Which is saying a lot, considering Nana’s toilet armoire and the tiki hut Charlotte wore as a hat. Mr Belfore arrived at Thanksgiving dinner with a chopstick behind each ear.

  “I wanted to wear them in my hair,” he explained, “but I don’t have any hair.”

  Barbara found an old Chairman Mao-type jacket in a thrift store on Main Street, and wore navy blue trousers with black canvas Chinese shoes. Mim carried a Chinese fan. Unable to find anything better, I wore a long black skirt and a red satin shirt. To complete the look, I painted my fingernails in Mom’s Vroooom! red nail polish, and had her buy me the reddest lipstick Wal-Mart had. Honestly, I didn’t look bad.

  Amazingly, even my mom and dad got into the Thanksgiving spirit. Dad bought a box of fortune cookies and handed them out to everyone; Mom made a small handbag out of an empty Chinese take-out carton with glued-on sequins and everything. My parents actually seemed happy. Dad, after a month of TV Zombie Detox, was slowly coming back to life. After the long holiday weekend, he had a job interview at a car dealership in San Bernardino. Mom, tired of having aching feet, bought larger, more comfortable shoes, and joined Weight Watchers.

  “I’ve lost two and a quarter pounds!” she said at breakfast. “Only twenty more to go!”

  I waited for Dad to say, “Twenty? Don’t y
ou mean fifty?” But he just grinned and said, “Way to go, Dot.”

  Rif and I looked at each other like our parents were aliens. Dirk burst into tears and said, “I feel so glad!”

  After breakfast, Barbara came over and we helped Nana stuff the Szechuan turkey with water chestnut and peanut stuffing. Later, we filled the pool with small, flickering, floating lanterns. Mim wanted to buy carp to swim in the pool but Gracie told her they’d die in the chlorine. Incredibly, Mom found battery-operated fish in the toy department at work. They “swam” around the pool, and everything.

  Mr Belfore helped us arrange rectangular tables all around the edges of the pool, so everybody was facing one another with the twinkling water in the centre. When it was all set up, Frieda said, “It’s bufa! ”

  Nobody needed Gracie’s translation to know what she said. “It certainly is beautiful, Frieda,” Mim said.

  While Barbara checked on Nana’s ginger-spiced yams, I slipped into our trailer to make a phone call.

  “Nadine?”

  “Libby! Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “You, too. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m good. We’re about to have dinner down by the pool. Everyone will be there soon. You?”

  “Curtis is coming over. My family is here.”

  “Have you—?”

  “Not yet. Have you?”

  “No.” We both knew what we were talking about. A serious kiss.

  Nadine said, “I’m hoping mine will happen tonight.”

  “I hope so, too. For you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Neither one of us said anything for a few long seconds. We used to wrap ourselves in each other’s silences like old flannel blankets. They were comfortable, familiar. Now, our silences were awkward, filled with stuff no one wanted to say.

  “So—”

  “So, say hi to your family for me.”

  “You, too.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay.”

  She sounded relieved. I felt sad. I knew my friendship with Nadine was over. Well, not over, just never the same again. A month earlier, I would have thought it was impossible. But there it was – in less than three weeks, we both had begun to move on.

  “Listen up, everyone!” Nana stood near the diving board, a large glass bowl in her hands. “For those who are new, we welcome you.”

  The grey-haired crowd and their families burst into applause. My parents grinned. Mom adjusted her sparkly handbag on her arm. Mr Belfore tapped his chopstick against his wineglass.

  Nana continued. “We have a Thanksgiving tradition here at Sunset Park. Gratitude Prayers. There’s a piece of paper and a pen next to each plate. Your fee for the feast we are about to partake of is to write down one thing for which you are grateful. Something in the past year.”

  “And if it was the worst year of your life?” someone joked.

  “Even in the worst of times, there’s always something to be thankful for.”

  I was beginning to see that she just might be right.

  “I’m going to pass this bowl around the tables. Put your Gratitude Prayer in the bowl, and we’ll complete the ceremony as soon as everyone is done.”

  Rif scoffed. “How long is this going to take? I’m starving.”

  I shrugged, reached for my pen. All I could think of writing was Warren, Warren, Warren, over and over. I was so grateful that Warrenville had entered my life. Even though I’d decided not to invite him, out of respect for Barbara, he was on my mind and in my heart all day.

  “What did you write?” Barbara asked me after I dropped my Gratitude Prayer in the bowl and passed it on.

  “Something,” I said, smiling. Then I added, “I’m glad it’s just you and me tonight.” Without Barbara, I would have had no one.

  The sun was beginning to turn the sky orange as Nana took the bowl of Gratitude Prayers to the barbecue she’d set up in the corner. Small flames flickered above the rim. She set the bowl down, plunged one hand into the sea of papers, and began to read aloud.

  “I’m thankful for another year of life.”

  “For the raise in Social Security.”

  “AARP discounts.”

  After she read each one, she tossed it into the fire and we watched it sizzle up to heaven.

  “Lipitor.”

  “Fosamax.”

  “Viagra.”

  Everyone twittered at the litany of prescription drugs. Nana continued reading.

  “I’m thankful for my parents’ health.”

  “For a roof over our heads . even though it’s a metal roof.” The group laughed again. Nana looked at Mom and smiled.

  “For new friends.” Barbara looked at me and grinned.

  “Dark sunglasses.” (Rif ’s, of course.)

  “Roasted sesame oil.” Everyone knew that was Nana’s. “And family dinners.”

  “Orthopaedic shoes.”

  “Grandchildren.”

  “Sundays.”

  “For learning how to let go.”

  Yeah, that was mine. It was embarrassing to hear it out loud. Still, I was glad I wrote it. Even though I wasn’t sure I knew how it felt to let it all go, I was incredibly grateful that I was starting to learn. A month ago, my life was over. Now, it felt as though a new life was beginning. I felt sad for losing what I had, but – amazingly – I was feeling excited about the future. It’s weird how everything can suddenly look up when your whole world is down the drain.

  Nana kept reading the Gratitude Prayers.

  “Laser eye surgery.”

  “Plastic surgery.”

  The group snickered again. Nana finally burned the last of the prayers. She held her hands together, tilted her head back, and said, “God, please accept our thanks. We all hope to talk to you next year.” Then she hollered, “Let’s eat!”

  With that, several of the older grandchildren paraded in with plates of steaming food. The air smelled of ginger and scallions. Juan yipped under the table. Nana passed me and kissed the top of my head.

  “Goat tacos!”

  A familiar voice bellowed from outside the pool’s gate.

  Yip. Yip.

  The group stopped passing food and stared. My heart fluttered.

  “I’m grateful for goat tacos and chipotle chilis.”

  Warren opened the gate and walked in.

  I stood up. “What are you—? How did you—?”

  The group resumed chattering, reaching, scooping, and eating. I heard Mr Belfore say, “I’m grateful for this pork bao.”

  “Barbara invited me,” Warren said, as she scooted over to make room for him.

  I gaped at her. She quietly asked, “A person can have a boyfriend and a best friend, can’t she?”

  Best friend? Boyfriend? I was too happy to let either label weird me out. Not that night, when everything felt so right. Flinging my arms around Barbara, I couldn’t stop grinning. Nana walked up to us.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Warren, extending his hand shyly. “I’m Libby’s friend, Warren Villegranja.”

  Nana shook his hand warmly. “Anyone who’s thankful for goat tacos and smoked jalapeño peppers will always be welcome in my home.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I suspected that somewhere, out there, there were Thanksgiving dinners like this. We laughed, savoured the food, and enjoyed one another’s company without tension as thick as lumpy gravy.

  Mom was on the other side of the pool, and Dad had wandered off somewhere. Rif nodded his head, saying hi. He’d seen Warrenville at school. Dirk giggled and blushed.

  “Scallion pancake?” Barbara asked Warren.

  “Why not?”

  I started to explain my nutty grandmother and her traditions, but Warren didn’t seem to care. He piled his plate high and ate heartily. He reached under the table and squeezed my knee. My whole insides were flooded with light. I felt warm and astonishingly calm. Warren fitted in so easily and naturally, I forgot to be ash
amed of the trailer park and my elderly neighbours. I even hugged Mim and let Juan nestle into her chins. I ate seconds of everything without once worrying that my satin shirt might pull at its Chinese buttons. Thanksgiving came only once a year, after all.

  As candles flickered atop the pool, paper lanterns swayed in the desert breeze, and garlic and ginger infused the air, I felt happier than I’d ever felt in my life. It wasn’t Warren or Barbara or Thanksgiving. It was more than that. Suddenly, without warning bells or bugles trumpeting, I felt totally, completely, absolutely normal.

  “Elizabeth Madrigal?”

  A man in a policeman’s uniform stood behind me. Instantly, I panicked. I flashed back to Chatsworth and Rif ’s arrest and bill collectors at the door.

  “Yes?” I said, weakly, I’m Elizabeth Madrigal.”

  He looked confused, said, “Is there another Elizabeth Madrigal? An older lady?”

  “Oh! Yes! My grandmother.” Heart pounding, I stood up and led the officer around the pool to Nana. Her face darkened as he got closer.

  “What happened?” she asked abruptly.

  Quietly, he answered, “There’s been an accident. Your son. He’s okay, but he’s in the hospital.”

  “My son?”

  Nana and I both spun around to look for my dad. Mom sat alone by the diving board next to Frieda. Another surge of panic rushed through my body. Where was my father?

  “He must be in the bathroom,” I blurted out.

  The police officer placed his hand gently on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Nana swung into action. “Libby, get your mom and brothers and meet me at the gate.”

  In a daze, I did what I was told. I never said a word to Barbara or Warren, just followed my family to the front gate of Sunset Park where we silently waited for a taxi. Our old Toyota, the only car our family had, was gone.

  Nobody could speak. We were too stunned, too hurt, to form any words at all.

  “I didn’t want anyone smelling beer on my breath,” Dad explained drunkenly, from his bed at Barstow General. “I was going to order extra onions.”

  My father had left Thanksgiving dinner to drive to the only open liquor store in town and buy a case of beer. He’d sat there, in the liquor store parking lot, chugging one can after the other. Then, to cover his tracks, he’d headed for the landmark McDonald’s to order a burger, extra onions. Only he was too drunk to drive. My father’s right fender rammed the corner of McDonald’s converted railroad car, knocking it off its foundation. Thankfully, McDonald’s was closed for the holiday. No one was hurt but my father. Dad broke his nose. The fire chief told us they found him passed out at the wheel.