Except . . . is that the front door? In the middle of the morning? It seriously can’t be.
He comes into the kitchen. I prep for a fight. He is usually mean as hell around the holidays and it can’t be good if he is home at this hour.
But he looks pale. And something else I can’t quite identify. Scared maybe. He sits down at the table like he doesn’t have any wind left. I see his left hand shaking.
“What is it, Jorge?” says my mom.
“Can you get me some water, please?”
Please?
“What is it?” she says, handing him a glass.
“They raided the restaurant.”
“Raided?”
“We were cleaning up. Immigration came in the front and back. Sealed off all the exits.”
“Oh my God, Jorge!”
My heart starts to pound. He sucks, but I know we can’t get along without his measly tips. Did they just let him come home to get some clothes or something? Are they guarding the door? I listen. I think I hear someone outside. Maybe Immigration is raiding our apartment next. Or maybe he’s led them here. Turning us all in for the free airplane ride to Argentina. Maybe this is it.
“They put us in the banquet room.”
“How did you get out?”
“They interrogated us one by one. I had my fake papers, you know, that photocopy I have.”
“Yes.”
“Somehow that worked. I don’t know. I think it was because my English is pretty good. I’m convincing. Plus it was crazy. Men with guns everywhere. The women crying. They gave me some notice to appear, but since the papers don’t have my real name or address on them, I think we’re okay.”
“You’re sure no one followed you?”
“No. I mean . . . I don’t think they’d do that.”
“How did you get out?”
“They just let me go. I don’t know. But so many others . . .”
“Who?”
“Everyone. The whole kitchen. Paco, too.”
“What!”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Poor Carolina.” My mother’s eyes water up with tears when she says her cousin’s name, knowing that her husband is now gone, taken by the immigration people. I think of little linoleum-eating baby Julissa. Her father disappeared. Poof. Her mother making two hundred dollars a week cleaning houses. Julissa was born here, so she should be able to stay, to grow up in the country where she was born. The rules are that you belong where you’re born. But it’s not that simple.
“You’re sure they took Paco? Maybe they let him go, too?”
“No, I saw him in a van. He’s gone.”
“What will Carolina do?”
“I don’t know. You know having American kids doesn’t save you from anything. I guess we’ll help her however we can . . .” He puts his head in his hands, rubbing his face like he’s trying to scrub something off. “We have to get the hell out of this country,” he says after a long pause.
“Jorge, you’ll find another job.”
“That doesn’t really solve anything, does it? Not really?”
My mother doesn’t seem to have an answer to that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I stand outside while Nate makes the fifteen-minute drive to pick me up. I can’t be in the apartment, and I don’t want him to get any ideas about coming up. He belongs in one world, but this is another world. I know that the two could never be one.
The cold feels good somehow, making the skin on the front of my thighs numb. The pain makes me happy, like carrying something heavy makes people happy. Like you’re standing up to the elements and winning. Although, of course, you’re fooling yourself, because there is always something big enough to crush you, and a day cold enough to kill you.
All in all, I’m pretty relieved when he pulls up with his heated seats and pine-scented leather interior.
“Mademoiselle, your chariot awaits.”
I think he’s trying for French this time. “You still sound Indian,” I say.
“That what I was going for.” He winks.
He drives away, but not in the direction of his house. He takes a few turns and we’re in the parking lot of Summer Park, where we played basketball what feels like years ago.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“I thought we’d have our own Christmas for a few minutes before we go to my house with everyone running around.”
“Okay.” I have his present in my backpack.
“I thought it might be nice to do it here since this is where we first kissed.”
“Very romantic. But let’s stay in the car, okay?”
He laughs. “Good idea.”
He pulls out the most exquisitely wrapped small, slim present I’ve ever seen and hands it to me. I kind of don’t expect it. I’ve never seen a present so beautiful, heavy with ribbon and a bling tag.
“It’s so pretty! What is it?”
“It’s normally customary to take off the paper to find that out.”
“Wait, hold on. Let me get yours.” I pull out the box. It’s a personalized golf shirt, golf gloves, and a copy of Hamlet. The Hamlet is a gag. I’ve gone through and scribbled in the word “hootch” everywhere Hamlet’s mother is mentioned.
“Go ahead, open it,” he says.
“I almost don’t want to mess up the paper.”
“If only I would have known that I could have just gotten you a box.”
I open it carefully, being sure not to rip anything, and lift the lid off the little box. It is a delicate gold chain.
“An ankle bracelet,” he says. “Because you have such pretty feet. Or ankles. Or legs. Whatever. I just think this would look nice on you.”
I run my finger on it. “Oh, and look . . .”
“M and N. You and me.”
“It’s perfect.”
“But wait. You didn’t notice the best part. Look at the inside of the top of the box.”
I tilt it. It’s covered in tiny Post-it notes that say I love you.
I start to cry. Because a day can have such different things in it, like Ms. North going away and Julissa losing her father and a boy sitting at his kitchen counter, writing tiny I love yous over and over again just to make you happy.
He puts his arm around me. “Hey, why are you crying? It’s a good thing, right?”
“The best thing,” I say.
b
WE GO TO NATE’S HOUSE. THE HOUSE IS STILL VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS perfect, but there is a vibe of activity, with Nate’s mother and sisters and the maid Carmen running up and down stairs.
“Natey, sweetie, you’re here.”
I guess he knows that he’s about to get marching orders, because he cuts in, “We’re going to watch our ‘Why can’t I spend Christmas with you’ movie together right now.”
“M, honey, it’s wonderful to see you. Happy early Christmas. Nate, sweetie, are you packed?”
“Ummm . . .”
“That’s a no. Okay, we need to get that done.”
“Seriously, Mom, it’s going to take all of ten minutes.”
“That’s fine, you can do it after you take M.T. home, but then I need it done tonight. Not tomorrow when the car service is waiting outside. Tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And it looks like the presents I shipped ahead aren’t there yet.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding like he’s not sure why she’s tell-ing him.
“And the pet sitter is lined up, but I have an issue with the alarm.”
“You’re checklisting out loud again,” he says.
“Yes, yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. You go have fun,” she says, turning around and walking away, clearly still checklisting in her head.
So we go to the family room. He picks up the remote and starts flipping through options. On Demand. Netflix. DVD carousel.
“Let’s watch this,” he says. Sleeping Beauty. I haven’t seen this in like . . . I don’t know. Ten years.
�
�It used to be my favorite Disney movie,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, I remember the T-shirt. The basketball T-shirt. Is it weird and unmanly to admit that I loved it, too? I mean, until I found out that it was totally weird and unmanly when I was like four. Something about kicking ass in that thorn forest though . . . awesome.”
“Okay, fine, let’s watch it.”
Somewhere around the “banquet in Princess Aurora’s honor” scene, I say, “The good guys suck, right? I hate the good guys.” I say this without thinking, kind of like you say, “Damn, it’s colder than I thought.”
As soon as I say it I realize it’s One of Those Things. The things you think everyone thinks, or at least everyone under eighteen thinks. But instead it’s like one of those observations you think everyone else shares, like, “Hey, isn’t weird how everyone else’s poop smells terrible but your own kind of smells good,” except once you say it you realize you’ve gone out on a very long, very lonely limb. And they don’t share it. Or else, they aren’t willing to share it out loud. (True story, by the way. I once said that poop thing in third grade and it took until about the seventh grade for people to forget about it.)
So in response to my “good guys suck” One of Those Things, Nate just says, “What do you mean?” Blank face. Like . . . no shadow of agreement. Or even understanding.
“I mean, Maleficent is clearly the better character here.”
“What?” He laughs. “She’s horrible.”
“She’s misunderstood.”
“She puts a death curse on a baby.”
“I’ll agree that her methods are sometimes questionable.”
“Sometimes?”
“Look at how they treat her. They exclude her. They have this whole party and she’s not invited.”
“I’m pretty sure they have good reason for that.”
“I’m just saying the villains are more interesting. You can tell that they’ve been through some stuff. They have things to say. They want things.” I think that I could see baby Julissa growing up to rock a seriously Maleficent vibe. And who could blame her?
I go on, “Plus, don’t you get the sense that the good guys are always bullshitting you? Like they’re those kids at school that are absolute jerks but then act like angels when teachers are looking. These stupid sanctimonious fairies in Sleeping Beauty are just like those kids.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I’m just saying.”
He reaches over to tickle me, “Were you, like, abused by fairies or something?”
It’s in this moment that I get that he’s one of the people who has no suspicion of the good guys and no twinge of recognition, no feeling of camaraderie with the villain. So I just let him tickle me and make me laugh. There’s no cure for what he’s got. I both envy him and pity him, with his impeccably dressed, checklisting mom and his boughs-of-holly-festooned life.
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE, AND MY MOTHER IS IN THE KITCHEN MAKING picadillo for the empanadas, as necessary to Christmas as a Christmas tree. Jose sits at the table, quietly having a fork run a bombing mission over some mashed potatoes. I sit and stare off into space. Nate hasn’t called me all day, and hasn’t responded to three texts. My father hasn’t come out of his room.
I am in what one could consider a Bad Mood. It’s made worse by the fact that my mother and Jose seem to be in such a Good Mood. Such a very, very Good Mood. Which baffles the hell out of me. It’s like they can’t see we’re living in the real endtimes.
My mother actually hums. I despise her particularly today.
“Guess what the Nun said to me today,” says my mother. “The Nun” means the principal, Sister Mary Augustus. It’s like “The President.” You don’t need to say which one. Although school was closed, my mother went in to work this morning.
“We’re all going to hell? That’s pretty much the only thing I’ve ever heard her say.”
“Oh, Monse, why are you always so mad? She told me after we get back from the break, I can be an assistant in the kindergarten instead of just cleaning all the time.”
“How will that go?”
“I’m going to help the teacher in the afternoons.”
“Can you do that? I mean, can they do that?”
“Well, I think I’ve done a pretty good job with my own children.”
“I don’t mean that, I mean . . . you don’t speak English.”
“I speak a little. And it turns out that the kindergarten teacher speaks Spanish, too. And guess what.” I am really not in the mood for guessing games. Luckily, she doesn’t wait for me to guess.
“I’m going to take English class at the library.”
“When did all this happen?”
“I just signed up last week.”
I see.
“So I’ll need you home on Tuesday nights.” She’s not asking, she’s telling. I’m not sure I like this new and improved mother.
“Why?”
“You’ll have to watch Jose while I’m in class.”
I consider arguing, and root around my head for ammunition for about thirty seconds before giving up.
My father comes out of his room. He hasn’t shaved. He looks like a wild animal, like one of the lions on National Geographic before they bring down a gazelle after a long, hard drought. All that fear in his eyes yesterday is gone and seems replaced by thirsty lion hatred.
“Hey, little snot, don’t you say Merry Christmas to your father?” he asks. I say nothing. I believe the little snot is not going to say Merry Christmas to this guy. But I can tell that talking or not talking will all lead to the same thing.
“No? Am I too pathetic for that?” he says with a sneer. I can see that he will choose Christmas to avenge our little coffee shop run-in. Great. I knew about ten seconds after that happened that I would pay for it one day.
He stands over me. “I’m talking to you.”
“I hear you,” I say. Does that warrant a smack? I wait. Brace. Nope, not today. Not yet, anyway.
“Get your coat on; we’re going to New York.”
“Jorge, it’s Christmas,” says my mom.
“Yeah, so it’s Christmas. So I want to talk to my family in Argentina. So New York is beautiful at Christmas. Can a man want to do something nice on Christmas with his family? Is that allowed? Get ready.”
My mother quietly takes Jose by the hand and goes into our room.
I square off in front of him. “You see she’s cooking, right?”
“She can cook when we get back.”
“Why do we have to go to New York now?”
“Because I said we’re going to New York. Who the hell do you think you are, questioning me?”
“It’s Christmas. It’s not just what you want. It’s cold. How are we going to get to New York anyway?”
“I borrowed a car.”
“You borrowed a car? You don’t even have a driver’s license. You want to be driving around at Christmas with a fake license?”
Smack. The skin tingles like a burn and my cheekbone aches. Even though I knew it was coming, it still makes me fist-clenching furious.
“You don’t ask me questions. Now go get dressed before I drag you out by your hair.”
I run down my usual options. Call the cops. No, get deported. Murder him in his sleep. Messy, very messy. Plus, get deported after thirty years in jail. Hit him back. Get my butt kicked, make the neighbors mad. Neighbors call cops. Get deported. I can’t think of another solution besides sit here and take it.
I dig the nails from my left hand into the thumb of my right hand and concentrate on how that feels. I remember my list. Towels. Sheets. Hair dryer. Add Band-Aids.
“I don’t want to go to New York,” I say.
He gets up close to me. “Get. Dressed. Now.”
My mother is back in the kitchen, a bird in a panic. “Monse, please just go get dressed. It will be nice to go into New York,” she says. She’s not convincing me. She doesn’t look like she’s particularly c
onvinced herself either.
“I don’t understand why he just starts making crazy demands and you just do what he says.”
Smack. I dig my nails into my thighs, through my jeans. It steadies me, keeps me from doing what I want to do, which is hit back.
“Because I’m your father!” he screams. “Because what I say goes! Because you’re a little snot who doesn’t know anything. I have to work seven days a week, when I’m not too busy getting swallowed up in immigration raids by men with guns. And for what? So you can go to that fancy school and learn to think you’re better than me.”
“Actually, I think she works so I can do that.” I know that’s going to bring it, but I can’t resist.
He hits me again and again, harder. My skin stings where he slaps it. I put my forearms in front of my face but that doesn’t help much. I concentrate on not crying. No crying. It’s one thing I can keep from him—my tears. One thing I control.
He hits harder, my ear, and it causes a weird tinny echo. Out from in between my lifted arms, I see Jose crying in the corner.
My mother raises her voice urgently, just under a scream. “Jorge, please! Jorge, it’s Christmas. I know you’re upset, but this isn’t the answer! She’s sorry!”
He pulls back, breathing hard. Hitting me must be hard work. “Somebody’s got to teach her. Somehow she’s got to learn respect. Kids in this country don’t respect anyone. Look at how disrespectful they teach kids to be in this country.”
“What are you teaching me? What! That you’re stronger? You may be stronger now, but one day I’ll be strong and you’ll be weak. And you’ll see what’s going to happen to you then.”
I think that will make him hit harder, but it doesn’t. He deflates like at the coffee shop. I’m almost disappointed.
We go to New York. We come back. We have the empanadas, and, as always, we wait until midnight to open the presents. Jose is unreasonably happy. I guess ignorance is bliss.
Jose gets blocks and a SpongeBob filled with candy, plus some seriously ugly corduroy pants, but at least they have the tags still on them and they seem to be the right size. He sets off to build a pineapple house for SpongeBob.
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