by Naima Coster
There was a terra-cotta-colored restaurant folded into the corner of a shopping center just off the main artery of Valentine Road. In the window blinked a sign: TAMALES, CERVEZA Y MÁS.
Inside the restaurant, there was a bar, vinyl booths, a bad mural of a chili pepper cartoon hero on a quest. The lights were dim, although the scene inside was relatively wholesome. The seats were crowded with pairs and families, eating beans and rice, drinking soda from frosted glasses filled with ice. A waiter approached her and said, “Señorita, how can I help you?” Margarita liked that. She asked to sit at the bar.
She ordered a beer and a shot of tequila, and the bartender blinked at her but didn’t fuss. They arrived along with a basket of tortilla chips. She plowed through the chips, the burning salsa much hotter than she’d expected. She shot back her tequila then asked for another to keep company with her beer. When the bartender returned with her fresh pour, she showed him a picture of her father.
The photograph was old, from around the time Margarita had been in high school. Her father looked as if he were in his late thirties. He was tan, the holes in his ears empty, the diamond studs gone, likely lost or pawned. He was too lean, the sinew of his muscles visible, as if he were a man who had done manual labor that wore his body down, although his work in the auto shops was hardly that—he rolled under and out from cars, fixed up the paint jobs, and anything heavy was lifted by machines. He was bronze skinned, smiling despite his missing teeth: one in the front, a lower canine, a few molars in the back. His eyes were slitted, as if he were boring a hole with his gaze at the photographer. Margarita didn’t know who had taken it, or where it was from. Lacey May had given it to her.
“Well?” she asked.
“No lo conozco,” the bartender answered, and she knew enough Spanish to understand that. He asked her if she wanted to order any food, and she asked for another tequila instead. Margarita felt the liquor searing her stomach. The sharp edges of the chips bothered her gums. Everything was wrong, and it was taking over her body, too. Her mother was dying, possibly, maybe. They all were dying, but Lacey May was dying sooner, much sooner than they’d expected. And, for all she knew, her father was dead. When Robbie first started disappearing, they worried he’d been hurt, but he always turned up afterward. It became the pattern, a normal thing, but Margarita never lost sight of the fact that one time the disappearance would be for good. She didn’t think of it much—what was the point? When he died, he died, just like any of them, but she wondered about it now. Whether the plot twist none of them expected would be that Robbie was already gone. She’d get her fare back to California no matter what, but she didn’t like to think about her father no longer being alive. It was easier for her if her parents stayed stuck in the same rhythms—Lacey May and Hank working at the store, living out their little makeshift marriage, and Robbie, fixing cars, getting high, vanishing, and reappearing, calling the girls drunk to tell them how much he loved them. She knew what to expect that way; she could focus on her own life, her career. For years, her parents had been a familiar act, playing on the television set on mute. She didn’t have to watch, but they were always there.
She called herself back to reality. Robbie was probably fine, up to the usual. It had only been a couple of weeks.
When the bartender returned with another shot, he paused in front of her, measuring. He must have been around her age, brown eyed, gaunt. He had a chipped tooth, but otherwise, he was handsome. Margarita waited for him to come on to her, or to ask her if she was sure she could handle another drink. The answer was, yes, of course, either way.
“Señorita,” he said. “Here’s that drink you ordered. But do you desire something a little bit stronger?”
“Stronger how? Like a double shot?”
“Not a drink. Something else.”
He bit his lip and looked over his shoulder, as if there were someone else lurking behind the bar. He was nervous, and suddenly Margarita got it.
“What? Like pills?”
“Pills, powder, rock. We have everything.”
“In the restaurant?”
He shook his head. “Just me. I’m connected.”
He looked so innocuous in his blue polo shirt, his clean shave. Was this how things worked in North Carolina? Margarita doubted he had shrooms, but maybe he did. Weed wasn’t worth the high if she got busted here—it wasn’t L.A. She’d heard of friends from high school getting in trouble just for the paraphernalia—bongs, pipes—even when they didn’t have anything on them. Besides, she had to meet her sisters.
“Just give me the tequila,” she said, and he nodded, slid a fresh glass across the counter.
“But if you change your mind,” he said, polishing the countertop, stalling. “You know where to find me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said and waved him away. She knew it was rude, but she had to stay clean if she was going to survive these days with her sisters. They’d know immediately if she were on something. Then Diane would be circling her, like she was the one in need of healing, and Noelle would be scoffing at her, the way she already did, but with reason. She’d stick to what was easy to handle, what wouldn’t interfere. One more beer, and then she’d go.
The hood of the sedan was smoking when Margarita pulled into the spot in front of the sushi restaurant. The bumper sagged, and the left rearview mirror was smashed, the wires exposed and dangling, the headlights cracked.
In the restaurant, she found her sisters huddled at a table by the window. They had already started eating without her, a platter of soybeans between them. They were sharing. Of course they were. She clattered into her seat and saw both of them staring agape at her.
She said nothing and picked up the menu.
“We tried to wait,” Noelle said. “But we got hungry. You’re an hour late.”
There was something conciliatory in her tone, but this didn’t make Margarita feel any better. Any gestures from Noelle would be temporary—she always went back to thinking of herself, assured she was right and that only she could see the truth: about their family, this town, the world.
“Oh, fuck off,” Margarita said. “I’m not surprised.” She felt her eyes burn as she said it, so she reached into her purse and put on her sunglasses. She stared at the menu again, although the items on the list swirled before her.
“Are you drunk?” Diane put a hand on her shoulder, and Margarita shrugged her off.
“I might as well tell you now while you’re feeling concerned,” Margarita said. “I rear-ended a guy. Just a little bump. But I convinced him not to call the cops. We exchanged numbers. I’ll handle it.”
Diane stood from her seat and craned to look out the window toward the street. She saw the plume of smoke rising from the hood of the car.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s fine,” Margarita said. “I’ll take it into the shop when we’re done here.”
“While you’re drunk?” Noelle said. “You’re going to keep on driving that thing?”
The server arrived wearing a trim lavender blouse with a ruffled collar. Margarita followed the line of her pencil skirt down to a pair of black heels. She noticed, for the first time, the white tablecloths, and that the menu was a slip of paper in a leather folder. This was a fancy sushi place.
“Hi, there,” Margarita said. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”
The woman obliged. The phone was humongous in her hands. Margarita jerked her chair closer to her sisters. Noelle and Diane sat in silence, while Margarita flung an arm around their shoulders, straightened her back, lifted her chin, twisted her face to the side.
“Say sushi,” she said. She examined the picture, deemed it beautiful, and then asked the server for seaweed salad, a spicy tuna roll, and the sake list.
She felt she had collected herself enough to push the glasses up on her forehead to look her sisters in the eyes. Diane had her arms folded in front of her chest and was looking down at her lap like a cranky little girl. Noelle was shaking her hea
d side to side in a rhythm that seemed involuntary. She was wearing pearls in her ears, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that exhibited the clear six points of her diamond face. She was so fucking pretty.
Margarita tilted her head at Noelle, waiting for her to explode.
“You must be trolling us,” Noelle finally said. “You think this is all a game. Papi’s missing, and Mama’s in the hospital. I’m not happy to be here, either, but we’re all here for a reason.”
“And what reason is that?” Margarita said. “Besides that none of us has anything better to do? Mama isn’t dying. We’re not the ones filling up her IV, giving her shots. Tell me, why are we all here?”
“To be together,” Diane said. “Isn’t that obvious? That’s what families do in times of crisis. They come together.”
“That’s beautiful,” Margarita said. “You should put it on a card. Did you ever think of that as a side hustle besides your little dog camp? You were born to write Hallmark cards, Diane.”
Diane looked stunned. Usually, Margarita didn’t come after her with such force. Margarita seemed to balk at herself, too. She looked away from her sisters, out the window. It was a bright day, the leaves green and gold. Pedestrians ambled along the street. The converted tobacco factories were pristine, all glass and brick office buildings and condominiums now. She observed the serene lunch hour outside. When she looked back at the table, Noelle was fuming, Diane wiping her eyes quietly with her fist.
“You’re right,” Noelle said. “I have nothing better to do. I left you all because I wanted to build my own life. The life I built is falling apart. I quit my job. I had a miscarriage. Nelson is cheating on me.”
Margarita awakened to the news from her sister. Noelle went on.
“But that doesn’t mean I was wrong to leave. And neither were you. I’ve been thinking. Our parents are always going to have their problems, but that doesn’t mean we have to stay away from each other. We can be family on our own terms.”
Noelle put her hand on the table, palm up. She was waiting for Margarita to take it.
“What are you talking about?” Margarita said. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know why I’m always so hard on you. I was thinking about it today, while I was out with Diane. And I think it’s just because I’m angry. I hate being here. But that’s not your fault. You didn’t make it that way.”
“You all were talking about me?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Diane said. She was sniffling.
Margarita thrust a napkin at her. “Oh, go on, cry it out. The baby needs to feel her feelings.”
“That’s enough,” Noelle said. “Why are you turning on her?”
“I don’t need you to stick up for me,” Diane said. “I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m tired of being stuck between you two.”
Diane was whispering at them, but her voice was hard. It rose above the happy chatter of the restaurant.
“You all see me like someone who will always be around. Like some pathetic kid who hasn’t grown up, who just wants everyone to get along. And I do. But I don’t need it to happen. If it doesn’t happen, I’ll be fine. I don’t need any of you anymore. I’ve got a family of my own. Alma.”
“No offense, sweetie, but all that stuff about friends forever is a sham,” Margarita said. “Friends break up just like lovers do. Friends let you down, too.”
“I’m not talking about friendship. Alma isn’t my friend. She’s my partner.”
Her sisters stared at her. Diane felt herself shake under the table, but she wasn’t frightened. She was enraged. She felt the charge surge through her limbs.
Noelle was the first to speak. “That’s wonderful,” she said softly and reached for her sister. Diane swatted her away.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “I’ve had enough of both of you and your problems for one day. It’s not just Mama and Papi and Hank. The two of you are a burden. I’m taking the truck, and I’m leaving. The two of you find Papi. I’m out. And, Margarita, you better fix my fucking car.”
Diane shot up and sent the water glasses on the table toppling. She slapped down her napkin and headed for the door. Her sisters didn’t try to stop her. They watched her through the glass. She climbed into Alma’s truck, revved up the engine, and peeled away.
The server returned with Margarita’s food, her little cup of sake. Noelle and Margarita sat in silence, both of them peering out the window, watching the vacant spot their sister had left. Eventually another car pulled into it; another family piled out of the van and onto the street.
“Go ahead and eat up,” Noelle finally said. “We’ve got to find Papi.” She took the cup of sake from in front of Margarita. She took a sip. “I’ll drive.”
They left Diane’s car at the garage and walked a mile together to the rental place. Noelle took out a car in her name, and together they cruised around Valentine, wondering where else they should check.
“So, it was going to be a boy?”
“I never actually checked. Nelson wanted it to be a surprise. And once it was gone, it didn’t make sense to know.”
“How far along were you? Like, was it a baby or just a clump of cells?”
“I was at the beginning of my second trimester. I’d felt him move.”
“Did it feel like butterflies? That’s what they say.”
Noelle smiled at her sister. “It felt like gas.”
They laughed. Noelle kept driving.
“You stopped following me online,” Margarita said.
“I did.”
“How come?”
“You seemed so happy, but I knew you weren’t. It depressed me.”
“Who’s really happy nowadays anyway? There are more important things than happiness.”
“Like what?”
“Inner peace,” Margarita said, but Noelle could tell she wasn’t joking.
Margarita fished in her purse for her pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“I’m not pregnant anymore,” Noelle said. She rolled down the window.
They were passing the stretch of Valentine that was just a row of fast food. Hot dogs, fried chicken, glazed doughnuts.
“I want a doughnut,” Margarita said, pointing with her cigarette. A sign announced they were hot and fresh.
Noelle smirked at her. “Are you high?”
“Hungover. I can feel my headache already.”
They sat on the curb in the parking lot, eating the fat, frosted doughnuts in front of the green SUV Noelle had rented. Noelle drank a burnt black coffee while Margarita guzzled a lemonade, licked her fingers.
“How do you stay so skinny when you eat like that?”
“It’s all math,” Margarita said. “You just have to keep track. Indulgence and then restriction.”
“As long as it’s not drugs,” Noelle said. “You remember how skinny Papi got? I hope you’re staying away from the hard stuff. Only party drugs.”
“They’re all party drugs,” Margarita laughed, then it hit her, and she lurched off the curb, sent her lemonade cup flying. Ice and liquid spilled across the asphalt.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “I know how to find Papi.”
They parked in front of the TAMALES, CERVEZA Y MÁS sign. Margarita led the way directly to the bar. The bartender she’d seen before wasn’t there, so she called over the new barkeep.
“Oye!” she said, using what little Spanish she had before she ran out. Noelle slid up beside her, resisting the urge to tell Margarita to lower her voice. She started describing the bartender she’d seen earlier in the day, explaining that she needed to speak with him. The woman behind the bar understood, and she left to go find him—he was still on his shift.
Margarita was holding the old photograph of Robbie, curled up in her fist. Noelle took it from her and flattened it on the bar.
“This is from after,” Noelle said. “After Papi mucked it all up for good.”
Margarita laughed. “Which time?”
&nbs
p; “You know which time.”
“Oh, right. And he tried to make it all better by buying us gifts. As if that would make any difference.”
“He gave Diane that necklace she wears. The emerald charm?” Noelle shook her head. “And he gave me a leather jacket. Could you believe it? It was too big for me. A men’s size.”
Margarita looked at the picture of her father. Usually, she felt neutrally toward him: neither good feeling nor bad. It had taken years.
“What did he give you?” Noelle asked. “To make up for it all?”
“I can’t remember,” Margarita said. She looked away from his face, the photograph bleached of color, as if it had been a hundred years.
“You look like him,” Noelle said, her finger landing on the expanse of their father’s cheekbones.
Margarita pointed at the expression in their father’s eyes, the impression he gave of scowling even as his mouth split into a smile. “So do you,” she said.
The bartender arrived, taking in the two sisters, and he grinned. Before he got the wrong idea, Margarita told him what it was that she wanted. Her specificity startled Noelle—she hadn’t known there were so many varieties, so many preferences you could tease out when you ordered. The bartender seemed as if he hadn’t known either. Noelle resisted the urge to tell Margarita, This isn’t L.A. The bartender said he could handle it and started writing his phone number on a napkin. Margarita caught his pen out of his hand, set it down. She shook her head.
“If I’m paying for it,” she said, “I want to meet your connect. I’ll pay you both—I don’t care. I just want to make sure I’m getting something good.”