“Hey, mi amor,” says Carlos, the owner’s son and Joaquin’s boss, looking up from a table where he is standing and finishing some side work, rolling clean utensils in bright red cloth napkins. Carlos is a big man, old enough to be my father or at least my uncle—if I had either one of those things. He has kind, dark eyes and a black buzz cut, and Joaquin likes him because Carlos never acts like he’s too important to do small stuff like filling up the salt and pepper shakers. “You here for your good-for-nothing brother?”
“Yeah, if he doesn’t want to have to ride his bike home,” I say over the strains of accordion skittering out of the stereo. El Mirador plays conjunto music every day, all day. Joaquin once told me he hears it in his dreams.
Carlos hollers back toward the kitchen that I’m here. The restaurant is mostly empty at this hour since it’s after the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd. The groceries are melting in the back seat of the Honda, so I hope Joaquin will hurry up.
“Hey, Elena.”
It’s Miguel Fuentes in his white busboy uniform, clutching a gray plastic tub. He offers me a smile. I haven’t seen him since that first beach party of the summer when he asked me out and embarrassed the both of us. I wonder if he came out of the kitchen just because he heard I was here. God, I hope not.
“Hey, Miguel,” I say, slipping my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I try to smile and not be rude, but I’m hoping Joaquin picks up the pace.
“Everything going okay?” he says, lifting up his shoulders and letting them fall, all forced casualness.
“Yeah, everything’s good,” I answer. My mind flashes back to J.C. Back to the kisses by my car that made my entire body pulsate. Back to the thrill of knowing in a few hours I’ll be sliding into his VW Bug and heading back to his place. It’s not that Miguel’s not a nice person. It’s more that J.C. is basically a man and Miguel isn’t. Miguel probably shares a bedroom with his little brother. And he probably still plays Dungeons and Dragons with those weird guys he hung out with in junior high.
“I saw Labyrinth the other day at the Cinemark,” Miguel announces out of nowhere, confirming what I’ve just been thinking. He grips the gray tub with his hands and smiles.
“Really?” That movie looks weird as hell. “That looks like a pretty good movie,” I say.
“Yeah, it is,” he says. “David Bowie’s in it.”
“Oh. I guess I never thought of him as, like, an actor or anything. Not that I really listen to his music, either.”
“You don’t listen to Bowie?” Carlos interrupts from his side work. He frowns at me. “He’s a musical genius.” I shrug. At least now I don’t have to talk to Miguel by myself.
Miguel rolls his eyes. “If you think Bowie’s so great, why don’t we listen to Ziggy Stardust instead of Flaco Jiménez every day?”
“Ziggy Stardust doesn’t really go with fajitas,” Carlos argues.
At last Joaquin comes out, untying his white waiter’s apron from around his waist and tossing it at Miguel, where it lands expertly over his left shoulder.
“Two points!” my brother cries. “Hey, Miguel, would you throw that in the laundry for me?”
Miguel acts all put upon, but he laughs and so does Carlos, and I experience this weird moment where I see what my brother is like out in the real world. Easygoing. Relaxed. Maybe even a little bit goofy.
“You can put your own laundry away, man,” argues Miguel, but you can tell he’s joking. It’s obvious Miguel looks up to Joaquin. I get it, because Joaquin’s older, he’s a waiter and not just a busboy, and Joaquin’s had girlfriends before, secret ones that Mami never knew about, but girls who held his hand as he walked down the halls of LBJ High. Girls who waited for him at his locker, excited to see him. Miguel has never gone out with anyone in his life. He probably hasn’t even kissed anyone. It’s pitiful, really. But I’m so embarrassed for him that all I can do is smile at him.
“You ready?” Joaquin asks.
“Yeah, and we gotta hurry,” I say. “There’s ice cream in the Honda and it’s probably melted into a chocolate puddle in the back seat by now.”
We head around the corner to El Mirador’s parking lot, and I start up the car while Joaquin goes to retrieve his ten-speed from the bike rack at the side of the building. As I fiddle with the air-conditioning vents to make sure they’re open to full blast, I see a girl with a short, dark-haired pixie cut walk up behind Joaquin. He doesn’t see her approaching, and he jumps when she leans in and pinches his waist. When he turns around, she starts laughing, a laugh loud enough I can hear it through the windows of the Honda and over the insistent hum of the AC. Joaquin smiles so widely I know this is xoxoAmy in the flesh.
Joaquin nods toward the car, probably alerting Amy that his little sister is steps away, spying on him. For this I’m glad, because the last thing I need is to witness my brother kissing some girl while I’m sitting in a car full of melting groceries. I could just look away, I guess, but I can’t stop myself from peering through the window out of curiosity. This girl is unusual, that’s for sure. I think I’ve seen her in the halls of LBJ, hanging out with some of the few punks that exist on Mariposa Island. She’s usually decked out in big black boots covered in complicated metal clasps, dark red lipstick, heavy eye makeup, black T-shirts, and knee-length denim cutoffs tattooed in black Sharpie with words and symbols I can’t understand. xoxoAmy is definitely not the kind of girl who listens to Madonna or Power 104, and she isn’t the type of sweet-looking, clean-faced pep squad girl that Joaquin has gone out with before.
Through all the weirdness she’s cute, though. It makes sense, because even though it’s gross to think about for even a second, my brother isn’t a bad-looking guy. I’m convinced he got more of the beautiful genes from Mami’s side of the family than I did, but the way they’re arranged on Joaquin’s guy face makes him more handsome than pretty.
He’s acting like he knows it, too, because right now he’s leaning against the side of El Mirador like he’s some modern James Dean and he’s got all the time in the world. He shrugs and motions with his hands and Amy keeps leaning her head back and laughing her ass off. My brother might not be bad-looking, but he’s not that funny. Relax, Amy, jeez. Then I wonder if that’s how silly I seem in front of J.C. I sigh and keep watching—the silly shoves and light touches and exaggerated laughs. Flirting. I check my watch. Mami’s going to want us home soon. I lean on the horn.
The two of them glance at me. Amy actually raises her hand up, like a wave, I guess? I wave back, not wanting to seem rude. Finally, Joaquin nods, says one more thing, Amy laughs like a maniac one last time, and then he walks to the car, wedging his bike into the hatchback. Amy heads inside El Mirador.
“So who’s that?” I say as we pull out of the parking lot.
“Amy,” Joaquin says. “You don’t know her from school?”
I glance at him, a knowing look. “Does it look like we hang out in the same circles?”
Joaquin nods. “Yeah, I guess. She’s really cool, though.” He allows himself the tiniest smile, and I know he thinks she’s more than just cool.
“What grade?”
“Going into her senior year.”
“Okay.”
We drive in silence. I chew on my bottom lip a bit, getting up the courage. “So, does this mean you’re not moving away to California?”
Joaquin doesn’t react at first. Just keeps staring straight ahead. It’s quiet for so long I’m embarrassed I asked the question.
“Forget it,” I say at last.
“No, Elena,” Joaquin jumps in. “It’s … I don’t know. I actually don’t know what I’m doing.” He scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit, then exhales loudly. “Fuck it. There it is. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I glance at him. His eyebrows furrow. There are five hundred things he’s not telling me, I know it.
“So you still might leave?” I ask, my voice soft. Hopefully not annoying.
“I mean, I guess I’m still thinking about
it. But, Elena, it’s not like if I leave, you’ll never see me again.”
We pull up to a stoplight and I give him a look. “Come on, Joaquin. Don’t bullshit me. You know it won’t be the same. California isn’t exactly down the street. It’s not even Houston.”
Joaquin jiggles his leg a bit, drums his fingers on his kneecap. “Let’s just say I don’t know. And if it makes you feel any better, right now, no, I have no immediate plans to move to California, okay?”
I take a deep breath, satisfied. “Okay. Good.” I choose to ignore right now and immediate and just hold on to no plans to move to California.
We’re getting close to home, but I guess Joaquin thinks he’s allowed a question now, too, because he says, “So … what’s up with you and Mr. Grateful Dead?”
“His name is J.C.”
“As in Jesus Christ?” He laughs a little at that, but it hits me that I have no idea what those letters stand for and probably should. “It stands for John Christopher if you must know,” I say, making my voice extra snotty. “And he’s great. He’s super nice. We’re hanging out tonight.”
“The Callahans need you?”
“No, they’re out of town. I might just sneak out if you’re going to be home? Or do you have plans with Amy?” We turn onto our street.
“Well, I didn’t have plans for sure,” Joaquin says, his voice the tiniest bit prickly. “I mean, she’s working until close, so I guess not.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I say.
“You know, maybe if you were hanging out with a guy like Miguel this wouldn’t even be an issue,” he says.
I pull into our driveway and park, glad I can give Joaquin all of my attention as I fire him the most incredulous look I can come up with.
“Miguel? From El Mirador?”
Joaquin throws his hands up like he shouldn’t have said anything. “Relax, Elena. I’m just saying Mami might actually let you go out with a guy like Miguel, and then you wouldn’t have to sneak around like you have to with Mr. Grateful Dead.”
I cut the engine and slide the keys out of the ignition with force. “Could you please call him J.C.?” I say, my voice thick with frustration. “And could you please stop living in a fantasy world where Mami would let me go out with any guy, even a guy like Miguel Fuentes?”
“Maybe if you stood up to her once in a while, you might get lucky,” Joaquin shoots back, giving me a pointed look. But I can tell he’s regretting this already, like he always does the moment he tries to analyze Mami with me.
“Please stop talking about something you know nothing about,” I say. In the thirty seconds we’ve been sitting here without air-conditioning, I’ve already started to sweat. I open the door, signaling to Joaquin that this conversation is over. I get out and Joaquin follows my lead.
“Look, Elena, all I’m saying is …” He pauses, looking up at the front porch before lowering his voice to a stage whisper, “Forget Mami. What I mean is that Miguel is a nice guy and I know he likes you … I mean, he’s always talking about you. Asking about you. You deserve a nice guy is what I’m saying.”
I peer at Joaquin over the rusting hood of the Honda, my anger softening by a few degrees. “Okay,” I say. “Okay, fine. But J.C. is a nice guy, too, you know.” I’m not sure how Joaquin defines nice, but hasn’t J.C. been nice to me? Hasn’t he kissed me dizzy and told me I’m pretty and smiled and laughed at the funny things I’ve said?
Suddenly, there’s the whine of our screen door opening. “What’s taken you two so long?” Joaquin and I both jump. Her voice is thick with bad mood.
“Sorry, Mami,” I say, hurrying to open the back passenger door and grab two paper bags.
“It was my fault,” Joaquin says, coming around to my side and taking the bags out of my hands. “Carlos made me finish some side work before I could go.” I give Joaquin a kind look, gratitude swelling inside my heart for my annoying big brother.
“Your shift ends when it ends,” Mami says definitively from the porch, like she’s some expert on restaurant management. Her blouse is untucked from her khakis, and she scowls and runs her fingers through her mussed-up hair, glancing around to see if anyone is out on the street. She’d hate to be spotted by neighbors looking less than her best, even if she never talks to any of them.
“I’m sorry I made Elena late,” Joaquin says, heading toward the porch steps. I grab more groceries and follow him. Mami doesn’t answer, just turns and heads inside, leaving the screen door to slam in our faces.
“That was helpful,” Joaquin says, with such perfect comic timing I can’t help but laugh, and Joaquin laughs, and we forget everything from before and allow ourselves this little moment together on the porch, straining under the weight of the groceries, like the only two survivors on a life raft who have no choice but to hold on together.
CARIDAD
1961
It all fell apart, both quickly and slowly, like a child’s tower of blocks that teeters for what feels like an eternity before collapsing in one loud clatter.
How strange it was for Caridad to see Juanita counting out ration tickets for meat and sugar, returning from el mercado with her shopping bags more deflated than full. How awful it was to learn one morning that her school was no longer open, that she would be sent to a new school where she would be taught not by her beloved nuns but by bright-eyed, earnest young teachers who spoke of revolution and change and asked Caridad if her parents ever spoke ill of El Comandante. How odd it was to hear her own mother and father speak in slow, careful English—Caridad knew it was their way of keeping things from her—and how frustrating it was not to know what they were speaking about. It didn’t matter that Caridad spied on them regularly, hovering in hallways, listening from the other sides of doors. The foreign sounds were awkward as they climbed out of their mouths, like babies trying to take their first steps. Caridad could understand none of it.
And soon came the awful afternoon Caridad had to say goodbye to Juanita, who was dismissed after Caridad’s parents discovered her listening to El Comandante’s speeches on the kitchen radio, her duties shirked so she could follow his rousing, barking voice for what seemed like hours. How much Caridad’s heart had ached when Juanita had held her close to her starched white dress and whispered, “Nuestro mundo está cambiando por algo mejor, no lo olvides.” Her last words to Caridad had been nothing about their relationship, nothing about their years together—only about how much the world was changing and how that wasn’t even a bad thing, at least not according to Juanita. Caridad had watched her walk down the street and not look back, not even once, until she disappeared around a corner. Caridad had burst into tears, standing there in the noonday heat.
There was a new maid the next week, a gruff, short woman named Marta, who flung herself around the kitchen like a bad storm. She frowned when she discovered Caridad sneaking food out of the kitchen before reminding her of the newly instituted government rationing. She didn’t draw Caridad’s bath or pull the tangles out of her hair or slip her extra dessert. There wasn’t even dessert.
One Sunday when leaving Mass, Caridad and her parents were surrounded by protestors on the street, jeering at them. God was dead and they were too stupid to know it. They were hanging on to the old way, not the new revolutionary way of being. Caridad made eye contact with one little boy, his fists clenched, his mouth open wide and pink. “Estás perdida!” he shrieked. Caridad thought the little boy might be right. Didn’t she feel lost? It seemed, in a way, that God was dead. Everything that had ever mattered to Caridad, everything that she had come to know and claim as her own and believed had been given to her by God had slipped away, as if it had disappeared into the cool blue waters off Varadero Beach where los barbudos had long since taken over. Where they had laid claim to the homes of the really rich, who had been smart enough to leave early, sewing their jewelry into the hems of their skirts and hiding money in books with false bottoms.
But Caridad got out, too, eventually. Although when it starte
d, she didn’t realize she would be leaving, never to return. One morning her mother and father called her into the salita and explained that soon she would be leaving for the United States to practice English. She would be gone for thirty days.
“Will you come with me?” Caridad had asked, confused. She touched the soft velvet of the couch. She studied the silver seashell ashtray on the table in front of her. And she heard her mother say, “No, we already know English. But it’s a good opportunity for you, and when you come back we can speak it with you.” Her father got up, lit a cigarette, and stared out the window, saying nothing. Caridad wished not for the first time that Juanita was still there to make sense of it all, but as soon as she allowed that thought she reminded herself that Juanita had abandoned her, and the soft spaces of her heart that she’d kept for the woman who’d cared for her since birth continued to harden and shrink.
“Graciela’s parents aren’t making her leave and learn English,” Caridad spat. “I think it’s so mean of you.” She crossed her arms and pouted, not capable of reading her mother’s pained face. Not capable of registering the strained expression on her father’s face when he turned away from the window to look at her with sad eyes. Her parents could deliver no good words to comfort Caridad, although they tried, clumsily. The truth was they had not raised their daughter to suffer. In many ways they had not really raised her at all.
And so it was that one morning, dressed in pink pumps and her sweetest pink dress with the white Peter Pan collar and clutching her duffle filled with her favorite clothes and an album of photographs, she got into a car with her parents and headed to the Havana airport, her heart thumping hard in her chest. Her mother waited in the car. Only one parent could go inside with her, they explained, but her mother got out and held Caridad close to her, no longer smelling of Arpège because Arpège could no longer be purchased on the island. Her beautiful mother only smelled of soap and talcum powder. Something about it made Caridad furious, like she was being denied a proper goodbye.
The Liars Page 8