by Amy Lapwing
“Fine,” he said. He thought of the view of the carriage shack behind the house in the dark corner of the lawn, a window in each of the double doors suggesting eyes, the neck collared with milkweed, antique white Queen Anne’s lace and jaunty purple loosestrife. “It’s nice. Not a lot of outlets, though.”
“You’re using your surge protector, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Just, hope the wiring can handle it.” He found a trash bag and stuffed the used packing paper into it.
Teresa had bought them an antique colonial on Thomas Road, a narrow and twisting yet busy north-south route in Kennemac. Second choice had been a newish condo on a quieter road, across from an orchard. It was a nice setting, but something about this old blood red house and its carriage shack had grabbed her. She had never lived in the land of Hawthorne before and the witch and ghost tales fascinated her. She had indicated as much to the savvy realtor who dropped in passing that the house was believed to be haunted. Teresa hoped so.
“Have you decided whether to look for a job?” she asked her son.
“You want me to?” he replied, opening another box.
“Only if you want. Get a job in town, you’ll meet people. Or on campus, even better.”
“Guess I’ll check it out, anyway,” he said. “Pots and pans here?” he said, opening the lower cabinet door next to the stove.
“That’s fine,” she answered. “I don’t think you should work during school, though.”
“Could use the money.”
“No, honestly, we save plenty with just having you live at home.” She took out a wooden cut-out of a pineapple and looked around at the walls. She put it on the counter and foraged in the box looking for something useful. She brought out a heavy object, perhaps a frying pan, and unwrapped it, catching a glimpse of the headline on the crumpled newsprint. Something about a rapist. “‘Course, if you want to work, that’s all right,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Wait and see how busy you are.”
“I’ll be busy, Mom.”
“I know, but if you find some time on your hands, you know, rather than just, get bored.”
Derek stole a look at his mother. She was opening the drawer beneath the stove and stowing a pan there. Her feet were turned out, ankles together, knees apart, as she stood bent over. He knew her lips were pursed into what she thought was a smile.
“Mom, I didn’t have a girlfriend because I was bored.”
She glanced at him. As he appeared calm, she said, “It takes time to meet people. I don’t want you to isolate yourself. Or get too attached to the first, friend, you make.”
“All right, look, let’s agree that you worry about me. I think you worry too much, but, let’s not get into it right now, okay? I’m starting at a new school next month. There’s a lot of stuff I got to do. I won’t be bored, but I’ll work if I find something worthwhile to do, okay?”
“Sure, honey,” Teresa said, glad he had not shouted at her.
“And I won’t cling to the first person I meet. I’ve never done that, I don’t know why you say that. I had tons of friends at Emory.”
“And one girlfriend.”
“Mom, having one girlfriend is a good thing. The alternative is not no girlfriends, Mom, know what I mean? Not these days, anyway.”
“I think it’s good to date lots of people at once. Why go steady?”
Derek sighed and smiled. “You’re sounding cute again.”
“What?” exclaimed Teresa. “You were going steady with her.”
“I was going with her. Only her. But if it makes you feel better, I probably won’t have time to go ‘steady’ with anyone. Okay?”
“Good for you! Go out there and see who’s out there. So many girls! Pretty, beautiful, nice girls! And you’re such an attractive young man. A handsome Tico man.”
“Half-tico,” he said.
“You were born in Costa Rica to a Tica woman. You are a Tico!”
Derek grasped his mother’s shoulders and put a hand over her mouth and told her to be quiet, imitating an old sitcom character. She laughed and he let her go.
“Let’s finish this,” she said. “I need to get to the store before dinner.”
They put away the rest of the culinary basics and she released him to go back upstairs and finish setting up his computer and keyboard while she looked for her purse on the cluttered countertops.
She opened the door and closed it again. It was a small town, she might be noticed as a newcomer. There were probably not many Latinos here, she did not want people to look on her as some dirty spic. She went upstairs to change clothes.
In a skirt and a fresh blouse she went into the bathroom to brush her hair. She was pleased to think she had lost a few pounds in the last weeks, with all the work of the move. She was probably within three pounds or so of her pre-baby weight. Silly to still be carrying around baby weight after twenty years! She turned sideways and looked in the mirror; the belly was not noticeable. She put on some lipstick and smiled at herself, trying not to deepen the lines around her mouth or her eyes. Not bad, she thought.
The coolness in the August evening air gave Teresa a chill as she walked to the store’s entrance. She thought of winter and the snow she had never experienced before. The sight of a young woman in a sleeveless top and cutoffs pushing her carriage to her car made her shiver. It must feel warm, to them, she thought. The trek through the store’s uncrowded aisles seemed endless, she was not accustomed to the layout. She got some pork chops and a ham steak and looked for the chicken. She steered her carriage toward the “POULTRY” sign hanging from the ceiling at the other side of the store.
Three aisles away from her target she stopped. He was standing at the bananas display, picking through the bunches. She stood still watching him as her heart throttled her chest. My God, look at him! Of course he looked older, he was going gray, but she was sure it was him. She wanted to claim him, to scoop him up in a jar and clamp the lid on tight and take him home. She could just go up to him, or no, just sidle up next to him and see if he recognized her. No, it would be devastating if he didn’t. But wouldn’t it be too shocking if she just went up to him now, without any preparation? He might think her crazy. She had thought of writing him, but she knew he was married and she feared interception of her letter.
He put a bunch of bananas in his carriage and looked up when a young woman came to him with a couple of plastic bags of cold cuts. He went to the display next to the bananas and said something to her. He picked up two red, green-streaked mangoes and held them up to his chest. The woman stood back from him, her hands on her hips, shaking her head at him. Teresa thought she heard her say something ending in “cute.” The two of them huddled together as he seemed to explain to her the intricacies of mango selection. He put one of them in their carriage and pushed it as she led them further into the produce section.
From a distance Teresa followed the irresistible man and this woman. Was she his daughter? But Lita had said he was only married five years ago. Must be his wife, then. She looked nineteen! Teresa stopped at the head of the aisle and peeked around the bunches of fresh flowers at them as they picked potatoes. She squinted at Justina, willing her to turn around. White short shorts and a striped top, with a strip of midriff showing! And I was afraid of what people would think of me in a tee shirt and shorts! The younger woman turned her head and seemed to be looking right at Teresa. Teresa ducked out of sight, pretending to look at the flower bunches. All right, not nineteen. But young! That old goat, must have told her about his millions.
Teresa followed them from a distance, doing her shopping, not minding now if he did see her, he was pretty sure he would not do anything to acknowledge her. Not here, anyway. She looked over the baked goods as they checked out. She saw them go to their car as she stood at the counter. They were driving away as she came out of the store.
The sunset light had turned peachy. Michael lowered the visor and glanced in the rearview mirror. S
omething about the woman coming out of the store with her carriage stole his attention. He turned into the street and lost view of the woman.
“September’s coming soon,” said Justina.
“Big year, for you,” he responded.
Justina looked at the peach clouds and imagined the challenges of tenure application that would define her life this fall. She felt a quiet exhilaration, able to hold the turbulence at arm’s length, an entire month away. She hoped the rosy, confident feeling would prevail. No point in contemplating failure.
Damn if that didn’t look like her. He smiled to himself and shook his head.
Justina was still looking out her window and missed it.
There were two affiliations Derek could make use of to meet people on campus. He was a member of the Tau Nu fraternity, which had a chapter here. And he was an international student, sort of. In any event, he felt comfortable with other Latinos from the Americas and would go to their get-togethers. There was a party welcoming international students to campus the Saturday before classes started. He dropped by the frat house on Friday to let them know he existed. He met a brother named Aaron Barber and mentioned the I.S. party the following night. Aaron said he might see him there, it depended on what his date wanted to do. Derek said sure and went to the bookstore to buy books for his courses.
Derek arrived at the party at about ten on Saturday night. He had checked out the keg parties around the common first because he knew most of the Latinos at the I.S. party would arrive after nine. He eventually got tired of chatting up the breathless freshman women, all of whom responded with enchanted eyes and big, breathy “Oh”s when he told them his major. Probably they were relieved the answer had not been “Engineering” or “Chemistry” or, even worse, “Computer Science,” real conversation killers. Everybody liked music. And everybody liked him, he felt.
He could hear the Latin beat from two buildings away as he approached the dorm where the I.S. party was going on. The darkened room was jumping with conversation and dancing bodies. Here the girls actually smiled as they gyrated their hips and rhythmically pushed out their chests, exuberant, unselfconscious versions of the sullen MTV beach babes. He stood inside the door and looked around to see if he knew anyone.
“Hi!” A woman was smiling at him. “Come in and tell us who you are and where you’re from!” she invited.
“Derek Bartel. Costa Rica.”
Justina’s smile deepened with surprise as she shook his hand, and she told him her name and introduced him to Pascale and Denis.
“Another Tico!” crowed Pascale. “Quelle merveille!” She saw Michael coming, drinks and goodies in his hands. “Michel, viens ici!”
“Michael, you must meet a countryman,” said Justina, taking the cups and giving two to Denis and Pascale. “This is my husband, Michael Calderón. I’m sorry, tell me your name again?”
Michael handed the little plate of cookies he was holding to Pascale and said, “Here, chérie, a treat for the baby.” Pascale leered at the sight of the cookies, Denis rolled his eyes, and Michael turned to the new student.
Derek told Michael his name, hoping he would not grill him about his so-called homeland. The older man simply shook his hand and greeted him Costa Rican-style, “‘Dios,” and asked him what town he was from. Derek told him his mother’s family were from a little village in Guanacaste, but that he and his mother lived in the states now.
“What do you study, Derek?” asked Pascale.
“Music,” he said for the hundredth time that night. He did not want to keep talking to these chaperones. He looked around the room and spotted Aaron with a girl. She was unbelievable, with a long, slender body, and she danced coaxingly with Aaron, as if the guy needed to be coaxed, the hard points of her nipples evident beneath her white tank top. He could not take his eyes off her.
Michael looked over his shoulder to follow Derek’s gaze and spotted Grace. He, too, watched her dance, like all the men around her, until it became uncomfortably pleasant. He turned back to their little group.
“All Ticos must be so musical, hein?” Pascale said, looking from Derek to Michael. “Do you sing, Derek?”
“No, actually.”
“Then you won’t have him in your choruses, Michael,” said Pascale.
“What kind of music do you do, Derek?” asked Justina for Michael, knowing he would not ask Derek himself; some guy thing, she supposed.
“I compose,” said Derek, watching Aaron follow his guffawing date out of the room.
“But you may have him in your composition course!” exulted Pascale. His wife’s voice grated on his nerves; Denis took a step away from her.
“You teach composition?” said Derek, sounding a bit incredulous.
“Yes,” said Michael. He had noted Grace’s exit and Aaron’s grasping her breasts when he thought they were out of sight.
Justina stood smiling politely at her husband, waiting for him to continue his response to the new student. She seemed small and dutiful to Denis; her shoulders looked bony, but he imagined her arms were soft in an embrace. “Justina,” Denis said, shifting his weight to be closer to her, “I can’t remember how the rest of this goes.” He recited two lines of a love poem by Eluard. “Elle est debout sur mes paupières et ses cheveux sont dans les miens.” To Denis’ chagrin, the lull in the conversation caused them all to listen to Justina’s response.
“Hm,” she said, “I don’t recognize that one. Sorry, Denis.”
Denis looked for a place to settle his embarrassed eyes; he found ease staring at Pascale’s shoulder. When his wife turned her head to look at him, he looked at the floor. “Oh, well,” he said.
Pascale tried to tilt her pelvis up to stretch out her weary back. Michael dragged up a chair for her and she took a load off, turning her back to her husband.
“Justina, why don’t you introduce Derek to Rosalia," said Michael. "She’ll show him around.”
“Come on, hombre, you’ll like Rosalia. She knows everybody.” Justina took him to a dark-skinned, red-haired student who turned to them and flashed Derek a sweet smile of welcome.
“How many more weeks, Pascale?” asked Michael. “Can I feel?”
“Go ahead.”
Michael put his hands on her protruding belly while she sat up, stock-still, hoping the baby would kick. “How much longer?”
“Four weeks,” said Pascale with relief.
“I know Pascale is doing fine. How you doing, Denis?” asked Michael, taking his hands off Denis’ wife.
Denis bobbed his head from side to side: so-so.
Pascale sat up straighter and murmured to Michael, “He’s sick of this fat woman.”
“Piggy!” Michael exclaimed, usurping Denis’ term of endearment, “you’re not fat! You are so beautiful! More beautiful than ever.”
Pascale blushed and smirked, not sure if she could believe him. Denis looked her up and down, his eyes scrutinizing her waistless form from the hugely plump, drooping breasts to the round hips, trying to see what Michael saw.
Michael looked again at Pascale’s face and saw the pink happiness in her cheeks, and in her eyes the generous hopefulness accommodating a visiting sadness. “Really, I am so happy for you, Pascale.” She smiled at her old friend. He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth and then on each of her cheeks and smiled into her eyes a moment.
Denis squared his shoulders and walked out of the room.
Justina returned from fraternizing with the enemy. “He kissing you again?” she said to Pascale. “Just tell him to cut it out, like this—” she bopped Michael on the head— “Knock it off, already!”
Pascale’s gestating woman’s brain could think of nothing to say except, when are you going to get pregnant again, Justina? “We should have asked who his mother is,” she said instead.
“Who?” said Justina.
“That student,” said Pascale. “Derek Chose. He said his mother was Costa Rican. Can’t be more than three or four hundred peop
le in the whole country, you probably know her, Michael.”
“I don’t think I know anyone from Guanacaste,” he said. But then he remembered he did. Teresa had been from that province. He remembered the distant view of the woman at the grocery store a few weeks ago. Was this one of those coincidences too unlikely to be a coincidence? “We are more than three millions now, Pascale, so I doubt I know her.”
Pascale shrugged and showed them the inside of her lower lip. “Should have asked anyway, out of politeness,” she said.
Michael looked across the room for Derek and found him, talking with Rosalia’s group. He tried to imagine a resemblance to Teresa. He was tall, she was petite. He had curly hair, she had straight hair. He was rather fair, she was dark. He cocked his head at his foolishness and looked at his watch. They would stay an hour more. He danced with Justina and then with Pascale, enduring condescending smiles from the students they mingled amongst. Justina and Michael ditched the joint at eleven-thirty and went home to their own little after-party. Latin dancing had worked its charm on her, again. He nuzzled the most beautiful breasts in the world and forgot all about the woman from Guanacaste.
Grace focused on the sky blue— Tau Nu blue, the brothers called it— foam rubber beer can sleeve with the white letters “T N” on top of the dresser. The sound of Aaron’s breathing was suspended; she glanced down at him; he was about to come. With his eyes closed like this, he looked very handsome to her. She imagined his eyes wet with love for her. ‘Punkin.’ She felt a touch of a thrill at the thought of coming with him. It disappeared and the boy came with a grunt, his brown wavy hair trembling. She continued to rock on him as he turned his head and kept his eyes closed. The wondrous moment was over for him; he looked up at her; he could be engrossed in a chess game, his look said to her. He raised a hand to move his piece.
His caress on her breasts turned her stomach. She knew it was over for him, he was out of the rapture, his street sense had returned; he was soberly watching her trying to get high on him. How distasteful and deadening it was, like seeing Christmas decorations in the stores in September. Trying to make you feel an ungenuine joy, to get something out of you. She moved her hips back and up and his penis flopped like a dead fish onto his groin.