Laughing Through My Tears

by Mia Soto

  He’s asleep on my shoulder as I try to carry him and a bag of groceries up the stairs. Mario meets me at the top of the stairs and takes the bag from me while I open the door. I put Sam down in his crib without as much as a whimper from him. I’ll be getting a five o’clock wake up call tomorrow. When I come back out, Mario has gotten the rest of the bags from the car and is pulling the groceries out for me. Mario is a good guy who wants a hot, young, babe. There are days I’m too old for Mario. Together we’re having a serious mid life crisis.

  “How’s it going?’ He asks with his cute smile. He’s adorable.

  “Not bad.” I start to put the things away as he holds up the movie. “I can’t tonight, Mario. Mark’s coming over.” That trapped feeling comes over me again as I say this.

  It’s obvious that Mario is disappointed. “So you’re really going to do this?”

  “Do what Mario?” I look over my shoulder at him.

  “The whole domestic thing you just got yourself out of.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I like him, and he wants this.”

  “What do you want?”

  Now I’m looking in the freezer and pulling out some freezer burnt ice cream. I think if I dig deep enough I should be able to get to something edible. “I don’t know what I want. But I don’t want my indecision to screw up something that could be great.”

  “We could be great.” He’s leaning against a counter eating some of the chips I just brought in.

  “You’re not even in the race Mario.”

  He looks offended, “and why not?”

  “Because you’re married.”

  “I’m not!” He looks a little sheepish as he says this.

  “If you were honest we might have had a shot.”

  “Really?” He says giving up the gig. I just smile over my spoon of ice cream. I’m sitting on the counter by the fridge as he waves the movie and then drops it on the counter behind him. “Well, watch it with your man. You can give it back tomorrow or whenever.”

  We hear the lock tumble and the door open. It’s Mark, and at least, he’s trying to control his jealousy. He gives Mario one of those guy nods and says, “How’s it going?”

  Mario returns the greeting with a, “not bad.” Mario turns to me then with wicked eyes. He’s taking a decent amount of pleasure in rubbing Mark the wrong way. “See you Marga.”

  I’m smiling as he walks out the door. Mark walks over and looks in the container that I’m eating from.

  “You’re eating this?” His look is disbelieving. I’m still smiling as he takes the container out of my hands and puts it to the side. He spreads my legs and nestles between them to give me one of those magic kisses. “What did he want?”

  “To let us borrow ‘Waitress’,” I say. “Jealous?”

  He surprises me with the truth as he nods his, “yeah, I am. Why do some people call you Marga?”

  “Because that’s my name, Margarita. Margarita Ivanna Ustariz Hunter.” I smile because even I think that’s quite a name.

  He looks surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  I shrug, “I go by Margo too.” The phone rings cutting off his next thought. It’s closer to him than me so I ask, “will you answer that?”

  He does and then hands it to me saying with a shrug, “some guy.” He’s back between my legs, kissing my neck as I say hello.

  “Gorgeous,” Camilo says. “Should I be jealous?”

  The phone is on the loudest level because I can’t hear out of it most of the time. Because of that it’s easy to hear what is being said on the other end. I’m pretty sure Mark hears Camilo because he stops in mid kiss, stands up and moves away. I try to recover with casual indifference.

  “I don’t know – should you?” Camilo is not the committing kind.

  “I won’t let you be that dull. Picket fences and PTAs are not for you.” He’s seems pretty confident about this.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes, gorgeous, that’s entirely too common for someone like you.”

  I’ve had enough of this game. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s run.” He means tomorrow.

  “I can’t. I’m cooking all day. Tuesday?”

  “Come be my mistress. I’ll keep you, and you won’t ever have to work again.” I just smile. In another day and time I might have taken him up on that. Right now, Mark’s peering into my fridge, and I’m hoping he’s pleased that there’s more to offer than applesauce and milk.

  “I’ll see you Tuesday,” I say.

  “Hasta luego, gorgeous.” He clicks off.

  “I went to the grocery,” I say pretty proud of my effort. Mark is leaning against the fridge watching me.

  “Do you have any girlfriends?”

  It’s funny, about a year, maybe two, ago I’d have had to say no to that question, other than one or two. I thought I didn’t even like women that much. But as I get older I realize I like the company of my own kind, and I wish I had more girlfriends.

  “I do. They’re mostly just moms like me.”

  He’s back between my legs. “You’re anything but just a mom.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that you don’t have women friends.” I say between his kisses.

  “I don’t. I have women who want to get me in bed and women I want to get into bed. Well, a woman I want to get into bed. I’m old enough to know they don’t fall inbetween anymore. My guess is they never did.”

  “That’s pretty cynical.”

  “Not really, more realistic. I can pretty much assure you Margo that Mario would like to get into your bed and not to sleep.” This is true. “And whoever that was, definitely didn’t call you just to say hi.” Also true.

  “They know all I am is friendship and nothing more.”

  “It won’t change them from trying for more, believe me. If I were in their shoes, I’d be doing whatever it takes to get you out of this,” he says as he lifts my shirt over my head. “And I’m not usually the jealous kind, but something about you makes me completely unwilling to share.” He’s kissing me again.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask as he pulls my hips to his. He smiles. “For food?” I clarify.

  “Did you cook?” He looks hopeful.

  “No,” I bite my lip and shrink down. “But we can order out, or I can make you a sandwich. I went to the deli.”

  He’s laughing as he picks me up. “Did you go shopping just for me?”

  I grimace with a nod. “Is that bad?”

  We’re on the way to the bedroom before he says, “not at all.”

  ***

  He falls asleep about twenty minutes into ‘Waitress’. I watch it from the comforting pillow of his thick chest and the warm blanket of his arms. I love it. I guess I’m at a point in life where a love story between a mom and a child is as touching as one where she ends up with the hot doctor. The credits are rolling as I’m watching Mark sleep. My chin is resting on his chest which is rising and falling rhythmically. I can’t contain my smile. He makes me happy, no question about it. I slide up a little to press my mouth to his, and he wakes immediately.

  “How did you like it?” I ask. His eyes are closed again, but he’s smiling. “So now I know no romantic comedies for Mark.”

  “Unless they involve you,” he corrects me. “I love it when you wear your glasses.” Interesting, my ex hated them. My contacts were sticking to my eyes earlier. Since I can’t hit the broad side of the barn with an elephant if I’m not wearing one or the other, I opted for glasses.

  “You like nerdy girls?”

  “More like hot for teacher,” he laughs.

  “You’re a Van Halen fan?” Growing up in the eighties with two brothers, I know much about Van Halen and other like minded groups.

  “Not really,” he says.

  “Good, because I wouldn’t want to have to break up with you already.”

  “Break up,” he perks up. “Does that mean we’re dating?”

  “Let’s go to
bed.” I’m smiling and pulling on his hands. He wraps his arms around me as we walk down the hall.

  “I have to check on Sam.” He turns with me, not giving me the opportunity to argue against his joining me on this nightly duty. Sam is in Superman position with both hands above his head and one of his legs caught between the crib slots. His teddy bear is over his head and his blanket is wrapped around his other leg. We smother a laugh as I fix him and kiss him one more time.

  “That’s the cutest kid I’ve ever seen.” Mark is watching me from the bed. I won’t comment again on how much I’m not ready for this level of domestic commitment. I’m ignoring that bit of truth to keep playing the game. My smile is proud. I am easily won by compliments to my kid.

  “Well, I think so.” I slide onto the bed and into his arms, straddling him and letting my hand wander down his bare chest. “But I don’t want to think about that right now.”

  ***

  I get to the church around two in the afternoon. Monday’s I do their grocery shopping and make dessert so it takes some extra time. Iris is already there.

  “Oye, mulatta!” She calls to me as I come in.

  “Di me,” I say. It’s about all I can respond to her in Spanish.

  “Mira,” she’s got that gleam in her eyes that tell me she has some good prensa to lie down. “Dey fire Paul!” I’m right; she does.

  “They did?” Paul is, well was, the jerky office manager for the church. Apparently, he was, well is, having an affair with one of the teachers at the elementary school. Everyone is buzzing about it. She gives me the full Monty as I mix up the desert and turn on the oven. I’m laughing enjoying this bit of gossip as I open the pantry door. As I turn around and flip on the light, I see a huge rat hurdling toward my head. The blood curdling scream must come from me, but I don’t know because I go into a frenzy of swatting and screaming and general freaking out.

  “Aye, Aye!” I hear Iris crying out. “Catch him! Catch him!”

  I’ve scrambled onto the kitchen table, and I’m still screaming as it scurries around trying to avoid Iris’ broom. A few of the priests have run in to see what the commotion is about. Finally Iris traps it with the broom. She’s fearless.

  “I’m not cooking here until you fix this problem!” I cry. My body is shaking with the horrible memory of a rat in my head.

  Father McCleary gives me a hand down and speaks to me in his calming Irish lilt. “My dear, I know. Go home. We’ll get it fixed. Come back tomorrow.”

  “Well I have dessert mixed already.” My tears are welling. I need to work, but I’m not working with rats.

  “Ok, well, do your dessert and then go home. Now go wipe your nose.” He’s such a gentle soul.

  The group is dissipating from the excitement, and Iris goes upstairs to start her cleaning. The oven isn’t hot enough yet to put the muffins in so I go to the bathroom to pull myself together. I just want to jump into a pot of boiling water. Ick, a rat was in my head. They’ve had rat problems here for as long as I’ve been the cook. They keep saying they are going to build a new rectory, but it doesn’t look that that will ever really happen. As I’m washing my face, I smell smoke. I roll my eyes. The oven must be hot and one of the father’s must have dumped something over in it and not bothered with cleaning up after themselves. Smoke pours into the bathroom as I open the door to the hallway. Fighting my way back to the kitchen, I find it ablaze. Holy shit! I scream again. The fathers have already reacted and are trying to pull me out.

  “What about Iris?!” They don’t know it, but I know she wears her headset when she cleans so she may not hear the commotion or realize the place is on fire. I run upstairs before they can stop me. “Iris, Iris!”

  She is coming out of one of the rooms with a panicked look. “I smell smoke.”

  “It’s fire! Come on!”

  I drag her along by the hand. The flames are already at the stairs, but we forge a path through the smoke and soot and get out the front door safely. Everyone in the church family, the fathers, the office help, Iris and I are all in the church parking lot watching the destruction unfold. Thankfully, the church is directly in front of a fire house, and the men are on the scene within minutes of the blaze. The police show up maybe fifteen minutes later. The house is completely ablaze. Apparently the flames got to the pantry where we keep the various cooking oils which has fueled the destruction. Iris and I are black faced and stunned. My hand is over my mouth as I speak to her.

  “Was there something in the oven?”

  “I don’ tink so.” She is seeing her lively hood go up in smokes too.

  The police are questioning us. My name raises red flags immediately. One of the officers has obviously just received his badge and is trying to affect his best Clint Eastwood.

  “You’ve got some bad luck lady.” He’s towering over me with his hands on his hips, and I’m not exactly petite at five six.

  “This was an accident. I turned the oven on and then this...” I hold up my hand to the smoking house.

  “We’ll have to take you in for questioning anyway.” He is writing on some kind of official pad.

  “You must be kidding me? Do I need a lawyer?” I may not watch TV, but I know enough to know that if I’m going ‘in’ a lawyer should be going with me.

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  Just then Father Morales drives up and jumps out. “What happened?”

  “The oven caught fire.” I hear the officer say. I’m thinking about calling a friend of mine who works as a corporate lawyer downtown. I don’t know who else to call.

  “I left my socks in the oven this morning.” Father Morales says in shock. We all look at him. That would explain it.

  “Why were your socks in the oven?” The officer asks confused and maybe a little stunned by the stupidity of the act. It is impossible for the man to know that even though these are priests they are still just men. I’ve seen them stick an entire plastic microwaveable dish into the oven and then leave it for us to find once it melted making a complete mess. It took Iris and I three days to clean that up.

  “The dryer was in use, and I needed them tonight,” Father Morales explains in all seriousness. That it obviously never crossed his mind to stop the dryer and put his socks in with whatever was drying is painfully clear. Suddenly, I hear the familiar call of my name.

  “Margo?” Mark is walking toward me looking all fresh and yummy in a dark blue button down and crisp khakis. His smile fades as he sees my soot covered face. “Were you in there?”

  “Sort of,” I say not wanting to explain. It’s nice to have him here, but I can’t help but wonder, “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard the call, and we were on our way to the base for a meeting.” I see Alan Lewis sitting in the car looking at the smoking building in awe and then watching me with a little bit of fear.

  “You know her?” Officer Super Ego asks.

  “Yes,” Mark looks at him.

  “He thinks I did this. He’s threatening to take me in with him.”

  Mark looks annoyed as he asks the officer curtly, “Where’s Walter?”

  The officer immediately back peddles. “I was just trying to get some answers. But I think the father here has cleared everything up.”

  I don’t mention that wasn’t the impression I got. Mark is talking with him making sure all that happens to me is that I go home and shower. Lately, it’s been very nice having Mark in my corner. Iris leans against me. Her attention is now occupied with Mark.

  “Quien es, hija?” She asks in awe. I really can’t impress enough how gorgeous he is.

  “Just a guy I know.”

  “Bonito gordo, niña. No,” she corrects herself. “Bonito en todo!” She’s not wrong there. It’s hard to pick what’s more perfect on him. When he’s finished, he walks back to me and leads me away from her.

  He’s trying not to smile too broadly. “Are you ok, baby?”

  I’m annoyed, mainly because I can’t seem to control whatev
er is going on in my life right now. “This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s a little funny.” He kisses me fully on the mouth but keeps me at arms length when I try to step in. I am covered in soot after all. “Are you going home?”

  I nod and laugh. “You may want to wipe your face before your meeting.” He’s mouth is black, but he kisses me again anyway. “I’m supposed to cook a dinner tonight for a new client.”

  “Are you going?” He seems a little wary.

  I shrug, “I don’t know, but the woman was determined yesterday. Short of my filling her in on the last two weeks of my cooking career, my guess is she’s going to want me.”

  “Johnson, we gotta go,” Alan calls.

  I can see Mark is undecided so I say, “Go. I’m fine. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Unless you decide otherwise, baby, then you don’t ever have to ask that question again.” He kisses me and my stomach flip flops in a good and bad way reacting to those words.

  ***

  Of course, Mary Ellen is still buzzing to go. I tell her I’m going to shoot for something a little more elegant than spaghetti and meatballs since I have some extra time on my hands. I’ll make something else kid friendly, but I’m going to do a lobster thermidor with prime rib for Joe and her. She’s thrilled.

  I shower so thoroughly my scalp hurts and my skin is pink. I really, really don’t want to cook anymore today. As I get out, my phone rings, and it is Mark.

  “Are you cooking?”

  “Yes, she’s adamant.” I look at the clock. It’s almost four, and I need to get to the store to buy my ingredients.

  “Well…good luck.” I can’t tell if it’s humor or fear in his voice.

  “Yep,” I say. “Bye.”

  “Call me if you need me.” Now I know he’s laughing.

  “Goodbye!”

  “Bye, baby,” he’s still laughing as I hang up. I’m a damn good cook. Things have just gone a little wiry lately.