by Cyn Vargas
I threw my hands up in frustration. I shooed the guard away and he turned back to begin his patrol once more.
I knew what happened in places like that. At my school in the States, this group of seventh grade boys had been caught with magazines of naked women, but not before they had showed everyone in class. I had felt bad for the women in the photos.
I decided I had to go in there and get Abuelo out. I’d grab Abuela’s key she usually kept near the door, make my way across the street, and bring Abuelo home before Abuela woke up. But when I went downstairs to grab it, the hooks the held Abuela’s and Abuelo’s keys were both empty.
At breakfast the next morning, I watched Abuela take her pills with a glass of water. She had aged more than Abuelo, it seemed. She walked on her own, but slowly. She complained often of the aches in her bones. The last time she needed help carrying groceries, I was shocked at her lack of strength, at the fragility of her arms.
On the table between us was Abuela’s small coin purse, and it was open. There peeking out, in the middle of all the change, was her key attached to a keychain of a miniature wooden cross. I watched Abuela hang it back up on the hook right next to Abuelo’s key. “This way I will remember where I put it,” she said. The rest of the day, I decided to spend the day with Abuela.
“You look tired, Sara,” Abuelo said at dinner.
“You do, too,” I said, and then excused myself, saying I needed to get more rest.
I wished that Abuelo would stay home, or that Abuela would decide to pull an all-nighter praying or making tortillas so he wouldn’t have a chance to leave. But nothing like that happened.
I knew he wouldn’t tell me the truth if I asked, so I waited for Abuela’s snoring and his footsteps, and the front door closing, before I went downstairs. I checked the hooks. This time, the key Abuela had hung up earlier was there. I snatched her key. Both hooks empty now.
I rubbed the wooden cross keychain between my sweaty fingers. Abuelo was just entering the club, wearing the white shirt I had brought for him as a gift from back home. It had CHICAGO printed in bold black letters across his back. Had he turned around, he would have seen me there in front of the house in my monkey pajama pants. But he went inside.
The street was empty except for a dog sniffing at the curb and the red light flashing above the door to Rosita’s. The naked woman on the door seemed to be moving in the glow. I crossed the street and hopped over a pile of garbage at the curb. I stopped in front of the door to Rosita’s. The naked woman seemed to be moving under the flickering light blub. Then the door opened, and out came the woman I had seen with Abuelo the night before. From this close, I saw her eyes were dull underneath the thick purple eyeshadow she wore, and her hair was pulled back so tight it looked like it hurt.
“You shouldn’t be here, kid,” she said in Spanish. Then she turned toward a whistle that was coming from a man down the block. I watched her strut into the shadows before opening the door and going inside.
I caught a glimpse of a group of naked women dancing on a stage beneath the flash of strobe lights. I took a step forward, but was immediately blocked by an enormous man with a white shirt whose buttons struggled to stay together. His hair was gray and coarse like a Brillo pad.
“What are you doing here?” he said in Spanish.
“My abuelo is in there,” I said, flustered. I pointed inside.
The man managed to turn just his thick neck to the side and yelled, “Hey, someone’s granddaughter is here.”
“A lot of granddaughters are in here,” someone answered, and laughter erupted.
“Chicago,” I said, and pointed to my shirt. The enormous man nodded this time. He turned around and said, “You!” And when he moved to the side, Abuelo was there.
Abuelo stood up, rushed over to me and grabbed me by the wrist. He pulled me out of the club. Sweat covered his forehead and his mustache drooped. His hand shook as we crossed the street to go back to the house. I jogged to keep up with him.
“Why?” I asked as he tried to open the front door, but his hand was quivering so much he couldn’t get his key in the lock.
I pushed him aside and pushed the key I had into the keyhole, but I didn’t turn it.
The wooden cross keychain swung back and forth.
“Tell me now,” I said, and started to cry.
“I’m sorry, Sara. I’m sorry.” His voice trembled and he wiped my eyes.
“What if Abuela wakes up?”
“I will tell her where I was. You don’t need to cover for me anymore.”
“I don’t understand why you went there.”
“Neither do I, but I’ll never go back. I promise you. I didn’t mean to hurt you or your abuela,” he said. He turned the key in the door, and we stepped inside. We could hear Abuela snoring upstairs.
The next morning, Abuela went to church, and Abuelo took me to the mercado. We didn’t talk about what happened. He bought me a strawberry-filled churro and Abuela a new sweater. That night all three of us watched The Terminator. Abuela fell asleep halfway through with her head on Abuelo’s shoulder.
The rest of my summer there, Abuelo never went out at night again.
Both keys stayed side by side on the hooks.
ALL THAT’S LEFT
On the plane ride to Guatemala, you seemed more like a nervous child than a twenty-five-year-old woman. During takeoff, you held onto my arm, your head on my shoulder. Your long hair fell down my neck and across my breasts. I knew you didn’t like flying, but you said you wanted to go with me anyway. Visit another country and meet my grandma, whom I’d been visiting for two weeks every summer since I was ten. We’ve been friends for so long. It’s about time we took a real trip together, you said.
At hour three, you got a little more anxious and grabbed my hand, your knees shaking. Your hand felt so familiar in mine.
“Are you alright?”
“It’s just stupid. I need to—” You never finished.
You let go of my hand and turned to face out the window. I leaned, looked out, and saw only clouds. I thought of the game we played when we were younger, when we’d find turtles and balloons and cows in the clouds. But we weren’t kids anymore. Now, they were just clouds.
“You’re thinking about him,” you said, still looking out the window.
“When am I not?”
“You need to let go.”
“I know.”
When we landed, my grandma said we were the prettiest young ladies she had ever seen. When I introduced you, I told her in Spanish that you and I had been best friends since fourth grade. She told me in return to treasure it, because one didn’t find friends like that anymore.
I knew you didn’t have a grandma, not one you’d ever known. From that moment on, I shared my grandma with you.
Remember that during the drive into town, we saw that dog the color of horchata limping down the dirt road? We could see his ribs under his thin skin. “My heart hurts for him,” you said.
Grandma took us to the mercado, where we bought those strapless dresses—mine green, yours yellow—and matching straw flipflops, and barrettes shaped like papayas and mangos, and wooden necklaces of the Mayan Sun God. We paid more for it all than the old lady had asked.
“You’re beautiful, really,” you told me as we waited to cross the street. Our dresses flapped in the warm breeze, and I thought about how I wished he had said the same.
Then there was the earthquake. The one we exercised through. After just a week of inhaling Grandma’s home cooking, we almost couldn’t fit into the clothes that we had brought. So, we hopped around to a kickboxing VHS we found in her attic. We giggled through the whole thing. Grandma got up and peeked into the living room. She watched us and grinned. We smiled back, not even feeling the tremors for one moment.
The next day she said she hadn’t wanted to scare us when it happened. It hadn’t been a strong one, but it was felt by every other person in Guatemala C
ity, every dog and chicken and horse. But not by us. We were somewhere else.
Over the next several days, we lingered on a beach with black sand. We ate fresh fish from the ocean, but we requested the heads to be cut off because we didn’t want to see their faces. We ignored the catcalling from men shorter than us who carried machetes at their sides and wore hats so big their faces masked in shadows. We even climbed the pyramids in the middle of the jungle. When we got to the top we shared a sandwich and a soda.
“I’m happy to be here with you,” you said, then wrapped your arms around me.
“Me too.”
The night before heading back home, we sat on the roof of Grandma’s house, encased in the heat of the day. We could see the silhouettes of the volcanoes veiled in darkness miles away.
We watched one spurt red-orange lava, liquid fire.
That’s when you told me that you loved me.
“I love you too,” I said.
“No, I really love you.”
I heard horses trotting down the dirt road and could smell tortillas baking somewhere nearby. Some men on the street spoke in Spanish about cerveza and a cantina.
“I love you like you love him.”
You held my hand, twining each of your fingers with mine. You said it again: “I love you.”
Someone played cumbias that echoed into the street. The marimbas and the guitar swirled around us. I rubbed my leg, irritating my sunburn.
You gazed at my hand in yours.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“I know you don’t feel the same, but I love you anyway.”
You let go of my hand.
The next morning, we said goodbye to Grandma and took a cab to the airport. When I tried to hold your hand on the plane, you pulled away.
Instead, you watched the clouds.
FLASH. THEN IT’S OVER.
Right after the divorce, Dad took my younger brother Manny and me to the barbershop down on Division Street. The brick walls were painted a dirty yellow, but some of the white still showed through—the effect was of old teeth piled on top of one another. Though the shop was small, there was room for four metal chairs and a short table on which sat a stack of magazines of different fades.
It was the day before my second-grade pictures. The barber cut Manny’s hair into a tight crop that made his huge eyes look even larger. I stood up, ready to escape, but that’s when Dad said, “It’s your turn.”
“I’m a girl,” I said. He smoked his cigarette and ignored me.
At the age of seven, I knew very well not to argue with Dad. If I did, he might lift his shirt to expose his belt, the one with the metal buckle that had left a bruise on my butt the summer before. So I climbed onto the barber’s black chair.
The barber, who had a head of toothpick-sized spikes, covered me with a plastic sheet. It reeked of old men. He squinted at me, and my thick ponytail, and my pink glittery shoes that stuck out underneath the smock. All the other people there were boys and men; all the pictures on the wall were of boys and men. They would probably hang a picture of the first girl cut they ever gave alongside their first dollar bill on the wall.
I saw Dad’s reflection in the mirror, saw him nod and Manny stare as my hair fell. I was only supposed to get a trim. But the barber kept cutting. When the scissors finally rested, I started to cry. When I stepped down from the seat and saw the piles of black shiny hair scattered around me, I cried harder. When Dad threatened to take off his belt and hit me if I didn’t stop crying, I still cried.
“What cute boys,” said an old man on our way out.
They didn’t put my picture up after all.
A few months before, Mom had stood at the front window and watched as Dad loaded his clothes and some records in the trunk of Doris’ car. Doris had waved at me from the street, but I didn’t wave back. Mom, Dad, and Doris all worked together at the same car parts factory.
Now Mom stuck her head through that same front window and shouted, “Anna! What happened to your hair?”
I started to cry again and ran to her, collapsing into her arms as she rubbed my back. Mom bent down and whispered in my ear, “Anna, you are beautiful. Now, go to your room.” From my room, I heard, “You said to get her a haircut.”
“You knew what I meant, Michael!” I closed the door behind me, but I could still hear them fighting.
“You finally let me make a decision and now you are going to bitch about it? If it was so important to you, Jess, why didn’t you take her yourself? Too busy being with Nick? Me taking Anna for a haircut isn’t about you. Not everything is about you.”
“Asshole. I’m not the one displaying my whore around.”
“Oh, no. You were much more discreet there for awhile, weren’t you, Jess? Just remember. I wasn’t the one who stepped out on this marriage first.”
The front door slammed, and then there was silence. Back when we all lived together, Mom and Dad never really talked except to talk about Manny and me. Most of the time they sent us to our rooms, so they could yell and slam doors.
Now, Manny and I slept in the only bedroom in the small apartment. We had bunk beds and Mom slept on the sofa bed. Manny cried a lot at night, though, so Mom ended up squeezing in the top bunk with him most nights.
“Give me a couple,” I told Manny, and he handed me some curly fries. We’d stopped for burgers at a drive-thru on my way home. At the window, the woman in the paper hat asked Dad what kind of toys we wanted for the kids’ meals and I yelled, “One girl!” just in case she thought I was a boy.
I held a curly fry in each hand and lifted them up by my ears so there was one on either side of my head. They looked like pigtails. They also looked nothing like my hair, which had been straight and dark and long.
I popped the fries in my mouth. I didn’t know who Nick was, and I was more than mad at Dad, but he had a point. Why didn’t Mom take me herself?
“Manny, c’mon. Help me make a wig out of Play-Doh.”
Mom woke me up early the next day. She had my plaid dress with the white collar waiting for me. “C’mon, baby,” Mom said, coaxing the barrettes shaped like zebras, bows, and bananas into my short hair. She pressed them hard into my scalp, but they didn’t hold. She tried a headband next, but it only made my hair stick up. Nothing she tried make me look any better.
“Mom, who’s Nick?”
She took a deep breath, but then Dad honked from the driveway. “You guys hurry, now.” She jumped up and rushed us to the door. “Manny, don’t forget to straighten your tie before they take the picture. And Anna, you have a beautiful face, baby.” We put on our hoodie sweaters. Our lunchboxes clanked against the door as it shut behind us.
Dad didn’t even look at me as we walked from the house. I yanked open the big heavy door of his old Buick and Manny, in his dark blue dress pants that dragged at the bottom, climbed into the backseat first. I made sure to slam the door hard, but Dad didn’t seem to notice. None of us spoke to one another, and although the day was warm for mid-October, I pulled my hood over my head as far as it could go.
When we got to school, Ms. Beatrice told me to remove my hood.
I just shook my head.
“Anna,” she said, and I started to tear up. Behind us, all the kids were on the school steps comparing shiny dresses and ties.
“Please, Ms. Beatrice,” I whispered, but she made me remove it anyway. Her jaw dropped.
“Anna dear,” she said as the wind blew her own long yellow hair into her face.
“Sweetie, you can’t wear a hoodie. School rules.” She patted me on the back and gently pushed me toward the stairs. “And Anna, if any kids say anything not nice, you tell me.”
I nodded. We both knew I wouldn’t.
Maggie was waiting at the top of the stairs. Her red dress was peeking from underneath her jean jacket, which was covered in glittery stars. Her hair was hanging free around her face.
She smiled at m
e at first, and then she looked confused.
“What happened?”
I told her everything without crying.
“Here,” she said and took off her earrings. They were long, with dangling moons and stars.
“I can’t,” I said. I didn’t have my ears pierced.
“Clip-ons,” she said, and pinched them to my ear lobes. “Pretty. Now, c’mon.” She grabbed my hand and we walked to class together.
The kids started to laugh as soon as we took our seats. Maggie told them all to be quiet and took her seat at the front of the room. My desk was all the way in the back, but it didn’t stop the kids from turning around, sneaking looks over their shoulders as I trudged back alone.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” Stevie said.
“What’s wrong with your face?” I said back.
Stevie turned around. Maggie gave me a thumbs-up. I sulked into my chair.
The photographer made us all line up in front of the chalkboard. I had to kneel down in front because I was so short. Front and center, so everyone could see my short hair. Behind me, I heard Maggie and some other girls giggling. At least my beat-up shoes were hidden. The kids were used to me not having any new clothes, or new Trapper Keepers, or those fancy juice boxes that weren’t really boxes at all. They almost expected me to get a bad haircut, too.
Jane was told to kneel next to me.
“Why did you want your hair so short?” she said.
“I didn’t.”
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look like my cousin José.”
“You look like my cousin Hugo.”
Jane crossed her arms and grunted.
“Smile,” the photographer said.
A flash and it was over.
The Buick was idling in the school parking lot when the bell rang. Manny was already waiting for me outside.
“How was your day?” I asked him.
Manny shrugged his shoulders. We climbed into the Buick and Dad met my eyes this time. He took us to get burgers and fries. Manny sat next to each other in the booth, and Dad sat across from us.