“I started it when she was a baby,” Perla explained. “When she got old enough, Celeste started making her own notes.” She brushed her fingers over a thick piece of paper that looked like it came from a cereal box, a word-hunt game where Celeste had found her name, another word for the color of the sky, and carefully scrawled a circle around it in blue ink. The two women chuckled, wondering how the little girl thought a word game could be worked into a quinceañera. Josie was slowly flipping through the pages of the quince book, the two of them sitting at Perla’s kitchen table in the big room that served as the dining room, living room, and bedroom for Perla and her daughter. Birthday parties were fun, and a quinceañera was a birthday party like no other, Josie thought. And looking around at Perla’s modest home, she couldn’t help but wonder.
“So tell me something,” Josie began carefully. “Quinceañeras can be expensive. Why is it so important to you to have one?”
“They can be whatever you want them to be,” Perla said. “They don’t have to be fancy, with limos and chocolate fountains and all that.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Why?” Perla sat back in her chair. “Este… when I was young, I didn’t think I was going to live past the age of fifteen. I couldn’t imagine the future. Gracias a la Virgencita, I found what I was meant to do in this life. This might look silly to you, but it makes a difference, I think, for a young girl to see that her life matters.”
“That’s not silly,” Josie said. “Not when you explain it that way.”
“I just want her to know her life makes a difference,” Perla said. “If she thinks so, maybe she will make more of her life than I did with mine. Like you’re doing with yours.”
“Ay, no. I just tell other people’s stories,” Josie scoffed.
“Sí, but not everyone gets their story told. If you don’t tell it, who will?”
As their interviews continued over the next few months, and Josie was getting deeper and deeper into her project, she knew she was working on the story of her career. It consumed every waking hour, and it demanded all of her attention and all of her skills. What she didn’t know was that this would be the story to haunt her for the rest of her life.
After leaving El Paso once and for all, Josie was making good time on the I-10. She was heading toward San Antonio, even though she’d told her mother—promised her—that she was on her way home to Austin. She was long overdue to see her mother, her crazy aunt Chata, and especially Paz. She’d told her mother she’d be home Sunday afternoon, and that was Josie’s plan, until she helped clear Perla’s house. When she found the quinceañera book left behind, she knew what she had to do. Josie wasn’t sure how her mother was going to take the news. She lit a cigarette and used her thumb to punch her mother’s number on her cell phone as she steered with her free hand. The phone rang and rang and rang. Very unusual. Josie hung up and called her mom at her beauty shop.
“I only have two girls left,” Rita said instead of her usual “Bueno! La Rita’s Casa de Belleza!” Josie wondered for a moment if she’d dialed the wrong number.
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Those pins over there, mi’ja. Over there. Over there!” Rita ordered. “Sí, who is it?”
Josie could tell Rita was distracted. “It’s me, Josefina.”
“Oh, hi, mi’ja… Not that dryer! El otro! That one’s broken,” she said to someone in the shop and then, in a lower, frostier tone into the receiver, “Mi angelita—my fat ass.”
“You’re working on Sunday?” Josie asked.
“Yes, my friend Gloria’s niece is having a quinceañera in Elgin or Lockhart or wherever the hell she lives, and this was the only day she could get all the girls over here. Hey!” she yelled to someone else in the shop. “Watch the little one over there! She’s going to—No, mi’ja! Leave the dog alone! Sí, that’s my dog, but no—the curlers are not for the dog. Oh, my gato! Come ’ere, Tom Selleck. Come ’ere, boy.”
Josie could hear the clatter of a tray, a radio babbling, giggling, and voices talking over each other in the background. Tom Selleck, Rita’s current mascot and usually friendly Maltese, was yipping unhappily. It was unusual for Rita to work on a Sunday, but the soundtrack in Rita’s shop was familiar, perpetual, and chaotic. Josie often joked that her mother’s shop was the place where the hociconas—the chatty little hens, as Josie liked to picture them—roosted. It was the place where Rita’s long-time customers came in to share bits of gossip, whether you wanted to hear it or not. All of that was drenched by music on the radio or a game show on the TV overhead, laughing, whirring dryers, running water, birds chirping, or a dog barking—depending on what poor creature Rita had rescued. Josie learned early on how to endure it, weaving an invisible cocoon around her as she did small chores around the shop when she was a girl, or, more to her liking, sat in an empty side chair with a book in her lap, willing herself to fade into the wallpaper, all the time plotting for, and eventually achieving, what she wanted most of all: silence—surrounded only by her books, her pens, her notebooks, and, later, her laptop with unlimited wireless access. Yes, that was heaven to Josie. A writer’s life, but most important, quiet on demand. Rita was as different from her daughter as Josie’s short, unpolished nails were to Rita’s brightly lacquered ones.
“Fourteen up-dos and then Gloria tells me at the last minute she wants a perm.” Rita snorted into the phone.
“Maybe I should call back,” Josie said.
“No, I’m ready this time. Go ahead.” Josie could hear her mother crank a small kitchen timer so she wouldn’t overcook Gloria like she did that one time Gloria never forgot and probably reminded Rita of so she would open up her shop on a Sunday to what sounded like a horde of girls, their mothers, their tías, their abuelas, and anyone else who wanted to go along for the ride to her mother’s East Austin shop.
“Over there!” Rita suddenly yelled, making Josie pull her phone away from her ear. “Allá, in that box over there. There! That’s where the hairnets are.”
Josie already knew what the plan was: Get the hair set today and hold it in place for a day or more by sleeping in hairnets.
“That’s really going to work?” Josie asked.
“N’ombre!” Rita scoffed. “Gloria is telling the girls to sleep sitting up until the quinceañera next Saturday. No one asked me. She can tell them whatever she wants.”
Josie suddenly felt self-conscious. “Can I say hello to Paz?”
“She’s with your aunt Chata.”
“When are they coming back?”
“I don’t know. She took her to church, and after that she likes to eat with las viejitas—la bat pack—at Luby’s. Why?”
Josie didn’t like the sudden crimp in her mother’s voice.
“You’re going to see her in a little while, aren’t you? Where are you, anyway?” Rita asked.
Josie took a long drag from her cigarette and waited for her mother to fill in the silence.
“Josefina—you are still coming, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Josie said. “But I have to make a stop first. In San Antonio.”
“San Antonio!” Rita cried. “Oh, my gato! That’s more than a stop!” Josie could hear the sound of the radio being changed from one station to the next, but Rita was oblivious. “What’s in San Antonio?” she demanded.
“I have to make a delivery,” Josie said. She could feel the grief over Perla’s death welling up and wrestling with her guilt over not going home the way she promised. “You remember that woman I told you about?”
“Which woman? You told me about a lot of women.”
“The one who got killed,” Josie said softly.
“The one who got what?” Rita said loudly over the background noise. Josie couldn’t bear saying it again.
“The one I told you about, ’Amá.”
“Quién? Speak up! I can hardly hear you.”
“Perla Sánchez!” Josie finally yelled into the
phone. She could feel her heart pounding and her emotions raging. On the other end of the phone, she could tell her mother was leaving the main room of the shop, walking into the kitchen, and out to the yard that linked the shop to the house. There, it was quiet and away from nosy eyes and ears.
“What about her?” Rita asked. Josie was relieved that her mother’s voice had softened and was filled with concern.
“Well, I helped some of the mujeres in El Paso clear out her house, and I found this book that her daughter should have. It’s a scrapbook for the quinceañera they were planning—Perla and her daughter, Celeste. The girl was sent to be with her family in San Antonio. I doubt she meant to leave the book behind, but there it was in the house, and I couldn’t just leave it there…” Josie took a moment to regain her composure. “I need to deliver it. I need to deliver it myself. I have to. It’s the least I can do.” Josie took another long drag from her cigarette to calm herself and waited for her mother to speak. “ ’Amá? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Rita said forlornly.
“I know you’re angry, but—”
“I’m not angry, mi’ja. I’m not angry. It’s just—oh, my gato—I wish… You know it’s not your fault la pobrecita got killed, verdad?”
The tears began to well in Josie’s eyes. She couldn’t see and immediately made for the nearest exit.
“It’s not your fault, mi’ja. It’s not your fault,” Rita repeated as Josie maneuvered her car to the off ramp and into a nearby gas station. “You hear me? It’s not your fault.”
But that was not how Josie felt. She was sure that Perla making herself more public, and Josie digging and poking, asking questions, talking to all the people she talked to while researching her book, had made Perla more visible and put her in the middle of a bull’s-eye. Josie was sure that Perla’s work and everyone she was working with was making a difference, that the murder mystery of the Women of Juarez would be solved, and that those responsible would be brought to justice. She knew it in her bones. But she was sure that word got back to those faceless, heartless, soulless bastards, who then murdered Perla. There’s nothing more dangerous than a woman who’s discovered the full range of her power. A powerless woman is a woman who can be controlled, and Perla had moved beyond that. That was fine and good. But Josie making a show of it… Yes, Josie thought, I may as well have pulled the trigger myself.
Rita could hear her daughter sniffling on the other end of the phone, and she was torn. It had been a long time since Josie had seen Paz, but she could sense the enormous weight her daughter was carrying around. She wasn’t sure what she could say to make it better.
“Oye, so do me a favor,” Rita said, changing the subject. “When you have a quinceañera for Paz, don’t have a big production. Just make it something simple—a mass, pink cake at home, y nada más.” It was an awkward transition, but Josie knew her mother was trying to comfort her.
“A quinceañera! Paz is only…” Josie’s voice trailed off as she tried to calculate how old her child was.
“She’s twelve,” Rita said stiffly.
Twelve. That didn’t seem possible, but Josie realized her mother was right. Paz was twelve.
“The years fly by faster than you think. She’ll be a teenager soon, and then ya, she’s gone,” Rita said. Reminding Josie that she was missing watching her daughter grow up only made her feel worse. “Maybe it will go out of style by the time she’s this age,” Rita continued, “pero, I doubt it. I hear the girls say all the time, ‘Only one girl gets to be the prom queen, and you might not get married, but everyone turns fifteen.’ ”
Rita had moved too far from the shop, and reception on her portable phone was beginning to crackle. She began to work her way back inside.
“Go do what you need to do, Josefina, pero remember: You have a girl here who needs her mother. I’m doing what I can to help you, but if she stops asking about you…” Josie felt as if she’d be punched in the stomach.
“She’s not asking about me?” Josie asked.
“Of course she’s asking about you! You’re her mother, pero, I’m just saying—when she stops asking about you, it’s already too late, entiendes?”
Josie dropped her head onto the headrest.
“So when is Paz coming back?”
“I don’t know. I told Chata to keep her as long as possible because I had all this going on today.”
Paz was in good hands with her aunt Chata, even if Chata was as brittle as an old newspaper. Josie thought her daughter should be around kids her age, but as soon as the thought came to her, she bit her tongue. She was in no position to make that suggestion to her mother, given all that she and her aunt were doing for her and Paz.
From the background noise, Josie could hear that her mother was back in her shop again. “Oh, my gato! I told you to keep an eye on the baby!” Rita wailed to someone in the room. “Oye, Josefina, I got to go,” she said back into the phone. “These people are gonna tear down my shop if I let them. I’ll give Paz un abrazo for you, but you come home as soon as you can. Take care of your business over there, then get yourself home.”
“Okay, ’Amá.”
“Don’t forget, Josefina! I know your work is important, but so is your family!”
“I know, ’Amá, I know!”
“And stop smoking!” Rita blurted. “Why are you smoking again?”
Damn! How does she do that? Josie wondered as she stamped out her cigarette in her car’s overflowing ashtray.
“Why do you think I’m smoking?” she stammered.
“It will make wrinkles and give you the cancer. If you don’t believe me, take a good look at your aunt Chata when you see her. Call me when you get there,” Rita snapped.
A loud clatter, Tom Selleck yelping, and the sound of a baby screaming on the other end of the phone were the last things Josie heard before the line went dead. She dumped her cell phone onto the passenger seat as her annoyance merged with her guilt. The one thing Josie neglected to tell her mother was that she had no idea where Celeste was among the sea of Sánchezes that must live in San Antonio, but she knew she would do her damnedest to find her.
EIGHT
Beatriz bought enough barbecue to feed a small nation. Buckets of potato salad, beans, coleslaw, pickles, corn on the cob, and anything else that could be served fast and easy. She sent Ana to Marisol’s family’s bakery to see if she could buy a whole sheet cake. She planned to decorate it with fresh fruit and then write in lime green frosting “Bienvenida, Celeste! Welcome Home.”
Celeste never saw anyone move so fast. Beatriz was cleaning and setting up, all while talking on her cell phone.
“Can I help you?” Celeste asked her aunt between calls, feeling awkward and useless as her aunt whirled about.
“No, no—well—no! Why don’t you go decide what you want to wear?” Beatriz offered. In spite of Ana’s urging to slow down, Beatriz managed to buy Celeste several new outfits on their way out of the mall: a sweet, casual dress with a matching sweater; two pairs of jeans; a swingy, peasant blouse in bright white; and two fitted blouses, one in chambray blue, the other in a tangy coral that looked electric against Celeste’s dark skin.
“Where should I go?” Celeste asked.
Beatriz stopped, sweaty and breathless from stooping and stuffing debris from yesterday’s party into a trash bag. “Why don’t you go in the room you slept in last night? Unless you want a full-length mirror. Do you need a mirror? Do you want to fix your hair? I can help you put it up. Do you want me to help you?” Beatriz bit her tongue. She could sense she was beginning to speak at warp speed again and took a deep breath.
“I’ll go decide what to wear,” Celeste finally offered.
“Sure! That’s a good idea!” Beatriz said. “I told everyone to come over after three. Where’s Larry?” she suddenly said to herself, as she handed shopping bags to Celeste. “Is that everything?” She stood for a moment, staring into Celeste’s face, as if writing and rewriting the lis
t of things to do inside her forehead. “Oh! Ice! We need more ice! And soda. I better call Ana. And Larry. What else?” Celeste shrugged, but Beatriz was already punching the numbers on her cell phone with her thumb.
“Go on, mi’ja. I’m taking care of everything,” Beatriz said.
Celeste was happy to leave Hurricane Beatriz behind her. When she got to the office, she closed the door with her backside and leaned against it. She slid down to the floor, the shopping bags all around her like giant crumpled wads. Any other girl would be thrilled with all the attention—all the gifts, clothes, and trinkets Beatriz seemed so eager to buy her. And it wasn’t that Celeste wasn’t thankful, and even a little excited. It was just that she would have traded any of it—all of it—to see her mother’s face again. That, and Celeste was used to getting by with much less. She opened the shopping bag to pull out one outfit and looked at the price tags. She almost dropped the blouse when she saw how much it cost—as much as a week’s groceries! The jeans were twice as much. Celeste couldn’t believe it. She held them up to look at them, studied the seams and the snaps to figure why they cost as much as they did. She could buy three pairs of jeans for the same price at the St. Vincent De Paul store she and her mom used to visit, when they could, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Those were the days when the new shipment came in. The clothes weren’t new, but they were clean, and with a little starch everything looked as good as new. Everything her aunt Beatriz bought her was nice, Celeste thought. Better than nice. But she didn’t want to get too used to this life. This life was bright and new and expensive, but it was not hers.
In the kitchen, Beatriz was pulling out all the leftovers from the night before as her brothers Miguel, Rudy, Tony, and their wives arrived all at once, heading in through the backyard, waving at Beatriz through the window. She motioned for them to come through the patio door as she continued working.
“Hey, we rang the doorbell but nobody answered,” Miguel said. “I was beginning to think you were playing us.”
“Pásale, pásale,” Beatriz said, making way for them in the door. The men immediately gravitated to the barbecue Beatriz placed on the stove, while the women looked around for ways to pitch in. Tony helped his very pregnant wife, Elaine, take a seat at the kitchen table. Erasmo and Norma arrived at the same time as Larry and the boys.
Sisters, Strangers, and Starting Over Page 9