The Tequila Worm

by Viola Canales

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The STORY TeLLeR’s BAG

  The CanDY BITe

  The HoLY HOST

  EaSTeR CaSCaROneS

  SKuLLS anD QUaRTeRS

  TaCO HeaD

  The FanCY SChOOL

  MY PLaSTiC Tia

  CLeaninG BeanS

  The DRiVe-in

  BeRTa’S QUiNCeaNeRA

  Five “NeW”DReSSeS

  The PaCKinG SheD

  The CaniCuLa

  AnoTheR MunDo

  SainTS aT SainT Luke’S

  The PanTY-HoSe BaBY

  The FRoZen TaMaLeS

  The ChRisTMaS. NaCiMienTO

  TequiLa WoRM

  The PLaza

  Copyright Page

  To Antonio Canales, my late father,

  for teaching me to follow my dreams.

  To Dora Casas Canales, my mother,

  for teaching me to love.

  To Pamela Karlan, my best friend,

  for being Pam.

  To Wendy Lamb, my editor,

  for making this book possible.

  And to all comadres and compadres . . .

  Acknowledgments

  I thank my lovely agent, Andrea Brown.

  I also thank the wonderful teachers, staff, and students of Saint Stephen’s Episcopal School, and most of all Dr. Flory, who made it possible for me to attend this terrific, caring school.

  Last, I thank all my family and friends, especially those who helped inspire this story: Veronica Canales, Antonio Canales Jr., Gustavo Canales, Gloria Tijerina, Sandra Canales, Minta Rivas, Consuelo Canales, Hilda Canales, Cecilia Canales, Gonzaga Vela, Lile Casas, Miguel Casas, Lucy Casas, Sara Bowser, Dinah Acord, and Irma Muñoz.

  The STORY TeLLeR’s BAG

  In the evenings when the cool breeze began to blow, all the families came out to their porches to sit and talk, to laugh and gossip. And that is where and how our barrio became one family.

  Doña Clara visited every summer and no one missed her stories, for she came carrying a bag filled with secret things that conjured up the most amazing tales.

  Clara had a square face on top of a big round body, and the biggest eyes and the widest mouth: she was especially proud of her catfish mouth, which she painted scarlet. She wore a big black onyx tongue around her neck. “This,” she said, “is the symbol of a storyteller. It has been handed down from generation to generation, for hundreds of years.”

  When asked where she’d come from, she’d roll her eyes, pitch her arms up to the night sky, and point to the stars with her long scarlet fingernails. So the other kids and I believed she’d just flown down from a star.

  Then she’d shake her many wooden bracelets and thrust her hand into her mysterious bag. She rattled her things around as we stared, bug-eyed.

  Clara sucked her front teeth, batted her eyes, and then slowly started lifting something out of her bag. You could hear your blood go thump! thump! thump!

  Once, she pulled out a three-inch lock of hair. “This belonged to Mama Maria, your great-great-grandmother.”

  As the lock of dark hair made its way from hand to hand, person to person, Clara said, “Your Mama Maria was a mule. Always kicking her way through things. A force to behold! But beautiful, with the darkest eyes and long, wild Apache hair. This hair.

  “And you, Sofia”—Clara pointed at me—“not only look like her, but have inherited her gift for mule-kicking.” I gasped. My cousin Berta laughed.

  Papa was sitting beside me on top of an upside-down pail. “Mi’ja, don’t look so worried. This is a good thing— for things to kick will come your way in many shapes and sizes. You’ll see.”

  Next Clara pulled out a jar full of big mule teeth with a piece of a blue balloon inside. “I always show the hair and teeth and blue balloon together,” she said, “for the teeth belonged to Papa Carlos, your great-great-grandfather, Mama Maria’s husband, and he gave this blue balloon to her when they met and fell in love in a little Mexican plaza far away. The town plaza, in those days, was where people gathered to tell their tales.”

  Oh no! I thought. Please don’t say I inherited those teeth, too!

  But Clara pointed at Berta, who bit her lip and covered her big mouth with her hand. Now I laughed.

  “Hija, the big teeth are a good gift too,” said Berta’s mother, Tía Belia, “if you learn to use them right.”

  And as the jar of teeth made its way around, Clara told us, “Look closely at them, for they once bit a rattlesnake in half, chewed a mountain of tobacco, and helped yell out the longest string of insults imaginable.

  “Yes, kicking and biting like mules runs deep in our blood. Never forget that, for it might come in handy someday.”

  The things Clara pulled out of her bag included chipped saints, wacky handmade dolls, arrowheads, recipes, cracked old photos of stiff people, and pictures of dead children, who looked beautiful and peacefully asleep.

  Clara always stayed a couple of days and then disappeared. “I have to go visit other families, other barrios, for it’s important that they also hear these stories.”

  But before leaving she’d reach into her bag one last time to pull out a tiny bottle of mescal. She’d take a hairpin and fish out the tequila worm swimming inside. “This will cure my homesickness as I travel to my next family,” Clara would say, popping the tequila worm into her mouth and chewing. She swallowed loudly as we stared. I was amazed. Sick, too. “Now, is there some story you want me to tell as I continue on my journey?”

  I’d shake my head. There was nothing I’d want her to tell, at least nothing that could possibly compare with the stories that went with the big teeth, the lock of hair, and especially the tequila worm.

  When I was about six, Clara came to visit as usual, but this time she was in a wheelchair. And when we gathered around her on the porch, we saw that her big mouth had collapsed into a thin line and her popping eyes gazed out at nothing.

  Mama kissed Clara’s trembling white hair and placed her story bag at the center of the porch. She reached inside and slowly pulled out her cupped hand. There was nothing in it. But Mama handed the invisible thing to me and said, “Here is the ceramic baby Jesus for the manger of the Christmas nacimiento your abuelita builds each year. It represents the vivid image Clara gave me of my great-grandmother Maria, who I never met, but who I feel close to through her story: about how she worked for weeks, making tamales and then going door to door selling them so she could buy a brand-new baby Jesus for her daughter, my mother, who was appointed the Christmas madrina, the godmother for baby Jesus that year. ” This image was passed around from hand to hand, person to person.

  “Sofia, you’re next!” Mama said. “Reach into the bag and see what secret is inside for you.” I put my hand in and felt all around. Empty. I pulled out my cupped hand and showed everyone. I hesitated, then turned to look at Clara. “This is the black onyx tongue that Clara still wears around her neck. I look at it and remember all the stories Clara has told us. Our stories.”

  “Yes,” said Mama. “Clara is a perfect example of a good comadre.”

  “A good comadre?” I said.

  “Someone who makes people into a family. And it’s what I want you and your little sister, Lucy, to grow up to be.”

  “But, mi’ja, don’t worry about this now,” Papa said, smiling and tapping out a waltz on the cement floor with his brand-new brown and white cowboy boots. “It’s something you’ll gradually pick up along the way.”

  Mama handed Clara’s bag to my cousin Berta. “It’s your turn.”

  That night, as I lay awake, I thought about Clara and what Mama had said about becoming a good comadre. All I
could figure out was that telling stories was a big part of the secret to becoming one. That, and being brave enough to eat a whole tequila worm.

  The CanDY BITe

  One Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen and told Mama, “I’m not going to be friends with Berta anymore. She’s mean and selfish.” I still hadn’t figured out what being a good comadre was all about, but I was sure I didn’t want to make Berta part of my family.

  “But Berta’s your cousin, your best friend,” Mama said as she stopped sweeping and turned to look at me. “You’ve played together since you were babies.”

  “She might still be my cousin, but she’s not my best friend anymore.” I went into the living room and started watching cartoons.

  There was a knock on the front door. I glanced out the window and saw Berta’s hazel eyes and the red bow in her curly brown hair. I raced into the kitchen.

  “It’s Berta. Tell her I’m not here.”

  “You go tell her. What? I’m supposed to lie for you now?”

  “Oh, please. I’ll sweep the rest of the kitchen for you.”

  “I’ll consider it if you tell me why all of a sudden you’ve stopped liking Berta.”

  Berta knocked louder. “Sofia! Sofia! Are you home?”

  “Berta always takes a huge bite out of my candy bars, but when she has one she puts her fingers on the tip so I can only take the tiniest nibble out of hers.”

  Mama shook her head. “Mi’ja . . . go get two nickels from my purse and then take Berta to the store to buy two candy bars—one for you and one for her.”

  The very next day Mama and I were walking to church for seven o’clock Sunday Mass. I turned and saw Berta on the other side of the street, about ten paces ahead of us. She was eating a chocolate bar. I glared at her, my mouth watering. Then I got mad.

  “Is that Berta?” Mama looked at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Eating a candy bar—right?”

  Silence.

  “Sofia, why don’t you go over and ask her to give you a bite?”

  I started walking more slowly, letting Mama go ahead.

  “Sofia, I’m talking to you.”

  “What?”

  “Go over and ask Berta for a bite of her chocolate.”

  “I . . . don’t want . . . any.”

  “Oh, Sofia, don’t try that on me. I know you like your papa knows his bean pot. You’re loca about candy—chocolate especially. Now go over and get a bite. Remember, you bought her a whole candy bar yesterday.”

  “But she’ll only let me take a nibble.”

  “Well, if she puts her fingers at the tip again, you have my permission to go ahead and bite them.”

  What?

  “I’m serious. Now go on.” Mama turned me toward Berta and gave me a push.

  I turned to Mama. She waved me off. I slowly crossed the street and turned to Mama again. Still serious.

  Berta was absorbed in her chocolate bar. I felt my blood hot and rushing, my hands sweaty.

  “Hey, Berta . . .”

  She turned, her nostrils flared. She made her eyes into slits. “Oh . . . hi.”

  I turned to Mama. She had caught up to us but was still across the street. Still serious.

  “Berta . . . can I . . . have a bite?”

  Berta sighed like a big balloon letting out air. “Okay . . .” She took her candy bar and put her fingers on the tip.

  Mama nodded.

  I took a huge bite. Berta howled and took a bite of my shoulder.

  I kicked her like a mule. I didn’t even bother to turn to look at Mama then.

  As Berta’s big teeth came at me for another bite, her mother, Tía Belia, miraculously appeared and pulled her back. Mama caught me as I was about to kick Berta on her butt.

  We stood in our mothers’ arms, panting, glaring, with sweaty red faces. Berta clutched her candy bar like a trophy.

  “Berta,” said her mother, “now, share your chocolate with Sofia. Remember that she bought you a whole candy bar yesterday. Break it in half and give her a piece.”

  Berta squinted.

  “Berta . . .”

  With tears in her eyes, she took off the wrapper and snapped the candy bar in two. One piece was much bigger than the other.

  “Give your friend Sofia a piece.” Berta handed me the smaller piece. “Wait. Sofia, you take the piece you want.”

  I gulped, looked at Berta’s watery eyes, and took the smaller piece.

  The HoLY HOST

  BEFORE making my First Communion at seven, I practiced taking the holy host using a roll of Necco candy wafers. The roll was wrapped in clear crinkly paper and the wafers, as big and thin as quarters, lay one next to the other, like coins in a roll, purple and pink, orange, yellow, green, and white.

  When we played “taking the holy host,” I was the priest. My little sister, Lucy, and Berta’s little brother, Noe, both three years old, were the penitents. I never asked Berta to play because she always ate most of the wafers, even if it was my roll of Neccos.

  “This is serious business,” I’d tell Lucy and Noe, “for you’re practicing to take Jesus’s body and blood. So pay attention!”

  Lucy’s bright brown eyes and Noe’s dark ones squinted.

  But I always knew they were just playing along to eat the candy wafers. When they burped or laughed, I said, “Stop fooling around! Just pure and holy behavior, or you might make the whole world come to a big crashing end!

  “At catechism they teach you,” I continued, “that the world will come to an end when a nun—and I mean any nun—dies. And the nuns who come pick you up at school to walk you over to catechism each and every Tuesday are all rickety old. So it won’t take much to rattle them. And if you make an old, rattled nun angry, she might just croak right there and then.”

  Lucy and Noe would immediately stop giggling or pushing each other. I always took this opportunity to remind them, “Stop thinking that nuns are sweet and kind like Maria in The Sound of Music. That’s just a movie. Think of the evil old bruja in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’

  “To take the holy host, you first have to make your First Holy Communion,” I told them. “You also have to go and confess your sins—and I mean all your sins—to the priest, who hides behind a secret screen, inside a closet that looks like a big coffin—with you on the other side of the screen. Then you have to do your penance, which is whatever punishment the priest gives you for all your sins. And if they’re really, really bad, you might have to say hundreds, even thousands of Our Fathers and Hail Marys.”

  Their eyes widened.

  “Then on Sunday,” I continued, “you can’t eat anything— not even a tiny crumb—for a whole hour before taking communion. When the Mass finally comes to the Communion part, which is soon after the priest raises a white wafer the size of a big tortilla to the heavens, you get in line, pew by pew, and then start making your way up the aisle in the Communion line, while you clasp your hands in prayer, bow your head, and try to look holy and such.

  “And when you finally get to the very front of the altar and find yourself smack in front of the priest, who is holding this big gold goblet full of holy hosts, you close your eyes and stick out your tongue. The priest says something, you say something, and then the priest puts the host on the tip of your tongue. Then you quickly slip your tongue back into your mouth and head back to your pew, where you kneel and hold your hands in prayer and look holy.

  “Now listen, it’s very, very important that you let the host dissolve slowly in your mouth. You can’t start chewing it like it’s a piece of pork or something. Remember, it’s Jesus’s body and blood. And never, never can you stick out your tongue to show the host to anybody, much less touch it.”

  “But why not?” Lucy asked, her little round face serious.

  “Because it’s holy,” I said.

  “But what happens if you accidentally bite it or you trip and it just pops out of your mouth?” Noe asked, scratching his head.

  “You die an
d go to hell.”

  “Right then and there, or when you get old?”

  “Right then and there. The ground opens up and swallows you whole.”

  “But why?” Lucy asked.

  “Because it’s holy. And that’s what I’ve learned at catechism,” I said, more and more annoyed.

  I took all the white wafers from the Necco roll, put them inside a big yellow cup, and practiced giving Lucy and Noe the host until all the white wafers were gone. I then ate all the others.

  Weeks after making my First Holy Communion, I was standing in the Communion line, my head bowed, my hands folded in prayer, when I panicked. I remembered taking a bite, a big bite, of Berta’s chocolate bar just before Mass. Without her fat fingers this time. I’d thought nothing about it then, except for Berta’s odd smirk. I secretly glanced at my Timex watch—a Communion gift from my parents. It was less than an hour since I’d taken the bite!

  Oh no! What do I do? I couldn’t take Communion now. I should just get out of line and go sit down. But what would people think? It would be a sign that I’d done something really, really evil.

  I started sweating. My clasped hands trembled as I moved farther and farther up the Communion line toward the priest holding his big gold goblet. Since he was God’s representative, he’d just know a whole hour hadn’t passed when he got to me.

  Then it kicked in: this might even be the death of me! It could be that the earth would open up the very second the priest put the host on my tongue. My breathing got faster and faster.

  When I looked up, I found myself smack in front of the priest. I stood frozen, looking at my warped reflection on the shiny gold cup.

  “The body of Christ,” the priest said.

  But nothing came out of me. “The body of Christ,” he repeated, which was my signal to say “Amen,” to open my mouth, and to stick out my tongue.

  I just stood there, stunned. I desperately wanted to open my mouth, not to say “Amen” but to tell the priest, “I can’t say ‘Amen’ because I don’t want to die!”

  I felt the host being shoved into my mouth and felt myself being pushed to the side. With the host still hanging partly out of my mouth, I quickly brought my hand up and secretly slipped the wafer into my shirt pocket.