“They’re all dead, Jenny. Can’t you smell them rotting away?”
But she had drifted off to talk to a judge’s wife. Her bouffant bobbed in enthusiasm as she listened to the older woman talk about recipes and other topics that bored the hell out of him. Michael took another taste of whiskey because his wife had joined the legion of wealthy corpses. He hadn’t saved her at all and had probably even sped up the process.
His law books called that magna culpa. “Great fault.”
Maybe Byron the banker did right to pile all the shit on the rich boy.
Jenny elbowed Michael in the ribs. “You should mingle. The best families in Mitchell County and the state are here. What an honor to your father.”
That left him thirsty.
On his return trip to the bar, Jenny stepped in front of him and covertly rubbed against him. Her full breasts moved in a fleshy wave. “Lover, don’t drink anymore. Save yourself for later.”
Though he didn’t mean to, he laughed. “Jen, I’ve gone past the lovemaking period right into the passing-out-when-I-get-home phase.”
“Your loss.”
Quickening his pace, Michael glanced down for any more rosebushes or other obstructions. When he looked up, the most daunting of all stood in front of him.
“It’s my birthday, but you’re doing all the celebrating, son. You didn’t have to take a pratfall, you know. We hired the band for entertainment.”
Martin Shaw was the kind of man people stepped aside for even if they didn’t know who he was. With his dignified silver hair and stern countenance, he was the unforgiving Jehovah of the Old Testament in a three-piece suit.
“I wanted to perk up things around here, Father. This crowd reminds me of the Dead Sea on a Sunday night.”
“When you were young, you talked about running away to join the circus. As a clown, wasn’t it?”
“I just wanted to run away.”
Jenny kissed her father-in-law, whose eyes never left Michael’s face. “Wonderful party, Dad.”
Josita Calderón, a short, chunky Mexican woman with white conquering her black hair, offered glasses of champagne from a silver tray. Her brown eyes were directed at the chins of the people she served. Jenny delicately took a glass.
Finishing his other drink, Michael grinned at his father and took the champagne. “Thanks, Josita.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Michael,” she replied with a heavy accent.
Michael saluted his father, who shooed Josita away with a sweep of his hand.
“Jenny, beautiful as usual. You light up this evening more than those lanterns,” Martin said.
“You get more charming with age. Sometimes I do believe I married the wrong Shaw.”
Michael winked at them. “It’s not too late. I’m very progressive.”
“What a thing to say,” Jenny twittered and tapped Michael’s arm.
His father did not smile.
“How does it feel to be sixty? The age of Geritol and prunes,” Michael said.
“One should only consider the knowledge accumulated over the years.”
“That’s a really poor defense for growing old.”
Martin cleared his throat twice, which signaled his displeasure. Michael smiled. Besides the law, he loved nothing better than pissing off his father. Childish, yes, but satisfying as ten-year-old Scotch.
Martin cleared his throat again. “Have another drink, son. There are plenty of rosebushes, and the night is young.” Taking a quick step, he sidled up to a gaunt figure of woman in pearls and put his arm around her waist. “Why, Corky Long-fellow, I haven’t seen you since I sued your uncle. Come here and tell me about your liver operation.”
Jenny wrung her hands. “You shouldn’t have said those things to him. It’s not father-and-son-like.”
“That, my dear, requires affection.”
Yet Michael could not but help admire how his father worked the crowd—a touch to the back, a warm handshake, a murmur in the ear. A goddamn master of disguise. Michael dug his hands in his jacket. “Jenny, I could use a nightcap.”
“Please, Michael, no more.”
“Don’t worry. I’m through falling over the plants.”
“It is getting late, and I’m so tired.” She yawned. “I’m going straight to bed.” She laughed at her invitation.
He wasn’t listening. Something else had Michael’s attention. He reached for her hand. “Did you ever see my old tree house?”
“Yes, I have, but this probably isn’t a good time.”
“Come on.”
Michael pulled her to a gigantic oak at the edge of the garden. The thick tree trunk pushed against a ten-foot-tall wooden fence separating the yard from the desert beyond. His father’s attempt to turn the garden into an eastern park with fall foliage had failed miserably. The Arizona heat had dispatched the other leafy trees, no matter how much water and care Martin’s workers applied. The oak was the only survivor, which is probably why Michael liked it.
Michael looked up. “Wonder if my tree house is still standing?”
“That was more than twenty years ago. It’s probably gone.”
“Let’s go see if it’s there. It’ll be fun.” Michael began climbing.
“Get down here. You’ll break your neck. Please.” Jenny smiled nervously. Good. No guests around. Glancing up every so often, she started warbling “Some Enchanted Evening.” As Michael climbed, a few leaves sprinkled down, and she picked them off her hair.
Michael didn’t cry out when the bark scratched his hands. His slick leather shoes slipped more than once, and his heart stamped like a machine. His suit ripped somewhere, but he kept going. At last, he found his old tree house. The roof and walls had collapsed onto the warped platform. The boards squeaked when he stepped on them, so he put one foot on a bulky branch slightly beneath to balance himself. At thirty feet off the ground, however, the tree house was still a good spot for watching the world, especially under the radiant moonlight that showed him the way up.
Josita’s husband, Diego, had built the tree house after Michael begged his father for one. Via rope, he would haul up vienna sausages and crackers that Josita had packed for him in a basket. Up there, he escaped the sounds of his mother and father arguing. Up there, he hid from his father, whose calls resulted in no good anyway, such as scoldings for bad behavior and good-byes as he went on his many business trips. Most times, Michael didn’t even get a good-bye. His father just disappeared for days. But he climbed down when his mother called because it meant kisses and chocolate. Her voice was as feathery as the cream-colored comforter on her bed. His own blond angel with ruby red lips, plucked eyebrows and a martini glass in her hand. Her body smelled of bubble bath and mint. After his mother’s funeral, he had climbed up to the tree-house every night for two weeks. At that height, he was convinced all he had to do was reach out to touch his mother in heaven. He used to hold out his arms to the sky until they ached.
Michael also planned to run away, to step out past the wall and into the desert. Instead of the French Foreign Legion, he would join the battalions of saguaros and transform himself into an invincible thorny solider. But he never left the safe place among the branches of his tree house with his vienna sausages and crackers.
The music from his father’s birthday party in the garden below was faint, as if it came from another county. Michael glanced up between the branches to the moon and sky. Carefully balancing himself, he raised his arms out to heaven.
3
A FEW BLOCKS FROM WHERE MORTICIANS loaded the body of Ben Curry into a hearse, kids charged in and out of the hall of St. Catherine’s Church on Quincy Avenue. Food and punch stained their Sunday clothes. Shirttails flew behind as they ran after one another. Their parents were inside having a good time, which left them free to have fun on their own.
The hall’s refrigerators held plenty of leftover food, but guests had emptied one keg of beer. The groom’s male cousins tapped the other and sipped cold foam. People wiped at br
ows with napkins, leaning in to hear gossip or jokes in English, Spanish or a blend of both. While the band set up, relatives cleared white butcher paper from the tables. The guests were full after a meal equally American and Mexican. Ham and turkey, mashed potatoes, green chili, salad, tortillas and the chicken mole that had gone as fast as the three González sisters had dished it out from huge pots. Large women in flowered aprons, the sisters were sought after for most Mexican weddings, baptisms, funerals and other gatherings. They were good cooks and charged reasonabe prices.
All widows, the González sisters swayed ample hips as they rushed to clean up so they could be ready to dance. They had a reputation not only for their mole, but also for knowing how to have a good time.
“Oh, no.” Junie González’s whole body shook as she scrubbed a stubborn stain on a pan.
“¿Qué?” sister Jo asked, not looking up from sweeping the kitchen floor.
Third sister Viola aimed a soapy finger at an older couple holding a large gift. “Get the food back out. Emilio and Celia Valdez are late, as usual. I bet they went to a funeral. They love a good funeral, ’specially when it’s not theirs.”
Emilio held his old fedora as he walked into the kitchen. “I’m sorry to cause more work for you,” he told the sisters in Spanish. “We went to an uncle’s funeral in Bisbee.”
“What did I tell you,” Viola whispered to her sisters.
“A marriage and a death. That’s life,” Emilio’s wife said.
To ensure the older couple didn’t bother them for seconds and delay their cleaning and dancing, the sisters filled two plates of food for each of them. Emilio sat and sopped up the red mole with a bit of tortilla. He announced his pleasure: “Muy sabroso.”
Junie González bounced her hips as Sammy Flores and his band began to play. His fingers sped along the accordion keys, and his glossy cowboy boots kept time. Men gave robust shouts of approval as couples tipped hips back and forth and slid feet along the floor.
“Play rock ’n’ roll,” yelled the teenage guests after the band had gone through a few Mexican songs. Sammy obliged with his version of “Great Balls of Fire.” His fingers skipped over the accordion as if the spirit of Jerry Lee possessed them. Sammy even had the identical wicked curls, although his were blue-black.
Sitting at the bridal table in front of the hall, Toni García rubbed her feet. Since six that evening she had wanted to ditch her stockings and the lavender-colored high heels. Hadn’t she read something about someone dancing in bare feet at her sister’s wedding? Was it in Shakespeare or Austen or the funny papers? She couldn’t remember. Still, the sister of the bride had to maintain some dignity. She kept on the hose and massaged her aching arches and toes.
Behind her fabric crackled, lots of fabric.
With one hand, her younger sister, Carmen, fanned herself with a paper plate and with the other hand held up yards of white satin and lace. “This dress weighs a ton. I’m sweating like a pig.”
“Have a seat, chicharrón.” Toni added a hog’s grunt.
“Thanks a lot.”
“It is hotter than hell in this place.”
“You don’t have to tell me. You’re not wearing all this satin stuff.”
They listened to the racket, looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Great party!” They giggled like they were still kids.
“I’ve always dreamed of a wedding like this, Toni. Family, friends, música, the whole shebang. The only thing is … ” Carmen began to cry.
Toni took her sister’s hand. “She’s here. She’s watching.” She wiped at Carmen’s tears with a napkin. “Now, stop that, or your make-up will run and you’ll look like the Lone Ranger.”
Carmen sniffed. “So do I?”
Toni leaned in and squinted her eyes with exaggeration. “Nah, you’re beautiful.”
Their father, Francisco, rushed up to them. “Thank God, we had enough food. But I’m worried about how much beer we have left. I hope it lasts.”
“If it doesn’t, we’ll tell everybody to go home, Pops,” Toni said.
“That’s not funny, hijita.”
“Admit it. You’re having a good time.”
Lights reflected in Francisco’s eyes as he smiled his answer. “Not bad at all.”
He had removed his new black jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He pinned his rose boutonniere to his shirt pocket to remind everyone of his place as the proud father of the bride.
Carmen shook her head. “Check out John Herrera and Hugo Martínez near the door. They got that ready-to-fight look.”
“Those two can argue over a fly on the wall.” Francisco focused on the two young men. “In fact, I think that’s what they’re fighting over.”
Carmen laughed and put her hand on his shoulder. “Not to worry. Víctor’s cousins from Bisbee are the official bouncers. They’re big as trucks. Nobody’s gonna mess with them.”
Francisco noticed Sammy waving. “Carmen, they’re ready for the dollar dance.”
“And remember to save me one later.” Toni stood and straightened her father’s collar.
“You can have your pick of dances.” Francisco spun her around, amplifying his hip action. “Cesar Romero ain’t got nada on me.”
“You’re more handsome than ole Cesar.”
Sammy Flores called into his microphone. “Mr. and Mrs. Víctor Villaseñor, come on up here.”
Carmen neared the center of the hall, her eyes widening with pride as Víctor emerged from a crowd of men. Slicked back, his dark hair picked up the lights. His partially opened dress shirt revealed a muscular chest. Although his face was flushed from beer and tequila shots, he maintained that calm she loved about him. Carmen hoped he hadn’t had too much to drink. Yet the headiness in his eyes as he looked at her indicated she had nothing to worry about on their honeymoon. Besides, she had already had a taste of what waited for her.
Shorter and more compact, Víctor’s brother Ramón helped with his jacket. “There you go, brother.”
“If you want to dance with the bride and groom it’ll cost you at least one dollar,” Sammy told the guests in Spanish. In English, he added, “Don’t be a cheapskate.”
Male guests lined up in front of Carmen and female guests, near Víctor. Toni and Ramón held a box of dress pins. The hall lights were lowered, and Sammy began to play.
“I’m first,” Manny Cabral said to Toni. “I baptized this little one, so I’m the first to dance with her at her wedding.”
Toni held out a pin. “Well, Manny, you’re going to have to pay one good ole American dollar.”
He held up a ten. The González sisters whooped.
Carmen kissed his cheek. “Thank you, padrino.”
He pinned the bill on Carmen’s veil and took her around the floor. A few bars into the song, so as not to be outdone, Manny’s brother displayed a twenty and took his turn dancing with the bride. In minutes, ribbons of bills trailed down Carmen’s gown and veil and Víctor’s tux. Sammy simply added another song to keep the dance going.
As the number of female guests began to thin out, Toni took a twenty-dollar bill she had hidden in her bra and tapped the shoulder of Manny’s wife, who was dancing with the groom. “My turn.”
Manny’s wife reached up on her toes and kissed Víctor. “He’s so good-looking. When are you getting married, Antonia? When will I dance at your wedding?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to start looking for a husband tonight.” Toni pinned on the money and took up Víctor’s hand, dancing him away. She had heard similar questions from almost every married woman at the reception.
“I bet everybody’s asking you that,” Víctor said.
Toni hung her head in dramatic despair. “Twenty-three and an old maid. I have nothing to live for.”
He laughed. “You have lots to live for.”
“Like what?” She smiled with suspicion.
“Like being twenty-six and an old maid.”
Toni gave a laugh and sq
ueezed his shoulder. “I suppose my father already warned you what’ll happen if you don’t make Carmen happy. You’ll have to answer to us. That could get ugly, man.”
“He told me. And you’ve already told me. But I love her a lot, Toni.”
“I believe you. Besides, I put down a twenty-dollar payment on your promise.”
When the dance finally ended, Toni and Ramón unpinned the money from the bride and groom.
“This’ll add up to a nice down payment on a dinette set, Víctor.” Carmen put the money in her white bridal purse.
“Or a new car.”
“Keep dreaming, babe.”
Afterward, Carmen and Víctor held hands as they visited guests. Toni watched and wondered how that lovely and generous young woman used to be her skinny little sister with missing teeth and knees like baseballs.
Finding an opportunity, Toni took a pack of cigarettes from her purse. She went outside to light up and kicked off her shoes again. She took care the ashes didn’t fall on her billowy lavender bridesmaid’s dress. Watching the people through the open doors, Toni smiled.
All so familiar.
Another celebration of their extended family, if not connected by blood, then by standing up at one another’s weddings or baptisms. They were good friends who earned respect and the titles padrinos and compadres. During the years, they brought gifts for the holidays or no reason at all, empanadas filled with sweet pumpkin, bushels of chilies and lush tomatoes. Toni had dealt with unforgiving isolation in Phoenix for the past four years while earning a teaching degree. She missed the belonging of Borden. Now she had returned as a stranger desperate to fit in.
At the reception she chatted with the cousins and family friends, but a fragment of herself roamed elsewhere. She feared they’d notice the difference and consider her one of those Mexicans who had dreams reserved only for white people.
Many of her old high school friends celebrated inside. They had filled out to a comforting roundness, had kids running around and husbands who probably loved their cooking and warmth in bed. Toni imagined herself a chunky matron eating all the wedding cake she wanted with a little boy and man who’d ask nothing more of her than love and a good meal. How easy. But she had been attracted to the not so easy, which is why she’d probably end up a spinster schoolteacher wearing thick stockings and even thicker glasses.
Verdict in the Desert Page 2