Dressed from head to toe in traditional folklórico costumes, the Martinez women maneuvered through the throng. We were quite a sight with our long braids, bright, colorful skirts, and black leather heels. Several people snapped pictures and a few young men whistled their approval as we snaked our way to the back of the parade lineup.
With five minutes to spare, we passed the Broken Boot Bears marching band—along with their award-winning color guard and drill team—and arrived at the white clapboard gazebo the town council erected each year to house the parade organizers. It sat squarely in the middle of Main, effectively blocking off traffic. Mayor Cogburn descended the gazebo steps, clipboard in hand. “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t we, ladies?”
Mrs. Cogburn pushed her way to the front of our troupe. “There’ll be no pawing and snorting from you this morning, Mr. Mayor.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“Who was sawing logs all night because he refused to wear his nasal strips?” She turned to the rest of us. “How am I supposed to sleep, let alone wake up on time, with that ungodly racket giving me fits?”
Mayor Cogburn gave us a sheepish look over his readers and placed a check on his list. Squaring his shoulders, he removed a pocket watch from his leather vest. “Three minutes till showtime. Better get a move on.”
“Where do we go exactly?” Aunt Linda moved closer, trying to sneak a look at his list.
“Number twenty-seven. Near the end.”
“¡Ay, Dios!” Senora Mari muttered.
As one, we did an about-face and strutted off toward the end of the line, our colorful skirts swaying around us like a muster of peacocks.
“Toot.” A ’50s convertible honked politely for us to get out of the road. On the rear deck rode parade favorites like Miss Broken Boot, Miss Big Bend County, and Miss West Texas. Behind them in a red Corvette rode Hillary Sloan-Rawlings, third runner-up to Miss America and the bane of my existence.
Though we started out as friends at UT, I finally realized that while I was working on our assignments, Hillary was working on only one thing—winning pageants. Years later when I returned home brokenhearted, minus my fiancé and my job, it was all a bit much to find she’d not only won a coveted faculty position at West Texas University, but she was dating my college sweetheart, Coach Ryan Prescott.
Hillary wiggled her fingers in my direction, and my bubble of parade-day bliss burst. I gave her a measly nod and a half smile in return. A tourist wearing a pink sombrero interrupted our exchange by asking the former Miss Broken Boot to sign her hat. I wanted to puke. If folks continued to fawn over the former beauty queens, I’d have the excruciating pleasure of watching Hillary ride in our annual parades for the rest of my life.
Next came the town council, sitting on bales of hay on a flatbed trailer in front of a sign that read: BROKEN BOOT’S CINCO DE MAYO, A FIESTA OF FUN!
As usual, children of all ages and their parents had festooned their bikes with green, red, and white ribbons to celebrate the fifth of May.
Senora Mari gestured to a Mexican flag hung above the entrance to Pecos Pete’s bar. “In Mexico, no one celebrates the fifth of May. You know this.”
“Yes, yes. You’ve told us three times this morning and four times yesterday.” Aunt Linda waved frantically to those of us lagging behind to catch up with the rest.
“And I will say it again until someone explains it to me.”
Patti Perez walked on Senora Mari’s other side. “It’s about Mexican independence.” She ran her fingers across her brow, searching for the stud she usually wore there.
The older woman came to an abrupt halt. “Mexicans celebrate independence in September.”
“They do?” Patti tugged on her synthetic black braids, checking for the umpteenth time they were hanging evenly.
I gave her a look. She knew darn well that Cinco de Mayo commemorated Mexico’s resistance to French debt collectors.
Placing a gentle hand on Senora Mari’s arm, I urged her forward, hoping to walk and talk. “What do you want explained, Abuela?”
“Why all the fuss?” She gestured to a small group of clowns on unicycles, inching their cycles forward and back to keep from falling to the cobblestones.
If memory served, we’d had the same discussion during last year’s festivities. “To honor our Mexican heritage and to celebrate spring.”
“Such a fuss over nothing.”
We reached our place in the parade lineup, three spots from the end. I could see the antique motorcycle and auto club from Brewster County behind us, and behind them, the Army Reserve color guard.
Quickly taking our places, we tucked in our shirts and began to count out our steps.
“Where is Anthony?” Mrs. Cogburn raised up on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see above the crowd and the Junior Rodeo riders in front of us.
“He said they were on their way fifteen minutes ago.” Cindy, his fiancée, didn’t sound too confident.
A trumpet blat burst from the alley off to our right along with Anthony, Lily, and their mariachi band. The sight of their white suits, red embroidered ties, and matching sombreros boosted my confidence. Between the ladies’ beautiful colors and the band’s crisp, white sophistication, our act should be a crowd favorite.
“So sorry we’re late.” While he held his guitar in his right hand, Anthony removed his sombrero with his left and waved it in front of his perspiring face.
A trumpet blew a dramatic fanfare. “But now we’re here the show can begin.” Lily tucked her trumpet under her arm and gave a little bow.
“Come here.” I gestured for Lily to come closer, and I straightened her tie. “Where were you?” I kept my voice low. In my peripherals, I could see that Anthony was apologizing and making his excuses to Mrs. Cogburn, Aunt Linda, and Senora Mari.
“Tubas are not easy to carry. Larry ripped his jacket trying to climb in the back of Anthony’s truck with that small elephant.”
“Who had an extra jacket?”
“Forget that. We found the duct tape in your aunt’s office.”
I gave Lily a disapproving look. “Won’t that show? Tacky like?”
“Huh,” she grunted. “We taped it together on the inside.”
Farther up the line, the high school drum line fired off their opening cadence.
Senora Mari stood at the front of our V formation, like a star on the top of a Christmas tree. Anthony and his bandmates stretched in a straight line from one side of the street to the other right behind.
Suddenly the riders in front of us lurched forward and my pulse lurched with them. The big moment had arrived.
“Horse hockey!” Aunt Linda let out a loud exclamation.
I glanced to my left to see what had her all stirred up.
“Look down!” Gretchen Cruz, the calm, steady attorney, cried from my other side.
I jumped over a horse patty the size of a flattened melon. The Junior Rodeo riders were above the stinky fray. The rest of, swishing our colorful skirts back and forth, weren’t as fortunate.
“Smile, ladies, smile,” Mrs. Cogburn called, and then let out a squeal as she nearly landed in a pile of horse dung.
The mariachi band played, the crowd clapped, and we swished our skirts from side to side and played leapfrog with the presents the quarter horses left behind. It was a beautiful morning; the sun warm and bright on the hills that lay just beyond the railroad track. Flowers bloomed in window boxes along the parade route and on balconies above Main Street. Everywhere the Mexican flag blew proudly in the breeze along with bright-colored paper banners. We passed Coach Ryan. Up to this point, Lenny had been tucked in the crook of my left arm, which made it doubly dangerous to jump over the obstacles in our path. Each time I hopped, he yipped.
With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Cogburn didn’t see me, I hurried over to Ryan. “
Here, take him. I think he needs to do his doggie duty.”
Ryan chuckled and took him in his arms. “When a guy’s gotta go—”
“Listen.” I pulled Ryan along the route as we went. “He’s in the dance. You’ll need to catch up with us before we hit the gazebo.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Yip, yip, yip.” Lenny reared up and licked Ryan’s chin.
“Leash?”
I fished it from my skirt pocket and handed it over. “Hurry. Run, don’t walk, or I’m dead meat.”
“Are you kidding? If we don’t make it back and Senora Mari blames me, I’ll have to pay at Milagro’s from now on for screwing up this sideshow.”
With that, he slipped through the crowd and down the alley, disappearing from view as a family of tourists stepped up. I assumed they were a family—it was hard to make out their faces as they all held their phones and iPads aloft to film the procession.
As we marched, my new black character shoes, or pumps, as Mrs. Cogburn preferred to call them, began to pinch my feet. I was hopping over fewer obstacles from the Junior Rodeo horses, but just when I thought all that nastiness was behind us, I had to hop again.
I marched. I twirled my skirt. I smiled at friends, tourists, and their kids along the parade route until my cheeks hurt.
Finally the parade ground to a halt as the drum corps exploded into an intricate performance of beats, rim shots, and funky cadences that set the crowd to dancing. There was no sign of Ryan and Lenny, but the crowd on this last stretch of the parade was three- and four-people deep. Vendors had set up their carts and booths along the sidewalk behind the crowd, making it hard to maneuver. Ryan would have no difficulty running a play through these obstacles, seeing as how he was a football coach. But what was the holdup?
I glanced at my fellow dancers and exchanged weary smiles with Aunt Linda and Cindy. Anthony’s band took a breather and we continued to dance in time to the faster cadence played by the drum corps. Skirts twitched in time; tired smiles remained pasted in place, just a little lower than before.
“Where’s Lenny?” Senora Mari turned from her place of honor at the front, a furrow of worry crossing her forehead. For someone who didn’t care for dogs, she was showing every sign of concern for my four-legged pal.
“Potty break,” I called back through smiling teeth. “He should be here any second.”
“No potty breaks, we’re almost there.” Mrs. Cogburn’s stage whisper carried to two twin girls, seven or eight years old, standing at the edge of the crowd. They stared at each other wide-eyed. “No potty breaks,” I saw them mouth to each other in horror. As the parade stopped, I overheard their worried complaints. The smaller one pointed to me. “She says there’s no potty breaks.”
The mother, dressed in celebratory white, green, and red followed the girl’s finger to me. She glared.
“Wasn’t me.”
The drum corps sprang into another rousing cadence and the little girls forgot the horrors of having no access to a potty. They began to dance, grasping each other’s hands and twisting back and forth—à la Chubby Checker. A few of the horses blew through their nostrils and pulled against their reins. The young rider in front of me allowed her charge to take a few steps to the right before she led him back into formation. Two or three others on the other side of the Junior Rodeo group did the same. A large, black quarter horse in the middle stamped and snorted in frustration.
“I’ve heard enough drumming to last until next Fourth of July,” one of the club sponsors called, walking his horse closer.
“Are the horses okay?”
“Fine.” He patted the strong neck of his charge. “Bored. Ready to move.”
Mrs. Cogburn pranced over without missing a beat, still twitching her skirt in time to the drum line. “Each group is given a strict time limit for their performance.” She glanced to her left and right. “At least that’s what I was led to believe.”
Suddenly the drum line stopped, and after a few seconds of silence, they changed to rim shots only, and the parade proceeded.
A middle-aged gent on horseback tipped his hat. “That’s our cue.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Mayor marched quickly back to her place, careful to keep her feet moving in time to the beat.
We surged forward and my heart fell. Lenny was going to miss his big moment. Cindy had sewn his costume to match the ballet folklórico theme. He’d had fittings, which he hated, to make sure nothing would fall off during his performance. I tried to smile, hating the fact my eyes were full of tears. What was that about? It was just an old parade.
“Hey, Josie! Josie Callahan!”
It was Ryan. He pushed carefully through the crowd ten feet in front of me. He walked toward us as we marched forward. “Didn’t you hear me hollering your name?” He thrust Lenny into my arms.
“What happened?”
He gave Lenny a frustrated look. “Took his sweet time about it. Geez.”
“Where’s his hat?” Cindy had worked hard on the silk number, adding elastic that wasn’t too tight.
“You’re kidding.”
“You’ve got to find it.”
The twin girls ran up with the miniature sombrero. “Does this belong to him?”
“Score.” Ryan gave them each a high five as Lenny and I continued to march slowly toward the gazebo and our big performance.
I cupped his chin and placed the elastic underneath, then I adjusted his hat. A careful look told me there was no need to check for horse hockey—apparently the handsome animals had given it a rest.
When we reached the gazebo, the mayor and the town council stood on a metal portable platform. Hanging from the side of the white planking hung a green, white, and red sign: CINCO DE MAYO CELEBRATION. LET THE FUN BEGIN!
The crowd here was at least six deep, with children sitting on the shoulders of their parents and older brothers. The businesses nearby had festooned their rooftops and balconies with Mexican flags and streamers.
My new shoes felt like shackles on my swollen feet. Lenny’s hair was sticking to my arms in several places. And I was so thirsty I began to envision running into Elaine’s Pies, grabbing a pitcher of ice water from the waiter station, and upending it over my head. I longed desperately to move to the back of our formation where no one could see me, but Mrs. Cogburn was already motioning for us to take our positions.
Anthony and his band formed two lines, one along each side of the crowd. Uncle Eddie had preset a large, red, wooden box to one side of the gazebo. Now Ryan carried it over his head like a deckhand on a pirate ship. He set it down on the pavement in front of Senora Mari and the first line of dancers and bowed.
The crowd whistled and cheered. “Great job, Coach!”
Lily blew a single clear note into the air. The crowd silenced. With true swagger, she played the familiar opening phrase of jarabe tapatío in perfect pitch. The band joined in and we were off. We danced, we smiled, we twirled, and we danced some more until our teeth hurt.
The crowd clapped along with the music, which was invigorating until they began to clap offbeat. I was counting steps in my head. A glance at my buddy Patti told me she was counting out loud. Then the crowd roared. As I twirled into my original place, I found the source of the crowd’s delight. Lenny was standing on his back legs pawing at the air. He lowered his legs, turned to the left and panted, turned to the right and panted, turned to me and panted. For a finale, he turned back to the crowd, stood on his back legs again, pawed the air, and then sat down—the better to show off his white silk suit and sombrero. The musicians played their final notes with a flourish, we hit our final marks, colorful skirts on full display, and the crowd erupted as if we’d scored the game-winning touchdown at a Dallas Cowboys playoff game.
“Lenny, Lenny, Lenny!” Locals began to shout.
When the final notes blew and the guitars strumme
d a finale, I raced to Lenny’s side.
“Dance,” I ordered.
Again Lenny raised up on his back legs. I took one of his extended paws and pretended to dance with him. Then ever so slowly I walked behind the wooden block, turning him slowly in a circle while he remained on his back legs.
Lenny might not be a poodle, but he loved an adoring crowd.
As the parade organizers hurried us off the street, Anthony and his mariachi band broke into another song, and Ryan hauled the wooden box out of the way. Now Hillary Sloan Rawlings and the other beauty queens could advance into the spotlight. Except that Lenny had stolen their thunder. Too bad, so sad.
We made our way through the crowd, down a side alley, and into a lot filled with horse trailers, riders, a school bus, and excited drummers.
Senora Mari’s eyes danced with merriment. “¡Ay, caramba!”
“Yip, yip, yip.” Lenny licked my chin.
I hugged his tiny body close and kissed his furry head. “You were fabulously awesome!”
My fellow dancers gathered around, tired smiles replaced with wide grins. “Lenny, you did it!” Mrs. Cogburn sounded surprised, though I don’t know why.
Aunt Linda and Patti gave us a hug sandwich.
“Yip.”
“Sorry, Lenny.” Aunt Linda kissed his nose and in return he graciously licked her chin.
“Lenster.” Patti held out a hand. He dutifully gave her his paw and allowed her to give him a knuckle bump.
“Did everyone remember their steps?” Mrs. Cogburn wore a hopeful smile.
“From my point of view, we killed it.” Gretchen Cruz’s breathing was surprisingly a bit labored, her skin damp with perspiration. Months earlier, Patti had done time in county jail until the lamebrains in the sheriff’s office realized they arrested the wrong woman. During Gretchen’s stint as Patti’s defense attorney, I’d never once seen a hair out of place or an issue she couldn’t handle.
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