The three of them sat silently, the clattering of plates and voices bouncing all around them.
“I need you to be patient,” Esteban began again, with a second wind. “And I need you to help your mother as much as you can.”
“Why don’t you just come back?” Carmen asked.
“Ay, mi’ja,” Esteban sighed.
“Just come back.” Her voice was cracking. “Perdón.” Carmen slid out of the booth and rushed to the ladies’ room. Esteban sat back next to his son, each of them looking in opposite directions, neither one talking. Finally, Esteban got up and moved to the other side of the booth to face his son.
“Oye, I know this is hard on your sister—”
“It’s hard on everybody,” Diego said.
“Yes, it’s hard on everybody. But I need you to know I am trying to do the right thing. It’s not easy.”
Diego and Esteban began picking at Carmen’s half-eaten cobbler, their spoons clinking the bowl, one and then the other.
Diego had so many questions for his ’apá. Pero Diego had the kind of respect for his father that was rooted in fear. Not that Esteban had anything to do with that. The truth was, Esteban worried that Diego was embarrassed to have a father like him, a workingman who barely finished high school. Así no! Diego adored his father just like his sister did; he just didn’t show his affection as plain as her. And unlike his sister, Diego was afraid of disappointing his father, afraid he was not the son his father wanted or expected. Coming from a long line of men who worked with their hands and their backs, Diego wondered if he could measure up, if he could ever hope to please him. And sitting there, eating the melting cobbler while the world spun around them, made Diego more anxious about asking the questions he had for his father. When it came down to it, he wasn’t sure what to ask, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer. He was going to. He was going to try. Just as soon as they finished the dessert. But as soon as they got to the bottom of the bowl, Esteban dropped his spoon in the dish and told his son to go check on his sister. Diego groaned inside but did what he was told.
Carmen was sitting outside the ladies’ room on a bench. She wasn’t crying anymore, but she sat with her arms and legs tightly crossed, watching a pair of twins in highchairs at a table across from the restrooms.
“’Apá wants to know what’s taking so long.”
Carmen blew her nose and Diego sat down next to her.
“How come you’re so calm?” she asked. “Like him being gone is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing to me, Carmen.”
“Well then how come you’re not upset?”
“I’m not like you,” Diego said. “I don’t know what’s going on with them, but he says he’s trying to do the right thing. I think ’Amá is trying to do the right thing, too. I think that’s the difference. You want someone to be right and someone to be wrong. Maybe it’s not like that.”
Diego had no idea what the right thing was, but he knew he wanted to believe their father, and unlike his sister, he still had faith in their mother.
“And you’re a daddy’s girl,” he added.
“Shut up,” Carmen said mildly, even though she knew it was the truth. “You didn’t see what he looked like when he left in the middle of the night like some kind of …” Her voice trailed off.
“No, but I see how they are now.” He leaned his head against the wall and watched one of the twins drop his bottle on the floor. His ’amá leaned over and picked it up, and when she didn’t give it to the baby quick enough, he began to scream. “You know they were only a few years older than me when they got married?” Diego asked.
“I’m going to wait till I’m forty to get married,” Carmen said.
“Yeah, right!”
“Okay. Fifty.”
“Shut up.”
“I mean it!”
“Well, that’s good then, because if you get mixed up with that crazy vato from the band …”
“I’m not going to do anything with him!” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Carmen hadn’t worked through her plan.
Happy to be in this “no drama” zone, they stayed watching the twins. One was slathered in potato salad, the other had barbecue sauce in his hair.
“Do you remember being that young?” Carmen asked.
“No.”
“I do.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, I remember one day. I was in that walker thing, remember?”
“The green one?”
“Yeah, you used it before me, right? Anyway, I remember ’Amá put me in it for the first time and I remember looking up at her, and ’Apá was there next to her, and they were holding hands, smiling at me.”
“You made that up.”
“No, I remember! I was happy. They were happy.”
“And then what?”
“And then I thought: Whoever had this ride before me sure did slobber a lot.”
Diego shoved his sister lightly. “Come on. I think he’s ready to go.”
Back at the house, Ana was busy. She washed all the morning dishes. Watered the plants, refilled the hummingbird feeder, pulled the dead vines clinging to the side of the garage, and was getting out the ladder so she could brush away the leaves from that part of the gutter where they always got trapped. It was mindless work, but she welcomed it. She placed the ladder against the house and was climbing up when she heard a loud roar behind her. A huge, white troca with “De La Torre Construction” stenciled in arched letters on the door pulled up below her. It was her brother Marcos.
“Buenas, ’manita,” he said, climbing down from the high cab.
“Buenas yourself.”
“Shouldn’t Diego be doing that?”
“He’s not here,” Ana said.
“Well then, shouldn’t Esteban be doing that?”
And here we go, Ana thought. She climbed down from the ladder and gave her brother an abrazo, which wasn’t easy porque Marcos de la Torre was shaped like a barrel: a broad face, a broad chest, and manners to match. He was the oldest of the de la Torre children. Between him and Ana, he looked like the largest in a set of nested dolls, and Ana would be one of the smallest ones inside.
“I have some ice tea inside, ven,” she said.
“Bianca’s not here?” he asked.
“She was a couple of hours ago. She gave Carmen a ride, and then she went home.” Ana noticed an escrecha on her brother’s neck. “Qué pasó?”
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Did that happen at work?”
“No, a little while ago, I was, I …” Marcos was stammering. “I was with Teresa. She was having a bad day.”
“Híjole, Marcos. Let me fix that.”
As Ana got the cotton balls and peroxide, Marcos looked around the kitchen and dining room. It was quinceañera central, with Bianca’s presentation boards propped up, magazines all over the table, and notepads and otras cosas all over. Marcos whistled through his teeth.
“You got a little production here, eh?”
“Yeah. Your daughter has some big ideas.”
“Thanks for letting her help. She’s real excited about it, because, well, you know.”
Ana began to dab a moistened cotton ball on her brother’s thick neck. Marcos winced.
“That’s enough.”
“Oh, come on, you big baby. Hijo! She really got you.” Ana ran a washcloth under some cold water and handed it to him. “Put this on it.”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
“So, what happened?”
“I don’t know. We were sitting there talkin’ and then all of a sudden, she got mad and started swinging. It took two orderlies to take her down. I don’t think she meant to. She just got, you know.”
Ana put her hand on her big brother’s shoulder. Ay, pobrecito, she thought. He was bigger and older than her, but sitting there in her kitchen, he suddenly looked like a boy.
“She got upset because Bianca wasn’t there. I
told her she was going to come today, and when she didn’t show up, Tere accused me of doing something to her.”
“Ay, Marcos.”
“Bianca was supposed to go with me, but she said she would meet me after she came here to drop off something you needed. But she didn’t come. And she hasn’t been answering her phone.”
Ana poured her brother a glass of tea, adding extra lemon wedges, just the way he liked.
“I know it’s not Tere. It’s the illness talking,” he said. “It’s hard to get Bianca there to visit because, well, it’s hard for her.”
“Does Tere try and hit her, too?”
“No. She cries and cries and cries for her, but then when she shows up, she says things to her, mean things. You know, how she was before we put her in there? I tell Bianca it’s just the illness, but it’s just too much for her. I’m happy she gets to spend time with you and your kids. I think it makes her feel, I don’t know, balanced.”
Ana felt guilty. Her house felt anything but balanced with Esteban gone and Carmen being—how she said—acting out. She was thinking of telling Marcos that Bianca might be spending too much time at her house, and that she was worried Bianca was too wrapped up in Carmen’s quinceañera, but seeing her brother as tender as he was, she decided to keep those thoughts to herself.
“Bianca says you are the padrino de vestidos. Is that true, or did she volunteer you?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Don’t you want to know how much it’s going to cost?”
“Well sure. Give me the bill.”
“No, no, no, Marcos—”
“Business has been good. Which is why I’m here. I have to go out of town and was wondering if you would look after Bianca. I would ask if she could stay here, but I think you’re running out of room,” Marcos said, looking around Ana’s house. “Plus, she might be more comfortable in her own bed.”
Ana didn’t like to think of Bianca all alone in the big house she shared with her dad. Having Bianca in her house would be better.
“How long are you going to be gone?”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks! Where are you going?”
“Austin, Houston, and Dallas and then down to the valley. I can drive back and forth from Austin, but when I go north and especially down south, you know—it’s a long haul.”
It’s going to be a long haul having Bianca in the house, Ana thought.
“I can give you some money for your trouble. And I was serious about helping with the quince. When is it?”
“March or April. We haven’t picked the date yet.”
“Well, I’ll be the padrino de whatever. I’ll help with the barbecue.”
“The barbecue?”
“Yeah, because you know the most important part of the quinceañera is the barbecue after. Brisket, chicken, sausage—something more than that prissy food you girls like. The men quieren comer!” he roared.
“We haven’t gotten to that part yet,” Ana said, patting her big brother’s panza. “And I don’t need money to take care of Bianca. She practically takes care of herself, and she hardly eats a thing. But …”
“But what?”
“You know she’s always welcome here, but when was the last time you spent time with her?” Ana asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—she’s here a lot.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been working a lot,” Marcos said defensively. “I got to keep it up to keep the business going as good as it has been, and it costs a lot to keep Tere in that place. Her family is helping out, but this is the longest she’s been in there since, you know, the first time.”
Ana remembered when Marcos and Teresa got married, how he beamed next to his little bride. They met the year he was el Rey Feo and she was the Charro Queen at the annual citywide festival known as Fiesta. After a day of making one of his many public appearances as el Rey Feo, Marcos decided to go to the Fiesta Charreada, where Miss Teresa Armendariz, recently crowned Charro Queen, was making her debut. They met among the smell of hay, horse sweat, and dung, but you would think they were above the clouds. When they met, it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime lightning strikes that stunned everyone else but made sense to them. They were like Frida and Diego, only he had eyes for her and her alone. Marcos de la Torre was surprised as anyone else that this little dove would want him, and he considered himself the luckiest man alive when she agreed to marry him. He had no inkling of what was to become of his wife.
“Well, I’m praying that she’s better in time for Carmen’s quinceañera,” Ana said. Neither of them had to say it, but both of them were remembering the year Teresa’s illness came like a hurricane during Bianca’s quinceañera.
Ana never forgot the look on her poor sobrina’s face when she went to the room where she was to get dressed and saw that Teresa had cut and torn Bianca’s quince dress into shreds. Teresa had some idea of what she’d done and tried to correct the situation by taking off her own dress and offering it to Bianca, forcing her into the dress, as Bianca begged her to stop. Ana and then Marcos had to pull Teresa off her daughter. The nightmare went on with Marcos picking up his half-naked wife and stuffing her into the car as she screamed at the top of her lungs in the church parking lot. The next afternoon, Marcos had a small family birthday party for Bianca in the backyard. Pero, with Teresa gone and Bianca hiding in her room, it was not a very happy birthday.
“So, I need to ask you to do something else for Carmen’s quinceañera,” Ana said.
“Mande.”
“I need you to be there in case Esteban doesn’t show up.”
“What do you mean if he doesn’t show up? He’s not going to miss his little girl’s quinceañera. What makes you say that?” Marcos said, refolding the washcloth and putting it back on his neck.
“I don’t know. He said it was happening at a bad time of year for him. Do you all have a big job coming up at that time?”
“No, and even if we did, I would let him off for the quince,” Marcos said. “You must have misunderstood him.”
“I understood him fine,” Ana said. “He sat right across from me and said it was a bad time. I just need to know that if he doesn’t show up, you will stand in for him, okay?”
“Well, that’s not going to happen. Esteban is very dependable. He’s one of the most dependable men I have. He’s not going to let his little girl down.”
Ana could feel her temper bubbling. “Well, he stood up his little girl at church last week.”
“N’ombre!”
“Yes, güey!”
Qué, qué, qué? Ana never talked that way to her brother, and his head snapped so fast to look at her she thought he would get the whiplash. Pero, she finally got his attention, and he could see she was not going to back down. Marcos decided to let this pass.
“Well, she must have misunderstood which Mass to go to,” Marcos said.
“Why do you do that?” Ana said between her teeth. “Why do you assume I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you act like he’s a saint!”
“He’s no saint, Ana, but he’s a good man. You could do worse—”
“Ay, por favor, Marcos! Do you all take an oath to defend each other no matter what?”
“N’ombre! He’s a good man, is all I’m saying. He made a mistake and he’s trying to make it right.”
“Verdad? Well, I’ve asked him half a dozen times to go to therapy, and he won’t do it.”
“Therapy?” Marcos scoffed. “He’s not going to go to therapy.”
“And you think that’s okay?”
“That kind of thing isn’t for everyone,” Marcos said. “Cálmate, ’manita. Just give it some time.”
Ana had been told to “calm down” and “give it some time” all her life. She had had it. Before she knew it, the thought that had been boiling in the back of her mind came out.
“Well, I think he’s seeing her
again.”
As soon as the words were out, she wished she could suck them back in.
“That’s not true,” Marcos said.
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“How can you know?”
“I know!” Marcos said. “You think I’m going to let him treat my own sister like that? Hell, no! Trust me. I got eyes everywhere. I know what he’s doing when he leaves work. Between being an altar boy and going to work he doesn’t have time to mess around.”
“An altar boy?”
“Hell, yeah—he goes to Mass every other damn day! Believe me, he’s sorry for what happened.”
“So you’re sure?” Ana asked, suddenly feeling the full power of being Marcos de la Torre’s little sister.
“I’m sure, ’manita.”
That only made Ana feel worse. If Esteban wasn’t back with that woman, what was he waiting for? Ana took the washcloth from her brother. It was hot from his body heat, a trace of red glaring up at her. Ana wondered what it would be like to lose control, to let loose the full force of her anger and pain like Teresa. Ana rinsed the cloth and hung it over the edge of the sink.
“Esteban is very particular, and so are you. He got confused.”
“Confused? About what?”
“I don’t know. Like he didn’t know where he belonged.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Men like Esteban, they have to be needed. I think after you got successful over there at the university, maybe he thought you didn’t need him anymore.”
“So he messed around because I’m successful?” Ana asked.
“No, but—”
“No, but what?” Ana demanded. “I’m supposed to stop being myself, stop doing what I’m good at because he feels threatened?”
“Well, no, but yeah—I mean …” Marcos didn’t know what he meant. “I mean that, well, you know. You’re not the same as when you all got married.”
“People change, Marcos! Everything changes! Life isn’t static!”
“I know that better than anybody, don’t you think?”
Ana could barely believe that she and Marcos grew up together. How could she and Marcos, and the rest of the family, from what she could see, be so different from each other? How come she was told to do well, succeed, and work hard, only to be told later that she’d done too much?
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz Page 13