“So you’ll take your boyfriend out for tacos but not me?”
Ana almost swallowed her tongue. “My what?”
“Your boyfriend. I guess everyone knows but us, huh?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That man with his pictures on the wall, looking all … sweaty.”
“If you’re talking about Señor Montalvo, he’s the visiting artist that my department brought in for the year. Just like we’ve brought in other visiting artists in previous years.”
“And were they your boyfriends, too?”
Ana didn’t like the ugly tone in her daughter’s voice. “Carmen, what do you think you’re talking about?”
“I saw you! I saw you with him on that balcony!” Carmen said. “I was looking for you all over the place, and you weren’t working. You were out there with him the whole time!”
“Carmen, we were just talking.”
“I know what I saw!” Carmen cried. “Now I know why you kicked ’Apá out of the house!”
“I did not kick your father out. It was his decision to leave! And he didn’t leave you, he left me!”
“Why would he do that?” Carmen yelled. “What did you do?”
Híjole! Ana couldn’t stand it. She knew that telling Carmen the truth would hurt her much more than it would relieve her misery, but she was the parent and Carmen was the child. She would protect her no matter what.
“Carmen, I am married to you father. I want him to come back as much as you do.”
“Really?” Carmen said, todo snarky.
“Yes, really.”
“Then why doesn’t he come back?”
“Listen to me. I’m sorry that what is happening between your father and me hurts you. I know you want to find someone to blame, but it’s not me!” Ana would have done anything to steal back her words, but there they were, out in the open like a new cut.
“He’s the one who’s out there on his own, while you go out to all these fancy parties!”
“What are you talking about? You act like I’m running all over town every night! How many of these events have I gone to lately? When was the last time I went out, period?”
Carmen didn’t know what to say, and it annoyed her. But she was annoyed before she even stepped into the museo. This new aggravation—fueled by her old anger and mixed with her crazy suspicions, all held together with the spit of her stubbornness—was all Carmen needed to dump a new wave of bitterness on Ana.
“If you went to that thing I told you about, maybe you could work it out already.”
“What thing?”
“That flier I gave you when you dragged me to the quinceañera fair? The flier I brought from church about the marriage seminar?”
Ana dropped her head against the headrest. She would have laughed if she thought it would lighten the situation. But Ana could see that that was not the thing to do, even if she could laugh.
“You shoved it in your purse without even looking at it!” Carmen said.
“I know you think you’re trying to help, but really, this is none of your business. This is between your father and me, and no one else!”
“You’re not even trying!” Carmen yelled.
“Carmen, I just told you: this is none of your business.”
“At least ’Apá is trying.”
Qué coraje! Ana felt her head explode.
“He is? You think he is? Well, let me tell you something”—Ana had to stop, she wanted to stop, but she couldn’t—“I don’t know what you think your precious father has been doing, but I can tell you it doesn’t include me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Damn it, Carmen! I don’t have to talk to you about my business! Stop being such a self-righteous little bitch!”
Carmen tried her best but couldn’t stop the explosion of tears. Ana leaned over to comfort her, but Carmen pulled away. Ana reached into the backseat for a box of tissues and tried to give it to Carmen, but she refused it. Ana had had enough. She wanted to take her girl by the shoulders and shake her. Instead, she dropped the tissue box on the floor in front of Carmen and got out of the car. She slammed the door and walked around the car, back and forth, back and forth, finally stopping at the rear of the car where she leaned against the trunk with her hands on her knees.
Please make her stop! Ana screamed inside her head. She wished she had a magic wand to make it all better. She wished she could crawl inside her daughter’s head and help her understand that the world was not painted in crayons. Ana didn’t want to kill Carmen’s image of her father, but this was too much. If her daughter was this upset now, what would knowing the truth do to her? Ana knew the truth about Esteban would come out in time, but now, with it being kept quiet so long, Ana was beginning to worry she was doing more harm than good keeping Carmen and her brother in the dark.
A gust of wind blew her sheer wrap up and around her head. She fought it, like she was tearing through a cobweb. She could hear the rips in the tender cloth, but she didn’t care. When she finally got control of the wrap, she balled it up and crushed it in her fist.
Ana felt as if something inside had cracked. Maybe Marcos was right. Maybe she had already left Esteban before he left her—not physically, not with another man, but by being a different person than she was when they first got married. Was it possible to be the person you were at eighteen, as you were at twenty-eight, as Ana was now, at thirty-eight? The idea bubbled up into her head like muddy water from an old faucet.
If Mrs. Gruber had been aware of Ana’s situation, she would have advised her to find a man who could be trained with the right kind of encouragement, which in her mind was money. “You can buy all sorts of happiness with the right amount of money,” she would say. Mrs. Gruber liked to create a stir among those who wanted her favor. But it was an old game that bought her less and less satisfaction now that she had outlived them all: her husband, her parents, her friends, and, perhaps cruelest of all, her children. There was no one left who wanted her the way a human wants to be wanted: for the simple pleasure of her company. She could buy respect, but affection? Only the fantasma of affection was real. In time the truth would reveal itself.
Ana began to feel cold and damp. When she looked up at the street lamp, she could see a fine mist passing through the light. She began to shiver and decided it was time to face her daughter. When she got in the car, Carmen had stopped crying, except for hiccups, which helped to make a foggy glaze inside the window next to her. She dabbed at her nose with a wadded tissue and avoided looking at her mother. Ana used the wrap to wipe the moisture off her arms and threw it in the backseat where it landed with a splat. She finger-combed her hair and wiped her hands on her lap, and waited for what was next.
“I want to go home,” Carmen said bluntly.
Ana started the car. She was ready to pull out but something changed her mind. She turned off the car and sat back to find the words that were making their way out into the open.
“I hate this,” Ana said quietly. “I really, really hate this, Carmen. How long is it going to be like this with us?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please!” Ana said.
Carmen could see her mother was talking to her in a new way. She wasn’t letting her have her little tantrum without a comment, and Carmen wasn’t sure how to act.
“I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”
“You called me a self-righteous bitch,” Carmen snapped.
“You are self-righteous!”
Carmen’s mouth fell open.
“You are!” Ana insisted. “Ever since your father and I—you act like you’re the only one with God on your side.”
“Why are you talking to me like that?”
“Oye, chica, if you’re going to throw chingazos, you better learn to take some punches.”
“You’re not supposed to talk to me that way,” Carmen whined.
“And I’m not your personal punching bag!”
>
Carmen pulled another tissue from the box and wiped her eyes.
This whole freaking night has been one big mess, Carmen thought. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Cynthia was crossing in front of their car, pushing a huge case that held her harp. The case was teetering on two puny casters that seemed too small for the job. Cynthia didn’t see Ana and Carmen in their car. All her attention was on keeping the harp upright and a bag she’d flung over her back up and out of the way. Carmen flinched when she saw the pink hem of Cynthia’s long skirt graze a thin pool of water she had stepped in without knowing.
“The mariachi was okay,” Carmen said plainly. She wasn’t trying to fight with her mother, but she wasn’t trying to make up with her, either. She just wanted things to be normal. Pero, she wasn’t sure what normal meant anymore. She didn’t want to be treated like a little girl, but she had no idea, no real idea, what it meant to be treated like an adult. If hearing the truth about yourself was part of it, she didn’t know if she liked it.
“You heard them play more than one song?” Ana asked, watching Cynthia load her harp in her car and close the door.
“Yeah,” Carmen sighed. “It would be better if they had matching outfits.”
“I know they’re getting new outfits made,” Ana said. “They should be ready in time for your quinceañera.”
“Are they going to be like that harp girl’s?”
“I don’t know. I have no control over that.” Ana wondered if Carmen would blame her for that, too.
Carmen slunk down in her seat, like a small animal licking its wounds.
“You know, this quinceañera is not just an excuse to get dressed up and have a party; it’s supposed to mean something,” Ana said.
“Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to be a woman and all that. Whatever.”
“Not ‘whatever’; it’s a big deal,” Ana said.
“It just seems that I get older and things get harder. I thought they were supposed to get easier.”
Ana was heartened by this sudden glimmer of light, this little crack where she might be able to crawl in and reach her daughter without getting cut with barbed words.
“Not everything is harder,” Ana said. “This is just bad timing. It’s not always going to be like this. Bad things happen, but good things happen, too.” Ana was afraid she sounded like something from a self-help book, todo corny, and she was relieved when Carmen spoke up.
“I’m tired. Can we go home?”
Ana started the car just as Mrs. Gruber’s long, black sedan passed them. Ana couldn’t see, but inside Mrs. Gruber was seated in the backseat with Montalvo, her veiny hand resting near his on the leather upholstery, still talking in that Castilian Spanish. La vieja would have been offended to know that Montalvo felt sorry for her. Somewhere inside, she did know, but she chose to believe he found her the most fascinating woman de la noche.
“Why didn’t Bianca stay?” Ana asked, as she pulled into traffic.
“She had too much homework or something.”
Mentirosa! Carmen was still lying.
She let her mother think that Bianca had dropped her off. But the truth was, she got a ride from El Rey, the boy she met in Rafa and Sonia’s garage. It was a quick trip, no nonsense, straight from her house to the museo. And wouldn’t you know it, Rey was todo un gentleman. But when Carmen asked him to join her inside, he said no, leaving her on the corner of Santa Rosa y Commerce como un bus driver.
That was not what Carmen had in mind. She had wanted to make an entrance with the tattooed boy to upset her mother. She had it all planned out. So when Rey didn’t play along, she—how they say?—was stumped. And then, seeing Ana with that man, and then having her own mother put Carmen in her place (órale!), all of it made Carmen wonder just what she would have to do to get her way—to really get her way. But compared to Mrs. Gruber, Carmen was un lightweight.
FIFTEEN
So, the reason Carmen could sneak out of the house with that rockero was because Bianca was off tending to her secret, as was her brother, Diego—whose secret wasn’t really a secret, but try telling him that. Ana had told the kids to hold down the house while she was working. But they decided—as kids will do when given more rope than they maybe deserved—that what she really meant was for them to make sure she couldn’t tell that things didn’t go the way she thought they went when she was gone: Carmen sulking in her room, Diego doing his homework or strumming his guitar, and Bianca busy with whatever Bianca business she had flying.
The evening started innocent. Diego asked Bianca for a ride to band practice, and she jumped on it—but only because that made it easy for her to go take care of her business, without too much attention. Diego thought that Bianca was heading back to the house. She did go back to the house—just not right away. If Bianca would have been home earlier, she would have stopped Carmen from her crazy idea. She would have told her to forget the “Mexicon”—the name Bianca called boys who liked to be with Mexican girls because they were bien “spicy.” She knew when she was eyed like the prize in the bottom of the cereal box. She would have set Carmen straight on all of that.
But there was something else on Bianca’s mind that night. Something that had been with her for a while. She had been dreaming about her mother. Not nightmares, not even bad dreams. In them, her mother was her old self, the way she was before the year she lost it, doing ordinary things. In one, she was peeling potatoes. In another, she was threading a needle and sewing on a button. In another, she was matching and folding socks. Bianca didn’t have any especial memories of her mother doing these things, but they were so calm and deliberate, the dreams began to nibble at her.
But those were dreams. In real life, Bianca knew it was wrong, but she didn’t want to see her mother. She always found an excuse not to go with her father when he went to visit her in that place. Her father was patient with her. Everyone was. No one told Bianca she had to deal with her mother. Pero, something inside told her that she needed to. She didn’t know how, but she knew she had to figure it out.
So, that’s what Bianca was up to when Carmen was being la cabroncita, flexing her muscle without knowing what she was getting into. She’ll learn the hard way, that one. But don’t worry too much about her. The good thing about being bull-headed is that she might fall hard, but she won’t break. And in this, she took after her mother, strong as a reed in a hurricane. But if you told her that, she would throw you a mal de ojo. Ay, Carmen!
When Bianca and Diego drove up to the Castañeda house, Bianca didn’t notice the garage was dark. The girl barely slowed down for Diego to get out of the car.
“Laters,” she said roaring off into the dark. Diego wondered what was her hurry as he walked into the house.
“Hey, man,” Diego said, when Rafa answered the door. “Where is everybody?”
“N’ombre! Remember? Not tonight, man,” Rafa said. “My dad wants to watch the Spurs game, and he says he can’t when we’re practicing. You want to watch with us?”
“Quién es, mi’jo?” Rafa opened the door a little wider so his father could see Diego, and Diego could see Mr. Castañeda and a compadre of his setting up their snacks for the game.
“Buenas noches, señor,” Diego said.
“Buenas! Pásale, pásale!” Mr. Castañeda said. “Come in! The game is about to start. You want a soda?”
“Gracias, pero no, sir. I came for band practice.”
“Hi, Diego,” Sonia said, as she brought in a plate of nachos she had just nuked.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry but, you know,” Rafa said, motioning over his shoulder to his father decked out in his Spurs jersey, hat, and workout pants.
Sonia was standing next to Mr. Castañeda, watching Diego. “’Apá, I’ve been teaching him. Is it okay if Diego shows me what he’s learned? We’ll be quiet,” she said.
Mr. Castañeda gave Diego the once-over and then looked up at his daughter, who was trying not to look too excited.
“Go in the garage, but kee
p the door to the kitchen open. Rafa, go out there with them.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Man, you all so owe me,” Rafa said under his breath. The three of them passed from the living room into a hallway. Sonia broke off to get her guitar from her room, while Rafa and Diego kept going through the narrow kitchen and out into the garage. Rafa pulled a stool to the door so he could keep a lookout into the garage and still see the TV set in the living room through the kitchen. Diego unpacked his guitar as Sonia returned with hers, and the two of them pulled two old kitchen chairs under the light.
“Okay. So, show me what you got,” Sonia said. Diego slowly played the chords Sonia had taught him.
“That’s good, only try your fingers this way,” she instructed. “Loosen your wrist; use this pick.” Rafa was already caught up in the Spurs game, only partly watching his sister y Diego.
“That’s good,” Sonia said. She was a good teacher. “But now, add this.” She added extra beats with her fingers, making it sound like she was three guitaristas, instead of one.
“Whoa! No way! How do you do that?” Diego asked. Her speed made his head spin—or was it her freshly washed hair? He couldn’t decide.
“Okay, okay. I’ll make it easier. You play these chords, and I’ll do the rest.” Diego struggled at first, but after the third try he surprised himself. Sonia added the extra notes along with the percusión.
“There, there, eso!” she said. “Now, faster.” The Spurs had just—how they say?—rebounded the ball. Rafa was not paying any attention to them, cheering the Spurs silently as his father and his friend roared in the living room. Sonia and Diego were playing faster and faster, but when Diego felt how well he was doing, he got nervous and stumbled just as the Spurs player missed a layup.
“Mi’jo, bring me a beer,” Mr. Castañeda called to his son, giving Rafa an excuse to leave his guard.
“That was good!” Sonia said.
“You were good; I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Sonia stopped to adjust a string. “I’m glad we’re going to be in the quinceañera together.”
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz Page 16