by Adi Alsaid
“And poor and not from Harlem.”
“I’m trash,” I told her. “She said so.”
But Mrs Irving let me stay in the house. She thought white and poor was better than dark and poor. It made my head spin.
“Me too.” Jesse laughed.
“Whatcha gunna call the bub?”
* * *
Mrs Irving unbent after her first grandchildren were born.
Enough to let Jesse, Otis and Ebony move into the third floor.
But not all the way. She spoke to me and Jesse only about our children. She asked for translations of what I said, long after all traces of the Hills had worn away. She recommended Jesse bathe in lemon juice and didn’t speak to her for a month when Jesse laughed.
But sometimes, almost accidentally, she’d look at me or Jesse and smile.
When Joshua returned—from Paris it turned out—he took our baby in his arms and the grin didn’t leave his face for weeks.
“Did you name her like I asked?”
I nodded.
“Lisette,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”
“You’ve changed,” he said, hours later when Lisette was asleep on our bed. “You look like a Harlemite.”
My hair was up in a rag the way Eula did, because I’d been helping her in the kitchen. I was wearing Marguerite’s scent and her way of walking too.
“You shouldn’t’ve done it,” I said. “Dragged me all this way to spite your ma.”
“I know,” he said. “I wanted to hurt her the way she hurt Otis. I shouldn’t have dragged you in. Not without telling you.”
He looked at me, and it felt like he was truly seeing me.
“I’m sorry.”
I bit my lip to keep from blubbing. I blubbed anyways.
Joshua held me till the waterworks stopped.
“I’m glad,” I said, between sniffles. “I like your sister and your brother. Jesse, Eula and Zee too.” Better than my blood family, not that that meant much. “I like Harlem. I love our baby.” I loved Joshua too. “But you shouldn’t’ve done it.”
“I’m glad too.”
We held hands.
“I’m a proper Harlemite now.”
He laughed. “Close enough, sugar. We won’t ever leave.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Justine Larbalestier is an Australian-American author of eight novels, two anthologies and one scholarly work of nonfiction, many essays, blog and Instagram posts, tweets, and a handful of short stories. Her most well-known books are My Sister Rosa, Liar and the Zombies Versus Unicorns anthology which she edited with Holly Black.
You can find her on Instagram @DrJustineFancyPants.
FROM GOLDEN STATE
Isabel Quintero
THE PART WHERE
MARLENE FIRST SPEAKS.
My father and tíos with bloody hands. That is the first memory I have access to. It was my birthday, and I was turning four. I remember a red dress, swollen with crinoline and satin, the kind my parents would have bought at the Chino swap meet on a Sunday after mass. The kind I would’ve begged for, because the shape of the dress made me feel like one of the dolls my dad was always bringing me from his long trips away from home. The hard plastic dolls with movable arms and legs, eyes that opened or shut depending on whether the little baby was lying down or up and about. About five feet from the bloody mess of a dead pig that my father and uncles were cutting through, I watched my tío Jorge carve a smile into the pig’s throat. A horrific version of the ones I’d seen spread on the faces of cartoon pigs. Pero la niña, my dad says looking worried. This is my first slaughter. ¡A la verga pariente! Si estuviéramos en el rancho ya nos estuviera ayudando, Tío Reynaldo, Marlene’s favorite tío (second cousin really) teases his youngest primo. But we are not on the rancho, we are in my backyard in Riverside. My legs were so slow to move that I believe I turned into one of those dolls my dad brought me. My once alive arms and legs froze in the upright position. I wasn’t able to look away. My large, unblinking, brown eyes opened wide enough to take in every inch of the butchering. That memory, that scene, now reminds me of The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp by Rembrandt—a careful dismembering of a life by hungry hands. A delicate procedure. But that’s a more recent connection. Before, I associated that memory only with the last squeal heard before the silence; before carnitas. Back when my tíos made clear their disappointment for the way their youngest brother was raising his American-born daughter—pobre y delicada.
THE PART WHERE THE NARRATOR TELLS
YOU A BIT ABOUT LA MARLENE,
THE MAIN CHARACTER IN THIS STORY.
The girl in this story does not speak Spanish very well. She doesn’t really speak it at all, but her tongue lolls its way over ñ and rrs, hoping to land on correct pronunciations. It dips its tip in accents twice removed. The girl in this story calls herself Mexican even though she was born in the United States. She calls herself Chicana. She calls herself American. She calls herself whatever she wants to, because she doesn’t believe in borders or other people naming her. The girl in this story is brown. Brown like her father. Arched eyebrows and freckles like her mom. Small brown eyes like the great-uncle she’s never met, whose voice she’s heard only on the telephone and through letters. The one who lives in a jacalito in a pueblo whose name her mouth trips over when she tries to pronounce it correctly. Her mom’s favorite uncle with the peacocks and incense. She has her grandmother’s thick brown hair and her great-grandmother’s sternness. She does not smile on command. Her grandmother didn’t, her mother doesn’t, and neither will she. The girl in this story could give a fuck what you think and less fucks about the labels you think she should adorn herself with. She doesn’t care if this makes you uncomfortable. She is not here to make you feel good.
THE PART WHERE THE NARRATOR
GIVES YOU A SYNOPSIS.
Marlene is about to embark on a journey. She has just found out that her father has another family he’s kept hidden—in the same damn state. The same fucking state, but up north. Can you believe that shit? Dude kept another entire family in Northern California.
Marlene didn’t know what made her look up her genealogy on one of those find-your-ancestors websites. But you know how sometimes you do things almost without thinking, because it’s like your subconscious is guiding you, leading you to some higher truth? Well, she was high, and luckily so, because when she saw that her father, Doroteo Hidalgo, was recently divorced and had a son, she felt the weight of everything on her shoulders. Had she not been high, she would’ve lost her goddamn mind. Marlene calls her carnala del alma, her good friend Loli, and says, Read this shit. Loli does. Both of them fall silent. You don’t say jack shit, because there are no fucking rules for this. But like I said, Marlene is about to embark on a journey to find her brother. She’s going on this trip with Memo, her best friend. Loli would be going too, except she’s too busy getting ready to move into her dorm in a college far, far three states over in Texas. Marlene has tried not to think about what Loli’s departure means for their friendship. She is not so naive as to think that it will stay the same, but how far apart they will drift is hard to predict. Besides Memo, Loli Williams has been her closest friend since first grade. But unlike Loli, and to the disappointment of her parents, Marlene doesn’t have a Plan for the Future. Or a plan they approve of. In any case, Loli has her shit together and Marlene doesn’t, and maybe that’s a good thing, because if she did, she wouldn’t have time to look for a long-lost brother she didn’t know about.
First, she has to pick up Memo, who is about to get out of jail for what will turn out to be the first time. They don’t know that yet, though. They won’t know that for a long time, so maybe we shouldn’t even talk about that. Maybe we should worry only about the immediate future. The one that ends with hope.
Marlene thinks about Memo as she packs burritos, clothes, weed, supplies, and
music.
THE PART IN WHICH THE NARRATOR TELLS YOU
ABOUT WHEN MARLENE THREW A BRICK AT
MEMO’S HEAD, SPLITTING HIS EYEBROW AND
LEAVING A PERMANENT SCAR.
When she was about four years old, Marlene threw a brick at Memo’s head. It wasn’t an entire brick. At least she doesn’t think it was a whole brick, just a large chunk of one. They were playing in Memo’s backyard, and their parents were inside making ceviche. It was a sweltering day in Corona, the next city over from Marlene’s. Probably August, when the heat feels like it will never leave and so your parents turn on the sprinklers for you to run through and cool off. That is to say, it was a perfect day to be a four-year-old in this particular backyard. And this was true until Marlene threw the brick. There is no consensus on the “what” of the argument that led Marlene to reach for what had been left behind after Memo’s father had built a planter for his wife’s herb and chile garden. Memo argues that Marlene just picked up the brick out of nowhere, because she knew he wouldn’t fight back. Marlene claims that Memo said something about throwing like a girl (in her memory they had been playing catch), so she did. In any case, the brick left Marlene’s hand with enough force to split his eyebrow. Memo was a bloody mess while Marlene stood there, frozen by what she had done. But only for a moment. In the next second, she ran to help her screaming best friend, using her hands and her shirt to try and stop the bleeding. The crying and screams had signaled to their parents to rush outside.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Marlene couldn’t find other words.
Memo’s mom ran inside to get a rag for the blood. She said they’d have to take him to urgent care.
Marlene’s mom yelled at Marlene. Why? Why? Why?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The parents threw the kids in a car and drove; Memo’s mom in the back seat, still putting pressure on her son’s wound. Something she would always do. Marlene was in the back seat, too, her bloody little hand interlocked with Memo’s, making sure he was still there. That she hadn’t got rid of him.
Marlene doesn’t remember all of it, mostly just the part where she threw the brick and the part where she held his hand.
She thinks about this from time to time when she and Memo hang out. And even when they don’t, because that’s how guilt works. He likes to joke about it, pointing to his scar, ’Member this?
She does. The scar is still there. His right eyebrow sports a bald spot. A sort of bootleg, much-less-magical scar than the one that Harry Potter has. Or perhaps more Biblical. Á la Cain, but a different kind of chosen one. On occasion Marlene still holds his hand to make sure he’s still there. Though the last time she reached for her best friend’s hand was through a glass partition during visiting hours in the correctional facility where he was being held. He was still there, even if she couldn’t really touch him.
Memo will be a part of this adventure. This is also a love story. Don’t overthink it.
THE PART WHERE MARLENE ASSESSES
HER FATHER THE LIAR.
My father is a liar. Like his father before him and before him and before him. The machismo runs deep in this familia.
I use the word cautiously. Familia. It is a blood bond. A latching of ancestral memories, habits and traumas. I imagine this link like hooks connecting us to one another. Or maybe like fish caught by the same rod with thousands of lines and hooks, our mouths just ripping at different angles.
But like I said, my father is a liar. Like his father before him.
THE PART WHERE TÍO REYNALDO’S
MOM DIES AND THE KITCHEN IS FLOODED
IN TEARS AND TEQUILA.
Tío Reynaldo sits at the kitchen table. Tío Reynaldo is crying. Into his hands. It is a waterfall. Our feet disappear and the tears engulf our ankles. We slosh our way to him but it takes a while to reach him. We don’t reach him. We won’t ever reach him. My mom had burned a tortilla and the kitchen is still smoky. The comal is still on. The smoke seeps into the tears around our ankles. We can barely see through the smoke. Tío Reynaldo is obscured. He is a shaking mass. A silhouette. The kitchen is a mess. Tío Reynaldo is a mess. He left Penjamo, Guanajuato, where his family moved after they left Sinaloa, thirty-five years ago. In Penjamo they make a famous tequila. When he is sad, Tío Reynaldo drinks that tequila. Maybe it is not tears around our ankles. Maybe it’s tequila. Maybe it’s both. It could have been twenty years, since he left. It could have been ten. It could have been a hundred. It could have been yesterday. It doesn’t matter, because the point is that he left. And now both his parents are dead. They are dead. Both of them. He is an orphan. He hadn’t seen them since he left thirty-five years ago. When you don’t have papers, when you leave your country without papers, without permission, when you enter the United States without permission, when you make this place your home, you are immediately orphaned. You lose people. On the journey. En el otro lado. En este lado. You lose people. This country takes things from you. It wants to know how bad you want to stay here. There are ultimatums. Es chantaje. If you love me, this country says, you will stay. You will not leave me. If you love me, you will cry. You will work, here. If you love me, this country says, you will let me have my way with you. This country is often a bad lover. Or maybe just a very selfish lover.
THE PART WHERE MARLENE LEARNS
THE TRUTH ABOUT HER FATHER.
Ready to Find Out Your Family History?
Yes.
Enter your father’s name...
Entered.
Enter his place of birth...
The same rancho my abuelitos were born on in Sinaloa.
Enter his birthday...
Same as his dad’s.
Click on the branch.
Click.
...
There must be another man with the same name. The same birthday. The same place of birth. My father would not have another family. He is not recently divorced. He could not have other children.
This is what keeps replaying in Marlene’s head. The moment she found out her father had another family. A wife and a son. A son and a wife. A wife that is not named Laura. Marlene’s mother is Laura. Laura has one daughter with Doroteo Hidalgo. Marlene. They do not have a son. But here, on this website that promises to reveal your genealogy, your family history, Marlene learns that Doroteo Hidalgo has a son named Diego. He is almost two years older than Marlene– nineteen years old. Doroteo Hidalgo, from Riverside, California, was recently divorced from one Lourdes Hidalgo. Marlene is confused. And then she is not. In a short amount of time, she has learned much family history.
Things become painfully clear. Now, there are answers to questions she forgot she’d been asking since she could speak: Why are you gone for so long? Why won’t you be here for Christmas? Who is the boy in your wallet?
Marlene confronts her father. And then her mother when she learns that her mother has known the whole time. Things do not go well. These things never do. There is crying. There is blame. Doors are slammed.
MARLENE GETS TO THE JAIL AND WAITS OUTSIDE
FOR MEMO BEFORE THEY TAKE OFF.
She’s watched this happen in movies many times. At the end of Ocean’s Eleven when Tess is waiting for Danny. Or when Karen waits for Henry in Goodfellas. But neither of those films really encapsulates how it feels to wait for someone you love to be released from a cage.
Tío Reynaldo had been put in a cell, once, too. This was years before the government steadily detained children, when the country hung on more faithfully to the facade of justice and equality. His face was never blurred in an article written by a journalist clamoring for humanity. Or attention. No, Tío Reynaldo had had too much to drink one night and had been pulled over. Bad luck. Mala suerte, her mom had lamented. He was eventually released and did some community service. Marlene was very young then and couldn’t fully understand
what it meant to be locked away. Not the way she does now.
Fuck, it feels like I’ve been waiting forever. Marlene wipes sweat from her eyebrows again. When she looks at her watch she realizes she’s been waiting for only twenty minutes.
It’s hot outside the jail in Banning. The desert greedily and mercilessly absorbs the California summer. Even this early in the day the sun is not kissing her skin as much as biting it. If her mom were here, she’d have a hat on and would probably be reapplying sunscreen. Most likely she’d go back in the car and turn on the a/c, because her pale ass doesn’t tan, just burns. Marlene, who takes after her dad, likes the way her skin turns a deeper shade of brown in the summer when she spends most of her time outside, swimming or hiking or walking her dog. She still applies sunblock though. Too scared of melanoma and its cousins. Marlene once looked up skin cancer because her mom had a strange mole on her arm and she was panicked it was cancer. It wasn’t. Nonetheless, Marlene went down a skin cancer rabbit hole, self diagnosing until Memo pointed out that her mom had always had that mole on her arm. When we were little and your mom walked us to the library, I remember holding her hand and thinking how it looked like a tiny crescent moon and star, he’d said. So, it couldn’t be cancer. Memo was good at reassuring her when she’d overthink.
Finally, Marlene can’t take the sun anymore and gets in the car. The a/c has barely started cooling her off when Memo walks out the door. Memo, tall, brown, dimpled, and smiling, plastic bag in hand. Marlene can’t make out what he’s saying, some joke, probably, because he’s laughing. She opens the door and runs to meet him.
Why you cryin’? Memo jokes.
Shut up, Memo.
Kali Uchis’s “Ridin Round” starts playing on the car stereo as Memo closes the door to the car. As if on cue. As if to get the road trip started.
What up, mija? We going on an adventure or what?
Just like that, Marlene is at home and free and all her problems seem solvable. That’s what Memo does. He gives her the possibility of possibility.