by Lulu Delacre
“Mami,” Mom told Abu Celeste, “come help me in the kitchen, please.”
Blanca walked over by Wilfred. Wilfred placed his long arm around his sister’s small shoulders. Titi Claudia and Tío Gonzalo collected their things and quietly left.
By the end of November, Wilfred had helped at the bakery fourteen times. It felt good to be out of the house. Sometimes Tío Gonzalo gave him a ride; other times Wilfred would ride the bus into the French Quarter. He started by helping at the register but soon moved into the kitchen, where he had already learned how to make bread dough. Titi Claudia said he was a natural. Wilfred liked to mix all the bread ingredients and knead the soft dough. He liked knowing that as long as he followed all the steps, the bread would always turn out well. Sometimes during his break, Wilfred walked down Ursulines Avenue and across the train tracks to the banks of the Mississippi River. Then he would look at the level of the water and notice how it rose and receded depending on the weather. He’d heard stories of water filling everything years ago. The water damage could still be seen in buildings throughout the city. Staring at the river, he thought about his parents and worried about Blanca. Grown-ups had always told him that a good boy, un hombrecito, was gentle with girls and protected them. He wanted to be a good boy. Blanca had been born when he was six, and from the moment he’d first seen her, he’d wanted to protect her.
As December approached, the businesses around Titi Claudia’s bakery began to hang thick garlands of greens and multicolored glass balls from the intricate ironwork of their balconies. Slender Christmas trees flanked the shops’ entrances, and long strings of blinking lights outlined the colonial architecture of the French Quarter. Titi Claudia had added pan dulce to the season’s offerings and taught Wilfred how to fold the nuts and candied fruit into the egg bread dough. Each time Wilfred worked his fists into the dough, he thought of Abu Celeste making gofio and . . . the tension building at home. It reminded him of Titi Claudia’s words: Milk left on the fire too long always boils over. This year, December 7, the feast of la Purísima, fell on a Monday. Just a week away. Abu Celeste had gotten very involved with the organizers and could not stop talking about the festivities. Every time she talked about it in front of Papi, he grunted and changed the subject. Each passing day made Wilfred more anxious.
On Sunday December 6, the whole house smelled of toasted corn and spiced syrup. Blanca was seated at the kitchen table next to Abu Celeste. As Abu Celeste cut the gofio into diamond shapes, Blanca lined up the pieces one by one in perfect rows on the metal tray. Mom was washing dishes.
From his room Wilfred heard Papi come into the house early from work at the car dealership.
“Ah! It smells like Celeste’s gofio,” Papi exclaimed. “Nicaragua’s best!”
“Gracias, Wilfredo,” said Abu Celeste.
“I think I need to taste it!” Papi announced, picking up one piece from the tray.
“Papi!” Blanca complained. “You’re messing up my arrangement.”
“Wilfredo, are you coming with us tomorrow?” asked Mom.
“I told you I’m not,” said Papi. “Besides, I have a meeting.”
“But tomorrow is your day off,” replied Mom.
“Don’t I have the right to have a meeting?” retorted Papi.
“Very well,” Mom said, whisking the tray away and placing it on top of the refrigerator. “So nobody goes.”
“Ay, Elvira, por favor,” protested Papi, “don’t be so dramatic!”
Wilfred went to the landing and called Blanca to come up the stairs. He knew the storm was about to start. Blanca ran into Wilfred’s room and hid under his bed. After the screaming and shouting ended, a stifling silence filled the house. That was usually the cue for Wilfred to get ready for his dreaded duty—to try to broker the peace, just like with every other fight. It was always Papi who gave in first. He could not stand Mom’s silent treatment, and Wilfred would have to convey messages between them. Today Wilfred didn’t want to. He just couldn’t anymore. And he thought of something else.
“What are you writing?” asked Blanca, wiggling out from under Wilfred’s bed.
“A note to Abu Celeste,” said Wilfred. “Get your shoes. We’re going.”
“Where?” asked Blanca.
“I’ll tell you later—hurry up. We need to leave now.”
Wilfred could hear Mom in the laundry room, making herself busy. He knew Papi would be in his bedroom, staring blankly at the TV. Abu Celeste was probably trying to nap, with Abuelo passed out drunk by her side.
As soon as Blanca came back from her room with her shoes on, Wilfred told her to go wait outside. Then he peered into his grandparents’ bedroom, made sure they were asleep, and slipped the note under the Purísima statue’s pedestal. He gathered his backpack and tiptoed back down the hallway toward the stairs. At the top of the landing, Wilfred heard Papi call, “Wilfred!”
Wilfred froze. His stomach seized. Beads of cold sweat rose on his forehead. Should he answer his father? Just thinking of it made his feet feel like lead. Or should he leave? From the top of the stairs Wilfred made out Blanca’s silhouette against the evening lights. She was bouncing from foot to foot on the veranda.
“Wilfred!” his father called again.
“I can’t, Papi,” Wilfred replied in a timid voice. “I can’t!” he repeated, louder. “I won’t!” he hollered. And before he could even think about what he’d done, Wilfred sprinted down the stairs and out of the house. “Follow me,” he whispered to his sister. “We don’t want to miss the bus.”
They ran to the bus stop and caught the bus just in time. Wilfred had left his cell phone on purpose. He didn’t want to be tracked. He had his money. The bus was halfway full, and Blanca chose a front window seat. The minute Wilfred sat next to her, she started asking questions.
“Where are we going?”
“To Titi Claudia’s,” answered Wilfred.
“Oh,” said Blanca. “It’s a short ride to her house, right?”
“No,” answered Wilfred. “We’re going to her bakery.”
“All the way to the French Quarter?” asked Blanca, her eyes large in amazement.
“Uh-huh,” answered Wilfred, already starting to have second thoughts. What if Titi Claudia had left early? He started tapping nervously with his left foot. To calm himself and distract Blanca he began to play a guessing game with her. They played it for a long while.
It was dark by the time they arrived to their bus stop. Wilfred held Blanca by the hand. He could feel her excitement as she pointed to each of the houses that were beautifully decorated with tiny Christmas lights. Nearing Titi Claudia’s shop, Wilfred saw the Closed sign. He breathed deeply. He hoped Titi Claudia would be working in the kitchen, like she usually did. They walked through the alley and up to the back entrance. He rang the bell.
“Why are we here?” asked Blanca, looking up at her brother.
“Because maybe Titi Claudia can help us,” answered Wilfred. Although he truly didn’t know what kind of help he wanted. Or if Titi Claudia could even do anything. All he knew was that he couldn’t handle the fights anymore. Each new fight chipped away a bit more of his eagerness to bring calm to the house, to keep the peace so Blanca could have a normal childhood. He was at a loss. It wasn’t like him, but he needed to talk.
“Okay,” agreed Blanca as she stretched to push the doorbell again.
They waited in silence, listening for any movement in the bakery. From deep inside they heard Titi Claudia.
“Wilfred, Blanquita!” exclaimed Titi Claudia upon seeing them standing in the doorway. “What on earth are you doing here, and at this hour? Come inside!” she said, hugging each one of them tight. “What happened?”
Titi Claudia led them through the kitchen and to the nearest café table in front. As soon as Wilfred sat, he broke down. He wanted to say so many things about the tension and the fights and the pressure to be an hombrecito for Blanca, but all he could do was gasp and cry.
“Sorr
y,” said Wilfred, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
Blanca stopped munching the pan dulce Titi Claudia had given her and went to Wilfred. She kissed him on the cheek and placed her head on his shoulder. Titi Claudia took Wilfred’s hand in hers. And little by little she gave words to his thoughts and feelings.
“So, was it your parents fighting?” Titi Claudia asked.
Wilfred nodded, hunched over.
“And you’ve reached your breaking point, ¿sí?”
“Mm-hm.”
It was amazing how Titi Claudia could figure out his conflicting feelings. He was fed up with his role. He didn’t want it anymore. Guilt overwhelmed him when he thought of it. Why couldn’t he keep a lasting peace? Maybe he wasn’t a good enough son. Maybe he wasn’t worthy of being his sister’s big brother. And now he was ashamed of talking back to his father.
“None of this is your fault, Wilfred,” whispered Titi Claudia. “You’re a wonderful son and an even better brother. Look at how Blanca loves you!” Titi Claudia threw her hands in the air.
Wilfred smiled at these words, looking at Blanca from the corners of his downcast eyes.
“It’s like what happens to milk left too long on the fire, right?”
Wilfred pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said softly.
“You shouldn’t have to bear the responsibility of keeping the peace between your parents,” Titi Claudia continued. “Maybe Tío Gonzalo and I should talk to them. Truly, what you did today, to stand up to your dad, takes a lot of courage. In my book, it defines you as a man. Todo un hombrecito.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “Should we call your parents and let them know you’re safe?”
“I left a note,” offered Wilfred. “For Abu Celeste.”
“Saying you came here?”
Wilfred adjusted his glasses and nodded yes.
“Will she see it?” asked Titi Claudia.
“Yep,” said Wilfred. “At her prayers.”
“She’ll probably start praying as soon as they find out you two are missing, right?” Titi Claudia said. Wilfred nodded again. Titi Claudia tapped her fingers on the table; she glanced at the clock and turned to Wilfred. She seemed ambivalent. Wilfred gazed into Titi Claudia’s eyes, pleading his case. “Bueno,” she decided as she stood up. “If we don’t hear from them in the next hour or so, we’ll call.”
The three of them went into the kitchen to get things ready for the next day. They were almost done with Titi Claudia’s evening tasks when the store’s doorbell rang. Wilfred’s heart skipped a beat. Titi Claudia patted him gently on the back on her way to the bakery entrance.
Mom and Papi were standing outside the glass front door, the lanterns of Ursulines Avenue casting eerie shadows on their faces. As they came into the shop, Wilfred noticed Mom’s glassy eyes and smeared mascara. Papi looked disheveled, older.
“Wilfred, Blanca, let’s go home,” Papi commanded in a hoarse and soft voice.
“Don’t you want a cafecito?” asked Titi Claudia, walking to the espresso machine. “I can brew it in no time.”
“Thank you, Claudia,” said Mom. “It’s late. Besides, my parents are waiting in the van.”
“¡Qué bueno! The whole family came!” exclaimed Titi Claudia, trying to make light of it.
“Can I take pan dulce home?” Blanca asked Titi Claudia.
“Of course!” both Titi Claudia and Mom answered at once.
“Wilfred,” Titi Claudia said in earnest as she held the front door open, “see you next Saturday, ¿sí?”
“Okay,” said Wilfred with a smile. He hugged her.
Wilfred took Blanca by the hand and followed Mom and Papi to the car. After walking half a block, Wilfred noticed how Papi slid his arm over Mom’s shoulder. Blanca must have seen it too. She squeezed Wilfred’s hand. It was a happy squeeze. He squeezed back. A hopeful squeeze.
As Papi started the van, all sat quietly inside.
Blanca broke the silence. “Are we going to la Purísima tomorrow?”
Wilfred looked at Blanca reproachfully. Blanca shrugged.
Papi pulled out of the parking space. Then he looked at Mom.
“Yes, we’ll all go for a little while,” he finally answered. Mom looked at Papi, then turned toward the window, leaning her head against the headrest.
At the bend in the corner Wilfred looked back. In the distance he could still make out Titi Claudia waving at them, waving at him.
Wilfred waved good-bye as they drove away into the deep purple New Orleans night.
THE SECRET
Mañana será otro día.
A ray of sun streamed through the window, spreading across the bedroom floor. Carla followed this light with her eyes to the collage-covered shoe box peeking out from beneath Esperanza’s bed on the other side of the room. She knew her sister’s new diary was inside, and she was curious. In the living room the TV was on, and Esperanza was probably watching. So Carla got up from her bed and gingerly closed the bedroom door. She retrieved the diary and read the last entry.
I used to love my name. Es-pe-ran-za. Soft syllables that melt into one another like spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream on a hot Chicago afternoon. Now I cringe at the sound of it when my mother calls, or my little sister looks for me, or even at school when the teacher hands out graded homework. I’ve been hating my name since the day my mother told me the truth about myself. The day I stopped being an American. Esperanza means hope. And I don’t have any. I went from feeling like the world was mine in the afternoon, to being illegal by the evening. How can a person be illegal? I haven’t done anything wrong. My little sister and brother were born here. They’re all citizens. They have all the rights. They don’t know I’m not like them. None of my friends know, not even my best friend, Cindy.
Memories of that afternoon came rushing back to Carla. Esperanza had returned from some audition, so excited because she had been told she would be hired to dance in a music video. She just needed to provide her Social Security number. She pranced around the house, bragging to Carla about how this was her big break. She would have a real job and get paid for doing the thing that she loved most. And she would be dancing with super-cute guys. Her friend Cindy had agreed with Esperanza that she was the best of the girls auditioning that day. They were in the kitchen when Mami came home from work and Esperanza blurted out the news. Mami collapsed on a chair and rubbed her forehead as if trying to get rid of a headache. Then she ordered Carla to her room. Carla stepped out of the kitchen and hid in the hallway so she could overhear her mother’s story.
“Esperanza, sit. Te tengo que contar algo,” Mami said. “I have to tell you something. I was your age when I gave birth to you in Oaxaca, México,” she began as she leaned on the table. “Life down there, it was rough. No work. Nada de trabajo, nada. Tía Elsy had found work up here, and she convinced your dad and me to come join her. Papi, your abuelo, hired a coyote who crossed us over the Rio Grande on a moonless night. Papi later told me this man was the best smuggler he could afford. A Mexican American family drove you across the next day. They passed you off as one of their six children. From the moment I placed you in that woman’s arms, I couldn’t stop crying. Not even your dad could console me. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. But the coyote insisted that if you screamed, we would all get caught. So I gave in. You were only eight months old. There. Now you know the truth.”
As soon as Mami finished speaking, an eerie silence fell over the kitchen. Carla remembers slipping into her room. She remembers the front door being slammed, and waking up at dawn to her sister’s muffled sobs. For months now neither Esperanza nor Mami had brought up the subject again. Carla looked down at Esperanza’s diary and kept on reading:
I think everyone born in the United States is so lucky. At school, we recite the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. I’m the one who does it every day and doesn’t sit right down. I say it right. I want to be here. I want to learn. I love this country more than my classmates w
ho were born here. I want to go to college. I want to be a dance teacher. But I can’t do that unless I’m a legal citizen. I lose hope a lot.
Suddenly Carla heard Esperanza’s footsteps and snapped her sister’s diary shut. She hid it in the same box she had found it in. She bit her plump lower lip and retreated to her bed, frowning behind the library book she had been reading.
“What were you doing?” asked Esperanza, pushing the door wide open. “I saw you going through my things.”
“Nada,” said Carla, looking over her thick eyeglasses.
“¡Mentirosa!” Esperanza fumed. “Liar!”
“I was just looking for my hair barrette,” said Carla, pulling down the T-shirt that kept riding up her belly.
Back when Carla was five and Esperanza was eight, Esperanza was her best friend. They played together all the time. But when Esperanza turned eleven, she stopped playing with Carla. The more Carla begged and nagged, the less Esperanza wanted to play. So one day Carla stopped asking and turned to books. Books became her best friends. Now, at eleven herself, she read all the time. She read school library books and public library books; she read the backs of cereal boxes and the junk mail that the postman delivered. Sometimes she would stop on her way home from school to read flyers posted on store windows.
Carla waited hopefully while Esperanza changed into her favorite shorts.
“I’m going to Cindy’s,” Esperanza said. “We’re practicing a new routine for dance club.” She took the collage-covered shoe box and placed it on the closet’s top shelf with an airy gesture. Esperanza had a floaty way of moving through space. It made her look as if she was always searching for a new dance move.
“Can I go with you?” Carla asked. She loved watching her sister dance.
“No!” retorted Esperanza, grabbing her purse and walking out of their room.
Once Esperanza left, Carla looked up at the top shelf. She thought of what she knew about her sister now. Maybe Esperanza was so nasty with her because she was hurting. She started wondering: What does it really mean to be illegal? She needed to find out. So Carla texted her mother that she was going to the public library and left the house.