After the shower, she planned to deploy her ointments. La Gloriosa never went into the day without lotion on every inch of her body and gentle secret potions sunk into her face and neck before the makeup. Touches of the darkest perfume in her secret spots. Her top beauty secret: Preparation H under her chin and eyes at bedtime. One sacrificed for perfection.
The young girls were going in for waxing, they told her. Waxing? They were crazy. La Minnie, for example, went to the Pretty Kitty Salon in Chula Vista. The Pretty Kitty! Was that what she thought it was? There was a limit. Even though Minnie had given her a ten-dollar discount certificate, there was no way some Filipina was going to pour wax all over her “kitty.”
“Eso sí que no!” she said out loud.
She let the hot water run down her back. Everything hurt. Nobody told her this when she was growing up, that you get rusty and aches appear in the unlikeliest places. Her hips hurt. Her head hurt. She breathed in the steam. The headaches frightened her. And the pain behind her left chi-chi. Among her ribs. She was so afraid of these small aches that she didn’t mention them to anyone, and barely admitted them even to herself. Even to God.
She ignored a small flicker of a thought about Little Angel. Lifting her breasts from behind. Easing the pain out of her ribs. No.
She ran her hand over the scar of her son’s birth across her lower belly. She felt self-conscious at the thought of anyone ever seeing her naked because of it. Her poor son. Her only son. She wept in the comfort of the hot water.
Guillermo. Ay, Guillermito. Strangers had shot him five times. Why? It had been ten years now, and every morning she still whispered to him, cried for him. Always her baby boy, never mind how old he was. Why? They had shot him and left him on the sidewalk. And he might have survived—that’s how strong he was. He might have survived. But the shooter came back and shot him in his beautiful face. Why, why…
He and Braulio died in the same swamp of blood, black in the streetlights. Braulio staring into the street, and Guillermo without eyes or a face. People took pictures on their phones, videos. The boys’ fingers almost touching.
La Gloriosa covered her face with her hands and knelt as if in prayer, letting the sobs come.
* * *
8:30 a.m.
Little Angel was surprised, when he got out of the shower, that María Luisa had gone out for a couple of go-cups of good coffee. She’d brought scones too. He came out with a towel around his waist and gave her a hug.
“Ooh,” she said, delighted. “You go to hell for flirting with your sister.”
He sat. It was a long-standing joke with them. When he first met her, at ten, it was at the beach south of Tijuana. Don Antonio had packed him in the car in San Diego and driven him south, across the border, and down the coast. He had this beach he loved—Medio Camino—halfway down the highway between Tijuana and Ensenada. Little Angel had long believed they owned this beach since Don Antonio always called it his. Roadrunners charged along the highway. And grim dark cowboys often rode along the beach and took them for gallops at ten or twenty pesos each.
One day, Big Angel and some of the other siblings were there with their aunt. There was also this pale girl who was older and taller than he. She was resplendent in a black one-piece bathing suit, with long white legs and black hair. And developed. Little Angel was becoming very aware of chi-chis at ten. He was in love…until he found out the ghastly news that this siren was his big sister. Where had they kept her? What a dirty trick.
The family had laughed at him for decades.
She had watched as Don Antonio dragged him to the surf with Big Angel. Little Angel couldn’t swim. And he was afraid of the waves. Antonio held his arms. His brother had his legs. They swung him and threw him into the waves. He cried. So they caught him when he washed up and did it again. And again.
“Learn to swim, and this will end,” his father told him.
His brother laughed the whole time.
So did MaryLú—at first. But by the end of it, she had her hands clamped over her mouth.
When he crawled out of the water and tried to run, they chased him down yet again. And again.
Little Angel shook his head to clear the memory of that day and smiled. He ate; he drank. “Man, I love coffee.”
“Real coffee, maybe,” she replied.
She smirked. The whole family had inherited the bizarre belief system of Antonio and América: instant coffee was some kind of miracle. Mexicans of that generation liked to stir a spoonful of coffee powder into a cup of hot water and tinkle it around with a spoon. As if something highly sophisticated and magical were happening. Nescafé. Café Combate. Then they poured Carnation canned milk into it. They thought they were in some James Bond movie, living ahead of the cultural curve. Or maybe they were just sick of coffeepots and grounds.
“I think I’ll take real coffee to Brother’s birthday,” he said. “I’ll get a box at Starbucks.”
She ate a second scone: to hell with calories. “Are you going to put some clothes on?” she said.
“Nah. I thought I’d go naked.”
She went into the kitchenette. “Don’t let Paz see you,” she said.
He leaned into her breakfast counter and did a bunch of forty-five-degree elevation push-ups, feeling fatuous and Californian.
“Paz,” she continued. “That bruja.”
Not this again.
“We can’t even look at each other,” MaryLú said.
Little Angel nodded, backed off the counter, and sipped his coffee. “I know,” he intoned like an empathetic talk show host.
“Did you notice her refusing to come near me at the funeral?” she said.
“No.”
“You see? How she snubs me?”
They all stayed away from Paz. Her code name was Pazuzu, the demon from The Exorcist. Add tequila, and her head would rotate and someone would be assaulted. Vomit eruptions were not entirely out of the question.
“And,” María Luisa added, “she hates poor Leo.”
Here we go again. Leo. The Lion. The Dude. “Oh?” Little Angel said mildly.
Poor Leo. MaryLú’s ex-husband. The fam kept him in the loop out of some nostalgia for better times that had never actually happened. Or for the opportunity to scissor him behind his back. Each was equally gratifying.
Even after their divorce, Leo took MaryLú dancing. And he survived the family’s most notorious New Year’s Eve party. It had ended with a drunken Pazuzu slapping him repeatedly and shrieking, “Eres una mierda!” And MaryLú, running to his rescue, bellowing, “He is not chit!”
“What was that crap on New Year’s Eve all about?” Little Angel said.
“She said Leo exposed his organ to her! In the kitchen!”
“Okay—mistake asking about that.”
“You know which one I’m talking about, right?”
“Stop,” he said.
“His organ.”
“Yes. Not his pancreas.”
“Angel, I’m being serious. Leo has a very tiny penis.”
“Oh my God!”
She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Like that.”
“Stop it.”
“Like an acorn.”
“Stop!”
“He doesn’t even like to show it to me. No way he’s going to show it to that woman.”
Little Angel fell back in his chair and let out a groan of utter despair.
* * *
7:00 a.m.
Minerva Esmeralda La Minnie Mouse de La Cruz Castro lay in bed, dreading the start of the day. It was all going to fall on her. She wanted it to be perfect. Daddy’s last birthday.
El Tigre was sprawled naked beside her, with the pillow over the top half of his face. He had some stripes tatted on his right shoulder, swooping down onto his chest and surrounding his nipple. She lifted the sheet and studied his sad little critter. All flopped over like it was drunk.
“Hey, Big Man,” she said. “You awake?” She poked him
there with one purple fingernail. It moved. Well, Big Boy wasn’t dead after all. “Tiger.”
He snuffled.
She leaned up on her elbow and flicked his nipple with one of her nails until it stood up.
“Dude,” he said. “You gon’ give me wood, you don’t watch out.”
She bent to the nipple and circled it hotly with her tongue.
“Whoa, girl.”
She bit it.
“Hey!”
“Well?” she said. “I’m right here.” She suckled on him. “Nice titties, fat boy,” she said.
“Best be careful what you wish for,” he said.
“Boy, you going to talk all day or do something about it?”
“Girl,” he said. “You’re so fine.”
“You know it.”
“Watch out, here it comes.”
He rolled to her.
Afterward, she made coffee. Then she slipped out while he showered.
* * *
She lived about five miles from Big Angel and Perla, and she was the one they called every time there was a medical crisis. She had spent countless nights sitting in emergency rooms and waiting rooms. She kept an overnight bag packed and sitting by the front door. She drove, singing as loud as she could to Katy Perry on the radio. Last minutes of peace. Maybe forever. She had to be strong. How was she to know how strong God wanted her to be? If she had known beforehand, she would have checked out. Now she was in the middle of it.
Inside, she was still that girl who had run away at fourteen. What was I thinking? I know every crazy thing anybody does seems like a good idea at the time. But that’s no excuse. I have a grandchild now.
How did that happen?
* * *
7:50 a.m.
Julio César El Pato de La Cruz was at his ex-wife’s condo, picking up his boy. César was tall, not like the cartoon Donald Duck at all. More like a hungover six-foot-three goose with bags under his sad black eyes. He couldn’t do anything about his voice, and he was a little hunched from trying to stop being taller than everybody else.
His son was named Marco Antonio—continuing the theme of Roman emperors that Don Antonio had begun with César. Marco was tall like he was. Pato’s ex, Marco’s mother, was named Vero, and he still couldn’t understand how he had cheated on her with Paz and ruined his life. He wanted to come back to Vero, but she would laugh in his face. He had been texting a lonely Filipina woman in Manila. She had as yet resisted his endless requests for a picture of her breasts.
He didn’t think about the first wife he had cheated on with Vero. He hoped there wouldn’t be another wife. Four wives would be too much. Perhaps a nice Tijuana divorce, then a series of girlfriends. He thought he could still pass for thirty-seven. The hair dye on his eyebrows did not help.
“Hi, Dad,” said his boy.
El Pato stared at him—this alien creature who had replaced his nice Mexican child.
His kid was a singer. Or he called himself a singer. César had never heard anything like the “music” his son played. He had a faux Norwegian black-metal band called Satanic Hispanic. They had a home-recorded CD called Human Tacos—Taste the Flesh! He wore a T-shirt that announced: KILLING JOKE.
When he sang, Marco barked guttural shrieks that sounded like the Cookie Monster possessed by Beelzebub, but unbelievably loud. So loud, his father expected him to spit blood. It was the utmost evolution of being El Pato, he decided.
His son roared “EXTREME!” at him in his finest hell voice.
His hair was brushed straight up off his head, in the fashion of Wayne Static from Static-X. He didn’t know the singer was dead. He had made tattoos on his arms and neck with a Sharpie. He was extremely happy.
“Mijo,” César said mildly. “Listo para la fiesta?”
“Party at pancake house! BREAKFAAAAAST, BITCHES!”
“Okay, mijo. Sure.”
“I HATE GOD!”
“Okay, mijo.”
“I AM DEATH! I TAKE YOUR LAST BREATH! MOTHERF—”
“Yes, let’s go eat pan-kekis.”
They got into the Hyundai.
“Do you ever sing in Spanish?” César asked, carefully pulling out and driving at his standard forty miles an hour.
“Spanish is for PUSSIES!”
César forced a smile. He quacked a little Dad chuckle, just to show his son how tolerant he was. Not square. He had a fear of being square. Even when Little Angel was a kid and El Pato got to visit him for a weekend, he wore Beatle boots and taught the kid to sing “Help!”
He had things on his mind. Women. That was what was on his mind. Always. Who wouldn’t think of women, married to Paz? He thought about them so much he often drove past his turnoffs on the freeway and found himself in strange parts of town as if just awakening from a trance. He wanted to know how some guys got women to give them their underwear. Like Tom Jones. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He bet Satanic Hispanic got panties all the time.
He glanced at Marco Antonio. He suddenly noticed his son had a ring in his nose, hanging off his septum. Like some bull.
“Did you always have that?”
“What?”
“In your nose.”
The Satanic Hispanic threw up devil horns. “I was born with it, Dad.”
“Okay, mijo,” he said.
“RIDE THE LIGHTNING!”
They pulled into the IHOP parking lot.
“No screaming, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.”
César had once attended his baby brother’s birthday party at Mission Bay. Little Angel had had cake and a bonfire and beer. And lots of American girls. The American girls had made his cake. How had he arranged that? César was sure Little Angel also collected their underpants. César had never seen so many American girls in his life. His little brother never knew that César had lured his girlfriend away for a walk that night and received oral sex from her behind the slide in the playground. He was shocked and sad for his little brother that she said, “Yum, yum” as she went in for the kill. He had steered Little Angel away from marrying her as often as he could. It was his duty as a loving big brother.
“Ay, Marco,” he sighed. “Life is so strange.”
“Dad, you worry too much.”
“I do?”
“WAFFLES WITH A SIDE OF HUMAN!”
César got out of the car and walked the wrong way, and the Cookie Monster retrieved him and led him inside.
* * *
8:45 a.m.
Little Angel came up the street, carrying a cardboard coffee suitcase from the barista. A half gallon of good Colombian. The box had a white plastic spout with a twist-off cap. He had stolen about twenty Truvia packets to bring to the party.
Minnie was sitting in the driveway on a lawn chair. She wore shades in the morning sun. She had skinny jeans and red sandals and a kind of peasant blouse that came off her shoulders and revealed her collarbones. There was a nice warmth in her belly. She grinned, took a puff of her Marlboro.
Little Angel noticed that each toenail was a different color. And her fingernails were purple rainbows.
“Hi, Tío.”
“Nice toes.”
“Aw, I feel so special! Thanks for noticing.”
She held out her hand for him to admire, as well. She extended her cigarette to the side so he could bend down and hug her. He held the coffee box behind him.
“Love you, Tío.”
“Love you, girl.”
“Mucho, mucho.”
“Sí, sí! Mucho!”
From his lair inside the garage, Lalo pressed his lips to the gap between the garage door and its frame and said, “Hey, Tío. Watch out for chudholes.”
“What?”
But Lalo was gone.
Minnie said, “Better not to ask.”
“That’s our family in a nutshell.”
“You got that right.”
One hundred forty-nine children and dogs ran between them and vanished into the yard.
“Still wi
sh Yndio was here,” Minnie said, flicking some ash and looking down the street, as if her brother might appear at any second.
“You’d think. I mean, right? For this? Yeah.”
She took a puff, blew it away from him. “We got a disaster, Tío,” she said.
“What happened?” he asked. “And by the way—if only one disaster happens today, it’ll be a miracle.”
“Yeahright?” she said, like that, a single two-syllable word. Diphthong, the professor thought. “We forgot to get the birthday cake.” And then: Is not the word diphthong actually a diphthong itself?
From the cavern, Lalo’s voice declaimed: “What a chud!”
“Eh?” said Little Angel.
“I’ll chud you, pendejo!” she snapped over her shoulder.
Little Angel patted his back pocket. “I’ve got plastic right here in my wallet. I can get it.”
“Really?”
“Sure, honey. Let me handle it. I’d like that.”
“There’s a Target across the freeway,” she said. “Like a big yuppie Target. Couple of miles, across the bridge that way. They got a bakery. Make them write something fancy on it.”
“Okay.” He made a muscle. “Never fear, Tío’s here.”
“You so cute, Tío,” she said.
“Shucks.”
“Honestly? I was running out of money. So you’re my hero.” She grinned. “They got sushi, even.” She smiled up at him, and he saw her through time, and she was ten years old.
“Do you want sushi?” he said.
“Ay, Tío. I’d feel selfish.”
“But you’d like some.”
She nodded and smiled up at him over the rims of her shades.
He said, “Minnie, what you’re doing today? All this? Be selfish.”
“I always knew I liked you,” she said.
“I’m your favorite.”
“And the handsomest too.”
Lalo hissed: “Sushi’s for puppets!”
“Lalo,” Little Angel called. “What do you want from Target?”
“Captain Morgan, Tío!” the lips announced. “For reals!”
“Okeydokey.”
Minnie shook her head. Mouthed, No.
The House of Broken Angels Page 15