by Darcey Bell
“How much do we owe you?” Rocco asks.
Ruth is staring at Rocco, half annoyed at him for not taking her side, half pleased that he’d said we. How much do we owe you? He and Ruth are a we.
The man mentions a sum. Around seventy-five dollars in pesos.
Ruth still has Rocco’s credit card, not that the guy would take it. Luckily, yesterday, Rocco withdrew a hundred dollars from an ATM. He counts out what the man demands, then adds 15 percent as a tip.
He says, “I apologize if there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“There is no misunderstanding,” Ruth says. “He’s lying. Don’t you believe me?”
Mom has waded into the fray. “Rocco’s right. Something went wrong. And we’re in this man’s country. We wouldn’t even be here if the conquistadors . . .”
Mom has swung directly into righteous margarita mode. Rocco senses that everyone here knows what a long lecture might be in store.
“Would you like some food?” Mom asks the driver.
“No gracias.”
The driver leaves as suddenly as he arrived.
Ten, fifteen minutes go by. Then one by one, couple by couple, the guests approach Mom and hug her and wish her many more happy birthdays. They all need to leave no matter how much they wish they could stay.
Soon the courtyard is empty except for the family and Luz. The tamale and taco vendors pack up their steam tables and fry stations and roll their carts out the door. Adiós. Gracias.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth says to everyone and no one. “But that guy was wrong. He was putting the squeeze on us. I didn’t owe him any money. I don’t know why you paid him.”
“It hardly matters.” Mom shrugs.
In fact it matters a lot. Ruth has ruined her party and will never be forgiven.
When Rocco and Ruth break up, his family will be delighted. It almost makes Rocco want to break up with her on the spot, just to make everyone happy. At the same time, it makes him want to stay with her forever, just to piss everyone off.
Only Daisy seems unbothered. She sits at the table, eating tacos and pasting things in her book. She’d taken up a collection from the guests: business cards, sales receipts. A few people gave her small bills that she glued onto one of the pages, and now she’s trying to make a coin stick to the paper.
Charlotte asks Mom if she’s tired, if she wants to lie down. Her mother turns on her, enraged. Charlotte must have forgotten that solicitous care is not the way to Mom’s heart.
Mom says, “If I lie down, I’ll vomit,” and no one says anything for a while.
They begin straightening up the patio, throwing out plastic cups and plates, scraps of napkins and food, mopping up slicks of tequila and beer.
“We didn’t get to do the piñata,” says Eli, and they look up and see Bart Simpson hanging from a high rope, still waiting to be beaten to death by a blindfolded child.
Charlotte says, “There weren’t enough kids here to make it fun. Daisy hates piñatas anyway, don’t you, Daisy?”
“I guess so,” Daisy says.
Rocco thinks she probably likes them. Or at least she likes the candy.
Just then the doorbell rings, and Luz goes to answer it.
She reappears with four men and a boy of about twelve, all in black mariachi suits and white sombreros bordered with black. They’re carrying musical instrument cases.
The mariachis seem bewildered. Why is no one here except a gringo family and a maid cleaning up? The men look at their watches. The boy checks the phone he wrests from the pocket of his tight vaquero trousers. No, they haven’t gotten the time wrong.
The tallest, the one with the violin case, looks around. Who’s in charge here? It’s the elderly gringa’s birthday. The maid has told them that. But the lady is obviously in no shape to sort things out.
Rocco should do something. But the party has exhausted him. First the worrying about where Ruth was, then her showing up, then the tension between Ruth and Reyna, and last but not least the shit show with the driver.
He hasn’t spoken to Ruth since then. Something happened with that guy, but Rocco doesn’t know what. It’s an effort not to ask Ruth.
Thank God he stopped drinking. Who knows what he would do then . . .
Let someone else deal with the mariachis.
Luz says she’s sorry. No, the musicians aren’t late. Early, even. It’s nobody’s fault. The guests have gone home.
“Nosotros te pagaremos,” someone says. “We will pay you.”
It takes Rocco a moment to realize it’s Mom, who says to Luz, “Tell them we will pay them what we would have paid them for playing.”
The head mariachi protests. “Señora, please. Maybe . . . half.”
Mom shakes her head. “You don’t need to play.”
“Why not?” It’s Ruth who’s spoken up. “We totally love your music.”
She’s gone over the heads of the hostess and the family—straight to the mariachis. “You’re here, you’re getting paid anyway, so couldn’t you play a couple of songs for us? We would love it so much.”
Ruth has cojones, that’s for sure. Rocco has to give her credit. And he finds her nerve—the hard nut of toughness under that fragile shell—surprisingly sexy.
The mariachi leader looks to Luz to make sure he understands. He nods at the rest of the band, and they nod back. They seem pleased. The lady has just told them she loves their music.
Rocco is lucky to have Ruth in his life, even if she isn’t always 100 percent truthful. Well, who is? What’s the point of being honest in a world full of liars?
Charlotte applauds, then Eli, then Mom and Luz. Finally Daisy joins in, clapping louder than the rest. She stops when the mariachis look at her, then edges over and clings to Charlotte.
The head mariachi bows to Daisy. Your wish is my command. “Mucho gusto, princesa.”
Daisy looks around to make sure that her family has seen that the nice man with the violin recognizes her as the princess she is.
The high percussive notes of the trumpets dare Rocco not to cheer up. The trills and swoops are irresistible, and now the violin comes in, singing around the brass, but sweeter, adding a vibrato of longing to the joy. The musicians take turns singing. The head mariachi croons a heartbroken ballad about his love for a Mexican girl.
Rocco wishes it didn’t make him think that he will never feel that way about Ruth—or about anyone. The little boy takes the lead, with a song about how happy he is to be a mariachi, about having a musician’s access to beautiful music, tequila, and women. Tequila? Women? Rocco and Luz and the other musicians laugh.
Rocco’s feeling a lot better when Ruth ruins his good mood by skipping over to him with her arms outstretched. Asking him to dance. No way he’s going to let her make a spectacle of him. He shakes his head. She doesn’t seem fazed, but goes over to Charlotte and asks her to dance. It’s no surprise to anyone—except Ruth, maybe—when Charlotte refuses.
Before Ruth can approach her, Mom makes the sign of the cross, as if to ward off a vampire. Ruth doesn’t ask Eli, which might have irritated Charlotte, and she’s not about to ask Luz. Rocco would have despised Ruth for adding dancing to the tasks that Luz has been hired to perform.
There’s no one left but Daisy.
Everyone waits for Daisy to dive under Charlotte’s skirt, but the little girl holds out her hands, and Ruth bends down so they can join in a demented polka.
Ruth and Daisy whirl and dip. Rocco’s never seen his niece look so carefree. Her eyes are half closed, her head thrown back. Daisy giggles and slides her feet in time to whatever Ruth is doing. Dancing with Daisy changes Ruth, until she begins to resemble a child, and the spectacle takes on the charm of two little girls dancing. Or almost.
Rocco worries that he’s misjudged Ruth. If she’s capable of bringing his shy, solemn niece so much joy, she must be a better person than he’d thought.
The mariachis play two more songs, each livelier than the next. Then they conclude w
ith a blast of horns and a flourish of strings. Ruth and Daisy hold hands and bow. Everyone applauds.
Rocco looks over at Charlotte. The set of her jaw reminds him of the stone heads on Easter Island.
Charlotte has never said so, but he knows she dislikes and distrusts Ruth. And though Rocco would never admit it, he thinks, despite everything—despite even the magic that Ruth has worked on Daisy—that his sister may be right.
Something is wrong with his girlfriend.
He wishes he knew what it was.
18
Charlotte
Mom wanted the musicians to play for her party, but this is better. It’s like having their personal mariachi band. The boy and his dad sing, in harmony, a ballad about the soul. Charlotte longs to stay in this moment forever. They won’t have to leave Mexico, go home, deal with all the problems and responsibilities. Daisy will stay this age forever and never grow up and leave them.
And Daisy will never have to find out what Ruth knows—or doesn’t know—about her. Charlotte watches Ruth ask Rocco to dance. Ruth knows Charlotte will refuse but asks anyway. When Ruth moves on to Daisy, Charlotte can’t stop her.
Charlotte watches her daughter beaming, twirling, shaking her hands in the air, jumping and spinning. She knows that she should find it heartwarming, but Charlotte feels sickened, queasy.
She really wants Ruth to stay away from her daughter.
Charlotte doesn’t trust Ruth, who has begun to scare her. First one thing, then another.
The story about the beggar children. Her claiming that Eli isn’t Daisy’s father. Chef Basil saying she’d never worked for the baroness. The incident with the driver.
What had so enraged the driver that he’d risk bursting into a party full of expats? They could have had him arrested. Surely he must have known that. But no one here calls the police.
Now Ruth has cast her unwholesome spell on Daisy, whom she’s whirling around in a way that Charlotte never could. Charlotte could never be that wild and free. The mariachis are so enchanted that their professional smiles have become genuine.
Charlotte can’t grab her daughter and put a stop to her dance. Why would she? She doesn’t suspect that Ruth means Daisy any harm. Yet something about Ruth seems . . . what? Charlotte has drunk too many margaritas to think of the right word.
Maybe Charlotte is just jealous. Resentful of Daisy’s affection for Ruth. Maybe it’s that simple. That shameful.
The mariachis swing into a rousing finale. “Happy Birthday.” In English, for the gringos. Everyone sings along.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Mom, dear Grandma, dear Sally, dear Señora Sally. Happy birthday to you. The musicians finish with a blast of brass.
Ruth bows to Daisy, who giggles and bows back. Charlotte applauds with the others, and the mariachis bow too. Then Charlotte pours herself another margarita from the pitcher.
Mom whispers to Luz, who produces an envelope she gives the head mariachi. Once more he bows, and the musicians sweep off their sombreros and place them over their hearts. They pack up their instruments and leave.
Mom and Rocco and Ruth congratulate themselves and one another on how well everything has worked out. Charlotte is helping Luz clean up the patio when she hears a familiar sound—
How long has Daisy been wheezing?
“Jesus Christ. Where’s Eli?”
Luz says, “He just went off to sleep.”
Charlotte tells herself: Relax. She’s dealt with this, or something like this, so many times before. She just needs to get Daisy calm enough to be able to use her inhaler.
Her inhaler! Did Charlotte remember to pack it? Of course she must have. The margaritas and the tension of the party have fogged her brain. She needs to concentrate; she needs—
Daisy’s eyes widen in panic; then she closes them to conserve effort, and Charlotte hears herself, as if from a distance, begin to whimper.
Ruth says, “Find your phone. Use the app, Charlotte. Thank God your mother has Wi-Fi.”
Charlotte finds her phone in her purse. She’s cradling Daisy’s head as her daughter struggles to breathe. Her own breath is nearly as labored and ragged as Daisy’s.
“You find the app, Ruth,” Charlotte says. “Find the fucking inhaler.”
Ruth scrolls through Charlotte’s apps and taps her phone. And after a moment—an eternity—the cartoon bunny bounces on the screen. Ruth hurries off toward the spot where the bunny is. Moments later she hands Charlotte the inhaler.
“It was in your suitcase. I hope you don’t mind that I had to root around in your stuff.”
“Of course not. Did Eli wake up?” Charlotte puts the inhaler up to Daisy’s lips. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
“Why would he?” Ruth says. “After all, he isn’t really—”
Dear God, what is Ruth about to say? Charlotte’s terror ramps up her fears for Daisy.
“Breathe!” says Charlotte.
Daisy only has to inhale twice before the fluttering in her chest slows to something less frightening, though not yet normal enough for Charlotte to relax.
“Bingo,” says Ruth. “She’ll be fine.”
How the hell does Ruth know? But why is Charlotte angry at Ruth? Ruth didn’t mean to bring on an asthma attack by asking Daisy to dance.
If not for Ruth . . .
It doesn’t matter that Eli didn’t help. He’s always been there for them before. Or almost always.
Anyway, Charlotte handled it. The crisis is over.
“Thank you,” she tells Ruth.
“You don’t have to thank me,” says Ruth. “So . . . are you going to tell Eli?”
“Tell him what?” Charlotte’s heart is pounding.
“Tell him the truth.”
“I’m tired,” Daisy says. “I want to sleep in Grandma’s room.”
MOM’S BEDROOM IS big enough for a cot for Daisy. Daisy has told Charlotte that sometimes she and Grandma stay up late talking, though she never remembers, or pretends to forget, what they say.
By the time Charlotte has thanked Luz and said good night to Rocco and Ruth—who’s snuggling up against Rocco—Mom has gone to her room. And by the time Daisy and Charlotte get there, Mom is asleep on top of her blankets, still wearing her clothes. The bedroom is dark except for the glow from Mom’s Virgin of Guadalupe night-light. Charlotte can barely see Mom, but she hears her snoring, a plosive pop, followed by a gulp that ends in a honking snort that Charlotte finds maddening.
“Grandma’s so noisy!” Daisy bursts out laughing.
Charlotte says, “You can sleep with me and Dad. It’s quieter.”
“I want to stay here,” says Daisy. “You and Dad snore too.”
Charlotte tries to help Daisy into her pajamas, but Daisy pulls away. Charlotte has forgotten how proud she is of the things she can do herself. Something about the way Daisy clambers under the covers breaks Charlotte’s heart.
Charlotte kisses the top of Daisy’s head. Within moments Daisy begins to snore, a tender snuffling in rhythmic counterpoint to her grandmother’s buzz saw.
Mom’s snoring stops, abruptly. Charlotte assumes she’s gone into another sleep phase when she sees—by the flicker of the night-light—that her mother is sitting up in bed.
Mom says, “Explain something. What was that back there, with Ruth and the driver?”
Charlotte has been avoiding that question. She’ll figure it out when she has time. Maybe tomorrow, on the plane. Maybe she can broach the subject with Rocco or even Ruth . . .
“I don’t know,” Charlotte says.
Mom says, “And where did she get that evil, evil mask?”
Charlotte’s surprised. Mom seemed so pleased to get it. She has no idea what her mother’s real feelings are. But that’s often true.
Charlotte says, “There’s a little place not far from the zocalo—”
“Leave me the address,” Mom says. “I’m returning it the minute you all leave tomorrow.”
> “I thought you said you loved it.”
Mom shudders. “Do you want it?”
Charlotte doesn’t understand why she says no. She loves the mask, but she doesn’t want it now. It creeps her out.
“Good. I think it’s bad luck,” says Mom. “I liked it at first, but the more I looked at it, the more it scared me. There’s something wrong with that woman, Ruth. She is right smack in the middle of a very dark time. I saw that right away. Like they say on the cop shows, there’s something she’s not telling us. Take my word for it, Charlotte. There’s something going on there. If we knew, we’d be terrified.”
Charlotte says, “I think so too.”
“She is in so much trouble. I can say this with some authority, having been there myself. You have a lucky life, Charlotte, knock on wood. Faithful husband, beautiful daughter, work, home. As for Rocco . . . not so much, but his story’s not over yet. But this woman . . . Ruth . . . she’s barely treading water, and she can’t hold out. And I don’t want to see your brother going under with her.”
“You . . . tried to kill him. Maybe that’s why he has a little . . . problem with women.”
None of them have ever said this before. Charlotte waits for the world to come crashing down, but it doesn’t.
“Strictly speaking, I didn’t try anything of the sort,” says Mom. “And later he tried to kill me. So I guess you could say we’re even.”
“Have you told Rocco how you feel about Ruth?” asks Charlotte.
“If I did, he’d marry her tomorrow. I feel sorry for her. As someone who has been in bad shape myself, I can sympathize with a person who has shattered in pieces and is missing some of the fragments she needs to put herself back together. Let’s hope her problems are temporary.”
How strange that Mom, who has never shown much sympathy for anyone but herself, should pity Ruth. Maybe her sympathy for Ruth is just a disguised manifestation of her sympathy for herself.