Caramelo (34 page)

Except me. You couldn’t get me to sing that corny old song if you paid me.

Not my family, they love corn. Especially the
ay-ay-ay-ay
parts, which they screech like a cage of parrots. The words thunder out the windows, thud over the trailer hauling the Grandmother’s walnut-wood armoire, and roll down the bleached desert hills of northern Mexico, startling the vultures in the scrub trees.

Father twists the ends of his Zapata mustache with his fingers the way he does when he’s lost in thought. He’s watching me through the rearview and can tell I’m pissed.

We’re riding in the metallic-blue shop van with the windows rolled down because of the heat.
TAPICERÍA TRES REYES
—
THREE KINGS UPHOLSTERY
—the doors read.
FURNITURE FIT FOR A KING
. Father sold the red Chevy station wagon the year he and the uncles went into business for themselves. During the work year, the rear seats are taken out to make room for deliveries, but in the summer, they’re hauled out of storage and bolted back for the trip south. When Father’s legs turn into lead, he moves to the back and lets Toto drive, or, if the road is clear, Lolo takes his turn, but only when supervised.

—What’s the matter, Lala?
¿Estás
“deprimed”? Father says, chuckling.

It’s an old joke, one he never gets tired of, changing a Spanish word into English, or the other way round, just to be a wise guy.

I think to myself,
Yes, I’m
deprimida.
Who wouldn’t be depressed in this family?
But I don’t say this.

When I don’t answer, Father adds, —
Ay, que
Lalita. You’re just like your mother.

I’m nothing at all like Mother!

—It’s hot back here, I say. —It’s like malaria. It’s like a laundromat. It’s like Maxwell Street in August. How come Toto gets to sit up front next to you, Father?

I say this just to bug Toto, not because I want his seat. Ever since Toto’s birth date placed number 137 in the draft lottery,
^*
he’s been treated like a little prince.

—I need Toto up here, Father says, knocking on the hot box of the motor between his seat and Toto’s. —You forget Toto’s my navigator. And besides, he knows how to drive.

—I can help you with that, Father. Isn’t it my turn to drive now? Memo asks.

Everybody shouts—No!—at the same time.

Memo’s been trying to get behind the wheel since he was a kid. Father gave in on the trip down and let him drive in the country, but somewhere before San Luis Potosí, Memo ran over a chicken. We had to stop the car, look for the owner, and pay her five American dollars, which Mother said was way too much. Father felt sorry for her. —She was just a kid, he
explained. —And she was crying. Now nobody trusts Memo behind the wheel except Memo.

I’m stuck in the back row next to the Grandmother. Mother, Memo, and Lolo always get the middle row. There’s no questioning this. Just the memory of Acapulco stops any argument. Father doesn’t even like to say the word “Acapulco.” Why get Mother and the Grandmother all worked up and bothered?

Forget it! Just as soon the singing and the good times quit, the Grandmother starts up again with her elephant’s memory.

—I’ll have to buy new clothes when we get to Chicago. Black, of course, now that I’m a widow. Nothing too fancy, but not cheap either. None of my old things fit anymore. Well, I’ve gained so much weight this summer, it’s amazing. It’s to be expected. The same thing happened to la Señora Vidaurri when she lost her husband. Ballooned up from grief, remember? Her son bought her boxes and boxes of
chuchulucos
. And not the cheap kind either, the expensive imported sweets, from France! What a good son, that one. So attentive. Remember how Señor Vidaurri came to Acapulco to fetch us. You can bet
he’d
never leave his mother stranded …

—Mamá, I didn’t leave you stranded, Father explains. —It was
I
who arranged for Vidaurri …

—Such a good man. A gentleman. He was always so very proper, so very correct, so Mexican. Your father used to say a man ought to be
feo, fuerte, y formal
, that’s what he’d say, but nowadays …

Right. She forgets to mention how a “gentleman” like Señor Vidaurri forgot to marry our Aunty Light-Skin and let her move away to Monterrey, Nuevo León, where Antonieta Araceli studied at the Tech and earned her degree in matrimony …

—Too young, perhaps, but at least married, the Grandmother always says when the subject comes up. —And better to find her married respectably than getting into trouble.

I know she means Aunty Light-Skin, and the thought of Aunty makes me sigh. Poor Aunty. Did Señor Vidaurri get tired of Aunty, I wonder, or did she get tired of being called his daughter? I don’t know and it’s too late to ask. Aunty lives in Monterrey now. It was supposed to be temporary, just to help Antonieta Araceli when she was expecting her baby. And later to help her while her stitches were healing. And then Aunty just … stayed. She came back to help us close up the house, but
then the Grandmother and Aunty got into it and had a big fight. If it wasn’t for the Grandmother and Aunty arguing at the last minute, we’d be able to stop in Monterrey and visit overnight. We could be eating
cabrito tacos
by now, avoiding the afternoon heat, and maybe even napping or swimming in the pool. But no, forget about it. The Grandmother can’t even mention Aunty without having a heart attack.

A
unty is shoving all her clothes into her white Samsonite suitcases, snapping bags shut, the toes of pantyhose and lace of slips sticking out of the sides. She’s blinking back tears, blowing her nose loudly into a handkerchief. Aunty has me sitting on top of the biggest suitcase with her, and we’re trying to get the lid to shut when Father knocks gently on the door.

—It’s no use, brother, you can’t change my mind. I already told you, I’m going back to Monterrey tonight!

—Come on, sister. What would Father say if he were alive? Let it go. Please! You can’t be angry with Mother forever.

—That’s what you think, Inocencio. You weren’t here when she beat me with her fists. With her fists! As if I was a door! And that’s not all. She had the nerve to say she hated me! Me, the one who stayed and took care of her while all of you moved up north. What kind of mother tells her child she hates her? She’s really crazy! I’m never going to talk to her again as long as I live!

With one sweep of her arm Aunty slides all the bottles and jars off the dresser into her matching Samsonite makeup suitcase.

—Ay
, sister, please! Don’t talk that way. Imagine what Father is thinking watching all this from heaven. For his sake, forgive. Think of the family.

—It’s easy for you to talk about forgiveness. You moved away! I’ve been stuck with her all these years. But now that Father’s gone and the house sold, she’s all yours. Look, are you driving me to the station, or do I have to take a taxi?

T
he Grandmother is brushing her frizzy permed hair with a pink plastic hairbrush. She brushes and brushes with a fury, pieces of her wiry gray hair fly over my clothes.

—Dandruff! That’s what I get for not washing my hair. But with the border and all, I thought it best to wait until we got to the other side. So much dirt! Nothing but dust, dirt, and desert around here. If I’d known it was going to be so horribly hot
… ¡Fuchi!
If you ask me, they should’ve given this all to Pancho Villa.

She looks at me sharply, as if I only just came into focus, and then adds, —Celaya, can’t you do something about those bangs? No wonder your forehead is full of pimples. What is it with young people and their hair these days? Inocencio, we really should stop at a barber as soon as we get to Nuevo Laredo. You look like Burrola’s husband, Don Regino,
^†
with that broom of a mustache. And your children, just look at them. Like a bunch of hippies
greñudos
.

Father says, —It’s that they’re teenagers, Mamá. They don’t listen. Nobody listens to me anymore.

—But Lala just got a haircut. Especially for this trip, Lolo has to remind everybody. —Isn’t that right, Celery?

—Leave me alone!

I blame Mother. She’s the one who complained and made me go get this dorky haircut. I wanted a shag, but because my hair is coarse and thick, the top sticks up like celery when it’s humid.

—Don’t pick on Lalita, Father reminds Lolo. —She’s your only sister and the baby.

—You mean Baby Huey, Memo adds, snickering.

The boys act like jerks, like it’s the funniest thing they ever heard in their life.

—So? So I’m not Twiggy, so what! I’m … Father, what’s that word for big-boned?

—Eres fornida
, Father says, defending me against my goofy brothers.

—¿Fornida?
says the Grandmother. —Are you sure Celaya hasn’t got a worm? What this girl needs is injections. She’s turning into a man.

This makes the boys roar even harder. They’re hopeless.

—Lala takes after her mother’s family, Father says. —The Reynas are all built like a mountain range. It’s their Indian blood. Pure Yaqui. Right, Zoila?

—How the hell should I know? Mother says, annoyed. She doesn’t like to be called Yaqui in front of her mother-in-law.

—Lalita, did I ever tell you the story of how I bought you?

—Only a million times, I say, sighing.

—Because I already had too many boys, I wanted a little girl. With all my heart. I want a little girl, I kept praying.

—Ha! Mother says. —Since when do you pray? And you did not want a little girl. You were mad at me for a week.

Father continues his story as if he didn’t hear her. —I went into every hospital in Chicago looking for just the right little girl. I was almost ready to give up. Finally, at Presbyterian Hospital I found a whole maternity ward filled with beautiful baby girls. Rows and rows. But the prettiest one there was, who do you think? That’s right—you.
¡Ay, qué bonita!
That one! I’ll take that one. And after paying lots of money for you—because you cost me a lot, my heaven—after going to the cashier, they let me take you home!

—Oh, brother, Lolo groans. —I think I’m getting carsick.

—Father, did you save your receipt? Maybe we can still get you a refund, Memo adds, howling at his own corny joke.

Toto doesn’t say anything, but he’s the worst because he laughs the loudest.

They’re like the Three Stooges, my brothers. If there was a way to start divorce proceedings for siblings, believe me, I’d be there.

Mother is fixing a bandana over the window so the sun won’t hit her so hard and she can nap.

—Forget about it, Mother says, glaring over her shoulder at me.

—I wasn’t …

—Well, whatever you were going to ask for, forget about it, Mother says, making her eyes bigger before she tilts her head back and shuts them completely.

How could Father say I’m like her! Even she admits I take after him. Says even as a baby I was
una chillona
. How she had to wear me on her hip like a gun, and even then I wouldn’t stop crying. I drove her crazy.

Now she drives me crazy.

When I was little, Mother would tell me this story to make me behave. Once there was a girl who couldn’t stop crying. She cried and cried and cried, until her eyes got tinier and tinier and tinier. Until finally her eyes were just two apple seeds, and the tears just washed them away. Then she was blind. The end. That’s the kind of stories Mother used to tell me. I mean, what kind of story is that to tell a kid?

Honor thy mother and thy father.

I wonder if the Grandmother really hates Aunty? The Grandmother
is bending over her knees and brushing her hair from the bottom up. There is no commandment that says honor thy daughter.

Memo and Lolo are arguing over the road atlas, trying to calculate how many kilometers translate into how many miles, and Toto won’t let up with asking Father about the war.

—I mean, did you ever kill anyone, Father? Toto asks.

—Only God knows.

—Ha! What a brain you are. Man, you’re way, way off, Memo! No wonder you almost flunked math.

—It wasn’t just me, ninety-five percent of the class almost failed, no lie.

—Grandmother, did you know they make a powder hairspray in the U.S. that you can use so that you don’t have to wash your hair?

—But, I mean, did you see any action, Father?

—Action? I saw Death this close, Father says, holding his hand near his Berber’s nose.

—A spray so you don’t have to wash your hair? How terrible. Sounds like something that’s sure to give you head lice.

—Where? Was it on the Pacific beaches, or in the island jungles?

—Neither. In a bar in Tokyo. Two Mexicans killed each other in a knife fight. This was
after
the war was over. By the time I got shipped over, the Japanese had surrendered.

—It’s new. They announce it on the radio a lot. It’s called Pssssssst.

—And what were two Mexicans doing in Tokyo?

—Same as me, fighting with the U.S. Army.

—What kind of name is that? That’s what loose women on corners say to men. You wouldn’t catch me asking for that product even if they gave it away.

—But if they were on the same side, why’d they kill each other?

—Those are the ones who hate each other the most, Father says and sighs.

—Who hates each other the most? the Grandmother asks.

Mother opens her eyes and snaps to attention.

—We were talking about the war.

—Wars! Now that’s something I know about firsthand. You can always tell who’s seen war, the Grandmother says, pausing for effect. —Well, at least
I
can tell.

—How?

—Simple. It’s in the face. Something in the eye. Or better said, something no longer there. It’s from the things one witnesses in wartime, believe me. Your Grandfather, may he rest in peace, saw things during the revolution, and oh, the stories I could tell you about what I saw!