Caramelo (8 page)

—¡Felicidades!
Happinesses!

—Yes, thank you, says Father, blinking.
His chin is gray with stubble, his T-shirt not quite white enough
, Mother thinks,
and why did he have to wear
that
one with the hole?

—Guess what I’ve saved just for you,
mijo!
The
nata
from today’s milk! Would you rather get dressed and come and have breakfast, or shall I bring you a tray?

—Thank you, Mamá. I’ll get dressed. Thank you all. Thank you, many thanks.

Then, after what seems like a very long while of the Grandmother nodding and supervising everyone’s well wishes, they all file out.

Mother leaps up and looks at herself in the dresser mirror.

—I look awful, she says, brushing her hair furiously.

She
does
look terrible, her hair sticking up like it’s on fire, but no one says, —Oh, no, you don’t look terrible at all, and this only makes her feel worse.

—Hurry up and get dressed, she says to me in that way that makes me do what I’m told without asking why.

—Your mother! I bet she thinks she’s pretty funny barging in every year without even knocking. She gets the whole neighborhood up earlier and earlier. If she thinks I don’t know what’s going on she’s got another “thing” coming …

Father pays no attention to Mother’s complaints. Father laughs that laugh he always laughs when he finds the world amusing. That laugh like
las chicharras
, a laugh like the letter “k.”

13.

Niños y Borrachos

            —
G
o on, say hello. Don’t make me ashamed, Father whispers. —Be polite and greet all the guests.

The living room crowded with people drinking highballs before dinner. I don’t like going into the living room, but Father insists. The men under a tent of cigarette smoke, their amber drinks clinking in their hands, their breath a sweet stinky when they talk into your face. How can I tell Father they frighten me? They always talk too loud, as if everything they say is funny, especially if they’re talking about you.

Father’s
compadre
Señor Coochi is playing his guitar. The sound of Señor Coochi’s voice trembling like tears, like water falling clear and cold. Señor Coochi’s fingernails long like a girl’s, and his eyes a green-green that jumps out and surprises you when he closes and then opens them as he sings. It’s funny to have someone singing to you like in the movies. When he starts singing to me, I can’t help myself and start laughing. Then the guitar music suddenly stops.

—And you?

When Señor Coochi talks, the whole room becomes quiet as if everything he says is pearls and diamonds.

—And you, what are you?

—I’m a little girl.

The room laughs as if it’s one person laughing.

—Ah, a little girl, is it? Well, what luck. It just so happens I’m looking for a little girl. I need one, in fact. Would you like to come home with me and be my little girl?

—Nooooo!

Again a huge laugh I don’t understand.

—But I’ve got to have a little girl of my own. What if I told you I have a garden with a swing and a very nice little dog. And you wouldn’t have to do a thing but play all day. What do you say to that? Now will you come and be my
niña
?

—No, never!

—But what if I gave you a room full of dolls …

—No!

—And wonderful toys …

—Nope!

—And a windup monkey that does somersaults …

—Oh, no!

—And! How do you like this?… A blue bicycle. And your own little guitar. And a box of chocolates.

—I already told you. No and no and no.

—But how about if I give you your very own room. I’ll buy you a bed fit for a princess. With a canopy with lace curtains white-white like the veils for Holy Communion. Now, will you come with me?

—Well … O-kay!

The room roars into a laughter that terrifies me.

—Women! That’s how they all are. You just need to find their price, Coochi says, strumming his guitar.

—Just like the saying goes, Aunty Light-Skin adds, winking, —children and drunks always tell the truth. Isn’t that so, Juchi?

But Señor Coochi just throws his head back and laughs. Then he begins singing “La Petenera” without bothering to look at me again, as if I’m not even here.

At the Grandmother’s, I sleep on the rollaway cot in Mother and Father’s room when I’m not sleeping in their bed. And back home in Chicago, my bed is the orange Naugahyde La-Z-Boy in the living room. I’ve never had a room of my own. Every night the blankets and pillows are brought out from the closet and my bed made. Father’s glow-in-the-dark travel alarm clock watches over me from its crocodile box. Before I close my eyes, Father winds it and places it nearby so I won’t be afraid.

Father makes the same joke he always makes at bedtime. —
¿Qué tienes? ¿Sueño o
sleepy
?

—Es que tengo
sleepy. I have sleepy, Father.

—And who loves you, my heaven?

—You do.

—That’s right, my life. Your father loves you. Never forget it. And who do you love more—me or your mama?

—Inocencio! Mother shouts angrily from out of nowhere.

—I’m only playing, Father says. —Right, Lalita? I was only playing.
Ahora
, time to
mimi. Que duermas con los angelitos panzones
, sleep with the fat little angels, my heart, he adds before putting out the light.

If I wake in the middle of the night or if sleep won’t come, I can hold the clock up to my ear and listen to its heart
tick-ticking
, sniff the leather and imagine this is what crocodiles smell like. The green numbers floating in the dark. I would like a room all for myself someday, white and lacy like the princess bedrooms in the Sears Roebuck catalog. Señor Coochi knows what girls like.

Memo, Elvis, Aristotle, and Byron are following the trays of
antojitos
. Just as soon as Oralia sets them down, they start eating, quickly-quickly, and don’t leave until the plates are empty. I’m helping them finish the
chile
peanuts when the Grandmother comes over and shoos us away with her
rebozo. —¡Changos!
But if she doesn’t want us to eat, why is there food set out everywhere?

The smell of fresh plaster and paint mixed with the smell of the Grandmother’s
mancha manteles mole
. The grown-ups seated at the big blond table, and the table covered with a lace tablecloth, and the lace tablecloth covered with clear plastic, even tonight on Father’s birthday.

—I don’t care, the Grandmother says. —Why do you think they call this dish
mancha manteles
? It really does stain tablecloths, and you can’t ever wash it out, ever!

Then she adds in a loud whisper, —It’s worse than women’s blood.

They put us in the breakfast room at the “baby table,” even though we’re not babies—Tikis, Toto, Lolo, Memo, me, Elvis, Aristotle, Byron, Amor, and Paz. Rafa and Ito get to sit at the big table with the grown-ups, because the Grandmother says they’re
hombrecitos
. Antonieta Araceli isn’t a grown-up either, but she’s too stuck up to sit with us. Still, we can hear everything they say in the big dining room next door as if we were there ourselves instead of at the baby table.

—Delicious
mole
, Mamá! Uncle Baby says.

—Delicious? says Fat-Face. —Mamá, it’s rich!

—Are you crazy? Father says, wiping the
mole
from his mustache with his napkin. —Don’t even listen to them! It’s exquisite, Mamá. The
best. You’ve outdone yourself as always. This
mole
is excellent. I always say, there’s no food like the one made by Mamá.

—Ay
, it’s no trouble at all, even though I made it from scratch! I’m not like these new modern women. Oh, no! I don’t believe in cooking shortcuts! the Grandmother says, not looking at her daughters-in-law. —To make food taste really well, you’ve got to labor a little, use the
molcajete
and grind till your arm hurts, that’s the secret.

—But, Mamá, why didn’t you use the new blender I brought you last summer? Did it break already?

—The blender! Forget it! Not even if God willed it! It never tastes the same. The ingredients have to be ground
by hand
, or it never comes out tasting authentic. These modern kitchen gadgets, really! What do you men know? Why, your own father’s never even entered in my kitchen. Isn’t that so, Narciso?

—I don’t even know what colors the walls are, the Grandfather says, chuckling.

—And now everyone, when you’re all done, please come downstairs to the courtyard for the cake and punch!

There is a loud scraping of chairs and a lot of hurrays from the baby table at this news. Then from the big dining room a horrible scream. We run over to the doorway of the big dining room and peer in.

—My dress! Antonieta Araceli is howling. —Somebody spilled
mole
on my chair! My dress is ruined!

It’s true. There’s an ugly chocolate stain on her bottom that makes us all laugh.

—Don’t worry,
mi gordita
, I’m sure the dry cleaners can fix it.

—But it’s
mole
! It’ll never wash out. And this dress was my favorite-favorite!

—Sweetheart, don’t cry. Go downstairs and get into another dress, okay? You have lots of pretty dresses. Rafa and Ito will help you downstairs, right, boys? One walk in front and one behind.

—Are you sure it’s
mole
? Rafa asks. —Maybe it’s diarrhea.

—Are you trying to be funny?

—Well, how did it happen? Pretty strange, huh? Rafa continues.

—Ito, tell me the truth. Did you see
mole
on that chair when you sat down?

—No, I didn’t.

—Me neither, says Rafa. —Sure is a mystery.

—Sure is, Ito says.

—
W
hose plate is this? The Grandmother says, inspecting the baby table.

—Mine, I say.

—Celaya, you didn’t even touch your
mole
.

—I can’t eat it, Grandmother.
Pica
. It makes little needles on my tongue.

—What do you mean? You like chocolate, don’t you? It’s practically all chocolate, with just a teeny bit of
chile
, a recipe as old as the Aztecs. Don’t pretend you’re not Mexican!

—Leave her, Mamá, she’s just a little girl.

—Inocencio, have you forgotten in this country we don’t throw food away! Why, I remember during the war we were happy if we even found a bit of dog meat. Young lady, don’t you dare leave the table till you’ve finished your
mole
, do you hear me? No birthday cake for you until you’ve finished that entire plate.

—But it’s cold.

—And whose fault is that? You’re under my roof now!

—And what am I, painted? the Grandfather asks, pointing at himself with his cigar. —Don’t I have a say around here anymore?

—You? You’re almost dead, you don’t count.

—I’m already dead, don’t ask me, the Little Grandfather says, shrugging and shuffling off to his room in a trail of sweet tobacco.

The girl Oralia is busy shuttling dishes back and forth, from upstairs to down, from the dining room to the kitchen. She doesn’t pay any attention to me sitting there in front of an ugly plate of cold
mole
. She couldn’t care less. I shake one foot and watch my shoe wobble off my white-socked foot. I shake the other foot and watch the other tumble off. I hum a little song I make up. I pull the sheer overlay of my favorite dress over my eyes and look at the world through the sprigs of lilacs, but it’s no use. Downstairs they start to sing “The Little Mornings.”
Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David, a las muchachas bonitas …
I bunch my hands into fists, bunch my fists into my eyes, and start to cry.