Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (11 page)

“You are Gloria's daughter,
sí
?” A man with the weathered face of a raisin leans in, reaches out to pinch my cheek. It's all I can do not to jump. Families are all the same, I guess, with the in-your-face-ness and the awkward vibes. Huh.

“
Sí
, er—yes,” I reply. “That's me.”

“She doesn't speak Spanish,” Lucy interrupts, which, while technically true enough, doesn't really apply in this instance. So, whatever.

“Tú te pareces exactamente como tu mamá,”
he continues. He's either totally ignoring Lucy or his English is about as good as my Spanish. He's also speaking in that super-slow way that some people do when they think it will help you to understand a foreign language. But I get the gist—I look like my mother. It's true, I'm sure, but suddenly the information carries with it new meaning.

“That's what they say,” I offer lightly, hoping he can get my point from context. Lucy raises an eyebrow, possibly impressed that I've scaled the language barrier. Possibly. With her, it's so tough to tell.

“Your mom is in the kitchen,” Lucy says, in such a way that makes it clear that I should be there with her. There is, however, a little less bark to her bite.

I shove through the crowd—at least there's no cigarette smoke yet (a concession to the Sabbath?)—to find my mother at the stove. She's dropping chunks of something floured into a hissing, spitting pan. “What are you making?”

“What? Oh, there you are.” She smiles at me. “
Bacalao
. Salt cod.”

Barf. Fish sticks are inauspicious regardless of geography. Also, my mother's most famous dinner is her Monday night phone call to the local Italian place. What is she thinking, actually cooking something?

“Salt cod?” It's out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I might be insulting, oh, everyone here.

“It's Spanish originally,” she explains. “You take the cod—filet, of course—”

“Of course—” I tease. I mean, that much, at least, I got.

She ignores me. “And you soak it. It can be for a few hours or overnight. But you soak it in salt water so it takes the flavor.”

Fair enough. I have nothing against sodium.

“And then you dredge it in flour—”

I gesture to the big honking pile of damp flour that's spread on the countertop next to her; yes,
I understand
.

“And you deep-fry it.”

“Very, um, health conscious,” I say, as though I've never eaten, like, a bacon double cheeseburger.

She hands a chunk of freshly battered fish to me. It's still warm. “Try it.”

I do. My suspicion erodes the moment the food touches my lips. The crust is just crisp enough without being overly greasy. The fish inside is delicate, more subtle than I would have thought, tangy and flaky.

“Like a fancy fish stick,” I quip, my initial thought validated. “Very South Beach friendly. Not.”

But Mom can see through the comment, I know. The fish is delicious.

“Yeah, señorita, you have to watch yourself,” my aunt Amalia says, grabbing at her own ample glutes. “You've got the
puertorriqueño
genes, and so . . .” She smacks her own backside again for good measure.

She's not slapping
my
ass, but I'm mortified just the same. Is she implying that I'm fat? Or that I'm
destined
to be fat? Is she right? I've been lucky enough that I don't have to worry too much about what I eat, but . . .

I catch the twinkle in my mom's eyes, recall her frowning, squinting dance in the Century 21 dressing room every bathing suit season.

Destiny, genetics, who cares? I'm fine, and anyway, it's funny. I laugh. So does my mother.

“
Mira
, if you're so worried about health food, you can help me,” Rosa says.

My mother shoots Rosa a quick look, then glances back at me. She hasn't interfered with the curfew and the house rules at Rosa's, of course—when in Rome—but she does care, she does want to be sure I'm not
totally
losing my mind here, abiding by Rosa's helpful “guidelines” and “suggestions.”

“What are you making?” I'm worried.

“
Arroz con gandules
. Rice and beans.”

“Rice and pigeon peas,” my mother corrects her. “That's what they are, technically. The type of beans. Very healthy. Carbs.”

I contemplate giving my mom a refresher course on the basics of the South Beach principle. But then, I don't really care right now.

“It's my mother's recipe,” Rosa says.

“
Our
mother's recipe,” my mother says. She's all about precision this evening. Rosa ignores her.

“I'd love to learn how to make it,” I hear myself say. Not only that, but as I say it, I realize, I mean it.

“You think the
bacalao
was bad for you?” Lucy chimes in. “This is going to be fun.” For once she doesn't sound like she's being sarcastic. This in and of itself is momentous. Sign me up for rice and beans, then, stat.

“How horrible could it be?” I ask. “You've got your rice, you've got your beans. I mean, simple carbs, sure, but no big.”

I've been eating a lot of rice and beans since I got to Puerto Rico. I'd say it's my favorite of the local dishes. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm about to learn why it tastes so much better here than plain old rice has ever tasted in the mainland. I'm going to learn, and then, possibly, I'm going to regret it.

Lucy grins fiendishly. “There's a secret ingredient.”

She reaches into a cabinet just below the sink and pulls out an oversized industrial tub, which she sets down on the counter with a resounding thud.

“What is that?” I squeak.

She waits, then—“Lard.”

Oh. My. God.

I giggle. What else is there to do? Lard, clearly, is a very delicious substance. Who knew?

I turn to Lucy, roll up my sleeves. “Fine. Lard. Bring it on.”

I am
so
relieved, not for the first time since I've gotten here, that I am not a picky eater.

“Come here,” my mother says, patting her leg in a gesture intended to call me over to her side. “I'll show you.”

 

We return home in a carbtastic, lard-smeared post-meal coma, José shaking his head ruefully as Lucy and I belt out the words to the latest top-forty song on the car radio. Seriously, processed animal fat has done wonders to bring us together. I don't even care that my waistband is digging into my stomach. Together Rosa, my mother, Lucy, and I cooked enough rice to feed an army, which was just the right amount for the whole extended family.

After dinner chairs were cleared out of the dining room and salsa music was cranked up. Lucy and her mom busted into an impromptu rendition of dance fever, which roused everyone else from their food stupors. I don't know whether or not it was typical post-church behavior, but everyone really seemed to enjoy it. Including my mother, who wove eagerly back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, grinning at me, beckoning.

I am sorry to say that I didn't get it together to join her, but I was stunned to find myself giving it thought.
Serious
thought. Puzzling, but I decided to chalk it up to the carbs.

José smoothly pulls into the driveway. “I'm off to see Angela,” he says.

“Your girlfriend?” I ask, feeling more familiar with him than I have since I'd arrived.

“Of course,” he says. “I never told you her name?”

I shake my head. “Believe it or not.”

“He hides her from us. He's ashamed of her,” Lucy says. It's hard to tell whether or not she's kidding, she's so deadpan all the time. But since we've had a fun night, I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“
Ay, mami
, it's not her I'm ashamed of,” he says. He winks to take the edge off his words. She rolls her eyes. Really, they're not so different from Max and me.

As we approach the house, the door opens and my mother emerges. She, Rosa, and the girls must have broken every speed limit on the way home. Or I guess Rosa drives like a true
puertorriqueña
. Mom's waving something at me with some urgency. As I move closer, I can see that it's her cell phone. “Your father,” she says.

I know she talks to him every few days, but he's so busy that I don't get much more than a minute or two here and there myself. I wonder what's up. It's Max's birthday next week, Thursday—but it's only Sunday, so it's not as though I've messed up yet. I take the phone from her, cross the threshold into the foyer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Princess!”

It's not until I hear my father's voice that I realize how much I've missed him. I shake my head, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve. “How are you?”

“We miss you, babe, but things are good here. Max has been practicing his guitar, I've been at work or else at the club”—my father is
very
into his golf—“but otherwise, nothing special. The house is quiet with you and your mother both gone.”

“I'll bet,” I say. It's not all that quiet down here, but I don't point that out.

“So your mom sounds like she's doing well,” he says. He wants affirmation, I can see.

“Oh, yeah, she's having a good time with her sisters, and we're sightseeing and relaxing,” I tell him, leaving out the part where she's suddenly a massive chain-smoking chimney. “Today I learned to make rice and beans. Just don't ask me what the secret ingredient is,” I warn. “Hearing it would give you a heart attack.”

He laughs. “Okay, enough said. But listen, this conversation is costing a fortune, and there's a reason that I called.”

My ears perk up. “What?”

“Well, I'm sure you know that it's Max's birthday on Thursday.”

“Of course.” I've already mailed him a snow globe of a scene from
el centro
and a stuffed
coquí
, the small frog native to the Puerto Rican rain forest. We have a running gag on out-tacky-ing each other when it comes to birthday gifts, and I'm pretty sure I've got a lock on this year. Mom paid for the super-fancy postage.

“Well, you've been such a good sport about staying down in Puerto Rico with your mother—”

I have?

“—and I know you gave up a lot this summer in doing so—”

I sure did

“—so Max and I wanted to let you know . . . well, if you'd like to come home for his birthday, we'd be—I'd be happy to pay for it.”

This was not what I had been expecting.
At all
. “Does Mom know?”

“Yes, I already talked about it with her and she thinks it's a great idea. She would totally support it. It's just Wednesday through Saturday, after all.”

I'm quiet for a beat, so quiet that my father chimes in again. “Princess? What do you think?”

What do I think? Hallelujah is what I think! This is my reward for going to church on Sunday! (Except I'm Jewish, so not really. Or maybe it's some sort of weird reverse reward. But whatever.
Not the point
.)

I could go home, sleep in my own bed, eat frozen yogurt from my favorite place, watch bad TV on our TiVo. I could
freeze-frame bad TV on our TiVo
. I could go for a run around my favorite park. I could poke Max in the cheek while he's trying to study.

I could call Noah.

“That's . . .”

And then it hits me.

It's a great offer, a thoughtful, incredibly generous offer.

But . . .

Wednesday's soon. Like, three days away soon. And my mother . . . I glance into the kitchen, where my mother is nursing a cup of coffee—decaf, I hope—and chatting with her sister. They're both smoking, but they seem relaxed. My mother's doing better, seems to be coping with her own mother's death, but she needs . . . something. I'm still not sure what. But it has something to do with being here and with me. With being here
with
me.

Then again, Noah is at home. Do I want to see Noah?

It's not even a question.

“That's what?” my father prods.

I realize I've been quiet for a few moments too long. “That's . . . amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you so much. But, um, can I think about it?”

“Sure! Of course. Though I have to admit, I'm surprised. I thought you'd jump at the chance to spend a few days back here.”

So did I.

“Yeah, but Mom is . . .”

Mom is smiling and talking animatedly at this very minute. It's genuine, and it's really nice to see.

“Do I have to decide right this second?”
Please say I don't. It's too tempting, and I really don't know.

“No, no. You have until tomorrow. The ticket is on reserve. You just need to either cancel it or confirm it within twenty-four hours of the flight, which is Tuesday evening. But don't stress about it, kid. Whatever you decide will be fine. We'd love to have you, but Max won't be offended if you stay down there.”

“More cake for him,” I say.

“Exactly. Do you have a pen? Let me give you the number for the airline and all the info you'll need. Just let me know tomorrow what you decide.”

I take down the information, a string of numbers and letters that when woven together represent freedom, a brief respite, a temporary get-out-of-jail-free card. I promise him I'll call him tomorrow and let him know what I decide. It should be a no-brainer. Four days at home. Duh. It should be easy.

It
should
be, but it's not.