Caramelo

  Mars talks like a beatnik, a cowboy, or Dean Martin or something. It’s hard to imagine he’s really Father’s army buddy. Even harder to believe is the way the Grandmother treats him, making a little room for him on her side of the booth, listening to his every word like he’s family, as if she’s known him her whole life instead of just having met him.

  —In the war Mars saved your father’s life, she reminds us proudly.

  —No kidding! I say. —How’d you do that, Mister Mars?

  —Sweetheart, you can call me Mars, he says, forgetting how rude it is to call old people by their first name without adding “mister.” Maybe he doesn’t know he’s old.

  In the end, Father is the one who tells the story, one I’ve never heard before, which is even better. Father begins by sipping his coffee and exhaling his cigarette midsentence, pushing his plate away, making a long story longer, stretching it out so slow you almost feel like yelling.

  —When I was in the army …

  —Where’s the toilet? Mother says, getting up and disappearing.

  —I used to save all the money I earned, which wasn’t much, maybe about fifty dollars a week. I hardly spent anything for myself. And you can ask your grandmother, in case you don’t believe me. Isn’t that right, Mamá? Everybody else bought beer and who knows what … but not me. I only allowed myself two Milky Ways a week, a Hershey’s now and then, and every once in a while, as long as I didn’t have to treat anyone else, a beer. I was saving for my furloughs when I’d travel home to Mexico.

  Well, it happened … [Here he pauses to tap his cigarette ash onto his coffee saucer.] It happened that on one trip … I had all the money I’d earned, about four hundred dollars or so, in the front pocket of my uniform. I was riding a train headed to New Orleans … From there I was going to make my way to Texas … then the border … and then home. I remember I fell asleep … And then the next thing I know … the conductor is shaking me awake and asking for my ticket! I looked in my front pocket … I looked in my other pockets … I got up and looked under the seat … My ticket was gone, and all my savings too … The conductor made me get off at the next stop, New Orleans. So there I was in New Orleans without any money.

  —How did you feel, Father?

  —Well, I felt like crying …

  —Wow. For real? And did you cry?

  —No, my heaven, I didn’t, but I felt like it. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. It’s worse to feel like crying, believe me, without the relief of tears. I needed some place to sit down and think … I remembered from my first visit to New Orleans that there was a park … near the train station. I remembered because it was there where I’d eaten a peach pie. You know … it’s funny when you’re all by yourself the things you wish for. I remember I’d wished I had someone to buy a pie for, a table and chair, someplace to sit down and eat a pie, somebody to share it with … At home I never would’ve thought of buying a pie. But there I’d bought a whole peach pie and eaten it in the park by myself, imagine.

  Well, it was the same park where I’d eaten the pie, and now here I was again, but this time without even a few coins to buy a cup of coffee.

  —Did you ever think about making a collect phone call?

  —Lala! Quit butting in with your stupid questions, Toto says, disgusted.

  —Yeah, Lolo adds, —you’re always blabbing about nothing.

  —Leave her in peace, Father scolds. —She’s your only sister.

  —The only girl? And six boys? Oh, so she’s la consentida, eh? Mars chuckles.

  —La única. She’s the one who orders her poor papa about, isn’t that right, mi cielo?

  —So then what happened, Father? Memo asks. —Then what?

  —How?

  —In New Orleans.

  —Oh! So then … there I was in New Orleans with no money and with no friends. I was sitting on a park bench thinking, “Now what?” And I guess I must’ve looked sad, because there was a soldier sitting nearby, a Texan from San Antonio …

  Mars looks at me and winks at this part of the story.

  Father continues, —Well, he talked a Spanish like he came from another planet, but he was Mexican too, a Mexican from the other side. From Texas, that is. I tell him my story and he tells me his.

  “Ordóñez, Marcelino is my name,” he says to me. “West Texas is where I’m from. From Marfa, where those strange UFO lights appear. Ever hear about the Marfa lights? No, you haven’t? I could talk all day and tell you stories. That’s why everybody calls me the Martian. But you can call me Mars,” he says.

  Then he did something I never expected … He pulled fifty dollars from his wallet and handed them over … just like that. Fifty dollars! A lot of money to give to a stranger, then or now.

  At this point Mars interrupts, —Aw, it’s cause we’re raza, ése.

  —I remember I promised to pay you back just as soon as I got to Mexico City, Father says, reeling the story back, —and the moment I stepped in the door my father, who was very correct, very much a gentleman, wired Mars his centavitos …

  Mars adds, —And what did I tell you back then? … Don’t worry about it, buddy. Way I figured it, you paid me or you paid somebody else one day. It’s all the same. Look, you give hate and you get paid back in hate. You give love and the world pays you back in love. I give you fifty bucks, and someday somebody does me a favor when I need it too, see?

  —All the same. I paid back my debt. I’m a man of my word.

  I look out the window and am surprised to see Mother leaning against our van smoking a cigarette. Mother hardly ever smokes, except maybe once in a while, like maybe on New Year’s Eve.

  —But the day I met my friend here, Father continues, —he took me to the Red Cross to get duplicate furlough papers, then the USO station, he bought me a hamburger, two cups of coffee and a chocolate donut, he bought me a train ticket, and then he walked me over to the train station, gave me the Mexican good-bye—un abrazo and the double pat on the back …

  —Because we’re raza, Mars says, shrugging. —Know what I’m talking about? Because we’re familia. And familia, like it or not, for richer or poorer, familia always gots to stick together, bro’.

  Then Mars does the funky raza handshake with Father, like Chicano power, and Father, who is always ranting and raving about Chicanos, the same Father who calls Chicanos exagerados, vulgarones, zoot-suiting, wild-talking, mota-smoking, forgot-they-were-Mexican Mexicans, surprises us all. Father handshakes the funky handshake back.

  57.

  Birds Without a Nest

  Sin—without. Sin compañía. Without company. Without companion. Without compromises. Without worries. The Grandmother was strangely quiet the rest of the trip. Mars’ string of buildings impressed her. She thought about how she might invest the money from the sale of the house on Destiny Street. She didn’t have to ask permission from anyone now, did she? She busied herself looking through the classifieds of the newspaper Mars had given her and ignored the chatter of her grandchildren. Since they spoke to each other in English most of the time, this was easy to do. Was it true one could become rich in San Antonio? Not that she had any intention of moving to San Antonio. Why, of course, she wanted to live near her sons and be with them in Chicago. But it doesn’t hurt to look, she thought to herself. It was this column that caught her heart:

  FLECHAZO

  Would you like to start an interesting friendship? Are you tired of looking everywhere for that special person to share your life with? Send us your personal announcement and mention your name, age, weight, height, and hobbies.

  Mexicana, white, tall, thin, 5′3″, attractive, cheerful, decent, elegant, without vices, without compromises. I love dancing and all kinds of healthy diversions. I am formal and affectionate. I wish to meet a gentleman of 45 to 55 years old, light or fair-skinned, medium height (like 5′5″ or taller). He must be attentive, affectionate, responsible, without vices or compromises, and should be formal. Also, he must be educated; must love dancing and
serious relationships; and above all, be economically solvent.

  Feel free to write me in English o español, no le hace y don’t you worry! Mex-Tex, single, 35 years old, 145 pounds, piel apiñonada, not too fat, not too skinny, not too bad-looking either, without vices, own my own tree-trimming and lawn-mowing business. I love la música norteña, dancing, accordion playing, I am without dependents, love diversions, but I am a homebody and loyal. I look for a woman between 19–30 years, any nationality, attractive, feminine above all, if you think you’re compatible with me, write, you won’t be sorry. Don’t forget photo and telephone number. Come on, vamos a hacerle el try!

  I am a Mexican lady, divorced, 5′2″, 157 pounds, 46 years old, white-skinned, a home person, clean, hardworking, affectionate, and they say I am quite attractive. I am a romantic. I love those things that make a person better every day. I adore all kinds of healthy diversions, and I am a believer in moral values. I desire a gentleman of 43 years to 53 years, between 5′7″ and 5′10″ height, weight appropriate to his height, moreno claro (no es requisito), without vices, responsible, honest. Stable in his sentiments, please no lying. He should be a worker and without any amorous compromises. Absténgase, no aventuras. God willing I will find him to begin a friendship, not matrimony. When he writes, I will know him.

  My name is Rudy, I am a 61 years old widower (don’t have gray hairs, they say I look 55). I am a veteran and love healthy diversions, fishing, films, camping, and visiting Natural Bridge Caverns. I am looking for a life companion. I sweep my house, iron, and mop. I bake cakes and bread. I don’t smoke or drink, and I have always tried to be as sincere as possible. I would like to meet someone with good presentation, kind, with good character, to begin a clean and sincere relationship. My intentions are serious. Write or call me for friendly conversation. You won’t be sorry.

  Señora of 48 years seeks gentleman of 48 to 60 to establish a beautiful relationship. I am without vices, with a university degree in art and am very healthy spiritually. I am from a good family with an eye for the finer things of life. I look for a professional, no widowers or divorced please, a man of category without compromises, someone with the same qualities as I. If interested, send photo immediately.

  Single, 31, shy, hardworking, honorable man of good character seeks ideal woman to form firm relationship. I am 5′6″, 160 lbs., and though I have a big heart, it’s patched as I had to undergo surgery recently. First we’ll talk by phone, then decide the date of our meeting. I have never married, and am clean, sincere, honest, and live simply. I work as an operator of heavy equipment.

  Woman of 60 years, Taurus, well conserved, active, very affectionate seeks man of appropriate age without vices. Must be cheerful, attentive, with no compromises whatever. If he’s a veteran, even better. I love t.v., soft music, meditation, fresh air. I am a bit of a vegetarian and I neither smoke nor drink. Desire a man with similar interests. Color, appearance, and nationality don’t matter, but qualities and thoughts do. If you are Virgo or Cancer, even better. Send telephone number.

  There were so many decent men out there in San Antonio. The Grandmother thought perhaps it was Divine Providence that was leading her there. Who knows what the future would bring? She felt a little ashamed of her thoughts. Was it a sin to be thinking these things so soon after her terrible grief? But she’d always been so alone, especially after her marriage.

  No, she could never bring herself to put an ad in the paper like a side of beef for sale. All the same, she could not help but mentally re-create herself:

  Kind, mature woman, wronged in life too many times, seeks a stable, affectionate, tender, and above all, loyal gentleman sin problemas. Must be feo, fuerte, y formal …

  58.

  My Kind of Town

  One would think now that she was living in Chicago, in the same city as her Inocencio, the Grandmother would find happiness. But no, that wasn’t the case. The Grandmother was meaner than ever. She was unhappy. And didn’t know she was unhappy, the worst kind of unhappiness of all. As a result, everyone was in a hurry to find her a house of some sort. A bungalow, a duplex, a brownstone, an apartment. Something, anything, because the Grandmother’s gloominess was the contagious kind, infecting every member of the household as fiercely as the bubonic plague.

  Because Baby and Ninfa’s apartment had room to accommodate a guest, it was understood the Grandmother would stay with them until she could find a house of her own. This had seemed all well and fine when the plans were made long-distance with Uncle Baby shouting into the receiver that he insisted, that he and Ninfa wouldn’t think of her staying anywhere else, that the girls were thrilled she was coming. But now that she was actually sleeping in Amor’s narrow bed with radios and televisions chattering throughout the apartment, and doors and cupboards banging, and the stink of cigarettes soaking into everything, even her skin, and trucks rumbling past and shaking the building like an earthquake, and sirens and car horns at all hours, well, it just about drove her crazy; even the rowdy Chicago wind, a rough, moody brute who took one look at you and laughed.

  Baby’s family was housed in an immaculate apartment on the top floor of a ziggurat-capped three-flat facing the Kennedy Expressway, off North Avenue and Ashland. In the old days the hallways of these brick buildings had exhaled the scent of pierogi or kielbasa, but now they let go a whiff of arroz con gandules or sopa de fideo.

  All day and all night the expressway traffic whooshed past, keeping the Grandmother awake. She napped when she could, even when the apartment and its inhabitants jabbered the loudest. She was tired all the time, and yet she had trouble sleeping, often waking once or twice in the early morning, and in her sleeplessness, padding in her house slippers to the living room, where the front windows looked out onto the lanes of traffic, the expressway billboards, and the frighteningly grimy factories beyond. The trucks and cars, furious to get from here to there, never paused for a moment, the sound of the expressway almost not a sound at all, but a roar like the voice of the sea trapped inside a shell.

  She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and sighed. If the Grandmother had consulted her feelings, she would’ve understood why it was taking her so long to buy a new house and settle in Chicago, but she was not a woman given to reflection. She missed her old house too much and was too proud to admit she’d made a mistake. She couldn’t go backward, could she? She was stuck, in the middle of nowhere it seemed, halfway between here and where?

  The Grandmother missed the routine of her mornings, her three-minute eggs and bolillo breakfasts. She missed rubbing her big toe along the octagon tiles of her bathroom floor. But most of all, she missed her own bed with its mattress sagging in the center, the familiar scent and weight of her blankets, the way morning entered gradually from the left as the sun climbed over the east courtyard wall, the one topped with a cockscomb of glass shards to keep out the thieves. Why do we get so used to waking up in a certain room? And when we aren’t in our own bed and wake up in another, a terrible fear for a moment, like death.

  There is nothing worse than being a houseguest for too long, especially when your host is a relative. The Grandmother felt like a prisoner. She hated climbing up the three flights of stairs, and always arrived clutching her heart, convinced she was having an attack, like the one that killed Narciso. Really, once she was upstairs, she couldn’t even bear the thought of coming back down. What a barbarity!

  The apartment, with its glass and carpeting and knickknacks and froufrou, made her feel ill, with an inexplicable urge to pick up a chair and send everything smashing. The tufted cushions, the fringe, the brocade draperies, the spotless glass and mirrors and gleaming kitchen, it was unbearable. The Grandmother blamed her daughter-in-law. Ninfa never talked to you without doing twenty things at the same time. Loading up the washer, rinsing a glass, wiping off a counter, spraying a mirror with glass cleaner. All this while trailing a violet plume of cigarette smoke. Ninfa was as skittish as a cat. The Grandmother was convinced Ninfa’s intent
was to slowly drive her crazy.

  To cure her homesickness, the Grandmother tried to make her borrowed room look like the one she had left behind on Destiny Street. She covered the bed with her Mexican pillows with their Mexican cariños. But it was no use. It was still Amor’s room with the chartreuse bedspread and hot-pink shag rug, the tape marks from where the black-light posters came down still sticky on the daisy wallpaper, the white wicker bedroom set from when Amor was a child, the pink-and-green faux Tiffany petal lamp dangling like a rosary from its gold swag chain, the plastic Boston fern in its fuzzy macramé plant hanger still dusty as ever, the princess vanity table cluttered with all of Amor’s things—electric hair rollers, a lighted makeup mirror, and two wigs, a copper pageboy and a blond shag. Amor left the Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey/Romeo and Juliet poster, but the Jackson Five had to go to make room for the Grandmother, who couldn’t understand why anyone would want pictures of negros.

  Amor and Paz complained the most, because they had to share a room, and there was very little they enjoyed sharing except for an intense dislike of each other. It seemed to the Grandmother the girls had too much of everything—clothes, spending money, boyfriends, and their parents indulging them further with each birthday. She tried to give them some badly needed instruction, but they were lazy, ungrateful girls, beyond reach. She wondered how much Spanish they really understood when they nodded at everything she said, even when it wasn’t appropriate.

  —Always, always, keep a neat bed, the Grandmother said, pinching and tugging the chartreuse bedspread until it was taut. —You can tell the character of a woman by how she makes her bed. Show me her bed, and I’ll tell you who she is.