Caramelo

—But aren’t we going to wait for Candelaria’s bus to leave? I ask.

  —I said let’s get out of here before we catch fleas!

  There is nothing else to be said. We are moving away from that heat of bus belches and song of vendors balancing trays of ham tortas on their heads, away from the people traveling with bulging shopping bags and cardboard boxes tied in hairy string.

  We’ve left everyone waiting in the car, and now they’re camped about in whatever patch of shade they could find, eating ice cream cones, their faces shiny, their voices whiny and impatient. —What took you so long?

  Every door of our car is yawning open. Antonieta Araceli, looking miserable, is lying down in the back with a wet handkerchief on her head, because, as Aunty explains it, —Pobrecita. La Gorda practically fainted from the heat.

  It’s already the hottest part of the afternoon. To save the day from being ruined, the Grandmother suggests we drive to the port and catch a boat ride.

  —I remember there are some nice inexpensive excursions. So refreshing. That way we can at least enjoy the sea breezes. You’ll all thank me in the end.

  But at the port, the price of the tickets is not as inexpensive as the Grandmother remembers.

  —All the soft drinks you can drink! Absolutely free! the ticket seller says.

  We climb on board while Father and the Grandmother haggle over a group rate with the ticket seller. —I have siete hijos, Father begins, bragging about his seven “sons.”

  At the boat’s rail, we watch a bunch of noisy neighborhood boys dive for coins. Rafa is whispering orders, pinching and pulling at us. —And Lala, don’t you start whining about wanting anything extra. Papa doesn’t have any money.

  —I wasn’t going to …

  —Seño, seño, the divers shout, not saying señora nor señorita but something halfway, their bodies shiny and dark as sea lions. They leap and disappear in the oily waters, followed by a trail of bubbles, and come back with the coins in their mouths. Didn’t their mothers tell them never put money in your mouth? They swim as if it isn’t any trouble at all, laughing and calling out to us. I’m afraid of water. The boys of Acapulco are not afraid.

  Horns blast, the wooden plank is pulled up, the motor starts roaring, and we start to move away from the shore, flags fluttering in the wind, water churning about us. The Acapulco boys bobbing in the water wave to us. I take off my sun hat and wave back.

  As if it has moth wings, the rose Candelaria made for me flutters away from my hat. I watch helplessly as it swirls in the air, lifts for a moment, then drops into the water, bobbing and laughing before it’s swallowed by foam.

  But everyone’s gone. My cousin and brothers have all disappeared. Only the grown-ups are within sight, climbing the stairs to the top deck, the wind whipping their hair like flames. It’s too late. By the time I catch up with them, the shore is getting smaller and smaller.

  —Now what? Mother asks, because she sees I’m crying.

  —My flower, it fell in the water.

  —Big deal.

  —Don’t cry, Lalita, Father says. —I’ll buy you another one.

  —¿Qué, qué, qué? the Grandmother asks. —What are we going to waste money on?

  —She’s crying over some flower she says she lost.

  —Crying over a flower! Why, I lost both my parents when I was your age, but do you see me crying?

  —But it was the flower Cande made for me! Do you think those boys could dive and find it maybe, Father? When we get back, I mean?

  —Of course, my heaven. And if they don’t, I’ll jump in and find it myself. Don’t you cry, corazón.

  —Yeah, Mother adds. —Now run along and leave us alone.

  I walk up and down the length of the boat, twice to the bathroom, drink three Cokes on the top deck, two on the bottom, wedge myself under stairways, lie down on benches, pick the cork out of sixteen bottle caps, but I can’t forget. Maybe the ocean will wash my flower up on the beach maybe. Just as I’m making another trip to the bar for another Coke, a thick hairy arm grabs me by the shoulders and holds a plastic sword to my throat. It’s a pirate with a mustache and eyebrows like Groucho Marx!

  —Say whiskey.

  A flashbulb flashes.

  —Un recuerdo, the photographer says. —A lovely souvenir ready for you before we return to dock, very inexpensive. Go tell your parents, kid.

  But I’ve already remembered what Rafa told me about how there isn’t any money for any extras. It’s too bad no one has told the Groucho Marx pirate and the photographer. Too late; they’re already busy taking pictures of my brothers.

  Father and Aunty Light-Skin have had it with the wind on the top deck and are busy telling stories to Rafa and Antonieta Araceli at the bar. Only the Grandmother and Mother are still up there when I get back. I can see the Grandmother’s mouth opening and closing but can’t hear what she’s saying over the roar of wind and motor. Mother is sitting looking straight ahead saying nothing. Behind them, the town of Acapulco with its fancy hotels where the rich people stay—Reforma, Casablanca, Las Américas, El Mirador, La Bahía, Los Flamingos, Papagayo, La Riviera, Las Anclas, Las Palmas, Mozimba.

  Before the sun even sets, the sea turns wild on us. We’re all sick from the free Cokes, and can’t wait to get back to land. It seems like forever before we pull into port and pile into the station wagon, the big boys climbing in the back, Antonieta Araceli in front between Father and the Grandmother, the little kids in the middle row on laps. Mother takes her place behind Father.

  The Grandmother in a good mood insists on telling funny stories about her sons when they were little. Everyone’s jabbering like monkeys, glad to be on shore, anxious to get back to Catita’s and have a nice supper after having our stomachs cleaned out with Cokes.

  I must look messy because Aunty sits me on her lap, takes my hair out from its rubber band, and combs it with her fingers. Then I remember:

  —My flower! Stop the car. We forgot to go look for it!

  —What flower, my heaven?

  —The one I lost in the water, the one Candelaria made for me!

  Mother starts laughing. Hysterically. Wildly. Like a witch who has swallowed a baby. At first we laugh too. But when she won’t stop, it scares us. Like when Antonieta Araceli gets one of her seizures, or Toto suffers his famous nosebleeds. We don’t know if we should hold her arms up, raise her feet, force her to lie down, press down on her tongue with a spoon, or what. Then, just as suddenly as she started, she stops, aims her eyes ahead toward the rearview mirror, locks eyes with Father’s, and says one word:

  —How?

  Father’s eyebrows crumple.

  —How … could … you … think? What do you take me for? A fool? An imbecile? A complete alcahueta? Do you enjoy making me look stupid in front of your family?

  —Estás histérica, Father says. —Domínate. Control yourself. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  —That’s right. I don’t. That’s the big joke around here, isn’t it? Everyone knows but the wife.

  —Zoila! For the love of God! No seas escandalosa.

  —Your mother had the kindness to finally tell me. Now … you who like stories so much, tell me this story, or should I tell it for you?

  Aunty tries to hug me and cover my ears, but I’ve never seen Mother like this, and I squirm free. The whole car is quiet, as if the world has dissolved and no one else exists except Father and Mother.

  Father is silent.

  Mother says, —It is … It is true, isn’t it? Everything your mother told me. She didn’t make it up this time. She didn’t have to, did she? Did she? Inocencio, I’m talking to you! Answer me.

  Father looks straight ahead and keeps driving as if we aren’t here.

  —¡Canalla! You lie more by what you don’t say, than what you do. You’re nothing but a goddamn, shitty, liar! Liar! Liar!! Liar!!! And then she starts hammering Father’s neck and shoulders with her fists.

  Father swerves the car, almost hitting
a man on a bicycle with a basket of sweet bread on his head, and screeches to a stop. The Grandmother opens her macaw wings and tries to shield Father from Mother’s trancazos, crushing a yelping Antonieta Araceli. Aunty tries to straitjacket Mother with her arms, only this makes Mother even more furious.

  —Let go of me, you floozy!

  —Drive, drive! the Grandmother orders, because by now a small crowd has gathered at the curb, enjoying our grief. Father floors the station wagon, but it’s hopeless.

  —Let me out. Let me out of this car, or I’ll jump, I swear! Mother starts to shriek. She opens the door as the car is moving, and forces Father to lurch to a halt again. Before anyone can stop her, Mother springs out like a loca, darting across busy traffic and disappearing into a scruffy neighborhood plaza. But where can Mother go? She doesn’t have any money. All she’s got is her husband and kids, and now she doesn’t even want us.

  Father jerks the car to a stop, and we all pile out.

  —Zoila! Father shouts, but Mother runs as if the Devil is chasing her.

  It’s the hour everyone in Mexico parades out into the streets, just as dark comes down and the night air is damp and sticky with the smell of supper frying. Men, women, children, the plaza is bubbling over with people, roiling with the scents of roasted corn, raw sewage, flowers, rotten fruit, popcorn, gasoline, the fish soup of the Pacific, sweet talc, roasted meat, and horse shit. Across the square, a scratchy big-band version of “María bonita” blasts from plaza speakers. Streetlights stutter on just as Mother bumps into a vendor sprinkling lime juice and chile powder over a huge pork rind as large as a sun hat, almost knocking it out of his hands. —¡Ey, cuidado!

  Mother stumbles over shoeshine boys and shoves her way through a knot of young men as lean and dark as beef jerky, standing idly about the newspaper kiosks.

  —Chulita, am I the one you’re looking for?

  She scurries beyond the sad horse carriages with sad horses and sad drivers.

  —Where can I take you, ma’am, where?

  Mother runs on hysterically.

  Children with seashell necklaces draped over both arms lap at her elbows. —Seño, seño. Mother doesn’t see them.

  She zigzags past idling buses, freezes in the middle of the street, then darts back toward the nearest park bench, where we find her settled calm as could be next to an innocent; a little girl with a dark, square face and braids looped on her head like a tiara.

  Rafa and Ito are the first to catch up with Mother, but they stop short of getting too near her. Mother ignores everyone and everything and only comes back to life when Father appears.

  —Zoila! Father says, out of breath. —For the love of God! Get back in the car!

  —I’m never going anywhere with you again, you big fat liar! Never! What do you take me for?

  —Zoila, please don’t make a scene. No seas escandalosa. Be dignified …

  —Lárgate. Scram! I’m warning you, don’t come near me!

  Father clamps on to Mother’s arm and tries to force her to her feet, just to show he’s still the boss, but Mother jerks herself free. The little girl sitting next to Mother scowls at Father fiercely.

  —¡No me toques! Mother says. —Suéltame. ¡Animal bruto! she screams at the top of her lungs.

  In two languages Mother hurls words like weapons, and they thump and thud their target with amazing accuracy. Guests peer out half-naked from the windows of third-class hotels, customers at fruit-drink stands twist around on barstools, taxi drivers abandon their cars, waiters forget their tips. The corn-on-the-cob vendor ignores his customers and moves in for a better view, as if we’re the last episode of a favorite telenovela. Vendors, townspeople, tourists, everyone gathers around us to see who it is Mother is calling a big caca, a goat, an ox, a fat butt, a shameless, a deceiver, a savage, a barbarian, un gran puto.

  At the sound of bad words, the Grandmother orders Aunty to take the girls to the car. Aunty scoops me up in her arms and tries to herd us back, but by now the crowd is pressing up against us, and she’s forced to put me down again.

  —Zoila, just get back in the car. Look at the scandal you’re creating. This is no place to discuss family matters. Let’s go back to our rooms and talk calmly like decent people.

  —Ha! You must be nuts! I’m not going back anywhere with you. Forget it!

  —What are you saying?

  —You heard me. Forget it! As of now, we’re through. Finished. Finito. Se acabó. Understand? Then she sticks her tongue out and gives him a loud raspberry.

  Father stands there humiliated, dumbfounded. My brothers look scared. By now the crowd about us shifts nervously, like an audience watching an actor painfully trying to remember his lines. Father has to say something, but what?

  —All right. All right! If that’s what you want, Zoila, that’s what you’ll have. You want to break up our family, go right ahead. Lalita, who do you want to go with, your mother or me?

  I open my mouth. But instead of words, big gulpy sobs hiccup out of me laced with cobwebs of spit. Rafa suddenly remembers he’s the oldest and shoves his way over to my side, picking me up and hugging me.

  —Ya ves. Ya ves, Father says. —See? I hope you’re happy.

  —Mijo, the Grandmother intervenes. —Let her be. You’re better off without her kind. Wives come and go, but mothers, you have only one!

  —Who are you to get involved in our affairs, metiche! Zoila snaps.

  At this, some people cheer, some jeer. Some side with Mother. Some with Father. Some with the Grandmother. Some just stand there with their mouths open as if we’re the greatest show on earth.

  —¡Atrevida! You climbed up in life marrying my son, a Reyes, and don’t think I don’t know it. Now you have the nerve to talk to me like that. My son could’ve done a lot better than marrying a woman who can’t even speak a proper Spanish. You sound like you escaped from the ranch. And to make matters even more sad, you’re as dark as a slave.

  The Grandmother says all this without remembering Uncle Fat-Face, who is as dark as Mother. Is that why the Grandmother loves him less than Father?

  —¡Vieja cabrona! Mother hisses.

  The crowd gasps in susto, and in disbelief. —What a blow! —And to an elder!

  —Listen, you raise-heller, Mother continues. —You’ve wanted nothing better than to break up this marriage since day one! Well, guess what? I don’t give a good goddamn what stories you’ve got to tell me, I’m not going to give you the satisfaction, and you know why? ’Cause that’s exactly what you want, ain’t it? Comes what comes, like it or not, late or early, you’re going to have to get used to it. I’m Inocencio’s wife and the mother of his kids, you hear. I’m his legal wife. I’m a Reyes! And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

  —¡Aprovechada! the Grandmother counters. —Trash! Indian! I won’t stand here and be publicly insulted. Inocencio, I insist you take us home. To Mexico City! Now!

  —Inocencio, if you let that cow turd in our car, you can forget about ever seeing me or your kids again. Put her on a bus with her address pinned on her slip for all I care.

  —What stupidities you talk. My son would never dare to put his own mother on a bus, you little cualquiera. That’s how much you know!

  —Well, I’m not getting in that car with you even if they tie you on the luggage rack. You’re a witch, I hate you!

  —Quiet! Stop already. Both of you! Father orders.

  —Do whatever the hell you want, I don’t care anymore, Mother says. —But I’m telling you, and I’m telling you only once. I’m not going anywhere again with that vieja!

  —Nor I with … ésa. Never, never, never! Not even if God commanded it, the Grandmother says. —Mijo, you’ll have to choose … Her …

  The Grandmother’s fat finger points toward Mother, who is trembling with rage.

  —Or me.

  Father looks at his mother. And then at our mother. The mob around us circles tighter. Father raises his head skyward as if looking fo
r a sign from heaven. The stars rattling like a drumroll.

  Then Father does something he’s never done in his life. Not before, nor since.

  PART TWO

  When I Was Dirt

  •

  When I was dirt” … is how we begin a story that was before our time. Before we were born. Once we were dust and to dust we shall return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A cross on our forehead on Ash Wednesday to remind us this is true.

  For a long time I believe my first moment of existence is when I jump over a broom. I remember a house. I remember sunlight through a window, sunlight with dust motes sparkling in the air, and someone sweeping with a corn broom. A pile of dust on the floor, and I jump over it. Feet jumping over a dust pile; that was when the world began.

  When I was dirt is when these stories begin. Before my time. Here is how I heard or didn’t hear them. Here is how I imagine the stories happened, then. When I was sparkling and twirling and somersaulting happily in the air.

  21.

  So Here My History Begins for Your Good Understanding and My Poor Telling

  Once in the land of los nopales, before all the dogs were named after Woodrow Wilson, during that epoch when people still danced el chotís, el cancán, and el vals to a violín, violoncelo, and salterio, at the nose of a hill where a goddess appeared to an Indian, in that city founded when a serpent-devouring eagle perched on a cactus, beyond the twin volcanoes that were once prince and princess, under the sky and on the earth lived the woman Soledad and the man Narciso.

  The woman Soledad is my Awful Grandmother. The man Narciso, my Little Grandfather. But as we begin this story they are simply themselves. They haven’t bought the house on Destiny Street, number 12, yet. Nor have their sons been born and moved up north to that horrible country with its barbarian ways. Later, after my grandfather dies, my grandmother will come up north to live with us, until she suffers a terrible seizure that freezes her. Then she’s left without words, except to stick the tip of her tongue between thin lips and sputter a frothy sentence of spit. So much left unsaid.