The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters Page 11

  Rita opened the cage door. I maneuvered Vincent inside and snapped it shut.

  Cary continued, “Everybody liked those dogs, not just us. You know who gave them food when you were gone?”

  I froze. “Who?”

  “Ambrose from next door,” he said. “I saw him giving them hamburger that day you went to Tía’s house. Man, they loved it. You should have seen.” Cary peered in the cage. “They were going to send this bird to the pound. Mr. O’Toole’s son was ready to take him over there, but Dad said you might want a bird, so they gave him to us.”

  I met the bird’s beady stare. “Dumbshit,” he squawked.

  For the next several weeks, I would rouse myself at the first streaks of daylight, throw on a robe, step into my huaraches, and slip downstairs and out the back. I’d lean on that ivy-covered gate and howl at our neighbors’ yard until it was time to dress for school. I returned at intervals during the day, to stand at the gate and bark myself hoarse. What the other neighbors made of a fourteen-year-old girl baying in her backyard, I can’t say. Only Ambrose knew what this was about, why I made a racket loud enough to rouse the Devil slumbering in hell, let alone a bitter old woman, from fitful bouts of sleep.

  If my father minded this behavior, he never said a word. But once as I headed for the stairs during a rainstorm, I passed him in the hallway, and he thrust his yellow slicker at me, saying, “Here, h’ita, you might need this.”

  SUBJECT: FERMINA/WEDDING CUSTOMS

  WPA: 6-17-38 —DC: HMS

  June 16, 1938

  Words: 499

  MARRIAGE ON THE FIRST MESA

  Fermina witnessed few weddings on the First Mesa, but her mother often described her own marriage ceremony, remarking on how difficult it was for her. Because Fermina’s mother was Tewa of Hano and not Hopi, her father’s clan was reluctant to accept her. Warfare between the Hopi and the Navajo had driven the Hopi to seek support from the Tewa, who lived near Taos at the time. The Tewa agreed, in return for land and membership in the Hopi village. Land was granted, but the Hopi did not readily accept newcomers, and Fermina’s father met much resistance after choosing his bride. His clan agreed to the match only when they saw that he would not relent. Fermina’s father then asked his prospective bride’s mother for permission. She consented, and the bride-to-be spent the next day making piki (wafer bread). Afterward, she and her mother took piki to the groom’s family, who offered meat in exchange. Then everyone knew the couple would be married.

  Leading up to the ceremony, Fermina’s mother had to grind enough corn to fill twelve large pots. This took her almost a year to finish. The two stones she used to grind corn on the metate slab raised blisters that toughened into calluses on her hands. On hot summer days, when no one was looking, she would toss corn dust on her neck and between her breasts to absorb sweat as she worked.

  After she filled the dozen pots, the women returned to the groom’s house to announce their arrival in four days. The bride’s family dressed her in a manta (a ceremonial blanket) and wheeled her hair in butterfly whorls for the visit. All the groom’s relatives gathered for this occasion. The bride’s uncles told them that they brought this girl to grind as much corn as she could, and the groom’s uncles replied, “Good. We are glad to have her.”

  Early the next morning, the bride ground corn at the groom’s home. The bride spent three days grinding corn, kneeling all the while before the metate and stopping only to eat and relieve herself. On the fourth morning, female relatives washed the heads of the bride and groom, twisting together strands of hair from both and saying, “Now that you are woven together, you will share a long life and become old together.”

  Fermina’s mother also explained that after the man and woman were married, it was customary for the women in the groom’s clan to heave mud at his mother’s home, shouting insults at the bride. They called out that she was lazy, that she did not grind corn well, and that she was Tewa, not Hopi. Traditionally, the groom’s mother tosses mud in return, arguing her new daughter-in-law’s virtues. And the attack would end. But this time, the mother-in-law remained silent, so the women jeered until early evening. The bride, her calloused hands throbbing, listened to the women howl like coyotes until long after the sun had flattened beyond the mesa.

  6

  REAL, DEEP, AND TRUE —BETTE: 1974

  Just as I’ve rolled myself a nice fat number and settled on my bed with Siddhartha, the goddamn phone blurts a half-ring, jangling my nerves like a freaking fire alarm. I ignore it, light my joint, and it stops after a bit. I suck in a sweet, burning lungful, then another, focus on the page, and there it goes again. Motherfucker! I stub out my smoke, throw the bedspread over the ashtray and stash box, and stomp over to answer the blasted thing. I pause, clear my throat, and say, “Hel-lo,” in my sweetie pie voice because I know exactly who it is. There’s only one person with this telepathic knack for disturbing my rare moments of peace.

  “Oiga, m’ija, it’s me Ceci,” my future mother-in-law says in her breathless way, like she’s been running a marathon, instead of sitting on her plump ass cradling her princess phone to her ear. “I just came from Safeway, and they got those Betty Crocker potato flakes on sale. On sale, m’ija! This week only!”

  “Really?” I say, wondering what the fuck she’s talking about.

  “I know Nilda wants to use real potatoes, but think about it, m’ija, does that make sense? The instant are so much faster and way more economical!”

  “O-kay,” I say, recalling the gist of the potato conflict: Ceci’s championing the flakes for the wedding buffet, but Nilda, the purist, wants to peel a thousand potatoes herself, bubble them up in a cauldron, and cream the pulp by hand, preferably with a bent fork. If it’s hard work and makes no sense, Nilda’s behind it 100 percent.

  “Pues, there I was at the store, and I didn’t know what to do,” Ceci says in a tone that suggests she knew precisely what to do. “So I bought twelve boxes.”

  “Twelve boxes,” I say. “Hmm.”

  “Do you think that’s too many, m’ija? We don’t have to use them all.”

  One box is too many, as far as Nilda’s concerned, but I say, “Sounds okay.”

  “So we’re going with the instant.” Ceci’s voice is rich with triumph.

  “It makes no difference to me.”

  “Okay, m’ija, just checking. I don’t want to do nothing to interfere. This is your wedding, not mine or Nilda’s. It’s all about you and Luis.” She makes kissing noises. “I’ll call you later, if anything else comes up.”

  After we hang up, I wish I’d asked her to break the news to Nilda about the potatoes. I hate being in the middle of this petty shit, and there’s no end to what Nilda and Ceci can find to argue about. Last week, they skirmished over the carne asada, and yesterday it was the salad. Side dishes still loom on the horizon. I don’t even want to think about the fucking cake!

  But apart from that stupid hassle, getting married is a dream come true for me. A beautiful dream from that moment at Pearl Gomez’s quinceañera when I first spotted Luis in the Knights of Columbus hall and true love struck like a sneaky uppercut. I had just turned sixteen, and Luis was twenty-two. He was wearing this cool white suit with a vest and a black shirt. (Who’d have guessed he had a mother obsessed with instant potato flakes?) He looked so fine, I tingled all over. Once, I slept over at a friend’s house where they had this piano that mice nested in. Late at night, the mice scrabbled over the hammers and wires, making this eerie plinking sound. That’s how I felt when Luis lowered his shades, smiled at me. When he cruised over later to ask me to dance, those damn mice went wild.

  We danced every dance. After the band quit and the lights came on, we got a good look at each other, and he scribbled my phone number on his wrist. He kissed me lightly before taking off with these other guys, also wearing white suits and sunglasses. Loretta brought me my purse and said in her sarcastic way, “Who was that masked man?”

  “That’s the guy I’m goi
ng to marry,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Now, three years later, after I turned nineteen, we are getting married. Naturally, I’m thrilled. But sometimes —I have to admit —I stroll to the bus station on my breaks from work at the bindery. Day after day, I wander over there, though it’s a nasty place crawling with sleepy old drunks, stringy teenagers with bad skin, screaming babies and their desperate-looking mothers. And I find myself checking the board where they post the fares and destinations. It’s only forty dollars to Phoenix, fifty-five to Albuquerque. Then my break is over, and I’m back at the bindery, telling how I’m having artificial seed pearls sewn onto the bodice of my wedding dress. I have to holler over the roar of the presses, but anyone can see how ecstatic I am.

  Despite her cynical attitude about my wedding, I’ve asked Loretta to be my maid of honor. Of course, she has to know every detail before she’ll agree. Any other eighteen-year-old would be flattered to have been chosen, but oh no, not Loretta. She has to know all about the best man, the other bridesmaids and groomsmen, who the ring bearer’s going to be. She even wants to control what the fucking priest is going to say.

  She says, “If he tells you to ‘obey’ even once, I swear I’ll walk out.”

  I tell her I have no idea what the priest will say —no one listens to priests anyway. Besides, he’s fresh from the Philippines; his accent’s so thick, I doubt anyone will be able to understand him, whatever he says. But that’s not good enough for old Loretta. She wants me to tell him to say what she expects. And another thing —she wants Cary to be one of the groomsmen.

  “It’s too late,” I tell her. “Luis already asked his friends and a cousin.”

  “I think you should have Cary in the wedding. He’s gotten friendly with Luis lately. I’d think he’d want him in the wedding, too.”

  It’s true. My fifteen-year-old brother’s glommed onto my fiancé, like he’s some substitute big brother. “What if he’s an usher?” I was kind of planning on this anyway.

  “Well,” she says, “let me think about it.”

  I know she’ll agree, but first I have to grovel. I really have no choice, because I hate pissing off any of my close friends by singling one out for the honor. They’ll all understand, though, if I choose my sister.

  If that’s not enough pena, Ceci’s stepped up the phone calls, pestering now about the flowers. Seems she knows this person who can do them cheap. He did the flowers for Father Gillespie’s ordination and they were so beautiful and reasonable. Just let her make the call and that will be all settled, one less thing to worry about, m’ija. Now, I’ve tried being nice, I swear, but I have told this woman all along that I am doing my own flowers. I don’t care if they serve cat litter from the buffet table or if the priest declares me Luis’s slave for life —I want to do my own fucking flowers!

  She’s just uptight from all this wedding junk. That’s what it is —stress. Why else would she hang up on her daughter-in-law-to-be?

  Weirdly, the more his mom yaps at me, the less Luis has to say. It’s like he turned the chore of talking to me over to her. When he comes by the house, he just stares at whatever’s on TV. It can be Soul Train or Romper Room, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s all mesmerized, like the picture tube’s going to reveal some deep truth, like it’s those cave walls of Plato’s that bounce off shadows of what’s really going on for people too lazy to turn around and see for themselves.

  Last night, he actually passed gas in front of a rerun of Bonanza.

  “¡Menso!” I hit him with a throw pillow. “We’re not even married yet! I could still hop a bus to Phoenix, and nobody would be able to say a thing.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Huh?”

  “Forget it.” I stalked off to bed as he gawked at a bunch of guys chasing around on horseback.

  The next day, I’m still pissed at him in a vague way, but I try to be cool, tell myself it’s just nerves, like Ceci says. I focus on the wedding, what a blast that will be, though planning it is a huge pain. For instance, it’s a church requirement, or some such shit, that we meet with the priest ten days in advance of the ceremony. Before that session, we head to Luis’s apartment, where we drink beer and argue about his hair.

  His cousin Bianca gave him the stupidest haircut imaginable. It looks like she clapped a bowl on his head and hacked around it. I’m marrying Bowl-Clip in less than two weeks. He’s all proud because she cut it for free. He’s saved a whole five bucks and looks like a comic strip character —pretty good deal. I try explaining that you’re not supposed to economize when it comes to how you look at your wedding. But it’s like arguing with an onion; he’ll never get it. I give up and chug my tall boy.

  We drive to the rectory without talking, Luis burping the whole way. If I wasn’t so in love, I swear I’d kick his ass out on the Hollywood Freeway and hijack his car at least to Phoenix.

  The priest sure has a load to say to us, but I can’t absorb too much of it. After the beer, I seriously have to pee. I cross my legs at the knees and ankles, one foot bobbing like crazy. I’m afraid if I ask to be excused, Luis will blurt something idiotic and Father Muñoz will call the whole deal off. My eyes tear up, and I bite down on my tongue, praying silently: Wrap it up. Please wrap it the fuck up!

  My intended, the mute, grows entranced with his own shoes.

  I finally interrupt the guy. “Listen, just be sure you don’t say anything about the wife having to obey the husband, okay?”

  This unleashes a freaking tsunami of unintelligible words, and finally, around an hour later, the priest stands up and says, “Go and piss,” and I bolt for the door. Only later does it strike me that he must have said “go in peace.”

  I try, but I’m not always patient with Luis, though he’s so fine that anyone would be glad to marry him. I swear. For one thing, he’s a musician. He plays lead guitar with a band called Sabor. They perform at high-school dances and quinceañeras and whatnot. They do a lot of pop numbers and oldies, but Luis writes the original tunes they play. His strongest piece is called “I’ve Got the Four-Oh-Five Blues,” which he’s dedicated to the San Diego Freeway (the 405) at the start of rush hour, a little after four —as in 4:05, get it? It goes on a bit long, especially when he’s been drinking and ad-libs lines, but it’s catchy. He’s working on a tune for me, too, a love song, and that will be his best ever. Maybe some producer will turn up at a quinceañera, hear him play it, and sign him to a huge contract. Then people will listen to it on the radio and wonder who inspired the haunting melody, the unforgettable lyrics. Of course, I’ll have to help him out with the words, like I did with the “Four-Oh-Five Blues,” and there’s only so much you can do with a person who thinks “zost” is a word.

  “What’s this ‘zost’?” I asked him when I read his lyrics.

  “You know, that black stuff that comes out of tailpipes, smoke, or whatever.”

  “That’s ‘exhaust,’ ” I had to tell him, “emissions, car exhaust, not ‘zost.’ There’s no such thing as ‘zost.’ Jeez.” And I penciled in the correction.

  Clearly, he needs me like Sonny needs Cher, except that I’m short with curly hair and I can’t sing, but I can spell and I’ve got a good vocabulary. He needs me, plus he’s sweet. Really, he is.

  For no reason, he’ll bring me a couple of avocados in the pockets of his chinos. “Alligator pears,” he calls them, and he rolls them in my lap. If they’re soft under the skin, I’ll shave them with a paring knife and mash the green flesh with a fork. Then I squeeze half a lemon over it, toss in some salt, and scoop it onto saltines that I eat while Luis strums his guitar. Times like these, I know I’ll always love him, even if he never gets that recording contract and my song never gets played on the radio, even if he ends up pumping gas in the Mojave Desert and wearing an oil-stained shirt with his name misspelled —LEWIS —on the pocket.

  And though we nodded like bobbleheads when the priest asked if we’d been pure, we have made love, plenty of times, and
that’s what’s so perfect about us, always perfect. I try explaining this to Loretta, who’s never even taken a phone call from a guy, let alone gone on a date, so this is like describing color to a blind person.

  She rolls her eyes. “Right, the earth moves.”

  “It’s beautiful, like losing consciousness in a fantastic dream, better than tripping on the best grass you can buy.”

  “I don’t like dope.”

  “Better than wine then.”

  “Now, that’s doubtful,” says la borracha, who has a taste for the sauce.

  As the wedding draws nearer, old Ceci’s gone from being all smiles to strictly orders. Most of her sentences to me begin with “you have to,” as in “you have to meet the photographer” and “you have to order the cake” and so on. I have no peace. When the goddamn phone rings, I cringe, knowing she’s thought up a dozen more things for me to do. It’s not my fault that when she married Luis’s father, they had to elope and they were so poor they couldn’t even afford pillows. This is her justification for tormenting me with wedding plans.

  “I just want everything nice for you,” she says whenever I complain. “When we got married, we didn’t have a thing, not even pillows.”

  (I imagine shipping a truckload of pillows to her just before buying a bus ticket.)

  She’ll probably go insane with fury when I miss today’s fitting. My brother, Cary, has asked me to go with him and some friends to a baseball game at their high school, so I’m off. And it’s fun in a nostalgic way to smoke pot on the bleachers. I don’t give a shit about baseball, but I enjoy seeing people I know, like Steve Reyes, who sits by us. He used to be in love with me for ages. He was a big jock in high school, and now his younger brothers are on the team, so he’s swung by to watch them play.