Caramelo

by Sandra Cisneros

  She was shameless. For crying out loud, she had both the mother and daughter working for her right under her own roof. Even when we were there visiting! If that don’t beat all! That’s what kills me when I think about it. Right under my own nose she did this. I mean what kind of woman …? And how the hell do you think I felt? No respect for me, his wife. What kind of lowlife? And los Reyes always pretending to be better than my family. We were poor, but we didn’t do any filthy things like that, that’s for sure. Christ! I feel like slapping the crap out of somebody even now.

  Look, I didn’t want you to find out from somebody mean and be surprised and hurt like I was, Lala. I just thought you should know, that’s all.

  I think about Candelaria bobbing in the sea at Acapulco. The sun sparkling in little gold flecks all around her. Her face squinting that squint that I make, that Father makes. Her face suddenly Father’s face.

  And I think about Candelaria’s mother, the washerwoman I remember as being so old and ugly. Was Father in love and did love make her beautiful once? Or was he just a chamaco driven by hungers that have nothing to do with love? Did he ever lie awake nights and wonder about her? Did he ever worry what happened to his first daughter? Does it hurt to think about them? Is that why he’s been so good to us? Father’s always been such a sucker when it comes to kids.

  —Poor Papa.

  —That’s it? Poor Papa? What about me! I’m the one that got treated like dirt. And he’s never even said I’m sorry or anything. All these years. That’s the worst of it. Your father …

  —Ma, he’s sick! Give him a break!

  —Okay, so he’s sick. It still don’t make it right … Well, you going to go in and see him or what?

  —You drop a bomb like this, and then you want me to go in there? Can’t I just think for a minute?

  —I ain’t got all day. Hospitals make me sick. I need to get home. It’s getting dark already.

  —So go, go. The boys will be here soon. I’ll get a ride home with somebody.

  Father has his eyes shut. He doesn’t even know I’m here. A machine monitoring something inside him makes mountain ranges of “v”s across a screen. That nervous needle jumping up and down and bleeping now and then, and my father’s heart not too good, and how I wish I could trade hearts, give him mine because it’s too terrible to see Father like this, hooked up to tubes and plastic bags and machines, his body ragged and tired and broken, acabado, I think.

  I pull a chair up next to his bed, and lay my head down on the sheets. Sometimes fluorescent lights seem almost peaceful, the roar of air conditioner and the soft beeping of some equipment doing its job. Sometimes the phones purr when they ring. Powder-blue uniforms march about silently in thick rubber shoes on blue-tiled floors. The fluorescent lights, white cork ceilings, white sheets and white flannel blankets, and snowflake hospital gowns, the polished sheen of serious chrome and steel. Everyone laboring so quietly at times. And sometimes, but only sometimes, a voice, a laugh, a louder-than-life noise startles you from your hum of sleep.

  The room floods with the stink of fried meat. Perched on the headboard, it’s her! The Awful Grandmother. At the sight of me she clambers down and wraps herself around him.

  —You’ve had him long enough. Now it’s my turn, she hisses.

  —No! Not yet, I say, anchoring Father by the ankles. —Let go of him, you greedy perra.

  —You can’t talk that way to me. I’m your grandmother.

  —You’re still a greedy bitch. Same as always. Nothing but a metiche, mirona, and mitotera. A busybody, an ogler, a taleteller. Una hocicona.

  —Well, that’s fine, because I’m you.

  Then she laughs a terrible laugh like a knife slicing my cheek. This takes me by surprise, and I let go of my grip.

  And I know I exaggerate a lot, but this is the truth. Father’s face is no longer his face. His skin turns into the skin of a plucked chicken, wattled and fatty and yellow. And his eyes suddenly open, mean and beady, sweeping across the room from floor to ceiling like searchlights, like bells. It’s the Awful Grandmother.

  A little cry wants to come out of my mouth, but I’m too scared to cry. That awful face on top of the face I love. I don’t know what to do. Father shuts his eyes again, and for a wisp of a moment all the life is drawn out of him, his body turns the color of wet sand. Very quickly. All of this happening in seconds before my eyes. The Awful Grandmother holds him to her breast, sighs, —Mijo.

  —Live, live, I say to Father.

  —He’s tired of living, the Awful Grandmother snaps.

  —Who are you to say? He needs us. We need him. We can’t … I can’t … live without him.

  —And do you think I can live without him?

  —But you’re not living, you’re dead.

  —That’s right, he’s killing me. I’m all alone here!

  —Alone? Aren’t you … on the other side?

  The Grandmother’s face crumples and her mouth opens wide. —Well, it’s that I’m halfway between here and there. I’m in the middle of nowhere! Soy una ánima sola.

  Then she starts to howl and lets go of Father, and Father’s color is his own again. And for the first time in my life, I feel sorry for the Grandmother. Her cries are like the yelping of a dog hit by a car, a terrible, ancient sadness, from below the belly. I’ve heard that cry before. I cried like that too, when the ambulance came for Father. A cry like a hiccup, over and over, and you can’t do a thing about it.

  —Grandmother?

  I want to touch the Grandmother’s shoulder, but don’t know how. I never hugged her when she was alive, and it’s too late to start now. —Grandmother, why do you keep haunting me?

  —Me? Haunting you? It’s you, Celaya, who’s haunting me. I can’t bear it. Why do you insist on repeating my life? Is that what you want? To live as I did? There’s no sin in falling in love with your heart and with your body, but wait till you’re old enough to love yourself first. How do you know what love is? You’re still just a child.

  —But I saw God when we made love.

  —Of course you did. You think that’s a miracle? Smell a flower and you’ll see God too. God’s everywhere. And yes, he’s in the act of love too. And so? That boy’s not the only one who can love you like that. There’ll be others, there ought to be others, you must have others. Ay, Celaya, don’t wind up like me, settling with the first man who paid me a compliment. You’re not even a whole person yet, you’re still growing into who you are. Why, all your life you’ll be growing into who you are. That’s the trouble. God gives us the urge for love when we’re still children, but the age of reason doesn’t arrive till we’re well into our forties. You don’t want somebody who doesn’t know his own heart, do you? Look, he’s a little boy, and you’re a little girl. You’ll find someone who’s brave enough to love you. Some day. One day. Not today.

  —Father says, “You’ll never find anyone who loves you as much as your papá.”

  —That’s because he’s jealous. Listen to me, jealousy is a terrible thing. Look where it got me. Ay, Celaya, no wonder I’m here, neither alive nor dead.

  The Grandmother arranges herself on Father’s pillow like a big, sad vulture, a pitiful thing to look at, sniffling and crying.

  —Grandmother, that day on the boat in Acapulco, you told my mother about Candelaria, didn’t you? That Father was also Candelaria’s father, am I right? Why did you do that? Why? She didn’t have to know, my mother. Why hurt her?

  —It was because of love.

  —Love!

  —Yes, go ahead, make fun of a miserable like me. I told because of love, believe it or not. I wanted your father for my own. I didn’t want to share him anymore. I told because your mother makes me sick with her smart remarks. I told because your mother hated me so, she hates me still. That’s why I’m stuck here. I need everyone I hurt to forgive me. You’ll tell them for me, won’t you, Celaya? You need to tell them for me, I’m sorry Celaya. You’re good with talk. Tell them, please, Celaya.
Make them understand me. I’m not bad. I’m so frightened. I never wanted to be alone, and now look where I am.

  —And why hasn’t Father told me about Cande?

  —There are some stories a parent can’t tell his child.

  —But I thought Father was un caballero.

  —He is. He’s a gentleman. Feo, fuerte, y formal. That’s your father. Can’t you see it’s mortified him his entire life? That’s why he tries so hard to be a good father with you all. To make up for it. He tries, Celaya. I hear him thinking late at night. I hear his thoughts.

  Look, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Celaya, I swear to you. But then I didn’t understand how your father loved me. And I was so afraid. He came to visit less and less, and he had all you children to love. And I’d already lost Narciso years ago, and before that my own mother and father.

  —But you have other kids, Grandmother.

  —They don’t understand me or love me the way Inocencio loves me. So completely you think you’ll die when you lose that love, you think no one will ever love you like that again. Celaya, it’s so lonely being like this, neither dead nor alive, but somewhere halfway, like an elevator between floors. You have no idea. What a barbarity! I’m in the middle of nowhere. I can’t cross over to the other side till I’m forgiven. And who will forgive me with all the knots I’ve made out of my tangled life? Help me, Celaya, you’ll help me cross over, won’t you?

  —Like a coyote who smuggles you over the border?

  —Well … in a manner of speaking, I suppose.

  —Can’t you get somebody else to carry you across?

  —But who? You’re the only one who can see me. Oh, it’s terrible being a woman. The world doesn’t pay attention to you until you grow tetas, and then once they dry up, you turn invisible again. You’re the only one who can help me, Celaya. You’ve got to help me. After all, I’m your grandmother. You owe it to me.

  —And what do you owe me?

  —What is it you want?!!!

  I flick my chin toward the man sleeping between us. —Him.

  The Grandmother cradles Father in her arms as if she has no intention … Then she looks up at me, with those eyes that are my eyes, and sighs, —For now. Not for always, but for a little while longer.

  I feel a great relief, like if I’d forgotten how to breathe until now.

  —You’ll tell my story, won’t you, Celaya? So that I’ll be understood? So that I’ll be forgiven?

  —Tell, I’m listening.

  —Now? Here? Well. All right, then. If you insist. Well, where do I begin?

  —Where does the story begin?

  —In my day, the storytellers always began a story with “So here my history begins for your good understanding and my poor telling …”

  And so the Grandmother began: —Once, in the land of los nopales, before all the dogs were named after Woodrow Wilson …

  * A famous chronicler of Mexico City stated Mexicans have modeled their storytelling after the melodrama of a TV soap opera, but I would argue that the telenovela has emulated Mexican life. Only societies that have undergone the tragedy of a revolution and a near century of inept political leadership could love with such passion the telenovela, storytelling at its very best since it has the power of a true Scheherazade—it keeps you coming back for more. In my opinion, it’s not the storytelling in telenovelas that’s so bad, but the insufferable acting.

  The Mexicans and Russians love telenovelas with a passion, perhaps because their twin histories confirm la Divina Providencia the greatest telenovela screenwriter of all, with more plot twists and somersaults than anyone would ever think believable. However, if our lives were actually recorded as telenovelas, the stories would appear so ridiculous, so naively unbelievable, so preposterous, ill-conceived, and ludicrous that only the elderly, who have witnessed a lifetime of astonishments, would ever accept it as true.

  84.

  No Worth the Money, but They Help a Lot

  It’s just as the Grandmother promised. Father is getting better, doing amazingly well, in fact, astonishing us all, though he complains too much, especially about the food. Mother brings Father his favorite—confetti Jell-O. He’s eating this straight from the deli container with a plastic spoon. Now that he’s out of Intensive Care, he has a television, and this is what he’s watching. I know Death can’t come and take him now that he’s laughing at Cantinflas.

  We sit around watching Cantinflas like he’s God, and in a way, he is.

  —How you doing, Mr. Reyes? At long last, Father’s doctor arrives.

  —Fine, thank you, doctor.

  —No, not fine, Mother says. —All you do is complain, and now here’s your chance to complain—so complain!

  Filipino nurses pop in nonstop and joke with Father.

  —Papacito, how are you today?

  —Mabuti, Father says, surprising us with his Tagalog. —Me siento mabuti.

  My brothers are arguing about whose fault it is a chaise lounge hasn’t been delivered on time. Stop it! Here’s Father sick and they’re wasting oxygen over nothing. I try to think of something to change the subject so that Father won’t get upset too.

  —Father, can you remember your first memory? What’s the oldest memory you can remember? The oldest, earliest thing you can think of.

  Father pauses between spoonfuls of the confetti Jell-O and thinks.

  —Two men shot by the firing squad. This from the time when we lived in a house next to the army barracks. I used to wake up with the bugler. I remember once waking up one morning and standing on the bed, your grandmother still asleep with baby Fat-Face, the others weren’t born yet. It was just me. I looked out the window looking for the bugler, and there he was, same as always, but what do you think? This morning they have two pobres with their eyes covered and their backs to the wall. And then I hear the guns go off, boom! And the two fall to the ground. Just like in the movies. Boom and they’re dust. It gave me a fright I never forgot. I woke your grandmother with my crying. That’s what I remember.

  —Was this during the Cristeros uprisings?

  —I don’t know. I just know what I saw.

  —How come you never told any of us this before?

  —Nobody asked.

  His life, mine, theirs, each, oh. And here is Father, a little leaf. Dry and light as snow. The wind could take him. THANK YOU, CALL AGAIN. I’d better ask now.

  —And what is it … I mean, what would you say is the most important thing you’ve learned from all your years being alive? What has life taught you, Father?

  —¿La vida?

  —Yes.

  He licks his plastic spoon and stares at the wall. A long silence.

  —El dinero no vale pero ayuda mucho. No worth the money, but they help a lot.

  —Money’s worthless, but valuable?

  He nods and goes back to his Jell-O.

  I sigh.

  —Father, did you know that the Carnicería Xalapa on the corner is expanding. They bought the whole block and are going to open a super-supermercado.

  —Drogas. That’s what they’re really selling. No wonder I can’t make a go of it. I’m too honest.

  —Tell Father the good news. Go on, tell him.

  —Father, when you were sick we had a family meeting, Rafa says. —And we’ve decided to go into business together, to use what we’ve learned in school and pool our resources, help you with your business. You have all the contacts and expertise, and Ito and I both have business training. Tikis can help if he wants when he finishes school. And the younger boys are already working with you summers. So we decided we should start our own business, and not have you working with Tres Reyes anymore. It’s bad for your health. You should have your own shop, with your sons, and hire real upholsterers, the kind who know how to work with a hammer.

  —Custom, quality work, Father says, excited. —Maybe Toto will want to join when he gets back from the army, no? And what about your sister? She can be the receptionist. Right, Lalita? You l
ike to sit at a desk and read, don’t you?

  For once I have the good sense not to say anything.

  —And guess what else, Father? We got the truck painted up with the new name, Inocencio Reyes and Sons. Quality upholstery. Over forty years experience. It looks real nice.

  —Wow! Has it really been forty years already, Father?

  —Well, yes, but no. More or less, Father says. —It’s what the customer wants to hear.

  Father’s tired. Mother makes us all kiss him good-bye, and we walk out to the parking lot where the shop van is waiting, the new business name painted on both sides and on the back door. INOCENCIO REYES AND SONS, QUALITY UPHOLSTERY, OVER FORTY YEARS EXPERIENCE.

  Rafa’s right. It looks real nice.

  85.

  Mi Aniversario

  —Cinco mil bolos, brother.

  Father is busy on the phone. Calling Baby, calling Fat-Face. Dialing caterers and musicians. Looking up rental halls. —Mi aniversario, he keeps saying. His thirtieth wedding anniversary, although we know Father and Mother haven’t been married thirty years. It’s more like twenty-something, but Father’s afraid he won’t live that long.

  —Ya me voy. I’ll be going soon.

  —Where you going?

  Father’s making his phone calls sitting propped up in bed on a mound of flowered pillows. He’s stretched out on top of the covers in a faded pair of flannel pajama bottoms, his legs crossed at the thin white ankles. He’s wearing a T-shirt so old the neck is stretched guango, making him look skinnier than ever, his neck beginning to sag like the wattle of a turkey, the crispy chest hairs sprouting white here and there. He could use a shave and a haircut, and his bare feet with the long curved toenails look like Godzilla’s.