Secrets of the Casa Rosada

by Alex Temblador

  She was doing it again, using her cuteness to convince me otherwise. Those large brown eyes and her cute little accented voice that switched between English and Spanish so easily made me slightly jealous. She was six years old. It wasn’t fair.

  “Fine, go get Mimi.”

  “I can’t. I’m busy. Could you go get her for me, por favor?”

  Oh, a little diablita. “No podría, Lilia. You go get her.”

  She took out her sucker and pushed out her bottom lip. “Trompas,” Juanita called it. “Martha! Pretty, pretty please? I can’t leave mis muñecas aquí. Los chicos will get them.” She pushed her lip out farther.

  I wasn’t going to win this one. Lilia was too horribly cute, and she was the only family member that I felt comfortable talking to in Spanish. If I messed up, she didn’t notice, probably because we both struggled to communicate in two different languages.

  “All right, okay,” I said. I put down my journal and pencil and got up. She smiled and popped her lollipop back in her mouth.

  The hallway had four doors. The bathroom and Lilia’s room were on the left side while Tomás’ room and Juanita’s and her husband’s were on the right. I was about to open the door to Lilia’s room, when I heard voices coming from across the hall. The door was half-cracked. Juanita stood in the room, her hands on her hips and her mouth set in a firm line. I looked down the hall. No one would find me eavesdropping; most everyone was outside watching my cousins and tíos play a game of soccer in dress pants and their nice, leather shoes.

  “What are you waiting for? You have to tell her,” Juanita said. It didn’t take long to figure out who she was speaking to.

  “No, no tengo que hacer nada.” I don’t have to do anything, my grandmother replied.

  “You know as well as I do that Rosa didn’t just abandon her here. And you’re letting all this time go by. Mamá, start now. Why are you waiting?”

  “Sí, estoy haciendo algo. Le estoy enseñando español, ¿no? Le estoy dando un lugar donde quedarse, una educación y una familia. Y no le ayudes a tu hermana. Esa cochina.” I am doing something, I’m teaching her Spanish, no? Giving her a place to stay, education, a family. And don’t help your sister. That pig.

  “Really, Mamá? And don’t flick your wrist at me like that. Rosa is giving you what you wanted, and you know as well as I that Martha has more of the gift than either Rosa . . . ”

  My grandmother cut off Juanita. “No digas su nombre.” Don’t say whose name?

  Juanita put her hands through her hair in exasperation. “Mamá, you can’t just let this continue. You are getting old. You need help with everything, need to pass it on and, trust me, I wish it had been me, not Rosa, who could have done that for you, but it’s not. She left, and you refuse to even acknowledge the possibility of asking . . . ”

  My grandmother made a noise in her throat to stop Juanita.

  But Juanita stared my grandmother down and said, “ . . . her.”

  Who was she talking about? My mother? My grandmother remained silent.

  “It’s obvious, then. Martha is your only option, Mamá. Make things right—finally. Por favor. I can’t continue watching. This has to stop. You just have to.”

  “Yo siempre trato de hacer lo que pienso que es mejor.” I always try to do what I think is best.

  “Yo sé, Mamá. No es suficiente.”

  That was enough. I opened the door. “I’m the only option for what?”

  I expected my grandmother to yell, but I didn’t expect it from Juanita.

  “Get out, Martha! This doesn’t concern you!”

  “But it does . . . ”

  “I said out! Now!” She pointed at the door and stomped her foot at the same time.

  I slammed the door and headed to the living room. Lilia wasn’t happy that I didn’t bring her doll, but I was too angry and intrigued at what I had heard to really care. It was clear that my grandmother and my family knew more things about my mother than they let on. How come no one told me anything? What was with all the secrets? I was sixteen years old, not a child.

  Apparently, a direct approach wasn’t going to get me anywhere. My grandmother refused any inquiries I made, and Juanita wouldn’t go against her mother’s wishes, even for her niece. But why would she? She didn’t know me. I was just some stranger who had appeared abruptly in her life.

  I knew a few things now. My mother hadn’t abandoned me for no reason. Part of me couldn’t believe it, but I wanted to at least. Juanita had a higher opinion of my mother than I or my grandmother seemed to have, so who knew what was true? Regardless, it sounded like I had some kind of gift. Curanderismo? Which was ridiculous. If I had the gift, wouldn’t my grandmother have said something by now? And I had never seen my mother do anything magical. Rather, she had always made fun of the psychics on television. Even threw food at the TV a few times. Besides, I couldn’t do magic or whatever my grandmother did. And that was a damn fact.

  By Monday, I had two goals in mind: find the old yearbooks in the school library and then glean any information I could from them about my mother. I got the idea when picture day came around and everyone wouldn’t shut up about the outfits and hairstyles they were going to sport that day.

  During study hall when I asked to go to the library, my teacher, glad that anyone wanted to go, was quick to give me a pass. The halls were mostly empty, except for one white-haired janitor who was mopping when I passed. The school smelled of Pine-Sol and a hint of lemon, which reminded me of the Saturday-morning house cleanings that my grandmother made me participate in.

  As I was about to push the double doors forward to go into the library, a whistle echoed through the silent corridor. It was one of those whistles that went high then low then high again, the universal whistle that says, “Hey, good looking.” I turned around, hoping that the whistle wasn’t for me.

  Behind me stood a boy with two other guys. He wore black Dickies and a plain red T-shirt. The boys stared at me, smiling, and looked me up and down, taking in my legs in the cut off shorts I wore. I immediately regretted my outfit choice.

  “¿Cómo te llamas, hermosa?” The boy in the red T-shirt said, then licked his lips.

  I wanted to say something, but nothing came out of my mouth. My tank top felt too tight, and the back of my neck felt hot and sweaty. I looked behind the boy and his friends for the janitor, but he must have walked off because I was alone.

  “Look! The girl lost her voice,” the tall guy behind the boy in the red T-shirt said.

  Okay, maybe I had. But whereas my mother basked in male attention, I ran from it. At least I ran from boys and their attention that year of high school.

  I didn’t like it when men called out to me or whistled at me like I was a damn dog. Especially not from this particular guy.

  “Come here, I want to talk to you,” the boy with the red T-shirt said, then puckered his lips and made a kissing noise

  Finally, I found my nerves. “Oh, shut up!”

  I felt my legs again and, without hesitation, went through the double doors into the library, my stomach a mess of knots. Catcalls rang out after me. I took a moment, caught my breath. Great, great, great. I peeked out the window and saw the boys walking down the hall away from me. This wasn’t good. The guy who had whistled at me was Eduardo, Marcela’s boyfriend.

  I found the yearbooks fairly easily. After finding a corner among the bookshelves, I spread the four yearbooks out around me so I could easily flip through the crisp, glossy pages. It was the first time I had ever looked through a yearbook. We couldn’t afford to buy one for me the last two years and even if we had, why would I buy memories of a year of people that I didn’t know and who didn’t know me? And for that matter, I hated taking pictures: my hair was never fixed or I had a stupid smile on my face each time the camera flashed. It just looked forced. If there happened to be a picture of me in a yearbook, I did not want to know.

  Based on the first three yearbooks, my mother was pretty popular. In every singl
e picture, whether it was a still class photo or a candid shot, my mother looked happy. She had been involved not only in student council and theater but also softball. I loved the candid pictures the most, although seeing her wide, genuine smile hurt since she had shared only a few with me. In almost every picture with my mother was the girl, the princess from the homecoming court photograph, Carlita Juárez.

  Carlita was a year older than my mother. They were in the same clubs together, though, and always stood next to each other in every photograph. By the time my mother was a junior, Jorge Valdez, the homecoming king, began to pop up in a few pictures too, always with his hands around my mother’s waist or holding her hand. He must have been her boyfriend. My mother had friends and a boyfriend. I never even had the chance to have friends.

  We moved so much, and I learned that most people didn’t like forming bonds with the new girl. Boyfriends were a big no for me, too. Crushes and flings were okay, but boyfriends involved having to make up excuses as to why I never wanted one to meet my mother or come to whatever dirty trash apartment we lived in. Besides, I had my drawings. It may sound pathetic, but I never noticed how alone I was when I had a pencil and a paper to keep me company.

  In my mother’s senior year, there were only three photos of her in the entire book—I know because I checked five times, scanning every face and every name. By the time I was done, my fingers ached with paper cuts thanks to the crisp, thick pages. One of the pictures was her class photo. In the other two pictures my mother stood alone in photographs. Maybe because Carlita and Jorge had graduated her junior year? My mother smiled, but now instead of the genuine smile, it had a small hint of the smile she had used for so many years with me. Was this when the Big Fake started? Had something gone wrong? So her friends weren’t at school with her any longer, but that didn’t mean my mother should want to flee Laredo. Something was still missing.

  I’d been in the library for forty minutes and had to get back to study hall. On my way back, I wondered where Carlita and Jorge were now.

  Did they live in Laredo still?

  The next day brought a few clouds—a miracle in Laredo. Laura and I decided to eat outside on the pavilion. We sat at one of the picnic tables enjoying the mildly hot afternoon. There was even a slight breeze—a magical unicorn in the heat-driven weather of Laredo. Today had to be the closest thing to paradise in this city.

  It would have been perfect if Laura could have stopped her incessant chatter about some guy named Rafi. It’d been going on for twenty minutes already. “So Maya told me que Rafi likes me, pero no sé. Espero that it’s true, you know? He’s a junior and . . . ” Her words fell off and her eyes grew big at something behind me while her mouth opened slightly.

  I turned to find Marcela walking towards us, followed by her group of friends.

  “¡Ay, puta! Te he estado buscando, güera fea.” I’ve been looking for you, ugly white girl.

  At that point, I understood a lot more Spanish than I could speak. I usually filled in the words that I didn’t know by guessing.

  Marcela yelled loud enough so that everyone outside turned and stared. I felt the chant “fight, fight!” hanging in the air, ready to be taken up by on-lookers. I stood up, glad that I was a few inches taller. Marcela and her bull-shit had gotten on my last nerve. It didn’t look like I could avoid her any longer.

  “¿Qué quieres?” I asked her.

  She hesitated, surprised that I spoke Spanish. “Oh, you speak Spanish now? Decided you want to be like us mexicanos? Learn to speak Spanish and then steal our boyfriends? And you ask what I want?”

  “I don’t want your boyfriend. At all.”

  I tried to turn around and sit but she grabbed my arm and turned me back to her. As soon as her hand touched me, my skin burned beneath her palm. Taken by surprise, I let out a slight hiss of pain. What the hell was that? I pulled my arm out of her grasp. Before I looked at my arm, she spoke.

  “I’m not done talking with you.” Marcela’s eyes looked even more intimidating when she was angry because her thick, black eyeliner framed the black fire that danced within them. “Keep your dirty hands away from mi novio. You better be glad we’re at school or I’d kick your ass so . . . ”

  “Like I said: I don’t want your boyfriend, Marcela. He was the one hitting on me, and if you have a problem with it, you can turn around and tell him.”

  Marcela’s face was red with anger, which shone through the layer of white powder she had caked on. I looked over her shoulder. She turned around.

  Eduardo and his friends watched. His friends slapped him on the back and laughed.

  Marcela turned back to me and muttered, “To hell with it.”

  She was about to jump on me, when a teacher’s voice rang out. “Hey! What are you doing? Break it up, break it up!”

  A crowd had formed around us, and a young male teacher pushed through to us. Marcela gave me one last look before turning around and stomping toward her boyfriend. I sat down, hoping the teacher would just let it go. Lucky for me, he was more concerned with dispersing the crowd.

  “¡Perra desgraciada!” I said and pushed my tray forward so hard that it would have fallen off the table if Laura hadn’t caught it.

  “Whoa. Chill out. Perra desgraciada is right, but who taught you that?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to answer. I had heard my grandmother say it when Gloria brought up Laura’s mother’s name one evening at dinner.

  “Hey, what’s that?” She pointed to my arm.

  I looked down and felt a throbbing pain. It looked as if my arm had been burned, but in the exact outline of Marcela’s fingers. The skin was red and a few blisters were forming.

  Laura made the sign of a cross. “Does it hurt?”

  “Kind of. Why’d you do the cross thing?”

  “Marcela did that, huh? That’s not,” she faltered for the right word, “good. That’s bruja work.”

  “¿Bruja?” Marcela had called Abuela that before, but I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “Witch,” Laura whispered.

  I was going to say something like “bitch.” Especially since I didn’t believe in witches.

  By my last class, the burn had spread out so it didn’t look like human fingers so much but more like a Sasquatch claw, and the skin had risen into a thin layer of blister. Every time I moved my arm, it was followed by an involuntary hiss, or a cuss word, especially when I accidentally rubbed up against something.

  My physics teacher asked me if I needed to go to the nurse when she noticed the red welts. I shook my head “no” and said it was hives from an allergy. I don’t think she bought it.

  I thought about hiding it before I went home, but my grandmother was a dog that sniffed out trouble. So what would be the point?

  When I returned home, Abuela was grating cheese with her back to the door. She suddenly turned as soon as I had taken a couple of steps.

  “¿Qué es eso?”

  Too worn out to speak in Spanish, I replied in English. “What’s what?” I was not in the mood to have this discussion with my grandmother. Especially not about Marcela.

  “¡Eso! ¿Quién te hizo eso.” That! Who did that to you?

  She rushed over to me and took hold of my arm tenderly. I pulled my arm away, trying not to wince or groan in pain. Something like this wouldn’t have happened if I had still been with my mother.

  “¿Dónde está mi madre?”

  My grandmother looked up, “¿Qué? ¿Por qué me preguntas eso? Mira tu brazo. ¿Quién lo hizo?” What? Why are you asking about that? Look at your arm. Who did that?

  “No entiendo.” I pretended like I didn’t understand her Spanish.

  I kept my lips shut and refused to answer, which only infuriated her. If my grandmother wouldn’t tell me her secrets, then I wouldn’t tell her mine. Two could play the secret game.

  My grandmother dropped my arm, turned on her heel and went to the counter. She pulled out a bottle of some kind of oil and returned to where I
now sat at the kitchen table. Without saying anything, she squirted oil on the burn. I hissed and pulled my arm back with the sting of the liquid.

  “Gah dang it!”

  My grandmother didn’t say anything as she returned the oil to the cabinet. I got up, headed straight to my room and didn’t come out the rest of the night. My grandmother didn’t even ask if I wanted dinner.

  The next morning the burn was gone. The annoyed and frustrated look my grandmother had had the night before was replaced with something else, a look I hadn’t seen before. It was resignation.

  That Saturday morning we didn’t go on my grandmother’s rounds. Right after breakfast, she walked from the house, straight to the Cadillac and got in without saying a word. I climbed in the passenger side.

  “¿Adónde vamos?” Where are we going? I asked after closing the car door.

  She started the car. “¿Por qué siempre haces preguntas”? Why do you always ask questions?

  By now, my Spanish was developed enough that I was able to have conversations with my grandmother and actually understand her. Which was great . . . sometimes.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but she held up her right index finger before putting the car in drive and heading out.

  Why do I ask questions? Why don’t you ever answer anything?

  I buckled my seatbelt. Whatever. I was just glad that we weren’t walking around in the heat. It was early October and the temperature was still in the 100s. Driving was faster than walking, and even if we were going to some unknown destination, it was worth the mystery.

  My grandmother didn’t turn on the radio. Our music was the sounds of the neighborhood coming through the rolled-down windows: children playing, the rush of the wind created by the car and the rumble of the wheels on the road.

  We didn’t drive far, only a few blocks into a different neighborhood, to a house painted a burnt orange. My grandmother hopped out, and I followed her. We were met on the front porch by a frantic man with a large, bushy mustache that curled slightly at the ends. His face was slick with worry and sweat. He was young, perhaps thirty. His hair went every which way as if he had been tugging at it.