Claiming Carlos

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Intervention? What have I done?” I screech. Well, I can’t help it if my voice has that squeaky, cockatiel quality.

  Sometimes I wish Evie, my next younger sister, were here. She and her Romeo troubles were legendary, worrying my parents to all hours of the night while she went gallivanting with him on his motorcycle to points unknown. Oh, yeah, it was easy to be the responsible older sister with her around. Except it started falling apart when I got drafted to chaperone Genie’s prom. Even after Genie specifically asked for Evie and Romeo, it was responsible old me and Carlos who finally went—together.

  Papa puts on his serious Filipino head of the household look and gestures to my small kitchen table. I take a seat next to Brian who has his foot on the chair, his elbow propped on his knee. He’s not paying any attention, but is staring at my laptop. Genie sits around the corner from me, and Mama is across from me.

  We wait for Papa to speak. He paces a few steps to the left, then to the right and stops behind me. “Why did you call in sick when you’re obviously not?”

  Interesting opener. None of them have mentioned Carlos and Julia, yet. Maybe they’re really here because they hoped to catch me in bed or something. But then, why warn me? Oh, so, maybe Mama decided to warn me, but the rest of them thought to surprise me.

  “I’m sorry, Papa.” I can’t help wringing my fingers. “I’m just overtired, and I wanted a day off.”

  “You could have asked, like you asked on behalf of Carlos. Didn’t I grant him time off to go to Mass with his mother?”

  “Yes, you did. But we’re always so busy. I feel guilty not being at the restaurant.”

  “Maybe she does need more time off,” Mama adds. “She’s twenty-six already and not getting younger. If we want her to get married eventually, she’s going to need time to meet suitable men. Gloria has a list of friends’ sons: dentists, doctors, pharmacists, engineers.”

  “Wait, wait.” I hold up my hand, avoiding Genie’s amused smirk. “I don’t need to meet Gloria’s list of friends’ sons. I just want some time alone.”

  “If you meet more suitable men, you wouldn’t be …” Mama seems reluctant to continue. “How shall I put this mildly?”

  “Shoving her tongue down guy’s throats.” Genie has no compunction.

  “Which is the real reason you called in sick,” Brian says. “You’re afraid you can’t control yourself and go after the kitchen staff, even the new busboy.”

  Both of my parents cringe. Papa clears his throat loudly and resumes his kitchen two-step pacing. “Choco, is there something you’re not telling us?”

  Mama reaches for my hands across the table. “It’s okay, darling daughter. We’ll love you no matter what. If you need professional help, we’ll get you the best specialists.”

  I stand so quickly the chair topples. “What the heck are you talking about? I’m perfectly normal. What do you think is wrong with me?”

  Suddenly, the entire clan goes poker face on me. I go from one to the other. “Well? What have you guys been saying behind my back?”

  The silence stretches. Genie chews her lips. My father’s face is darker than usual, his eyes bloodshot and moist. Mama twists her wedding band and blanches, looking like she’s about to faint.

  “Well?” I point my stare at Brian. “Spit it out.”

  Brian tips his chair backward and shakes his head. “Must be true since you’re looking for a job across the country.”

  “A job?” Papa barks. “Where?”

  “Boston,” Brian replies.

  “Why Boston?” Papa shakes my shoulder. “Is that where the sex clinics are?”

  “Sex clinics?” I’m sure my eyes are bugged out, about to pop from their sockets and bounce on springs.

  “You know, for the sex addicts.” Mama’s voice wavers.

  “I am NOT a sex addict.” I back toward my bedroom door. “All I wanted was a day off to be alone. To do some skin and facial treatments, maybe even sleep late.”

  “I understand.” Mama comes toward me, her arms wide open. “We still love you. No matter what. I always told Papa he shouldn’t work you so hard. Let you have regular days off, not just Monday, but an occasional Friday or Saturday night so you can schedule outings with friends. It didn’t have to come to this. Gloria says this often happens to young women who haven’t a proper outlet for affection, like a husband.”

  I shake loose from her grip. Usually I love hugging my mother. It always reminds me of when I was a little girl and I liked to talk until I fell asleep and Mama would lie on my bed to “stay for awhile,” and I’d prattle on and on about my little friends, but now, she seems so alien, turned into a Tita Gloria acolyte.

  “For the last time, I’m not a sex addict.” I cross my arms. “I hate to be rude, but who’s running the restaurant with all of you here?”

  “Carlos and Johnny have it covered,” Papa says. “Johnny is teaching me to delegate, and Gloria offered to be the hostess.”

  “Hostess?”

  She’ll drive away all the customers with her prune face. This isn’t good. Is she asking customers when was the last time they’d been to confession? Oh no! If she meets the Sunshine girls, a fight might erupt. They’re staunch Baptists and Tita Gloria’s a proud Catholic. If Tita Clare or Tita Grace get a hold of her with their soul-winning tracts. Oh no! They’d start a major religious debate.

  “Wait, wait. I’m feeling better.” I need to head off a disaster. “Let me pull on my Maria Clara skirt.”

  Mama and Papa give each other meaningful glances. Is this all a ruse to get me to go back to work? Whatever. I don’t care. Anything’s better than this crazy family intervention.

  Chapter 9

  In my haste to rescue Tita Gloria from the Sunshine Soul-Winners, I forgot about the other gigantic landmine awaiting me at Barrio XO, mainly the two men I locked lips with.

  Who should greet me at the door but Johnny Dee with a knowing grin and dancing eyebrows? “Our most beautiful hostess just walked in. Thank God. I’ll let Mother Superior know she’s free to go back to the catacombs.”

  I can’t help the slight flush to my face, and I turn quickly so he won’t get any idea that he’s flattered me. Instead, I head straight to the bangus room, the traditional side of our restaurant, to halt the religious warfare or Inquisition Two.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …” The voices of a dozen seniors rise from behind the hand carved wooden screen depicting Filipino folk dancers cavorting between two bamboo sticks. “To save a wretch like me.”

  Tita Gloria stands at the head of the table, waving her hand like a choir director, beaming with a beatific expression as if the second coming were upon us.

  I stop charging so suddenly that a hard object bumps into my back. Hot soup splashes over me, and a large bowl crashes to the floor. One of the new waitresses, I think it’s Sarah yelps, “Sorry!”

  “Ow, ow, ow,” I cry, jumping around from the burning pain on my back.

  The spicy, sour pig-blood stew’s pungent scent punches my nose. I hate the smell of vinegar. Yep, horrible Filipina I am. The chili peppers and garlic only add to the insult. Why did they have to make it so thick?

  “Water, water.” I run from the bangus room, knocking down the screen.

  “What happened?” Carlos takes me by the arm. I’m whirled into the pandemonium of the kitchen.

  “Blood stew, burning. Hurts. My blouse is ruined.”

  “Forget the blouse.” He rips it off me and shoves me toward the large utility sink, bending me over the edge.

  Blessed cold water showers me from the vegetable sprayer. He unhooks my bra and it drops into the sink. How freaking embarrassing. I quickly cross my hands over my breasts, for once glad of my inconspicuous almost B cup-sized mounds.

  “Twenty minutes. It has to be twenty minutes.” Tita Gloria’s voice squeaks from behind me. “Not an old wives’ tale. Really.”

  From the volume of voices and comments behind me, I’m sure all the Sunshine
seniors as well as the cooks, busboys, and dishwashers are congregated in the kitchen. They’re speculating whether I have to go to the burn unit, moaning about the waste of perfectly good dinuguan, or pig’s blood stew, wondering why I showed up since Tita Gloria told them I was sick. I can’t believe I’m the star of my own reality show. What have I ever done to deserve this?

  “Customers please go back to the table,” my father says. “Free bowls of shrimp sinigang on the house.”

  At my father’s voice, the cooks return to their stations, and I’m left clutching myself while Carlos rinses my back.

  “How’s it feeling?” he asks. “Better?”

  “Will I get blisters?”

  “You won’t,” Tita Gloria answers for him. “Twenty minutes. By the way, you shouldn’t have worn sandals today. Cold feet will make your cramps worse. And make sure to dry your hair too, or you’ll catch cold.”

  “Ma,” Carlos says. “She doesn’t have cramps. I checked on her this morning and she’s fine.”

  Cringe. Carlos means leg cramps, but his mother is going to take it all wrong.

  Sure enough, she launches into a tirade. “I can’t believe she discusses these things with you. Are you sure she’s just a friend? Why would her bodily functions concern you?”

  The vegetable sprayer stays in one spot between my shoulder blades. Carlos must be holding back his temper. I’m interested to hear what he has to say so I refrain from moving, in case they remember I’m still alive, conscious and able to hear.

  “Ma, aren’t you supposed to go back to the bangus room? No customers allowed in the kitchen.” He entirely sidesteps her direct hit.

  “First of all, I’m not a customer. I’m the hostess for today. Secondly, I’m your mother.”

  “What does being my mother have to do with staying in the kitchen? It’s dangerous and not covered by our insurance.”

  “Look what happened to her.” Tita Gloria must be pointing at me with her lips because she puts a ‘sh’ sound in front of ‘her.’

  “Accident. I’m taking care of it.”

  “Humpf, I’m not leaving you alone with a naked woman.”

  “Ma, does it look like we’re alone?” Carlos sounds less exasperated than I would be if it were my goofy mom making thinly veiled accusations. Indeed there are line cooks in the vicinity and servers rushing in and out requesting dishes, since I’m not in my usual expeditor role serving as the control point between the front and back.

  “You’re touching her back,” Tita Gloria accuses. “You took off her underclothes. I’m not worried about you, but her. She might attack you like she did last night.”

  My muscles tense, and I feel like flinging the vegetable sprayer at her.

  “She didn’t attack me. She fell.” Now he sounds slightly frustrated.

  “I’m just telling you to be careful, that’s all. Anna and I talked about it. She’s got some kind of syndrome.”

  Okay, that’s it. I don’t care if she’s my godmother or what the eff. This is going too far. They’re acting like I’m not there, either comatose or too stupid to care.

  I push from the sink and turn around. The vegetable sprayer water hits me square on the face.

  “Ahhh.” I fling the sprayer to the side and jut my jaw at her. “I didn’t attack Carlos. I fell because I had a leg cramp.”

  There, that lie ought to clear the confusion.

  Why are they slack-jawed? It wasn’t that big of a lie. Uh oh, the entire kitchen staff’s staring. All the chatter dies, and Johnny comes waltzing in, and even he freezes. A pot clatters to the floor.

  Ohh. Emm. Gee. I’m half naked, soaked with water dripping down my hair, and my nipples are exposed. I cover myself quickly and sink to the floor.

  “Get up!” Tita Gloria snaps. “Your twenty minutes aren’t up. And you know why you have so many freckles? You get one every time you sin.”

  Chapter 10

  I might as well wear a sack over my head for the rest of my life. I’m never showing my face at Barrio XO again. My life is utterly and completely ruined.

  I lie face down on my bed. Today’s Monday, the one day of the week our restaurant is closed. My family’s been calling me to ask me to go fishing with them. The last thing I want to do is sit around a lake with nothing to do but field questions.

  They think I’m a sex maniac, an unfulfilled spinster, a total and complete failure. Carlos is probably on his date with Julia, so I have nobody to talk to. When I called Julia this morning, she was excited about the surprise outing he had in store for her. With my luck, he’s taking her shoe shopping and she’ll return with those Jessica Simpsons I’ve had my eye on for weeks.

  My phone rings, and I silence it without looking. I don’t want to get out of bed because if I do, I’ll have to look at job listings, or book an airline ticket, or go to the bank and withdraw all my cash, and find an alien encounter so I can be abducted and experimented on.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bzzzt. Someone’s at my door. I pull my pillow over my head. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  If they don’t stop, they’re going to wake up the neighbors. Bang. Bzzzt. Bang.

  Okay, okay. It’s probably Carlos. Maybe he has cold feet and wants some tips on things Julia likes: her favorite restaurant or flower or dream date. My advice? Change your name to Steve. That’s it.

  Bzzzt. Bzzzzzz. Bang. I wrap myself in a robe and fling open the door.

  Johnny Dee. How did he get in? I live in a secured apartment complex. And why is he standing there looking so handsome and put together whereas I’m barely out of bed? Life’s not fair.

  His eyebrows arch in surprise, and he makes a show of looking at his watch, the way bosses do when they think you’re leaving early or coming in late.

  “Is that a Rolex?” I ask because I have nothing better to say.

  “No, Breguet Classique. Even more exclusive.”

  Well, excuse me for not knowing about status symbols outside of my anthropology textbooks.

  “So, what are you doing here?” I’m unsure whether I should invite him in. The way my family portrays me, I might as well hang a giant red light outside my door. What the heck. “Please, Johnny, come in.”

  He steps over the threshold with an air of authority. “You look like you need a friend or a makeover.”

  “Makeover? More like a complete life do-over.” I shuffle toward the refrigerator. “Milk, juice? Or would you like coffee or tea?”

  “And?” He rolls his hand, as if I’m not done offering him drinks.

  I open the fridge. “There’s San Miguel beer, buko pie, guava juice, tonic water …”

  He slides out a chair and drops into it. “I’ll take the guava juice.”

  I pour him a glass and turn just in time to catch him leering at my backside. Oh, sure, I’m in my ratty terry cloth robe, wearing fluffy cat slippers. Not exactly ready for company, especially with a good looking man who looks like he walked out of a Brooks Brothers catalog.

  “Why are you here?” I hand him the glass of juice. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He folds his hands across the table. “I already told you. You need a friend and a makeover.”

  “And you’re offering me both?”

  Somehow he takes this as a come on. A wide grin stretches across his face. “Obviously. You messed up with everyone around here. You should have seen their disapproving faces. Carlos dropped the vegetable sprayer like he was touching a leper, and his mother looked like she sucked a sour prune and it got stuck on the way out.”

  I don’t need him to remind me how horribly the rest of the day turned out. After Tita Gloria took over the watering of my back, everyone at the restaurant pretended they didn’t know me, especially Carlos, who’d gone back to cooking with a vengeance, yelling and screaming at his assistants, and banging each pot louder than a herd of elephants in a tin can alley. I cringe to think what story Julia’s going to hear about my indecent exposure at Barrio XO.

  I stare at my tattered kitty s
lippers. Somehow I hadn’t noticed that the left kitty was cock-eyed. Guess someone had a bad day in some sweatshop overseas.

  “Hey …” Johnny reaches out and takes my hand. “I have an idea. Put on something cute. I’ll take you shopping.”

  The last thing I want is a guy I don’t know, who’s hotter than the Amazonian jungles, to take me clothes shopping.

  “Actually, I’m busy today.”

  “Heard your family’s gone to Lake Cuyamaca without you. What are you planning on doing?”

  “Girl stuff. Going to the day spa around here and getting a massage, then going shoe shopping.”

  “Sounds fun. What are we waiting for?” He drains the juice and pushes from the table. “You might want to pack an overnight bag too. How does Rodeo Drive sound?”

  “Rodeo Drive? Isn’t that up in Los Angeles?”

  “Beverly Hills. That’s why you need an overnight bag.”

  This isn’t what I think it is, is it? Is he propositioning me to spend the night with him? Do I want to? Granted everyone in my family, and Carlos included, thinks I’m a sex freak.

  “I’m not sure,” I sputter. “I’m supposed to open the restaurant and check the deliveries tomorrow morning.”

  “Concha, listen to me. When was the last time you did anything fun? Or indulged yourself? Stepped out on a limb?”

  Whoa. What is he doing? Trying to mesmerize me? He takes my hand and trains his light brown eyes on me. And what’s with the ‘Concha’ thing? He spreads the pronunciation, sounding like ‘Coonnn-chah’ and not Conk’cha over the head clipped.

  Bringing my hand to his lips, he brushes my knuckles gently over the opening of his mouth before planting a firm kiss. “You are as delicate as a precious seashell. Let’s walk on the beach tonight and make wishes against the shooting stars. We’ll drive up the coast, just the two of us. How about it?”

  Ow Chihuahua, way too fast!

  “Let’s just go to Fashion Valley here in San Diego. No need to drive up to L.A. and stay overnight.”

  “If you’re not comfortable, we’ll stay in separate rooms, of course.” He abruptly drops my hand and steps back, crossing his arms. “I only want to be your friend. It’s so unfair the way everyone takes you for granted. Choco will open the restaurant. Choco will drive her brother to the orthodontist. Choco will take care of returning the defective microwave.”