Someone Like Summer

by M. E. Kerr

  THREE

  “Esteban Santiago told me he’s going to do the screening room roof a week from Friday,” I said to Dad at dinner that night.

  “When Dario can’t work, Ramón does. Where’s Ramón?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Ramón.”

  “How did you know Santiago is taking Dario’s place, and how do you know him?” Dad asked.

  “I’ve heard him sing at Jungle Pete’s. He’s fabulous!” I didn’t want to admit I went by the soccer field early Wednesday evenings to see him play and to have time with him.

  Dad knew I wasn’t interested in sports of any kind. Ease into this, I told myself.

  Dad said, “Do you talk to this muchacho?”

  “Not much.”

  “What do you two have to talk about?”

  “I’ve seen him play soccer. I told him he was good.”

  “Since when do you care about soccer?”

  “I don’t care that much about it.” I should have said I care about it when Esteban plays, but I didn’t really know how to tell my father I might be falling in love with someone I didn’t know very much about. I would never be able to answer Dad’s usual questions: What does his father do? Where do they live? What does this young man want to do with his life?

  All right—I would leave out the love part. Call it a crush. That made less of my feelings, but Dad could live with a crush. Mention love, and Dad gets that lost look in his eyes that says he wishes Mom was alive. Mom would know how to get me through it, or over it, or whatever it takes to get me back on track without any damage.

  Dad said, “I don’t think you care about soccer at all, Annabel. And I hope you don’t care about something else. Someone else.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You brought up his name. People can’t stop saying the name when they’re interested in someone.”

  I kept eating the meat loaf I’d made using Mom’s recipe. I was getting to be a fair cook. I ate and told myself to drop the subject right now.

  Finally, Dad said, “So this muchacho sings and he plays soccer and now he’s going to become a carpenter?”

  “Don’t call him a muchacho, Dad.”

  “Why not? That’s what he is.”

  I didn’t argue the point. It was too hard to explain to my father that calling Esteban a muchacho was somehow belittling. Dad didn’t get that sort of thing. He called women “gals” and Asians “Orientals.” Once I heard him talking to a new Latino crew. At the end of his spiel, he said, “That’s it—cha cha cha.”

  “Great meat loaf, honey!” Dad said. He put down his fork and said, “I hope this muchacho will finish that roof up in an afternoon. I’m having a little lunch and matinee that Saturday for a lady friend. I want to impress her. I’m making my spaghetti and she’s bringing the movie. I told her I like everything, so when you meet her, don’t tell her I only watch war pictures and westerns.”

  “Who is this mystery lady?”

  “Her name is Larkin.”

  “Larkin what?”

  “Just Larkin. She’s an artist.” He pronounced it arteest, his idea of humor. “She only uses one name.”

  “Like Madonna, hmmm?”

  “No, not like Madonna. This woman has a head on her shoulders and she’s a serious artist. You should see her place!”

  “What’s it like?”

  “It looks like something out of a magazine. I don’t mean Family Circle. I mean a high-class magazine like Architect’s Digest.”

  “Architectural Digest, Dad.”

  “Yeah, that magazine. Pictures of big shots’ homes sort of thing. You know?”

  “That’s great, Dad.”

  “She’s got class, you know? I’m not talking about money, either. I’m talking about what your mother was always talking about. Originality. I see things a whole new way because of Larkin. She’s teaching me how to be chic.”

  “Dad? That’s pronounced sheek, not chick.”

  FOUR

  MY COUSIN CLAIRE from Maine was visiting us for the weekend, and naturally I suggested Jungle Pete’s for dinner. We took my good friend Mitzi Graney with us. She spoke Spanish fluently and dated a Latino guitarist there. The three of us sat at a side table, craning our necks to see the small stage.

  Jungle Pete’s was this homey little restaurant with terra-cotta walls, exposed brick, and wooden booths, but on Saturday nights it went Latino, pulsing with light and sound. It balanced live rock acts with Latin pop, and every Saturday Esteban sang with the lead guitarist. He was beginning to get a real following, although as the nights got later, the pint-sized dance floor became more bump than bumps and grinds, and too loud to hear anything but the thumping rock, reggae, and salsa rhythms.

  One song he sang made everyone stop and listen. It was called “Los Niños de Nuestro Olvido.” It was about a little boy from a South American city dreaming of a warm home while he was sniffing glue and living in the street.

  “Where did that come from?” Claire said while everyone clapped and whistled.

  “The heart,” I said. “Did he have tears in his eyes?”

  “Hard to tell, he’s sweating so,” Mitzi said. “He’s from the same house as my Virgil. Did I say my Virgil? Lately he’s dissing me a lot, whatever that’s about.”

  It was a little after ten by the time Esteban came over to our table carrying a thick Cuban sandwich, asking if he could sit with us. I had to be home by eleven thirty Saturday nights, a fact my cousin Claire and Mitzi both knew. What made it possible for me to spend time alone with Esteban was Trip Hetherton, of all people. He had met my cousin many times, and we had even spent a few days at her home in Bangor. Just as Esteban arrived at our table, so did Mitzi’s boyfriend, Virgil, who whisked her off to dance. While Esteban sat beside me—the pair of us talking and laughing—Trip asked Claire if she’d try to neotango with him. He knew she was a great dancer, like he was. Suddenly I was alone with Esteban.

  “I’m glad you came early enough to hear me sing a little.”

  “So am I,” I said. “I was afraid you didn’t see us back here.”

  “When you come in a room, I can feel you are there.”

  I laughed, and he shook his finger at me and said, “I am serious, Anna.”

  Nobody but my family had ever shortened my name. I would have told anyone who did it not to. My mother had named me after a famous poem by Edgar Allan Poe—“Annabel Lee.”

  But I liked the sound of Esteban saying Anna, and I couldn’t speak right away, anyway.

  “I am sorry to eat in front of you. May I order something for you? Some tapas?”

  “We ate a big dinner, but thank you.”

  “May I take you home?”

  “My father wants me in by eleven thirty.”

  “Then maybe I will see you Friday, when I do roof work.”

  I didn’t tell him I wasn’t allowed to ride in a car at night with a boy Dad didn’t know. “Yes, maybe we will see each other then. Do you stay here until closing?” I asked him.

  “Sí, I have to remain until three. When the crowd is less and there is little dancing, I sing again.”

  “You’re very good, Esteban.”

  “What was it you liked that I sang?”

  “‘Los Niños’?”

  “‘Los Niños de Nuestro Olvido.’ Yes, everyone likes that. It really belongs to the singer Mercedes Sosa. She made it famous.”

  “I don’t know her. I also liked ‘Atrevete a’—‘Atrevete’—”

  “‘Atrevete a Olividarme.’ Sí! That song is from the Diva of Salsa. You know Brenda K. Starr?”

  “No. I don’t even know what the words say. But I’ve heard you sing it before.”

  “Every time I sing it now, I will sing it to you, whether you are in the room or not. It becomes our song, Anna.”

  “Shouldn’t I know what it says?”

  “I thought you studied Spanish in school?”

  “I did, Esteban, but only two years. Not enough.” />
  I could see Trip and Claire coming back to the table.

  “This is what it says,” Esteban said. “‘Dare to Forget Me.’”

  Next, Trip stuck out his hand and told Esteban his name.

  “How do you do, Trip? My name is Esteban Santiago.”

  “A true Latino,” Trip said. “I thought so when you sang.”

  “A true Colombian,” Esteban corrected him.

  “I’ve been to Mexico,” said Trip, “but not to Colombia. Unless you’re talking about the university.” Trip’s idea of humor.

  Then they sat down with us, so we had to sit touching. Esteban took my hand under the table. I felt as though we were wired, as though there was electricity we were breathing out, as though we could be on fire any second. The music became very loud, and we couldn’t have said anything the other would hear. When I looked across at Claire, she gave me this look, as though she was trying to ask, “What’s going on? Since when do you know him?”

  I’d remembered what Dad had said about having to say someone’s name if you were interested in him, so I hadn’t told Mitzi or Claire anything about Esteban. It was too soon.

  Trip called the waiter over and said he’d like a cerveza azul. I knew they wouldn’t proof him there. Claire was twenty-two and didn’t need proof.

  “What is a cerveza azul?” she asked Trip.

  “Did I say it right?” Trip asked Esteban.

  “I don’t know it.”

  All three had to shout to be heard.

  Trip shouted, “I thought that’s what you people drank. It has beer mixed with blue curaçao and vodka.”

  Esteban shrugged.

  “I guess I’m going to have to drive you home, too,” Claire yelled back at Trip, just as the music stopped.

  “Thanks but no thanks, Claire.” Then Trip looked at me and said in this condescending tone, “Does Daddy still make you be home by eleven thirty? That used to drive me bananas.”

  Before I left that night, Esteban asked me if Trip had been my boyfriend.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you very serious?”

  “No.” I didn’t say that I was and Trip wasn’t.

  Esteban said, “I cannot think of you with another. How long were you his sweetheart?”

  “Esteban, it wasn’t serious.”

  “Really not?”

  “Really not.” I liked the fact he was jealous. Already.

  When my brother called home Sunday morning, Dad was at the Unitarian church with Larkin. Dad told me he was thinking of leaving the Presbyterian Church and becoming a Unitarian because their thinking was freer. Dad leaving the Presbyterian Church was like me leaving the Girl Scouts. I’d gone to exactly two meetings.

  Dad said, “Larkin has given me new eyes. Just for example, Annabel, I never looked at trees before. I never looked at the ocean. I mean really looked.”

  On the phone Kenyon complained about the war in Iraq, Bush, the subjects he had to soft-pedal around Dad. I told him Dad was changing—maybe not about those things, but he did have a woman who thought the way we did. “Her name is Larkin,” I said, “and he’s falling in love with her, Kenyon.” We talked about the idea that men who were in good, long marriages often remarried quicker than men who weren’t. Now, after four years, Dad was sounding like he’d found someone. I think both Kenyon and I were delighted. Then I rushed to tell Kenyon about Esteban. I was sure that Esteban felt the same way I did. He’d kept asking me how serious I had been with Trip, and I’d kept teasing him about being jealous. I’d never even come close to feeling about Trip as I did about Esteban.

  “You haven’t kissed or anything?” Kenyon asked.

  “We’ve held hands. We’re very new. Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. How could you fall for someone so fast?”

  “Maybe it’s pheromones. I remember in health Mrs. Cohen said that males and females emit pheromones that are irresistible to each other.”

  “I think she was talking about animals, not people.”

  “She was talking about both, Kenyon. I’d pack my bags and run away with him tomorrow if he asked me.” That was what my mom would call hyperbole.

  “Well, if he asks you, ask him where he plans to take you. I remember Trip teasing you once about his plans to live permanently on a boat someday…in the Florida Keys.”

  “A yacht, Kenyon, not a boat. Trip’s family moors this yacht in Sag Harbor that’s a block long.”

  “But at least you can speak the language in Florida,” Kenyon said. “With this new fellow you might end up in Bogotá, which is a lot of city for a small-town girl to handle.”

  “Maybe I need a big place like Bogotá. Dad says we all need to open our minds to new things.”

  “Sure we do, cha cha cha,” said Kenyon.

  FIVE

  I LOVED THE WAY ESTEBAN looked that Friday. He had a brown-and-white bandanna around his forehead, which matched his light-brown eyes. He called it a pañuelo. His skin was smooth and coffee colored, but you could see where his mustache would be if he hadn’t shaved, and his teeth were white with one on the upper right side slightly crooked. I saw a lot of his teeth because he couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could I.

  My father had a job out in Montauk, so he was hurrying; but as he was walking down the driveway to his truck, he shouted, “Annabel, this boy doesn’t need you around while he works…. I’m having dinner with Larkin, so no need to cook for me. I’ll be very late.”

  As soon as he backed his truck out, Esteban came down the ladder and said, “You hear him? He won’t be here for dinner. I will be, if you want to have a special paella. Anna, don’t touch me yet.” I was heading toward him. “Stay away from me and I will tell you why.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to do this job well. I am proud like your father. I am a perfectionist. Remember you told me he is one?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am one too. I do not want a distraction, which is what you are, because you have such soft eyes, I ache. Your father will be gone for dinner. My uncle works at the Pantigo Deli, where sometimes I cook with him. He makes the best paella. I will drive there later and bring some back. We will have a celebration feast that I have finished my job!”

  “We can have it in the screening room,” I said. “We can watch a movie.”

  “Sí! Sí! I like that idea. I feel good with you, Anna.”

  “I do too, with you.”

  It was hours before I heard him at the door. I called for him to come in. I had decided to make a chocolate cake for our dessert. I was wiping my hands on a dish towel I’d tucked into my jeans as an apron, when he came up behind me.

  We couldn’t help ourselves. We were hanging on each other and kissing, but Esteban slammed his fist down on the kitchen table and said, “Basta! It is almost dark. I have only a little more to do, but I need more nails. I will run and get them, Anna, and you can come with me and get the paella. Then we will be all set for a party after work.”

  Before he went to the hardware store to get the nails, Esteban introduced me to his uncle, at the deli next door. He asked him to give us extra mussels for the paella.

  A voice said, “She doesn’t need extra mussels, Esteban. She’s muscled her way in very well, hah?”

  It was Gioconda, of course, with her mean mouth and her crinkly eyes. What was said next was in Spanish, was angry, both pairs of Santiago eyes flashing. Gioconda pointed at me, her long nails blood-red daggers. Esteban made a fist and held it up to her face as though he would punch her, but she didn’t flinch. He finally let his arm drop, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe the things she would do. She marched out the door and he stomped after her, calling over his shoulder to his uncle to make two good paella plates to go.

  “Slow down, Esteban,” I said as we drove back. His old 80s Pontiac kicked up dust along the highway.

  “I am sorry you have to see me so angry, amante,” he said. “Gioconda makes me undignified. Now that we are away fr
om home, she bosses me as though she is mi madre.”

  All I really heard was “amante.” A first. I remembered that from Spanish II. I watched him in profile. I thought of the two songs I liked that he sang at Jungle Pete’s. The one about the needy street kid reminded me vaguely of my dad. Every Christmas he collected money from Seaview merchants for toys he’d give to poor kids. His orders were: No clothes, nothing that is good for the child, just playthings so this little boy or girl will know what our kids find under the tree. I hoped Esteban had a caring nature, too. That was as sexy to me as the other song he sang: “Dare to Forget Me.”

  “I don’t care if you’re undignified,” I said.

  “But I care! In my life at this time, I have only my pride and my dignity. They are everything.”

  SIX

  “DONE!” ESTEBAN called in to me.

  I put the outside lights on so we could see, but it was already too dark.

  “It is just a roof,” said Esteban. “Nothing much to see. It was not hard. You know, Anna, if I become a carpenter, I will have real money for a change.”

  I felt like saying, Not if you work for my father. He paid apprentices eight dollars an hour and his regulars ten. But Esteban wouldn’t have to work for him long. He could go into business for himself after he learned everything. He could become a contractor.

  “Don’t you want to be a singer, though, Esteban?”

  “I am no Juanes. I’d like to write music too, but you need learning. You need it for everything, and I don’t have it.”