Someone Like Summer

by M. E. Kerr

  “With Larkin, too,” I said. “You must have guessed that.”

  “I like her, Annabel. I think she’s good for Dad.”

  “Because he’s going to church suddenly?”

  “Well, he never went with Mom.”

  “He was too tired. It’s his only day off, remember. He didn’t go because he didn’t need to go,” I said. “He had everything he wanted. Now he goes because he wants Larkin.”

  “He’s really hooked on her, too,” Kenyon said. “You know what’s in the screening room?”

  “The new three-legged end table she made?” She called it High Heels. It really had legs, too, wearing high heels.

  “The high-heeled table plus a smelly, wet, gold dog,” said Kenyon.

  “Larkin must have taken her swimming.”

  “Dogs like that don’t need to go anywhere to smell,” said Kenyon. “And that dog is a male.”

  “A male named Dolly?”

  “D-a-l-i,” Kenyon said. “Salvador Dalí. The artist with the long mustache who painted those strange clocks and watches.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “He was quite a character.”

  “Like Larkin,” I said.

  “But I like her, Annabel. She’s really cool.”

  I liked her too—a lot. It was good to see Dad smiling again, and I didn’t really think I’d win the bet with Esteban. She wasn’t a squealer, or I would have heard from Dad by now. So Esteban was still calling the shots, and I was still a seventeen-year-old virgin.

  ELEVEN

  EVERY FOURTH OF JULY celebration my father went to Mom’s brother’s on the North Shore, to help with the kids and the fireworks. He wanted to miss our own big celebration down on Main Beach, because Mom and he had always gone to it. That would be okay with me this year, because I could go with Esteban.

  Most years, great crowds gathered at Main by the time it was dark, and the sky lit up with rockets, roman candles, fire snakes, sparkling fountains, spinners, sparklers, any kind of fireworks you could imagine. People wore green glow-in-the-dark cuffs and glow headbands so we didn’t bump into each other walking along on the sand, and everyone from little kids to old grandmas and grandpas turned out for the celebration.

  The town put on the show for us, but that year the Saturday-night fireworks were canceled because of the piping plovers. The North Shore did not have the problem.

  “What are piping plovers?” Esteban asked me.

  “They’re little birds. You can hardly see them, they’re so small. But they’re an endangered species. This year they’ve nested right in the dunes. Their tiny eggs are hatching, and the fireworks would interfere.”

  Kenyon was with us as we walked along the bay down at Barnes Landing late that afternoon. He said he wanted to meet Esteban. Someone in the family had to see what this man was all about.

  “You cancel your freedom celebration for baby birds?” Esteban asked us.

  “These little guys come all the way from Patagonia every year,” said Kenyon. “They fly roughly sixty-four hundred miles, unprotected, uncharted, trying to avoid the pitfalls nature sets for them. Bad weather, hawks, eagles, even killer doves.”

  “And us,” I said.

  “And man,” Kenyon agreed. “So this year the town decided not to interfere with their babies being born. We canceled the noise and the people.”

  Everyone in Seaview was talking about it. Most people were willing to make that sacrifice for the birds. But there was one newspaper owner who was so against it that he printed a recipe for Baked Piping Plover.

  I was a little downhearted, because I wanted to show Esteban what a Fourth of July celebration was like.

  Esteban said, “We have our own día de la independencia. Ours is on the twentieth of July. But we have celebrations every chance we get: festivals, fairs, fiestas, carnivals, pageants. Almost every day there is a celebration going on somewhere in our country. In the states you only hear about our trouble.”

  “Would you stop one of those celebrations for piping plovers, do you think?” Kenyon asked.

  “We have a crab migration in May to June. Even roads close for it.”

  “Then it sounds like you would,” Kenyon said.

  “My brother’s going to be a veterinarian. He loves all critters,” I explained to Esteban.

  “I knew he was to be a doctor,” Esteban said. I knew what Esteban was thinking, that there was no way he could ever be anything like a doctor, that to himself he was a “number zero.”

  Kenyon said, “I care about saving endangered species.”

  “I, too, feel that way.” Esteban smiled. “And I don’t even have a vote.”

  “None of us do in this matter,” I said.

  “Who will you work for, Kenyon?” Esteban asked.

  “Dr. Annan. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him.”

  “What do you plan to be, Esteban?” Kenyon asked.

  “Maybe I will learn a business here, and be a carpenter or something someday back in Providencia.”

  “You have no plans to stay here?” Kenyon asked.

  “I could not afford here. I’m part of a big family,” Esteban said. “It is hard enough now to find any place I am not sharing with many others. And except for my sister, they are not family.”

  I didn’t like the conversation. I wondered if it was Kenyon’s subtle way of showing me Esteban had no plans to stay here permanently. Part of me probably knew that already, but not a part I was letting myself believe.

  Next thing I knew, Esteban had reached for my hand, maybe sensing what I was feeling, maybe feeling it himself.

  He changed the subject. “Where I live,” he said, “we have this place called Morgan’s Island. There is a rocky cliff there you would not believe. It is in the shape of a human face.”

  “Henry Morgan, the pirate,” Kenyon said. “We have a rum named after him.”

  Esteban was playfully bumping into me, and I would try to trip him with my foot. I think Kenyon got the message. He glanced at his watch and said something about being late for an appointment.

  He went back the other way after he told Esteban he hoped to see him again.

  “He is a good fellow,” Esteban said.

  “He gets me through everything.”

  “What do you have to get through?”

  “My mom’s death.” I didn’t mention that last summer at this time I had been dumped by Trip, finally, too. How had Trip put it? He thought we should “take a breather” from each other.

  Esteban said, “If I ever lost mi madre, I would have great difficulty getting through it, as you say. You are lucky to be close with your brother. Sometimes Gioconda tries to help me with things, but she behaves too much like a boss.”

  “She’s mean-mouthed, too. Kenyon isn’t.”

  “Does he like to work for that Dr. Annan?”

  “Seaview Veterinarian is the best there is.”

  “I didn’t mean the hospital,” Esteban said. “I meant the doctor.”

  “What’s the matter with Dr. Annan?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Esteban said. “There is an Annan on our street who causes us trouble. Maybe I have the wrong man.”

  “You must have. Everybody in Seaview likes Charlie Annan, Esteban.”

  “I could make a mistake then. I mix names up.”

  “But he’s the only Dr. Annan out here.”

  “You know, Annabel, I think you confuse my brain. Is that what you want to do to me? Corrupt my brain so I don’t know anything anymore?” He put his arms around my waist, grinning at me. “Tell me you will not do that to me.”

  “Where can we go now?” I said. “It looks like rain. We only have three hours until you go to work. I don’t dare take you home. We could dance under the awning at Main Beach.”

  “I know what I want to do,” he said. “Go to cinema.”

  “A movie? On a holiday weekend? We’d never get in.”

  “This is a Spanish film. But ther
e are English subtitles.”

  Esteban was talking about the Saturday-night Latino cinema at the recreation center.

  “This will be a great favor to me,” he said. “I miss films. My sister tunes in only what she wants on our television.”

  “If you really want to go to the movies, sure. We’ll go.”

  On the walk over to the rec center Esteban said, “I have said what I will maybe become someday and your brother will work for the veterinarian. What will you do, Anna?”

  “I want to be a social worker. Maybe work with Latinos. Dad says he wants to take Spanish as a second language. I already pick up copies of The Bilingual News that they drop off in the library.”

  “El Bilingue? I read the horoscopo in that. We are both Sagitarios, sí?”

  “That means we are both adventurous, Swan Man.”

  He was silent for a while, and then he said, “Will you have to go to college to be a social worker?”

  “Yes. I haven’t decided if I’ll go to Boston or to Chicago. And it’s not all up to me. I have to be accepted.”

  “Of course,” said Esteban. “When will you go?”

  “The year after next.”

  “I am glad that you go,” he said, “but I am not glad too.”

  We didn’t say much the rest of the way. I sensed he felt the same way I did, that suddenly we saw the future and we weren’t together.

  TWELVE

  THE MOVIE WAS called Maria Full of Grace. It starred this Colombian named Catalina Sandino Moreno. She was a real hottie. It was about a pregnant teenager who became a drug mule to make money for her family.

  Esteban let me hold his hand, and when I say “let me,” that’s what I mean, because he was far more interested in what we were watching than he was in us.

  On the way out, we stopped to talk to three boys Esteban introduced as friends. They called him Teban. Esteban said they were his friends from home.

  “Home in Seaview? Or home in Colombia?” I asked.”

  “Both,” said Esteban. “Except Ramón. He is from Peru.”

  “I’m Dario,” the tallest fellow said. “You have me to thank for meeting my compañero. I couldn’t work that day.”

  “Yes. Dario. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I hope you are not el tornado like the boss,” Dario said.

  Chino, the short one, rolled his eyes to the sky, which was beginning to become storm dark.

  I said, “Did my father bawl you out for letting Esteban work for you?”

  Two of the boys bent double laughing, but Ramón did not even smile. His expression was very serious, and he seemed to be judging me, looking me all over but not in a sexy way.

  Dario said, “Muy enojado! Angry!”

  “Esteban, you didn’t tell me my dad bawled out Dario.”

  “He bawl everyone out,” Chino told me.

  I said, “I just see him get very quiet when he’s angry, like he’s smoldering.”

  Dario held his hand up, suppressing a grin. “Listen! Señor Brown is a good man. He’s not like some who don’t care about their workers. He gave me money ahead of my paycheck once when I needed to get a bill collector off my back. Good boss!”

  Finally Ramón almost smiled while he nodded in agreement. He said something in Spanish and they all laughed.

  Then Esteban began talking about the actress Catalina Sandino Moreno. I’d always wished I wasn’t a blonde, that I was a brunette like her, and I wouldn’t mind having a name like that, instead of Annabel Brown.

  “You know what?” Esteban said. “She was nominated for the American Academy Award for that film.”

  “And she is from Colombia!” Chino said.

  “The first time anyone was ever nominated for Best Actress who spoke entirely in Spanish,” Esteban said.

  Dario said, “But she can speak English. I read that.”

  “So that’s how your country looks?” I said.

  “Not our country. Ecuador,” Chino said.

  “It was filmed in Ecuador, not Colombia, but we have the drugs, the mules. That is accurate.” Esteban put his arm around me. “Most Colombian girls do not deal drugs, though. They live with their families until they’re twenty-five, then get jobs and get married.”

  “Who Teban likes is Shakira,” said Dario.

  “Who doesn’t like her?” Esteban said.

  “She is a Colombian, too,” Chino said. “She was in a telenovela, El Oasis. Ai, beautiful beautiful.”

  Esteban told me, “Our telenovelas are like your soap operas.”

  Chino poked him and said, “You get off the subject of Shakira, ese.”

  Esteban continued, “Except our telenovelas have an end, and your soap serials never end.”

  Chino said, “If Shakira was on the TV here, I would wish it to never never end.”

  “You too, Esteban?” I asked.

  “I preferred Thalia if I watched any telenovela,” said Esteban.

  Ramón was not a talker, at least not there, not that night, but he did put in: “Here you like American better, Teban, or it seems so when you get the remote. You act like a coconut.”

  “Old American films,” said Chino. “Muchas gringas.”

  “SIDA,” Ramón said.

  “Callarse!” Esteban told him.

  There was a little mock punching back and forth, and Chino said something else in Spanish that made Esteban really punch him. Where had my two years of Spanish gone?

  They bantered a few minutes more while I watched everyone come out of the recreation center. I didn’t recognize a soul.

  Before he went on to Jungle Pete’s, Esteban drove me to my corner just as it was starting to rain. He kissed me for a long, slow time, and I could see his solemn brown eyes, which were always open and looking at me when I opened mine. Sometimes I’d tell myself, Memorize this moment, Anna B., as though some part of me knew it was too good, too full. How could it last?

  “Why do they call you Teban and ese?” I said.

  “Teban is short for Esteban. We call each other ese. It is a nickname such as this afternoon you call me Wack.”

  “No, honey, I said you were a wack. I didn’t call you Wack. What did Ramón mean, you act like a coconut?”

  “Coconut means brown outside and white inside. The homies tease about white girls.”

  “Because of me. White isn’t good to your friends, is it?”

  “As good as brown is to yours, Anna. All these questions.”

  “I’m sorry. I like Chino. He’s very friendly.”

  “We all like him. His only family, an older brother, was dragged off by the enemy and Chino never saw him again. That’s why he came here, to forget and make money.”

  “Colombia sounds so dangerous, E.E.”

  “Yes. It is not safe for many. But let’s talk of us, and when we meet next.” He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. “Sunday is never good,” he said. “It is when we homies all have the big meal after I come from Casa Pentecostal. Evenings we study with Ramón.”

  “Study what?”

  “We do spiritual study. Ramón is a deep, deep man.”

  “I thought you were a Catholic?”

  “When I go home I will be one again. The familia is Catholic. But here I like this church better. I go there with Ramón and Virgil.”

  “What does—I hope I pronounce this right—what does regresaremos pronto mean? I see it on the sermon board out front of Casa Pentecostal.”

  “It means we will be home soon. In heaven. With God,” said Esteban. “When can we meet on Monday? My eyes will be sore from not seeing you, Anna.”

  “I’ll leave a note in the paella book, E.E.”

  “Monday I have no work after six o’clock.”

  “Maybe we’ll have a moonlight picnic, if we have a moon.”

  “Wait! I have something for you, Anna.”

  He handed me a box from Victoria’s Secret, a new store on Main Street. It said “Anna Sui—Secret Wish.” It was a shower gel with a card saying
, “Secret Wish is a fragrance of magical power. Close your eyes and wish. Anything is possible once you release this enchanting essence of a fairy tale.”

  I took off the top and put a little on my wrist, then on his.

  “I love the aroma!”

  He smelled it and grinned. “I hope that’s not us. I hope we’re not a fairy tale. That’s my wish.”

  “It’s mine too, E.E.”

  He turned the key and the motor started. “Take my jacket to cover your head,” he said. He gave me a two-fingered salute. “Don’t get too wet, sweet girl.”

  We wouldn’t have dared a drive to the house. Dad could be back from the North Shore by then.

  Later, I told Kenyon, “I met some of Esteban’s buddies tonight. I’ve never seen him around any other Latinos except the soccer players. It was interesting to hear him talk about movies and singers he loved from his country. I think sometimes he’s homesick.”

  “I could tell that in the little time we spent together today. He loved talking about Providencia and his family.”

  “And while he’s a Catholic at home, here he goes to Casa Pentecostal.”

  “That sermon board out front of that church makes a lot of locals mad, Dr. Annan claims,” said Kenyon.

  “Why would it make anyone mad? It just says they’re all going to heaven.”

  “Charlie says it means they’ll all go back to their homes soon, where they send all their money. They will never think of themselves as Americans.”

  “That’s not what Esteban told me. He said it means going home to God.”

  “There’s no mention of God, though.”

  “Esteban wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Kenyon said, “When you first fall in love, it’s hard to see the person. You’re too excited.”

  “Last year I thought I was in love with Trip Hetherton, but I wasn’t so excited that I couldn’t see he was boring. I just loved his looks—and the things his money bought: the Boxster, the sailboat. But I can’t remember him ever buying me anything except tickets to movies or dances. He never bought me a gift.”

  “Who was it who said there’s no there there? I think it was Gertrude Stein describing Trip,” Kenyon said.