Having None of It

by Myriam Gurba

  “Can we stop here?” I asked Tia outside of a Catholic articles shop.

  “Of course.”

  We went inside and browsed and I bought a black rosary and a crucifix.

  “Let’s take them to the cathedral to have them blessed,” Tia suggested as the salesgirl handed me my change.

  “Okay.”

  We strolled two blocks down cobblestone paths to the Metropolitan Cathedral, ignoring all the vendors selling cheapie trinkets out front. Up the steps, through the doorway and into the cavernous sanctuary, I planted my feet on the white marble floor. Below it was dusty catacombs full of dead priests. I wanted to rush down to them to see their coffins but then a flock of pilgrims caught my attention.

  Shoot! I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about Inocencia. Santa Inocencia. Saint Innocence, the little Roman girl-martyr whose own dad had set her up to be killed for having turned Christian. He’d buried her, but in spite of having spent centuries underground, her body took its sweet time rotting. In Italy, zealots unearthed her pretty corpse and had it shipped to monks in Spain and somehow, la santita26 had most recently come to rest on a silk bed only a few yards away.

  Mom had brought me to see her before and now I was ready to become one of the looky-loos wanting to ogle and cluster around her glass coffin. Leaving Tia’s side, I approached the west wall where she slept. Ascending two small steps, I got as close as I could to the saint and then realized my nose was pressed to the glass. My hot breath fogged up the pane, and I watched the dead girl sleep, flaking, like snow. Snow White. Blanca Nieves.

  Inocencia’s skull had been sculpted over with wax and painted over to make her look like she was still made out of flesh, and I remembered the gallery of stars–David Hasselhoff, Charlie Chaplin, Elton John–that I’d seen at the Hollywood Wax Museum one Christmas vacation. She might’ve been kind of falling apart, but Inocencia was better than them. Her long white dress and crown of fake flowers made it seem like she was going to wake up any second and go stand in line for her first communion. I glanced at her gloved hands.

  Mesh.

  Through it, fingers.

  Gray ones. Or really, just phalanges. Fleshless phalanges. I could see them through the holes. In a most advanced stage of human decomposition.

  I held my breath. Finally, I let it all out.

  “Ahhhhhh…”

  “Bring out the Gimp.”

  Nito was a wan second cousin I met for the first time three days before flying home. He came to Tia’s for dinner with his twin sister, Raquel, his mom, Patricia, and his dad, Eusebio’s brother, Manuel. America held the door open for the family to enter into the foyer, but instead of following his kin past the Spanish-style fountain and into the living room, Nito mucked left, towards a tiny bathroom that only had a toilet, no shower.

  Now Tia had made sure to forewarn me about his limp but I hadn’t thought it’d be that obvious. In the kitchen, earlier in the afternoon, she’d diced something that wobbled and looked like rawhide as she’d explained. “Poor boy. Polio struck him when he was very little. What a shame. Desiree, try not to stare. It makes Nito very self-conscious.”

  I waited for Nito to emerge from the bathroom and watched him gently flick off the light switch on his way out. His left leg seemed a good two inches shorter than his right, and I imagined that if his legs had hearts and minds of their own, the left one had definitely considered sabotage, harboring jealous and malicious wishes towards its more robust neighbor.

  The painter Frida Kahlo had suffered from jacked up legs. So had the crusader who’d fixed our Depression, FDR. They’d still managed greatness, and like both of them, Nito wasn’t just handicapped; he’d been born ugly, too. His face was long, a cross between a baboon’s and a horse’s, and the sum of his misfortunes had made him a classically introverted rebel.

  “Ay, ese Nito,” Tia had lamented back in the kitchen, “ese niño es ‘un hippie27.’ “

  To Tia, hippiedom spelled danger, but by my sophisticated American standards, Nito only rated as a garden-variety teen malcontent. I watched him hobble to the living room where he sat on the couch beside his twin, his chin-length brown hair tied into a ponytail, his Pink Floyd t-shirt and faded Levi’s an inconspicuous uniform as far as I was concerned.

  Eye-catching pink mohawk, now that spelled bad boy to me. So did safety pins jammed through a cheek or lip. No, Nito bore none of the outward signs of freakdom’s subcultural solidarity I was used to reading for. But, gosh. That leg. I wanted to see it. Stare at it. Maybe stroke it if he’d let me. I wanted to give Nito the third degree about what it’d been like for his own limb to turn against him and stay small while the rest of him kept on expanding. I wanted to know if he’d screamed, “Grow! Grow, you piece of shit!” because in a tiny way, I related to his dilemma. Nito had no control over his extremity like I couldn’t control myself sometimes. My thoughts ran in speedy circles, like starved hounds at the racetrack, and my body had its own agenda, too. I shook and sniffed and dug at my scalp and couldn’t stop touching my hair. While I sometimes wondered what possessed me to do these things, I usually hid them pretty well. Nito, however, wore his shortcomings for everyone to see.

  At three, for the afternoon meal, we all sat down to eat at the same table where I’d held my séance. Throughout the three courses, I tried getting Nito to lock his gaze with mine. He kept nervously looking down at his bowl of pozole28 each time he noticed me boring holes through him with my eyes. The kid must not have been used to girls trying to get his attention, much less Halloween cuties like me.

  As America cleared dishes and Tia served coffee and cake, Tio stood and raised his wine goblet. “Tomorrow,” he announced, “we are going to the summerhouse, La Casa de Mama Fe29!” He nodded at his brother. “You are joining us for dinner. We will say goodbye to the summer and welcome autumn! Cheers! And good health to everyone!”

  The grown-ups toasted, clink-clink, but I tapped my glass and smiled inwardly. The gods were blessing me with another opportunity to get Nito.

  A House of Incest

  La Casa de Mama Fe sat near the banks of Chapala, a lake that’d sustained a Huichol fishing village before it was invaded by American retirees. This battalion of old white farts had pushed the Indians away from their life-giving water in order to set up an English-speaking enclave for wintering in, sunbathing in, and dropping dead at.

  Tia’s house was small compared with these ex-pats’, but what it lacked in size it totally made up for in panache. Her hacienda glowed the color of pistachio ice cream, craggy arches and rock columns supporting its eaves. Neon birds of paradise flanked its front walk while Nelson, the old gardener who always wore the same cowboy hat, tended the loquats by the plaque with the estate’s name chiseled into it.

  I’d ridden to Chapala in Tia’s car and the Lincoln came to a standstill in the middle of La Casa’s circular driveway. Across the street, this generic retired couple was out for their afternoon stroll, and I spied on them from the rear window. The husband was very anthropomorphic, a steamed lobster shuffling upright in a polo shirt and khaki shorts, tube socks pulled all the way up his shins, big ol’ feet stuffed into spotless tennies. The wife, she resembled a fine leather handbag, and she wore Jackie O. sunglasses with a purplish tint, a silky top, pedal pushers and Roman sandals.

  In my head, I mused, “That’s Bob and Karen. They’re from Saskatchewan. Bob owns a chain of very successful luggage stores. Karen was a homemaker till that little macrame business of hers really skyrocketed! Who would’ve thought a hobby could rake in so much dough! They’ve got two kids, the doctor, a podiatrist really, and a pro-figure skater, Tawny–”

  The back door opened.

  “Desiree,” Tia interrupted.

  I spun around.

  “Come and get your things. You’re sharing a room with Lourdes.”

  I cracked my knuckles and toes and climbed out of the car and went to pluck my duffel out of the trunk. With it slung over my shoulder, I meandered up the fron
t walk, “Bob” and “Karen” still on my brain as I walked through the house’s wide doorway.

  Where were they headed? To the water? I didn’t get why people made such a big deal about it, about el lago famoso30. The summer I’d been eight, Dad had taken me to see it, and we’d ridden a glass bottom boat that was supposed to give us a view clear into Chapala’s heart and soul. Slimy masses of green tendrils had slithered across the pane, teasing us. I’d pictured dead mermaids caught and strangled by the kelpy stuff, their faces blue, their fish tails doing a death loll.

  “The growth is killing our lake,” I remembered the captain explaining to me and Dad. “It’s lowering the water level. Chapala will drain like a leaky bathtub.”

  I turned right down La Casa’s long, main hallway and headed towards my room. Decorative statues sat recessed into grottos and alcoves along the walls. The maid, Fermina, Nelson’s wife, was tickling a fertility goddess lounging amongst lush plants with an orange feather duster. She had cranked the volume on a nearby TV high enough for her to listen to telenovelas31 as she tended to La Casa’s Precolumbian art. Engrossed, Fermina didn’t see or hear me walking past her.

  A swarm of startled moths batted wings inside me. I blushed and hurried into my room, dropped my shit on the floor, and kicked the door shut. I flopped onto the bed, hard. I looked at its twin, sitting parallel and pretty and made. Lourdes would be sleeping on it.

  Last time I’d stayed at La Casa, I’d been twelve and slept in the exact same spot, but Fermina’s telenovelas had gotten me busted. It started this day that I’d been putting on my suit, it’d been the sweetest afternoon for a swim, and standing at the foot of Lourdes’ bed, I struck this pose like Samson, flexing my muscles.

  “Chica32,” I grunted, “who am I?” I curled my fist, bent my elbow, hardened my bicep.

  Lourdes smiled, she caught on that I was pretending to be the Don Juan from the show Fermina had on full blast, and she morphed into my love interest from Siempre Natalia33. Like I’d seen on American soap operas, I reached for my lady and embraced her, tilting her head back, planting my closed mouth on hers. With our lips pressed firmly together, I pushed Lourdes back onto her bed and ground into her, mimicking what I’d seen male mammals–dogs, rabbits, coons–do to their bitches.

  My fingers peeled down the top of Lourdes’ bathing suit. I licked her chest, moving my tongue like a hungry puppy’s. Two pairs of nipples puckered.

  Lourdes moaned, “I love you.”

  In my manliest voice, I answered, “Amor34, me too.”

  We played Siempre Natalia as part of our daily swim routine till the afternoon that I had Lourdes down on my bed and was giving her a monster hickey and this shocked “Desiree!” jolted us out of our ecstasy.

  Lourdes’ racing heartbeat vibrated my taste buds. I unsuctioned my mouth from her flat chest and glanced over my shoulder.

  Mom stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, her eyes absorbing the spectacle of my bathing suit dangling around my waist, Lourdes’ chest glistening at her, all my wet spit winking as my cousin panted. Blood flooded all the capillaries in Mom’s face and she turned candy apple red and the meanest blue vein bulged at her temple.

  “Good little girls don’t touch each other this way!” she seethed. “Get dressed and come outside and don’t ever do that again!”

  Embarrassed, we nodded and pulled away from each other and cleaned each other’s spit off. We pulled our suits back on, and with leaden, though barefoot, steps, we trudged out into the hallway. Lesbian boot camp was kaput for the time being.

  I sighed as I returned from the memory of that summer and then, I gave in to a sadistic urge to slap myself across the face. Satisfied with the sting I’d inflicted upon myself, I turned and fished Dracula out of my purse. I sprawled out comfortably across the bed and read and twirled my hair in peace till a flurry of excited voices carried into the room.

  Nito’s family and Eusebio’s pregnant sister, Lupe, had arrived. I got up and scampered out of the room, down the hall, walking into a throng of people kissing and hugging below a giant Alpaca tapestry hanging in the living room.

  “Come! Come,” Tia urged, grandly ushering everyone through the glass doors, out onto the patio to dine al fresco. She led us to her new equipal, this pigskin furniture you’ve got to own in order to qualify as a patriotic Mexican. With everyone seated, Tia and Fermina carried trays of food to the table. Eusebio laughed with his brother and poured shots of tequila with one hand, smoked a cigarette with the other.

  Poolside, Nelson worked alone, straining for bugs and leaves with a long stick that had a small, netted bag attached to the end. God, I felt sorry for my aunt’s helpers. They made me feel so weird. I looked down at my lap, at my hands, so I wouldn’t have to see them.

  After a few seconds, I tilted my head back up. I was sitting right across from Nito. I’d strategically positioned myself there so I could resume playing the same game I’d started back in the city. I looked into his eyes, trying to hypnotize him, trying to forget that my aunt and uncle basically had slaves.

  “Look at me, look at me, look at me,” I thought. The fucker kept looking away.

  Lupe was sitting next to me, sipping 7-Up from a green bottle. Her husband, a clean-cut guy named German, placed a torta35 in front of her. She glanced at it like she was going to barf. She unfolded a paper napkin and covered the thing up with it and then set down her bottle.

  “Fe,” Lupe said to Tia, “later on, we are thinking about going to the new nightclub, Club Ajijic. Maybe Lourdes and Desiree would like to come.”

  I glanced at my aunt.

  “Would you like to go?” she asked me.

  “Is Nito coming?” I asked.

  Everyone’s lips formed a surprised ’o.’ Nito blushed. He wasn’t getting out of this one so easy. His downcast eyes stared at his twice-bitten torta.

  He nodded, “Si.”

  I cheered, “Goody! Then, I’ll go, too.”

  I scarfed my sandwich down quick as Ms. Pacman, declared, “Excuse me!” and left the table, dashing back to my room. I slammed the door shut behind me, shed my clothes, and a series of kamikaze moves–a sprint across the newly waxed bedroom tile, a leap across the bathroom threshold, a grand jeté into the bathtub–landed me surprisingly upright below the showerhead.

  I turned on the water and let the stream beat down on my head. I shampooed my hair, really massaging the soap in, stimulating all of my follicles, digging my nails into my scalp. I hummed to myself and rinsed and loofahed my body, starting at my widow’s peak, ending at my ankles.

  “The power of exfoliation,” I thought, “should never be underestimated.”

  Eager to put on my face, I quickly conditioned my hair and shut off the water. I grabbed a green towel and wrapped myself in it and pranced back into the bedroom, trailing water behind me. I was ready to commence the beautification process.

  Without giving a thought to electrocution, I plugged in my hairdryer and stood in front of the dresser mirror, brushing and straightening my shoulder length hair. I tossed my damp towel onto a chair and slipped into a perfect costume: black satin bra; a tight, black mesh top over it; maroon velvet pants; witch boots with enough buckles to drive airport security bat shit; and that new rosary I’d bought downtown.

  The steam had evaporated from the bathroom, so I toted my makeup caboodle in there and set it on the counter. Opening its lid, my weapons became apparent.

  Rice powder. Liquid eyeliner. Mascara. Purple lipstick.

  I attacked my face till it looked like I was wearing a seductive mime mask.

  Blot, blot, I kissed a piece of toilet paper and beheld my reflection.

  Death. The DC Comics’ interpretation of her. My current favorite heroine. For goth girls, the real superstar of the Sandman series.

  I smiled. Death smiled back at me. Becoming her had been my goal. Mission accomplished.

  I skipped out of the john with more razz in my step than any death rocker should have and hurled my
self onto the bed.

  Knock knock.

  I heaved a big old annoyed sigh and got up to answer.

  Lourdes. Her eyelids peeled back with wonder as she took in my outfit.

  “That’s what you are wearing tonight?”

  I cocked an eyebrow, nodded.

  “Ay!” she said and giggled.

  I stepped aside and Lourdes plodded into the bathroom and went to shower. I settled back down on the bed and read Dracula and chewed my nails raw, consuming the little hanging tabs I made, sucking at my bloody fingertips. Bundled in a towel, Lourdes emerged to blow-dry her short hair that was cut into a toadstool shape. I snuck glances at her as she changed into her sedate clubbing outfit: a white headband, a flower print jumper, Buster Brown-looking Mary Janes.

  She squatted down to buckle her shoes, and I thought of our soap opera summer.

  “Lourdes–,” I began.

  “Si?”

  “Never mind.”

  I madly twirled my hair and buried my face as deep as I could, trying to lose it in the final chapter of my book.

  At dusk, Lourdes and I piled into Lupe’s Pontiac, ready for Club Ajijic.

  We rode into town, through streets filled with dangerous potholes, circling around glorietas36 with gazebos plunked in the centers and rose bushes tickling the edges. Lupe pulled up in front of the disco and bravely tossed a red-jacketed valet her keys.

  “Andale, muchachitas37!” she commanded us.

  Lupe got out and started waddling to the club’s entrance and we skipped behind her. She held the door open, and I entered first, stepping into a dim interior decorated to look like the tropics. Green neon filament lit up nooks and crannies and corners, casting just enough light so that I could see that the plants meant to give the place a lush vibe were fakes.

  Something winged caught my eye. I turned to look. A human-sized papier mâché toucan perched on a monster bird swing presided above the dance floor. I imagined it falling, hitting someone in the head, stunning them. After they regained consciousness, they’d be fine except for a life long speech impediment like a stutter or a lisp.