by Lisa Samson
She should have been at work two minutes ago.
But nothing else mattered, nothing but knowing the truth. Well, knowing it for sure. If that was even possible.
Three
The paper butterfly lay on the pebbly concrete of the back walk, its wings rising toward the clearest sky the summer had yet to hold. Celia picked it up, its moon-green wings vibrating in the summer wind. Lucinda, her daughter, reached for it, taking it gently between her finger and thumb.
“What is it?” Celia asked the three-year-old, bringing her camcorder to her eye and pressing the red Record button.
“Butterfly!” She held it up to her mother’s camera.
Celia zoomed in, recording her young daughter’s wide face, the soft, straight lines of her eyebrows beneath the center part of her brown hair pulled back in pigtails. The pointed chin dipped down beneath the sweet smile. And those cheeks. Celia could eat them up sometimes. “What color is it, Loochi?”
“Pink.” Her dark eyes glowed beneath her wide, pale forehead. Celia had really never seen a cuter little girl. She was probably biased, but nevertheless, she thought she was right about that.
“No . . .”
Now, she may have been adorable, but as far as learning her colors . . .
Celia watched her daughter through the viewfinder as she held up the butterfly. Loochi’s little face smiled beside the paper insect; her dark, glossy hair shimmered next to the fuzzy, opaque lightness of the butterfly’s wings. She’d picked it out at the dollar store down the street.
“Green!” Lucinda cried.
“Good! Okay, now, what do butterflies do?”
“Fly!”
“Yay, that’s great!” Sometimes Celia looked in awe at Lucinda, remembering how her sister and her friends told her she wouldn’t realize how much a heart could love until she had children, that every biting pain, every moment of uncertainty was worth it.
“To the clouds?”
“To the clouds!”
Those women were right.
It was a special day, Celia decided right then. They’d play for a little bit, take a walk, and order in a pizza. They never ordered pizza. Celia worked down at the shoe store. Even carryout was a luxury. It didn’t matter, though. Lucinda loved frozen pizza almost as much. And Celia would let the butterfly watch Beauty and the Beast with them because she knew that’s what Lucinda was going to ask. That crazy butterfly had lounged next to Lucinda on the arm of the couch for the past week.
Lucinda whirled and danced with the butterfly. Jumping up and down. A little jumping bean, skin glowing in the hot, summer sun. Celia kept the camera going. She just had a feeling she’d never want to forget this day.
Four
She hated this bathroom, the blue stucco walls, the old mirrored medicine cabinet, the sugar bucket she used as a trash can. When the toilet’s a centerpiece, something’s just wrong, and God bless the person who attached the scallop-shell lid on the thing. Nina needed reminders of the beach as often as possible.
Nina longed for her father just then, to see his wiry blond hair reflecting the sun, his green eyes hidden behind his cool Ray Bans, those ratty, khaki shorts he always wore in the summer. Gregory Daniels hadn’t been the greatest father in the world. He blew his stack every once in a while when Nina came home too late or he smelled alcohol on her breath; he grounded her one night and took it back the next; he drank a little too much himself at times; he occasionally missed one of her dance recitals. But he knew how to laugh; he knew how to scoop her hands in his and do the shag, something he learned in his native South Carolina. They’d triple step and rock step on the wooden floor of the kitchen in time to “Under the Boardwalk.”
Sometimes he took her to the beach, and there Nina’s father would tell her about his views of life, what makes a person happy, why love usually comes as a big surprise.
“Why?” she asked him one day as they sat eating ice cream, great swirls of it on crunchy cones. She realized she probably remembered them twice as big as they actually had been. But that was her right. “Why is that?”
“Because most of us believe if someone knew the truth about us, they’d go running. Find someone who’s not afraid of your truth, Nina. And when you do, by all means, don’t marry him! That will ruin it.”
“Really?”
He put his arm around her. “No. I’m kidding.”
Nina stood by the old, square porcelain sink, the drain hole wreathed in rust, the spigot dripping at its usual three-second interval. She read the directions of the test kit, her nerves jumping and hopping, vibrating the paper. She memorized the instructions, then threw them, along with the box, into the sugar bucket. The instructions never came right out and said, “Pee on the stick,” but they might as well have. That’s what every woman always said when they talked shop. “Did you use the kind where you pee on the stick?”
So Nina peed on the stick. Hoping that just once, fate would be on her side.
Nina’s life hadn’t gone according to plan because the plan had been silly to begin with. That’s what her mother told her the day she packed up the biggest suitcase she could find and moved into the city. Really, who honestly tried to make it as a dancer in New York? Not real people. Real people went to the clubs in the downtowns of their own cities, which in her case would have been Philadelphia, and people admired their steppiness and verve, and they danced there with pretty shoes, but shoe-store shoes nonetheless. They would have no idea how to execute a perfect paddle and roll or a riff-drop. And those people went back to the office or the schoolroom or the showroom the next day.
That’s what real people did, what thinking, sensible people did.
And they were smart, Nina reasoned, looking at the second hand on her watch. Come on, who waited tables for four years in hopes of . . . what, Nina? She’d even stopped going to auditions two years ago, the voices of her mother and regular people who settled long ago for the hum-drum finally winning her over. The hum-drum knew the secret to life, right? They never put themselves out there and failed. They knew better from the start. Besides, a person can only stand so much rejection, and so many of the directors and choreographers weren’t even nice about it. A simple “no thank you” would have sufficed. Not the little morsels of cruelty some used to make themselves feel so smart and tony at the expense of other people’s souls. Well, her soul maybe. Maybe some of the other dancers could forget the scathing put-downs, but those words festered inside of her still, telling her to just forget it. She didn’t know why she gave all those voices such power, why she didn’t learn to listen to her heart telling her to keep at it. But these days, at twenty-five, well, she felt old.
Now here she was, just bumbling along the concrete trails, letting life come at her, forgetting her keys, her pantyhose, forgetting the things her mother told her about boys before her father died and the advice stopped for good, forgetting that Manny, the owner of the restaurant where she worked, who treated his horses better than most of his wait staff, was ready to fire her if she was late one more time.
Okay, maybe she didn’t forget that. Manny didn’t let anybody forget anything.
The kitchen moved like some kind of geared device; several pairs of hands were chopping onions and garlic, seeding and peeling jalapenos, only to turn and dump them into bowls or pots. The dishwasher swiveled with trays of glasses and plates, setting them on the stainless steel drainboard.
José shook a saucepan of sweating onions, jarring the bits turning clear atop the heat of the large gas burner. Now, the smell of the early preparation was enough to bring anybody back to life, and he’d had a particularly rough night, begging for mercy to come in the form of sleep. Just a good night’s sleep.
Manny not coming in today?” Carlos asked as José brushed “a mole sauce on a pan full of quail he’d spent most of the morning preparing. Carlos pointed to the expensive quail with the tip of his knife.
José flicked his brows upward. “I’ll take my chances.”
At l
east there’d been cooking to fall back on once the accident happened, something he learned to do as a little boy in Mexico. His mother and his grandmother each taught him their respective recipes for the same dishes; his father joined them sometimes as well. Cooking was life at the Suviran ranch, and after caring for the horses and the grounds, they could eat a table full of food. Even Manny knew how to make carnitas better than any of his relatives, roasting the pork to a golden brown, the meat so tender it fell apart between your teeth. Not that their father would admit that. But ah, well. Some familial arguments went on for generations and provided a familiar spark when they gathered. There was a pleasant beauty to it.
He lifted the heavy lid off the cast-iron pot of rice, the smell sticky and starchy and familiar. And how did he end up here? In this kitchen? There were times he was ready to pack a backpack, sling it over his shoulder, and just hit the road. Perhaps return to Mexico where his grandmother still lived with his aunt and uncle. Or maybe work odd jobs, moving along after a while, seeing places he’d never see otherwise. Never getting in a car, of course. He’d sworn off those years before. If a storm came, he’d find shelter in a nearby barn or gas station, and he’d wait until it blew over. That sort of timing made much more sense to him.
He didn’t know why he didn’t just take off. He stared into the enameled recess of the iron pot, the rice, the water, blurring as that day flashed before him again as it had been doing every day since he left himself behind, those memories. Shouldn’t they have at least blurred at the edges by now? Loosened at their seams?
But still, he saw it all as clearly as the rice before him.
The shoes he wore that afternoon, pointed Italian shoes, sleek and elegant, typified what he was trying to become. A citizen of the world loved by all, wearing the best clothing, inhabiting the most fashionable places, becoming the man everyone else wanted to be.
Waiting to go to a press conference, he had danced with Jasmine outside the home of his manager, Francisco. Just a typical street in Brooklyn, brick row houses stacked together like library books, some stuccoed over, some covered completely in siding, some brightly colored in hues of red and yellow, others in white or tan. Iron fencing ran across some front yards, matching the railings fl owing down beside the front stairs. Maple trees, leafed out in the sweltering summer day, grew from islands of soil in the cement sidewalks. Cars sat baking in the sun, the asphalt seemed ready to bubble, and José was already sweating through his clothes. Normally he was used to sweating, but today he’d hoped to remain cool.
Earlier he’d slicked back his hair and slid on the pressed pants and vest to his Armani suit, the one he’d bought on a shopping spree the day he signed the contract. He felt alive that day, his clean-shaven face open to the world, no hint of reticence as he twirled Jasmine to the beat of a song playing from a car some young men worked on nearby. He had everything he’d ever wanted and he knew it. Life was good.
Now come back! Come back!” he said as he turned his “manager’s little sister, pulled her under his arm, and twirled her again. José loved to dance, to sway his hips and shoulders, to twist his ankles. At the clubs. In front of his mirror. With his mother. With his girlfriend.
The beautiful Caroline. Prettier even than Helen, who’d dated him as he rose to the professional level, Caroline planned to meet him that evening after the press conference. Fine clothing and beautiful women would land him in magazines all over the world. Not a bad deal for kicking some leather around. Not a bad deal for a kid who spent his early mornings shoveling horse manure.
“Your brother would be late to his own funeral, Jasmine.”
She blushed.
“Car!” The shout echoed off the parked cars and the faces of the houses.
José turned toward the boy who yelled, then picked up a soccer ball as he and the rest of the young players hurried to the sidewalk. The boy, ash brown hair cut close to his head, turned to one of his companions as he pointed to José. “I told you it was him!”
The others just nodded.
Eyes holding a few more years than his birthdays might suggest, he held out a ragged ball, so dirty and worn it was hard to differentiate the white hexagons from the black. “Would you?”
“What is this?” José popped the ball out of the boy’s hands, bounced it once, then spun it around between his palms. “Nice ball. Wow. You guys play a lot, huh?”
They nodded. He pushed his thumbs into the ball, feeling the pressure. Good.
“Where do you play?”
The boy, obviously the group’s spokesperson, jerked his head toward the road. “The street.”
“The street? What about the cars?”
“We have to move every time. It stinks.”
José reached out and mussed up the boy’s hair. He knew if the game seethed in their blood, they’d play anywhere. He liked the way the boy looked at him, admiring but sizing him up all the same.
He leaned over to Jasmine and whispered, “Go tell your brother to hurry up. We need to go.”
Back to the boys. “Okay! You, there!” He pointed from one boy to the other, positioning them along the sidewalk as he settled the ball on the ground. “You over there, you there, you here, and you here.”
The boys snapped to. Most likely none of them figured when they came out to play that day that the most freshly signed player for Club Madrid would join them. Their lucky day, eh? José pointed to the only boy who’d said anything so far. “What’s your name?”
The boy mumbled.
“Huh?”
“David.”
“Are you ready, David?”
He nodded, mouth drawn in a grim line. José started forward, weaving through the boys where he had placed them. They turned and followed him.
José stopped and spun on his heel. They ground to a halt.
He held out his hands. “Where’s the ball?”
The boys stared at his feet, confusion wrinkling their brows. They looked around back to where José began his run.
Oh. There it was. The ball. Almost stuck to the cement, it seemed.
José crossed his arms. “You guys are sleeping, huh?”
David hurried over, picked up the ball, and threw it to José.
José caught it. “Francisco!” he called back toward the house where he was staying. They were going to be late. He reached into his pocket for the Sharpie his manager slipped in there earlier for autographs, just in case. “You never know, José,” Francisco had said.
He signed the battered ball, and the boys grinned. “Hmm. My name looks pretty lonely on this ball. How about I get a few more names here for you? Like Tomas Cordoba.”
“El Puma!” David cried.
“Uh-huh. But you’d better watch out. I might want to keep that ball for myself.”
The boys looked from one to another, eyebrows raised, faces open. José had all the hope in the world for them. For himself too. But he needed to get going. How could one man take so long to get ready? “Francisco!” he yelled up to his manager again. “Francisco! Come on, brother! Your little sister doesn’t take this long.”
Finally.
Francisco jogged down the front steps. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” José could still remember his getup: black leather cap, a pink guayabera shirt, designer of course, loved by cigar smokers everywhere, only maybe not pink, but that was Francisco. An Argentine, Francisco spoke with his hands so much, José wanted to laugh. Well, since José himself wasn’t allowed to use his hands, the privilege might as well go to Francisco.
Francisco clasped his watch around his wrist. “Besides, Rome wasn’t built in a day; this takes time.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go!”
José held up the ball. “All right, guys. I’ll bring this one back to you, I promise.” They slapped hands, sealing the deal.
He threw the ball into the back of his convertible, feeling very sweaty and slightly heroic. “All right, let’s go.”
David crossed his arms. “What do we p
lay with until you get back?”
José opened the car door. He turned to Jasmine, who was standing on the porch. “Ah, Jasmine. Can you get one of those practice balls Francisco keeps in his closet?”
She nodded and disappeared inside.
“No, no, no, José. Those balls are expensive.”
José hit Francisco on the shoulder as he slid into the vehicle. Such a skinny guy. “Relax! We’re rich now.”
Francisco nodded. “You’re right.” He reached behind him to a cardboard box on the back seat, plucked a cap from inside, and handed it to David. “Call me if you ever need a manager.”
Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, José licked his fingers and smoothed back his hair.
“Let’s go, José,” Francisco said, as if José had made them late.
Ah, well.
Jasmine threw a practice ball from Francisco’s bedroom on the second story.
David ran toward it, leading the pack of boys.
All right, I’m ready.” José gripped the steering wheel. “
Big day. Big, big day.
He slipped the key into the ignition of the car, a 1957 Bel Air. Long and black, shining chrome, restored leather interior. With Manny and his father’s help, he’d spent hundreds of hours fixing it up. A different kind of car for a different kind of man. He’d show the world he was something else.
The engine breathed and hummed. José slipped it into drive, and the dual exhausts rumbled as he drove off down the simmering street with a friendly honk of his horn, he and Francisco raising number ones to the boys behind them. The sun warmed their shoulders and they felt like conquerors. Brooklyn today, Europe tomorrow. Who knew? But they would drink it down to the dregs. José had promised himself that after all his family’s hard work and sacrifice to get him to this point, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.
Francisco pulled out a leather cigar case from the glove compartment and chose two Cuban Cohibas. He undid the cellophane, snipped off the end of one with his cigar cutter, then handed it to José.
