by Lisa Samson
He replaced the tarp, locked up the carport, and ushered her into the house through the kitchen. Something sizzled on the stove top, and Manuel was busy stirring up something or other. Nina couldn’t tell what it was. A darker-skinned woman holding the solid features of a Mexican native, Juanita, rolled tortillas at the work island. Nina could tell she wasn’t Manuel’s wife, José’s mother, when she failed to hug José but just gave him a shy smile as Eduardo introduced her. “Nina, this is Juanita.”
José introduced her to his mother, Maria, who was busy setting the table in the dining room. First she drew him into a warm embrace. José melted a little, wilting just slightly in the embrace of his mother.
Then she hugged Nina and welcomed her. Nina looked into the eyes of this woman and saw something she’d never seen before, a love that wishes for the best, even when that best is difficult.
Oh my.
She caught her breath.
José informed her of Nina’s wish for a bath, and a minute later Maria led Nina up the stairs. Maria, with pleasant, open features spread serenely across her face, was one of the prettiest women Nina had ever seen. Plump and soft, she wore her childbearing and her years of living with Manuel with honor and a sense of accomplishment. Her hair, pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, held very little gray, and she wore almost no makeup.
This is what women should strive for, Nina thought. This is beauty far deeper than the skin, beauty that mirrors the heart. She thought of her own mother, then frowned.
“It’s good to see you again.”
“Yes,” Nina nodded as they made for the top of the steps.
“So the two of you took the day off ?”
“I was . . . kind of fired today.”
Maria nodded. “Yeah . . . I heard. I didn’t want to mention it if you didn’t want to bring it up. I spoke to Manny. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t take it personally, though.” She rested her hand on the newel post. “Do you need to borrow any clothes? Because you could try some of mine.” She chuckled.
Nina held up her backpack. “Thank you. But I have everything I need right in here. I just have to freshen up a bit.”
Freshen up a bit? Nina wanted to laugh at her own formality, for despite their warmth, these were what her mother would have called “classy people.”
“Right in here. Would you like me to run the water for you?”
“No, thank you. I think I can do it myself.”
When Maria left the bathroom, the door clicked quietly, a homey sound. Nina wanted to cry she felt so cared for.
“This is silly,” she whispered. “It’s only a bath.”
The towels sat warm and soft in her hands, and she raised them to her face, breathing in the fresh, clean scent, a beach scent, a decidedly noncity scent.
José is a genius, she thought, wondering how he knew exactly what she needed.
From the living room, José watched the scene in the kitchen and wondered why he stayed away from here. What was wrong with him? Had the heat of the kitchen taken away his common sense?
One of Juanita’s large tortillas sizzled on the griddle; Eduardo hovered over the preparations like the Suvirans had invited royalty over for dinner. Eduardo clapped his father on the back, his words tumbling over each other. “Smells good! How’s it coming, old man?” He rubbed his hands together.
“When I’m finished, that chicken will taste like caviar.” Manuel adjusted the flame.
José loved the bravado of his family.
Eduardo tasted the sauce in a bowl on the countertop, looking much like his brother Manny. “It has to be perfect.” He turned to Juanita, who was kneading more flour. “That’s it, Juanita! You show it who’s boss.” And he mimicked her movements, his infectious excitement drawing a smile out of the cook. He clapped his hands—“Okay! Okay!”—and tasted a flauta from a dish at the end of the counter. “Okay! Está bien! Wow!”
José felt like he was watching a dance. What he wouldn’t give to be innocent like Eduardo once again. To think a woman would want to go out with him, to get to know him, all of him, because there was nothing to hide, nothing to be so ashamed of that the relationship would never make it past it.
Eduardo picked up a dish of three-colored rice arranged in stripes of red, white, and green. “You outdid yourself ! It’s the Mexican flag!”
He was a good boy. Not much promise like his older brothers, José knew. But then again, not as much opportunity to make grave, unforgivable mistakes either. When Eduardo finished college, he’d make a good bank manager or stockbroker. He liked numbers.
Manuel grabbed a chile roasting over an open flame on the stove. José stared at the flame, then took the bandage off his hand. He examined the seared skin of his palm and tucked the bandage in his pocket.
Seventeen
Maria laid a hand on her son’s shoulder. How does one watch her child leave this earth before his death, exchanging his life and vitality for sorrow and penance?
She watched her son Eduardo in the kitchen and remembered when this one, José, the one who opened her womb, ran around their home in Mexico, shouting at the top of his lungs and singing all the time. José alone would come sit beside her and tell her he loved her without her having to say it first. José knew when she was upset about something. He had always lain down on the bed next to her, saying little, just lending his presence.
Was it any wonder he’d befriended this pregnant girl, Nina? Maria could picture the day they’d had together so far. Small conversations hanging along a cord of silence. José felt comfortable in silence, even in the happy days. But this Nina? What would she think of her son, so quiet, so sober? Maria would have given anything to see José like he used to be.
She fingered the gold bracelet surrounding her wrist, a gift from him after signing his very first professional contract with Club Madrid.
Something was burning inside of him, something she doubted he could name. She was beyond trying anymore, and sometimes she wanted to shock him out of this state. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
He flexed his hand. Maria noticed the burn but said nothing. She’d put that in God’s hands awhile ago.
She squeezed his shoulder and sighed. “Your brother called and said you left without a word, chasing after this girl, Nina.”
José said nothing.
She wished he would speak, and like her own mother would have, she filled in the silence. “Then you just show up here with her. Manny is very disappointed, José. I’ve never seen him like this before. And he’s right. What were you thinking, abandoning your brother? You’re the main chef.”
José looked up. Finally. “I know I messed up, but Manny fired Nina.”
“So what? That doesn’t justify your behavior. Now, Manny tells me that she’s pregnant. What do you have to do with that?”
That was it, wasn’t it? Dear God, here she thought he was in pain and he and this Nina girl—“Look at me!”
He shook his head.
“And they tell me you were in the car? With Nina?”
She watched with sadness and hope as his face broke into a thousand pieces.
What is it, Son? What’s wrong? I don’t want to see you like “before.”
Although he was still a man of sorrows, it was true José had at least ventured into a breathing space he hadn’t been in since the accident. And nothing would jeopardize that.
She would do her best to make sure of it.
Exhaustion settled like sea spray on José, seeping into the marrow of his bones. Traveling all over the city, on high alert with a pregnant woman, a woman carrying a child inside her, a child he wanted to save in hopes of what? To finally atone?
But could that be?
He thought of Lucinda and saw the butterfly in the street, its wings sticking in the stream of blood that fl owed from the child. He thought of Celia, Lucinda’s mother, and wondered did she ever have another child? Where was she today? Eating dinner with her family at the beach? José ha
d no idea. Perhaps she was sitting alone, looking at a little snapshot, or working hard at the shoe store.
He sobbed.
The cry came out of him before he could stop it. But the touch of his mother’s hand, her beautiful face, the way, well, she just knew. She knew he was a wreck inside, she knew he was mutilating himself, but she trusted him somehow to get through it. She had faith in him.
And being here, in this house, being home. It was too much.
She leaned over and put her arms around him as he sobbed, allowing something to release in him he never had before, something that watered the dried-up belief that he deserved to live a life that meant something, anything.
Cry it all out,” she whispered, as if that were possible. “He wrapped his arms around her waist from where he sat and rested his bristled cheek against her bosom.
Nina felt like she was fifteen again, listening to some boy’s mother yell at him about her. Last time it was Jason Campbell and he’d been comforting Nina down in his basement. Really. It was the third anniversary of her father’s death, and she’d become good friends with Jason, a transfer student, that year. Mrs. Campbell practically pulled him by his ear up the steps to the kitchen and proceeded to accuse them of everything Nina, at that time, hadn’t begun to experience. Boy, would Mrs. Campbell have a fit now!
But Maria Suviran was doing a good enough job on her own.
Nina raised her hands to her face and slid beneath the surface of the water. José didn’t deserve this.
And this baby.
She wept, shame mixing with her tears, her heart breaking for the first time since she was twelve years old.
José pulled away from his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I’d better go check on Nina.”
Maria nodded.
“And, Mama, the baby is not mine. You knew that, didn’t you?”
She spread her lips in a tight, sad smile. “I know. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“I haven’t been with a woman in a long, long time. I don’t know if—”
His mother stopped his words, putting two fingers against his lips. “Do not guess what your future holds, José. You can’t second-guess these matters.”
He found Nina in his old bedroom where she had laid out her clothes. Dressed in his mother’s white robe, she held a framed picture. Eight years old he was that day, kicking around a soccer ball.
“You were cute,” she said. “A cute little boy.”
“Thank you.”
“I need to get dressed now.”
He backed out of the room.
Maria, having set the water glasses around the dining room table, entered the kitchen. Steam was rising from pots on the stove. She lifted the lid off a pot of rice. Yes, just as it should be. Then added a little cilantro to the platter of chicken Manuel had made. She lifted it up. “Look how beautiful!”
Eduardo hurried into the kitchen. “She’s here!” He kissed his mother. “Everything’s ready, right?”
“Ready. What’s her name?”
“Veronica.”
Maria laughed as her youngest walked around the kitchen making sure everybody knew how to pronounce his girlfriend’s name. Of course, he was pronouncing it “Beronica,” but she didn’t have the heart to tell him. Maria had picked up English more readily than the rest of her family, having studied it at the university she attended before meeting Manuel, her tongue easily finding the American pronunciation of most words, her accent lilting and soft.
Eduardo ran out the front door to welcome his ladylove. Maria knew better than to think, with Eduardo, that this Veronica was really the one.
Let him dream a little, hope a little, look some more, she thought. He was young and able to fall in love at a moment’s notice. Just as it should be.
Salsa music began in the living room, and Maria heard the slide of Eduardo’s feet on the wooden floor. Eduardo was an even better dancer than José, not that she would have admitted that to José. At least she wouldn’t have years before. José probably wouldn’t care these days.
Eduardo sang with the music, off-key. Well, José could sing better than his brother, and Manny, he could sing better than every single one of them.
So? Eduardo dances first and then introduces the family later? Well, there could be worse things. She shrugged, made for the door to the dining room, and watched a little from the side as Eduardo, hips swaying, danced toward Veronica.
Yes, the lovely Veronica. Her dark, chestnut hair hung in glossy waves and her pink spring dress seemed festive, yet respectful. This must be serious, because, truthfully, some of the girls Eduardo brought home . . . Maria shuddered at the thought of their bellies peeking above the low waistbands of their shrink-wrapped jeans. Had they no self-respect? Where were their mothers when they needed clothing advice, eh?
Eduardo took Veronica into his arms and they danced together, hesitantly, yet something undeniable was there. Perhaps . . . no. Not yet. Eduardo had too much charm, and it needed expending before he’d settle down.
Time for the show.
“Turn that music down!” she said.
Manuel entered behind her, hands untying his apron behind his back, eyes glittering at the music. The boys received their love of dancing from him.
But wait! The party is just starting,” he said. “
He took Maria into his arms and she moved into him. Times like this she remembered how much she loved him.
Well, this is getting good,” her husband said in her ear. “
She gave him a squeeze and then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted them, José and a fresh Nina, her blouse replaced by a black tank top. She had pretty arms, lithe and graceful.
Her hair was still damp.
“José! Nina!” Eduardo held out a hand. “You want to dance?”
José hated dancing these days, but here she was, a dancer, and he knew—she blushed and shook her head.
Good.
Maria clapped her hands. “Okay, enough! It’s time to eat.”
“Where are you going? I have the final word here,” Manuel protested. As Maria walked away, he repeated it to the boys and to Nina and Veronica as if they understood. “I always get the last word here, and the last word is . . .”
She clipped over to the stereo and shut off the music.
He bowed. “Whatever you say, my queen.”
He opened his arms. “Sit down everyone.”
Eduardo seated Veronica, pulling out a carved wooden chair. “José, Nina . . . Veronica Suviran, mi novia y futura esposa.”
“Nice to meet you,” said José.
Veronica gave a little wave of her hand. “Veronica Kustala. Nice to meet you.”
Nina nodded. “You too.”
Veronica turned to Eduardo. “Novia?”
Eduardo grinned. “Novia means ‘girlfriend.’ Futura esposa means . . . ‘future wife.’ ”
Veronica flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “Eduardo es loco. He’s trying to teach me Spanish.”
Eduardo turned around and pulled a bottle of tequila and some port glasses from a cabinet. “Nina! Qué? Un tequilita?”
“No . . .” Nina hesitated.
Of course, the child, thought José.
Eduardo filled her glass anyway. “No, no, no . . . family custom, yes?”
“Eduardo . . . ,” Maria began.
“José?” he asked.
“No, gracias.”
“Come on, hermano.” Eduardo would not be put off. “Mommy? Veronica?”
He poured the tequila into their glasses.
Manuel put his glass forward. “Hey, respect the gray hair.”
Oh yeah. Sorry.” Eduardo tipped some tequila into his “father’s glass, then sat down.
“Shall we say grace?” Maria said, folding her hands.
Eduardo reddened. “Say grace before the toast?”
José laid his napkin in his lap. Maybe someday Eduardo wouldn’t be embarrassed. But today was not that day. And José understood what t
hat felt like too.
Manuel began, “In the name of the Father . . .”
“Eh, Papi,” Eduardo interrupted, and José felt that older-brother impatience rising in his throat. Would the boy stop interfering, micromanaging, making everything such a big to-do? “Veronica and I are going to say grace.” He turned to Veronica. “Ready? You repeat after me.”
Her brows raised in surprise, but she pressed her hands together in front of her chest. Poor thing, only a week of Spanish lessons and already Eduardo was putting her on the spot.
In Spanish, Eduardo began the prayer. “The One . . .”
The One . . . ,” they all repeated. “
Papi, this is for Veronica. Thank you.” He looked at “Veronica. “Sorry.”
And Veronica repeated each phrase after Eduardo. Her Spanish was ill pronounced and full of the wrong inflection, but José took it for the gift it was, for what she was willing to learn, not realizing she was speaking a children’s prayer that rhymes in Spanish.
The One . . . that gave us our life . . . Bless . . . this food . . . “Amen!”
“Amen!” they all said.
“Muy bien!” Eduardo grabbed Veronica’s hand. “Great job!”
José crossed himself, as did Maria and Manuel. Nina tried but failed, sort of waving her hand in a circle in front of her chest. José thought it was beautiful.
These poor young women, subjected to the Suviran men.
A sense of gratitude filled him.
Eduardo said, “Bien, bien. Salud, ahora. Now, we can toast, no?”
“Salud!”
They raised their glasses together. Nina took a tiny sip and looked at José. Was she rethinking the plans she’d already started making about the baby? He couldn’t be sure, but he felt hopeful.
Manuel turned to Nina and said in English, “Nina, you like osteones?”
Eduardo laughed. “That was good, Dad! Wow! Muy bien . . . That was good, Dad.” To the girls, “Osteones means ‘oysters.’ ”
Of all of them, Manuel’s refusal to learn English embarrassed Eduardo the most. José shook his head. Well, at least Eduardo was trying positive reinforcement, but José knew his father, and he wouldn’t give up without more of a fight that this!
