The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters

by Lorraine López

  Pam throws her saggy, freckled arms around me, glances down at Elena, and says, “Eva, my, how you’ve grown!”

  “I’m Elena,” she says, shrinking away from her reach. “Who invited you?”

  Pam cackles. “Kids say the darnedest things.”

  “Why, h’ita, I invited Pam.” Pops raises his eyebrows. “This is a family wedding, and Pam’s part of this family.”

  “But Mama said you aren’t married no more,” Elena says. “She don’t suppose to be here.”

  My father removes his glasses to wipe them with his handkerchief. Without the magnifying lenses, his eyes look smaller and duller than usual. “Don’t be silly.”

  “She has a point, Dad.” I don’t like to remind him, but they about killed each other during the brief time they were married. That summer while we were visiting Nilda in New Mexico, they snuck off to Vegas like teenagers to be married by a man who resembled Johnny Cash. (They couldn’t find an Elvis impersonator.) They fought like mad dogs and separated after less than a year. In fact, I was the one to put the paperwork through for the divorce, and it was just finalized a few weeks ago.

  “Look.” Pam takes both my hands in her cool, withered claws. “I know we had some trouble in the past, but let’s put that behind us, okay?” She looks to Elena and back at me. “I’m not drinking anymore. I’m in A.A. now, and it’s working for me, one day at a time, you know. Let’s start fresh, okay, kiddos?”

  “There’s Nilda.” The old man rehooks her arm. “Come on, let’s say hello.”

  When Nilda spots the two, her mouth drops open, wide enough to hold a tennis ball between her teeth. Then she catches my eye and shakes her head, as if to say, see, this is what happens when the exes show up. ¡Válgame, Dios!

  Cary and Aracely sweep in with the bridal party, having finished with the photographer in the church. Someone should throw a blanket over Cary because he looks like he’s in shock, or maybe it’s that his eyes haven’t adjusted from the flashbulbs. His black sideburns are stark against his green-tinged jowls as he’s gazing around in wonderment. The band cranks up, and Aracely leads him out for the first waltz.

  Sophie rushes over, her panty hose rasping. “I need a drink.” She’s back in a flash, bearing two cups of punch.

  “Thanks.” I reach for one of the cups.

  She slaps my hand away. “Get your own, pendeja.”

  “Real nice.”

  “Hey, you didn’t have to stand around, grinning like the Cheshire cat for an eternity. I swear to God, my gums are chapped.” She slugs back her first cup. “Ah, better. How’s Aitch, my darling son?” She ruffles his hair as he snaps in a puzzle piece.

  “He likes the puzzle,” Elena says.

  “The puzzle that Aracely says ruined the whole wedding?”

  My face heats up. “She did not!”

  “Yup, she did.” Sophie starts in on her second drink. “I’m going to need more of these. They’re good. Yeah, Aracely had a fit. She actually thinks you put Aitch up to it to get even for not being included in the wedding party.”

  Aracely glares at me over Cary’s shoulder. I smile and wave. “Is she insane?”

  “Deeply, I’d say.” Sophie swirls the dregs in her cup. “She asked me if you were mad about not being a bridesmaid. I said you were more grateful than anything.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “But she didn’t believe me. She’s truly whacked. You should have heard her barking at the photographer. When she told him to kneel in front of her —”

  I gasp. “She told the photographer to kneel in front of her?”

  “She told him to kneel in front of her and Cary to get an ‘upshot,’ whatever that is, and the guy clicked his heels and said, ‘Heil, Hitler!’ ” Sophie laughs, but I’m thinking, uh-oh. The photographer can make her look runty, sideshow freakish in shot after shot, but how will our brother protect himself from her wrath in the years to come?

  “Who knew she had it in her?” Sophie says with pride. “The nutty bitch.”

  “Tía Sophie, guess who’s here?” Elena asks. “Pam.”

  “I know. I saw her in the receiving line.” Sophie tosses back the ice, crunching it most annoyingly. “I wanted to say, so where’d you park the broomstick?”

  “She’s in A.A. now —one day at a time.” I mimic Pam’s gravelly voice. “Let’s put the past behind us, kiddos.”

  “Like, isn’t A.A. about making amends?” Sophie works at a shelter for battered women and, no doubt, sees plenty of ex-drunks begging forgiveness. “Isn’t it about showing remorse, asking forgiveness, instead of just reappearing like some unkillable monster in a horror movie?”

  “Maybe she hasn’t gotten to that step yet.” The band breaks into “La Bamba,” and my knee involuntarily starts bobbing. “Say, where’s Rita?”

  “Changing shoes.” Sophie drains her second cup. “You want another drink?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Watch Aitch, will you?” Sophie says as she rises from the table.

  The floor trembles under my feet from all the overdressed hoofers stomping to “La Bamba.” I wouldn’t mind a spin out there myself. After Sophie returns, old Luis, droopy moustache and sad eyes, shambles over to ask me to dance, but the song is nearly over. What the hell, I take his hand. Luis and I catch the last few bars, and I’m really moving to Luis’s dogged two-step, when the band swings into a slow number for the out-of-breath oldsters, and Luis pulls me close for the waltz. There’s an awkward moment before I remember that he doesn’t like to lead. Then I steer us surely over the lusterless green linoleum. “Where’s Nancy?”

  Unnatural laughter erupts near the entrance to the kitchen. “Over there, somewhere.” He nods toward the racket. “She doesn’t dance because of her hip.”

  “Are you still playing in a band?” I know his original group, Sabor, disbanded years ago, and Luis took a job at the General Motors plant in Van Nuys, but I suppose he still sings with some band on occasion.

  “Yeah, once in a while, I get together with these guys. We do, like, quinceañeras, high-school dances, stuff like that.” He sighs. “Since they let me go, I got a lot of time on my hands these days, so I’m looking to do more with the music.”

  “Serious? You lost your job?”

  “Like a few months ago.”

  “Wow!” I picture Luis in a bathrobe, scanning the want ads —a beer in hand —while Nancy’s braying in the background.

  “You remember that song I wrote for you?”

  “You never wrote a song for me. I remember that freeway thing, ‘The 4-0-5 Blues,’ right?” Laughter bubbles up as I recall the ridiculous lyrics, but hilarity wouldn’t be cool under these circumstances, so I pretend to cough instead.

  “I wrote a song for you, too. You just don’t remember.”

  “Believe me, I’d remember something like that.”

  He starts humming something I can almost recognize and then he sings, “Bette, oh, Bette, I’m so alone with you I could cry, so lonely I don’t try . . .”

  “The things you say push me away. Do you even know that I’m alive?” I join in, suddenly remembering.

  “See, you do remember.” He glances around and kisses the top of my ear.

  “How could I forget?” Sometimes my memory is like my answering machine at the office. It accumulates so much crap that I’ve developed a hyperactive delete finger. I throw shit out right and left. The crazy thing is, the more I try to streamline and cast out junk, the more junk seems to accumulate. I once wanted to be a psychologist, but working for the degree took so much time, I dropped out of the program to do fieldwork. Now, instead of listening to one lunatic at a time, I go into homes where I’ve got whole families of them to handle, simultaneously, several times a day, for the rest of my fucking life, or at least until I retire.

  “I think it’s one of my best songs. In fact, I cut a single —a demo tape —for this friend of Nancy’s who knows some guy whose cousin works at a radio station.”

&
nbsp; Over his shoulder, I glimpse my sister Loretta stepping into the recreation hall. That egoista refused to come to the ceremony because she doesn’t “believe in patriarchal institutions like the Roman Catholic Church.” Apparently, her grudge doesn’t extend to church social halls. But I don’t see the mysterious Chris she’s told me about. Last night, she was supposed to fly in with him from Georgia, where she started up a veterinary practice. “Loretta finally made it.”

  We circle. He faces the door. “She looks good.” He lifts his hand to wave. “So, anyway, this friend thinks they might play it for ‘Open Mike.’ Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “Huh?”

  “My song —if they play it on the radio. This could even be like my big break.”

  I struggle to imagine the hunched and middle-aged-looking Luis breaking into rock stardom. “Oh, yeah, that’d be great.” I circle us again to see if this Chris has appeared yet, but no, Loretta’s just talking to this heavyset woman, actually smiling and looking friendly. Maybe this Chris, whoever he is, has had a socializing effect on my sister.

  “I got a copy in the truck, brought it for you, actually, since you kind of inspired it.” He laughs, releasing me as the band winds down. “Want me to get it for you?”

  I give him a quick hug. “Sure, that’d be real nice.”

  I’m thinking I ought to go over to Loretta sideways, kind of incidentally. She wouldn’t like me marching up to her, saying, “Where is this Chris?” So I work the hall like I’m running for city council. “Hi, there, Stella, how’s Norberto? Sister Cleophas, you still alive? Rosa, how’re the kids? Those gym shoes working for you, Rita? Really, they kind of go with the gown. Oh, hello, there, Loretta. When did you get here?”

  “You saw me walk in while you were out there dancing with what’s-his-name.” She embraces me. “I want you to meet Chris.” She turns to the large woman. “Chris, this is my older sister, Bette.”

  I slap that smile on, and draw a deep breath, waiting for someone to say something, anything, before I realize that someone should be me. “It’s great to meet you.”

  “Same here,” she says. Close-up, I see she’s statuesque, not fat, just tall and full-figured, and that she’s old, or older than I thought, with a pile of black hair twisted into an old-fashioned chignon. Her pink cheeks convey the clean life —likely not too much drinking, drugging, or rolling in gutters.

  Once I’m over the stun-gun effects, I have to admit she’s okay-looking, though her clothes are corny —brown paisley rayon. And who wears those crocheted vests with pom-pom tassels anymore? “What a great outfit!” My dimples start to ache.

  “I feel like I already know you and your family from what Loretta’s told me.”

  “She’s told me about you, too.” But I’m racking my brain to recall what Loretta has said apart from her name. Shit, I wish I wasn’t so quick to delete stuff.

  “I’ll bet she didn’t tell you she’s dating a woman.” Chris laughs as Loretta blushes, grinning like she’s just been given a major award, but is trying to act humble.

  I laugh, too, because what can you say? No, as a matter of fact, this is one of the greatest shocks of my life. In the periphery, a tall mass of purple tulle scuds toward us.

  “Rita,” Loretta says, “I want you to meet Chris.”

  “This is Chris?” Rita’s voice is sharp. “You said Chris is a heart doctor.”

  “That’s right. I’m a cardiologist.” Chris extends her arm to shake Rita’s hand.

  Rita ignores this. “You’re a doctor?”

  “There are women doctors, you know.” I step between her and Loretta, who is narrowing her eyes, tensing as if to strike. “Loretta’s one herself, remember?”

  “She lied!” Rita’s huffing now, like she’s just run up ten flights of stairs.

  “Hey, what’s your trip?” I say to calm her down, and I summon Rafe with a “get your ass over here” hand signal. This is not the time for a Rita freak-out.

  “I’m sorry this upsets you,” says Chris, reaching to comfort Rita.

  “Don’t touch me.” Rita jerks away, her big old eyes all shiny and crazy. She turns to Loretta. “We’re supposed to be sisters. We’re supposed to trust each other. I tell you things, but you never tell me anything about yourself. You just don’t give a shit about me and Rafe and my in-laws.”

  Rafe’s mother and father flew in from Michigan to meet our family for the first time at this wedding. So far, his folks seem like okay people, not the kind to require smelling salts at the sight of lesbian couples, but try telling Rita that, try telling her anything when she gets worked up like this. As Loretta opens her mouth to speak, Rafe puts his arms around Rita and turns her, so she’s nestling against his collarbone, whispering angrily. He catches my eye and mouths, “She’s pregnant.”

  “Whoa,” I say to Loretta as Rafe leads Rita away. “What a trip! Who knew she was pregnant?”

  “I did,” Loretta says. “She called me right after she told Rafe.”

  “And yet you never told her about you?” I say, pointing from Loretta to Chris.

  “I . . . couldn’t.”

  By this time, I’m thinking about that glass of punch Sophie was supposed to bring. No doubt it’s gone flat. “Boy, I need a drink, how about you two?”

  “Maybe a couple soft drinks,” Chris says. “We really don’t drink alcohol.”

  The greatest shocks of my life are coming hard and fast now. I gape at my sister, but she lowers her eyes, smiling, but staring down at her shoes. “They’re over here.” I lead them to an array of sweating cans of soft drinks on a table near the kitchen.

  Someone in the band pounds out familiar piano chords as I hand Loretta and Chris colas. My new sister-in-law has rustled onstage, and she’s bobbing her head to the beat, holding the microphone to her mouth. She’s singing and swinging her hips, snapping her fingers to Carole King, and beaming like a headliner in Vegas.

  Chris says, “She’s not half bad,” and I finally understand exactly what that means when I see Luis’s face, which is tight with pain, like he’s just smashed his thumb with a hammer. Scanning the room, I notice everyone who loves music is suffering a bit right now. “Not half bad” means “not half good,” either, but, hey, Aracely should get credit for confidence alone. No question about it —the girl’s got huevos.

  As Aracely sings, she points straight at poor Cary, slouching at the bridal table, looking like he could use a double shot of vanishing potion.

  The song ends, and we clap like patients in an asylum where they’ve just announced an end to electroshock therapy. But Aracely takes this as encouragement, and after a brief whispered conference with the lead guitarist, she steps up to the microphone again.

  This is my cue to excuse myself to powder my nose, as in go out to my car and smoke a joint. On the way, I hear retching from the ladies room, and I nearly collide with Rafe, who’s rounding the corner with a glass of water. I should follow him in and hold back Rita’s hair, stroke her back like I did when she was a little girl, but she has Rafe for that now, so I just smile and rush past my brother-in-law for my car and my lovely stash.

  No sooner do I suck back the first throat-searing hit, than I hear rap-tap-tap on the car window. “Fuck!” I should have driven out to the park or something. I cup the joint under the dash and look up. It’s just Luis. I roll down the window. “Hey, I’m just having a smoke, want to join me?”

  Beer in hand, he shakes his head. “Nah, smoking makes me kind of stupid.”

  “O-kay.” And drinking two six-packs a day makes him what —the village savant?

  He hands me a cassette tape. “I want you to have this.”

  “Thanks, I’ll listen to it right now.” I pop out the Gloria Gaynor and put Luis’s tape in the deck, but the key’s not even in the ignition, so it’s an empty gesture.

  “We got to go. Nancy’s hip is acting up.” He grins. “It was great seeing you.”

  “Yeah, glad you came.” The joint is going cold between
my finger and thumb, and I used my last match to light it up. Leave, baboso, leave.

  He looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not to kiss me, but in the end, he decides to give my car door an affectionate pat. “Okay, let me know if you like it.”

  “I sure will. Bye, Luis.” I roll up the car window. And shit, the joint’s gone out.

  Back in the hall, the guests are lining up for the dollar dance, when everyone who wants to dance with the bride or groom is supposed to pin a bill on their clothing. I find Sophie sitting by herself. She tells me Nilda has taken the kids around to introduce them to folks. I ask Sophie to fish a fiver out of my purse.

  “All you have is a twenty.” Sophie holds up a crumpled bill. “Cary’s not worth twenty. Even five’s kind of high. I think I have some change in my purse.”

  “You can’t pin coins on anyone. Hand it over.”

  She laughs, balls up the bill, and tosses it at me. “Hey, guess what? Loretta’s a lesbian now, a sober lesbian.”

  “That’s yesterday’s news. I bet you don’t know that Rita’s pregnant.”

  “Good God!” Sophie widens her eyes in mock terror. “Poor Rafe.”

  The line to dance with my brother moves quickly. Before long, I’m pinning the twenty onto his lapel. “This is almost a week’s groceries, boy. You better be worth it.”

  He looks startled, but diligently twirls me around the linoleum.

  “How’s married life so far?” I ask.

  He shrugs and releases me for the next partner.

  “Hey, I want my money back!”

  Cary takes the matron of honor Rosa’s hand to lead her out onto the floor. As I head back to Sophie, I glance over my shoulder. The line has grown some for both bride and groom. Cary’s already let Rosa go, and he’s waltzing with somebody I don’t know. They migrate to the edge of the dance floor, and he disappears into the sea of bobbing suit jackets and floral dresses.

  The drive home is lonesome. Sophie still has “visitation,” so she’s keeping Elena overnight. It’s just me and my car winding up the hillside. I know I’m always after peace and quiet, scoping out the nearest exit, wherever I am, but now I could almost stand some company. I push in Gloria Gaynor, but I get Luis instead —the demo, I’d forgotten all about it —moaning my name. Hmm . . . it’s not half bad.