“And you are … ?” Beatriz asked Cynthia, who was standing with her mouth open but no sound coming out.
“That’s Cynthia,” Mocte said. “I’m Moctezuma Valdez. But I’m called Mocte.”
“Wonderful!” Beatriz said, punching every syllable, looking at Mocte and Cynthia with worry. “Perhaps some water? Por favor?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Cynthia said, trying to sit in her chair as it rolled away from her.
“Oh, we can do better than that,” Ana said, entering the room. “Con mucho gusto, Señor Montalvo. Soy Ana Ruiz.”
“Por supuesto! We spoke on the phone,” Montalvo said. His voice was—cómo se dice?—exquisite, like whiskey. Todo seductive. And those eyes! Montalvo’s coffee-black eyes, his smile, even the whites of his eyes gleamed. No. Oh no, Ana thought. No one is this handsome. But she was wrong. Carlos Montalvo was that handsome. He was bite-your-lip handsome, movie-star handsome, cold water—sssssss—on a hot comal handsome.
For a second, Ana wondered what would be found if a few more of the buttons on his guayabera were undone. Would there be hair, or more of the same smooth skin arching and curving over muscle and bone? These thoughts came to Ana in a blink, and it shocked her. But who would be surprised? For as long as it had been since Ana had been touched by her man—any man—and because she was too shy to take care of herself, even in the privacy of her own bedroom (lástima, lástima!), thinking about what Montalvo had going on underneath that layer of pale cotton—híjole! Ana needed to sit down, too. Instead, and without missing the beat, she put out her hand to shake Montalvo’s. He held her hand delicately and a little too long, Ana thought. So, when he began to bend down to kiss her on the cheek (as was his way) she pulled away like she didn’t notice.
“We have juice, we have soda, tea, Topo Chico …”
“Eso! Topo Chico!” Beatriz exclaimed. “You were asking for that earlier! Didn’t I tell you we would find you one?”
As Ana poured him a glass, she explained that the dean was expecting him at the faculty meeting.
“No rush. I’ll be happy to take you there,” Ana said, passing the glass of mineral water to Montalvo.
“Gracias, you are too kind,” he said. As he sipped, Beatriz explained how San Antonio was really northern Mexico in many people’s eyes, so of course they would have Topo Chico, and any other Mexican food or drink he might want. Beatriz talked big about San Antonio and the university, the art faculty and staff, and the dean so much that Ana knew something was up. As Beatriz went on and on, Ana allowed herself a couple of sideways looks at Montalvo. Yes, he was make-you-go-numb handsome (as Cynthia proved). The one time Montalvo caught her looking at him, he smiled as if, it seemed to Ana, he knew what she was thinking! Ana almost choked. She turned away and coughed into her wrist.
“The president is so very pleased to have you with us this semester,” Beatriz said. “He’s sorry he was away today, but he looks forward to having you come to his home this weekend.” Beatriz looked at her watch. “Perhaps we should escort Señor Montalvo to the meeting now?”
“Por favor, if it is acceptable, can this young man show me the way?” Montalvo asked. “I would like to know more about the language he was speaking. Was that Raramuri?”
“You know it, sir?”
“I know only a few phrases, but what I know is beautiful. I would like to know how you came to learn this language.”
Ana looked at Beatriz, who nodded, and Mocte led Beatriz and Montalvo to the meeting, chattering the entire time. As soon as they were gone, Ana turned to Cynthia.
“Oh my God!” Cynthia blurted like she had just come up for air. “I mean, he seems nice,” she said, her face going red. Ana shook her head and decided to go back to her office. She’d had enough excitement for the day.
“Unless it’s my kids or God, take a message, okay?” Ana said over her shoulder.
The morning was nearly over, the crisis at home on hold, the fire at work put out. She turned on her computer and was soothed by its faint hum. She leaned back in her chair as her computer continued booting up and closed her eyes. She would have fallen asleep, but the sound of her door snapping shut surprised her. There was Beatriz, the straps of her sling-back pumps looped over her finger. After she was sure the door was closed, she quickly padded to Ana’s desk and leaned over it to speak into her comadre’s face.
“Is he a babe or what?”
“You had to take off your shoes to tell me that?”
“They’re new and they’re killing me.”
“They’re nice. Where did you get them?”
“Forget the shoes! Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Ay, por favor!” Beatriz said, dropping her pumps onto the floor. “That little cupcake out there almost hyperventilated.”
“Cynthia. She’s new.”
“I thought I was going to have to give her the Heimlich.”
“Mouth-to-mouth.”
“That, too!”
“I’m sure Señor Montalvo would have offered,” Ana smirked.
The thought of Montalvo putting his buttery soft lips on someone’s mouth made Beatriz shudder.
“Oh, my God!” Beatriz began to fan herself with a small calculator that sat near the edge of Ana’s desk.
“Oh, stop!”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice?” Beatriz asked.
“I noticed. I just don’t care,” Ana said, going through the pink While You Were Out notes on her desk. Beatriz took off her blazer and tossed it over an empty guest chair and then plopped into another chair behind her, extending her legs and twirling her ankles. No matter how far Beatriz had climbed up the university system, no matter how far she’d come, that crazy girl that Ana had first met when they were students at Our Lady of the Lake High School could reappear just like that when the two of them were alone.
“He’s not married, from what I can tell. And he likes you,” Beatriz said. “You’re all he talked about on the way over here. He said he couldn’t wait to meet you. ‘Ana this, Ana that.’ He said you were one of the reasons he decided to take this position.”
“Por favor! I only talked to him on the phone about travel and places to live. Nada más, mujer.”
“Well, look. Your dean wants to keep him here, and the president wants to keep him here. If you have any way of making that happen, that will put a lot of feathers in your sombrero, ’manita.” Beatriz sat back, resting her hands on the pouf of her panza. Beatriz was only a couple of years older than Ana, and everything about her was large—her voice, the way she walked, the way she knew how to talk to los big wigs, and how she knew how to go into a meeting and get things done. Only four feet, eleven and three-quarter inches, to those who didn’t know her Beatriz was just someone’s mother, someone’s aunt, someone’s older sister. But cross her and you would learn that she was one shot of tequila and one shot of Irish whiskey, just as her two last names implied.
“Oye, comadre, I was wondering,” Ana said, to change the subject. “There’s a quinceañera fair on Sunday. You want to go with us?”
“No! Carmen is going to be fifteen already?”
“Six—five months from now,” Ana said, flipping through her desk calendar and realizing she didn’t have as much time to plan as she thought.
“Ah! I remember when she was just a baby!” Beatriz cooed.
“Yeah, my little baby is almost a full-grown witch,” Ana said.
Beatriz sat up in her chair. “Is she still being difficult?”
“Difficult? Difficult would be pleasant.”
“And a quinceañera will make things better?”
“It couldn’t hurt. It’s a nice tradition. You had one.”
“I told you about it, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“And you still want to have one?”
“Yes.”
“I told you how my uncle got drunk and sang ‘Volver’ all night? How my brother Rudy lost his pants, and my abuelita knocked ov
er the cake?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Ana laughed. She knew that if she let Beatriz go on, she would add another kooky incident to her already crazy story. “It doesn’t have to be a wild pachanga, just a church ceremony and a small party at the house. I want her to feel—I want to feel—I want us to do something special together, that’s all.”
Beatriz could see Ana’s eyes go glassy, but before the tears dropped, Ana turned away to arrange some files on the credenza behind her desk. Ay, mujer! There was no need to turn away. Beatriz and Ana had seen each other laugh, cry, give birth, get married, worry over sick children, lose their tempers, collapse with exhaustion, and fill with pride; they shared 1,001 other moments, large and small, that would brand them as friends, sisters, y comadres forever. Ana was there for Beatriz when her mother and then her beloved papi died within months of each other, only a few years ago (en paz descansen). Beatriz was the one who encouraged Ana, told her she could do whatever she set her mind to, especially when Ana was the least convinced. But lately, Ana felt nothing but helpless. She knew Beatriz was being patient and compassionate with her during this hard time in her life, but it had gone on for too long. She was tired of being the one who always brought heartache to the table. All of this Beatriz saw in the slump of Ana’s shoulders, the dim light in her eyes, the dull sound in her voice. She decided to lighten the mood.
“Well, mi comadre,” Beatriz announced. “If you want to have a good quinceañera, the first thing you got to do is get the music. And for that, you need Steve Jordan.”
Ana laughed out loud as she wiped her nose with a tissue and spun back around in her chair to look at her friend. Steve Jordan was a—cómo se dice?—local legend, a San Antonio accordion king who could be as surly as Bob Dylan, as outrageous as George Clinton (pero no diaper), as electric as Elvis (without the pelvis), and stoic como el Johnny Cash. Beatriz was todo crazy about him.
“I don’t think Carmen would go for him, even if he did play quinceañeras,” Ana said. “Does he play quinceañeras? You think Carmen would like that?”
“Don’t ask me, mujer. I have boys. I forgot what it’s like to be around girls, especially hormone-fired ones,” Beatriz joked. Ana could only manage a stale smile.
“Are things really that bad, ’manita?”
Ana nodded.
“Y Diego? How’s he doing with the divorce?”
“The separation,” Ana corrected. It bothered Ana that Beatriz kept calling the separation a divorce. “He’s like he always is. Quiet, like his dad, but he doesn’t hate me like Carmen does.”
“Ay, no, she doesn’t hate you, ’manita.”
“You should hear how she talks to me. If I talked to my mother like that when I was her age, I’d be in the ground right now.”
“Maybe her father should talk to her.”
Ana scoffed. “I can’t get him to talk to a marriage counselor. You think he’s going to want to talk to his angry little princesa?”
“Well, yes,” Beatriz said. She knew a daddy’s girl when she saw one, having been one herself. “You shouldn’t have to deal with the kids all on your own.” Ana knew this was the truth, but she’d had enough.
“Oye, mujer. I have some calls to return,” Ana said, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears again.
“Do you have time for a drink after work?” Beatriz asked, knowing that Ana didn’t want to talk about her personal business at the office.
“I’m supposed to meet Esteban,” Ana said without looking at her calendar. She didn’t need to. She’d been looking forward to it all weekend. Beatriz sat up, slipped her pumps back on, and stood to put on her blazer. Even her silence was big, and it filled Ana’s office.
“What?” Ana asked. “Qué pasó?”
Beatriz loved Ana, but she knew she was the only one who could tell her what she needed to hear. It might hurt her, it might break her heart, but Beatriz knew that Ana needed a push, and she would have to be the one to do it.
“’Manita, I—”
“What?”
“I think you need to know you did everything you could possibly do before you give up. The thing is, if Esteban is not willing to do any of the work también, what does that say to you?”
Ana looked at Beatriz blankly while her heart writhed like a dying dog.
“I’m not trying to discourage you, ’manita. But it’s like that song: You can’t make his heart beat something it won’t.”
Ana stood up and the two women had a long abrazo. Beatriz could tell how tender her friend was, how she was working hard not to crumble.
“Bueno pues, do I look back to business?” Beatriz asked, tugging at the bottom of her sleeves and at the hem of her blazer.
“Sí, bien charp,” Ana said, trying to sound perky.
“What are you doing for lunch?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably get something from the vending machine. Y tú?”
“I have a noon conference call, and back-to-back meetings after that,” Beatriz said, as Cynthia politely tapped on the door.
“Pase!” Beatriz called out, like it was her office.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but Raquel from your office is holding?”
“Yes, yes—tell her I’m on my way.”
Beatriz slowly closed the door to Ana’s office as she left. She stopped in front of Cynthia’s desk and dug into her pockets until she found the twenty-dollar bill she always kept stashed on her.
“Cynthia, right? Would you do me a favor? When you come back from your lunch would you bring Mrs. Ruiz a salad from the cart on the plaza? She likes balsamic dressing.”
“Sure,” Cynthia chirped.
“And in the afternoon, bring her a paleta from the woman who sells them across the street. Ask her for ‘la bandera.’ She’ll know what you mean.”
Beatriz saw Mocte in the workroom. “There should be enough money to cover all of you. Buen provecho.”
When Beatriz was out of sight Mocte purred, “Eso—she rawks.”
FOUR
Diego was taller than most of the other boys his age. From the time he started at high school, the man they called Coach made it a point to find Diego and get him to try out for the basketball team. Diego wasn’t interested, not even a little bit, but the red-faced man who smelled like cigar smoke and Ben Gay wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“So you’re a football man, eh? We can use you over there, too.”
Even though Diego was Texas born and bred, basketball and most other sports bored him. He liked to read and play music, and now, though he told no one, he was writing songs, something that would have made the basketball coach scoff before complaining about healthy boys like Diego wasting their God-given talents on that “fruity stuff.”
“C’mon, boy! Team sports will make you a man and, let’s face it, make you popular with the young ladies. You walk around here with a letter jacket and it’s like being king of the chicas,” Coach would say. The first year Coach asked him about joining the team, Diego said he had a bad knee. The next year, he said soccer was his game. The third year, he said he had an after-school job. (This wasn’t exactly a lie. His father, Esteban, got him a job on his worksite, pulling nails from boards and other cositas, but only for a few days.) Finally, in his senior year, Coach got the message when he took a wrong turn and found himself in what he called the “arty-farty” wing of the school. When he passed the music room and saw Diego playing a flute, Coach choked like a mosca flew into his mouth. He shook his head and decided Diego wasn’t interested in sports or girls after all, and blocked him out of his mind—which, since there was so little there to begin with, didn’t take much work.
Had Coach taken the time to find out who Diego was, he would have discovered that Diego was just messing around with the flute when he happened to see him. He played brass instruments—trombone, trumpet, sax—could hold his own on the piano and had begun learning the guitar. (Why? For a girl—why else?) He could have worn a letter jacket, since he was a senior and in the
marching band, but even he knew that that would make him a target for the circle of boys who liked to make it their business to torment good boys like Diego. But Diego was no pushover. If it came down to it, he would surprise himself. Diego could throw chingazos if he had to. Instead, Diego was smart to lay low. He didn’t want any trouble. He only wanted to play his music and learn the guitar, thanks to Sonia.
Sonia Castañeda—the thought of her made Diego dizzy. She was—oh, how would he say it? To Diego she was light through sheer curtains, the smell of rain, the sweet music of new birds, the sun rising in the morning, a full moon in fall, the rhyme of mango y chili … pero no, those words weren’t right either. He’d scribbled all of them in the notebook he kept hidden under his bed, the way other boys his age hid girlie magazines (chiflados!). It frustrated him that he could not find the words to say how he felt about this girl who, years before, was just his friend Rafa’s little sister. What happened between last year and this Diego didn’t know, but deeply, in the quietest place where God talks to you, Diego thought that he must be in love. He liked how it felt, this strange and glorious thing. It was a welcome distraction, now that things were so—how would he say?—messed up at home. He didn’t want to let go of this distraction, because it was the only thing that was solid, that kept him from punching a hole in the wall—or worse, his sister.
Carmen made him angrier than his parents’ separation, but he had no words to calm her. Now that he was the man of the house, as his father, his mother, and everyone (except Carmen) told him, he wished that when he saw Carmen in one of her moods, saw how she treated their mother, he wished he could find a way to make her see how ugly she was. Something to turn her back to the sweet girl she used to be. Diego loved his sister. He could admit that. But—qué coraje!—she sure could be la cabrona.
“D!”
Diego scanned the plaza in front of the school to see who called his name. He spotted Carmen seated on a stone bench under the oak tree with her group of friends. As he walked over, all their eyes fluttered over him like butterflies. They all thought Diego was tan chulo.
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz Page 3
