Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  “I wonder what’s happening to them?” Ana said. “It’s probably just a passing thing.” She crossed back to the table to comfort her daughter, but as she put her arm across her shoulders, Carmen shrugged her off.

  “’Apá would know.” Carmen rose from the table. “I’m not hungry. Can I please go to my room now?”

  Too exhausted to argue with her, Ana let her go.

  When Bianca returned, she was whistling along with the music she was listening to on her iPod. She sat down and started to spoon green bean salad onto an empty plate. Ana watched her silently, her elbow on the table, her chin cupped in her hand. Bianca took off her earplugs and laid them in her lap.

  “Thanks for dinner, Tía.”

  “De nada, mi’ja,” Ana said into her hand. “Carmen’s in her room. You can take that with you, if you want.”

  Bianca’s heart sank, seeing her aunt wilted and alone the way she was.

  “That’s okay. I’ll stay here with you,” she said. Ana rose to make some tea.

  “So, you’re going to that quinceañera fair on Sunday?”

  Ana didn’t mean to ignore Bianca, but she was lost in the comfort of making her tea.

  “Tía?”

  “I’m sorry, mi’ja. What?”

  “The quinceañera fair—are you going?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Carmen told me you want to go,” Bianca said. “Can I come?”

  “If Carmen won’t go, there’s no need for me to go,” Ana said, stirring honey into her cup.

  Bianca looked at the kidney beans Ana had picked out of her three-bean salad and pushed to the rim of her plate. Bianca knew exactly how they felt. Part of the salad, but always pushed off to the side.

  “I’ll go, and I’ll make sure Carmen goes, too. How’s that?”

  “You think you can do that?”

  “Sure,” Bianca said, not knowing how she would keep her promise but knowing she would give it all her attention.

  Ana drank her tea and Bianca ate slowly so her aunt would not be alone. Later, she found the apple pie that was left in the bag and cut slices for both of them. Ana picked at hers as Bianca sat across from her, chattering about whatever came into her head—all the time thinking of ways to convince her stubborn cousin to have the quinceañera she so wanted her to have.

  SEVEN

  By the time Carmen got to her room, her tears had dried into a stubborn knot. She slammed her door and stood looking around her room. Whose idea was it to paint it buttercup yellow, as her mother called it? Probably her mother’s, Carmen thought, and the idea made her feel stuffed in someone else’s skin. She saw herself in the big mirror that stood in the corner of her room and moved closer to look at her moon-shaped face. With her high, round cheeks and her bright, wide eyes, she was still on the niña side of being a woman. She wanted to look like someone who should be taken seriously!

  That was why she demanded the new haircut. It meant more work than letting it grow schoolgirl style—long and straight, or pulled back into a neat chongo like her cousin Bianca. Pero Carmen wanted to—how do you say?—stand out, be bold, and not look like she was following her cousin in all her ways, which she did when they were little. She was the baby of the family, used to being oohed and ahed over. She liked it all right, but she wanted to be heard! The only way to do that was to have a tantrum, but even Carmen knew she was getting too old for that. She just didn’t know any other way. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her bob; parted it on one side, then the other, tucked her chin down to make the swing of her bangs jut forward, como un rock star, her eyes peeking from behind a wedge of hair. Then she pulled all her hair back, away from her face. I look like a fat-face baby, she thought and threw herself onto her bed.

  Ay, por favor! Carmen wasn’t fat. She was shaped like an American Latina, with a small waist, broad hips, wide shoulders, and just enough on top. Her skin was creamy and smooth. But of course, every small bump here, every tiny mole there looked like deformities to her—another reason she liked her new bob. She thought the way it swung forward covered all her flaws.

  She cranked up the stereo on her nightstand, already loaded with a Gustavo Alberto CD set to play “Dónde Vas?” If Diego were home, he would be pounding on the wall between their two rooms, sorry for the day he introduced his sister to the Chilango rocker. He would ask her to listen to something else, anything else—even La Conquista (which he called the “bubblegum cumbia chicas”). It was just last year that Carmen played their music like crazy. This year, they fell to the bottom of her pile, replaced by the razor-edged Girl in a Coma, the Spanish rapper Mala Rodríguez, and la chica de Tijuana Ceci Bastida. But Gustavo, he was her boy. When she listened to him, she thought it was like being with someone who knew how it was for her.

  How it was for Carmen was different from her brother. Why wasn’t he angry? Their father was gone! Couldn’t he feel how wrong that was? But that was where she was wrong. That Diego’s pain cast a different shadow from hers didn’t make sense to Carmen. It was her—how they say?—blind spot, made worse because the baby of the family is always used to their needs getting all the attention, verdad? It got worse when her father left and Carmen’s ability to feel for others exploded into self-absorption. It would pass, but not soon enough for her brother and mother.

  Carmen rolled onto her stomach and reached under her bed for the book of saints she kept there. She thumbed through the curled pages, flipping between the stories that appealed to her, landing on St. Joseph the Laborer. She read the description, decided this was the one, and picked up the phone.

  “’Apá?”

  “Mande.”

  “Listo?”

  “Siempre, mi corazón.”

  Carmen carefully read the description of St. Joseph the Laborer to her father. This nightly reading was a ritual they had started when she was a little girl. It was something Esteban had learned from his mother, who prayed to her favorite saint as she put Esteban—her youngest son—to bed. As a father, it was how Esteban helped his daughter learn to read (improving his English, también) and was a way to get close to the daughter he would, for the rest of his life, find enchanting. Confusing, but enchanting. Never did Esteban Ruiz imagine he would become the father of the little dove they placed in his arms fourteen years earlier. Boys, yes—he was ready for sons. He had come from a family of ten boys and a long line of uncles who all worked with their hands and taught him and his brothers all the skills they could use to hold a job and support a family. But Carmen, a thing so precious he couldn’t believe she came from him, held Esteban in—cómo se dice?—her thrall. She buffed all his flinty edges, softened all the calluses, made him happy to be alive after a grinding day of working in the sun, crawling through tight places, hanging upside down, or suffering whatever work had worn down his back and his spirit. When the only thing he wanted to do was get home, eat, and go to bed, it was the sight of his little girl tugging at his pant leg as he washed his face and hands that brought him back to life. To Carmen’s delight, he would scoop her up with one arm and hold her close, inhaling the freshness of her life. She giggled, and Esteban Ruiz didn’t feel like another hand, a pair of arms, a back, or a worker. Yes, that little girl made him feel like a king.

  “Dime mi’ja, why did you choose that one?” Esteban asked, when Carmen finished reading the entry.

  “Because he reminds me of you.”

  “Ay tú. I’m no saint, mi’ja.”

  “No, but you’re an honest man like him. A worker. You work hard, and you help people …” Carmen could not finish her thought. “’Apá,” she said after a moment. “The fish are dying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re dying. Se fue! Just like that,” she said.

  “Oh. A bird probably ate something bad and flying by, you know, made a drop into the pond, and the fish ate it.”

  “Yech!”

  “These things happen,” Esteban said. “I’m sure it will pass.�
�

  “Yeah, okay.” Carmen was quiet for a long time, wondering how she was going to say what she needed to say. “I think they miss you,” she said.

  “Quién?”

  “The fish. They miss hearing you talk to them in the morning before you go to work.”

  Esteban chuckled. “You know about that, eh?”

  “Yeah, ’Apá. So, I think you should come home before all the fish die.” Carmen said it with a wink in her voice, but Esteban knew it was no joke. A lump swelled in his throat.

  “Ay, mi’jita …”

  “Okay, ’Apá? Just come back.”

  “When you’re grown up—”

  “I’m almost grown up now!” she said a little too bold, but the only thing Esteban heard was his little girl trying to sound brave.

  “Yes, you are almost grown. I heard there’s talk of a quinceañera. I heard you didn’t want to do it. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Carmen stammered. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Oye, I’ve never been to one, but you get to dress up pretty and have cake. There are other things that go along with it that you might like,” Esteban said. “There is a lot of tradition there. This is the kind of thing a daughter should do with her mother, entiendes?”

  Carmen didn’t want to disappoint her father, but she didn’t like the idea of doing something to make her mother happy, either.

  “Well, I guess I could go to that fair she keeps telling me about.”

  “What could it hurt, mi’ja?”

  “If I go to the quinceañera fair, that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it, though.”

  “Ay, Carmen,” Esteban said, before putting on his most serious, fatherly tone. “Don’t treat your mother bad because you don’t like the way things are with us,” he said. “Show her some respect.”

  Carmen was quiet for a long time, and Esteban thought he’d lost her when she finally said in a voice the size of a teardrop, “Come home.”

  Híjole, her voice was that little key to unlock all those memories, all those fears, all that alegría that came with being the father of one little girl. It was the voice that reminded Esteban that Carmen would be his most precious angel forever.

  “Mi’ja, no te preocupes. All you need to worry about is doing good in school and being a good daughter. You can do that, verdad?” Carmen wiped her eyes with the back of her hand just as Esteban was doing the same. “Por favor, mi corazón—for your old padrecito?”

  “Okay,” Carmen said.

  “Bueno pues, buenas noches, corazón.”

  “’Apá! The quinceañera fair is Sunday. I’ll go with you to Mass before, okay?”

  Esteban wanted to say yes, but even his everyday life was filled with uncertainty. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint his angelita. He wanted to put that off as long as possible.

  “Okay, mi’ja. Hasta el domingo próximo.”

  “I’ll see you before then, won’t I?” Carmen asked in a twisted voice.

  “Por supuesto, sí,” Esteban said. “Por supuesto.”

  But the truth was, he didn’t know.

  When Ana pulled up in front of the Castañeda house, Rafa, his sister Sonia, Diego, Tomás, and a boy she didn’t know were inside the open garage, packing up and drinking sodas. The boy who played the congas was passing in front of Ana’s car when he saw her and, like a good boy, gave her a polite nod.

  “Oye, Tomás,” Ana called, as she stepped out of her car. “Who’s that boy?”

  “Oh, some gabacho,” Tomás said. “I mean, he’s the guy who called from the flier we put up, looking for a bass player.” The boys had been trying to form a band for a while now, but they hadn’t found the right mix of musicians yet. Ana leaned against her car.

  “Is he any good?”

  “Yeah, he’s good,” Tomás said sadly. Ana frowned.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, except I think he’s interested in other things.”

  Ana looked back to the garage and saw that the boy was leaning in a little too close to Sonia Castañeda, Rafa’s sister. Ana suspected her Diego had a crush on Sonia. In fact, she knew it. It was splashed all over his face. Diego stood a few steps away from Sonia and the boy as he spoke with Rafa, but all his attention was on the new boy.

  “Where is he from?” Ana asked.

  “I think he said he moved here from Austin,” Tomás said. “Bueno, señora, my ride is here.”

  Ana waved to the driver who came for Tomás as she walked up the drive to get a better look at the new boy. He was dressed todo in black except for his white belt y los wristbands con silver studs, and big disks filling up both his earlobes (él dice, plugs). He had a piercing on his lip (ay, ay, ay!) and another on his brow. Compared to the boys, his facial hair was thick—which wasn’t saying much, with those two weedy sideburns. What surprised Ana was that he had tattoos covering one arm with work started on the other. He was either older than the boys or had found someone who did it outside the law.

  The new boy was acting todo suave, hanging over Sonia like a spider, waiting for the perfect moment to drop. Sonia was sitting on a cooler, tuning a guitar resting on her knee. Ana could see she was more interested in what she was doing than the boy, but Diego wasn’t as sure. He kept throwing looks over at the boy to make sure he was keeping his distance from Sonia, and he was relieved when Mr. Castañeda came into the garage. Then the boy turned his attention from Sonia and purposely went up to the man to shake his hand. Sonia took the opening to pack up the guitar and hand it over to Diego. Mr. Castañeda took the boy’s hand, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t looking the boy up and down. He spent so much time checking out the boy, he didn’t know that Sonia was already inside the house when he told her to get inside. Diego was relieved.

  Ay, mi’jo, Ana chuckled to herself. You have nothing to worry about.

  Diego quickly gathered his things when he finally saw his mother standing in the drive.

  “What’s this?” Ana asked, as Diego put the two instruments—the guitar and his sax—in the backseat of their car.

  “A guitar. Sonia is letting me borrow it. She got a new one.”

  “That was nice of her,” Ana said. “You’re going to teach yourself?”

  “She’s going to teach me,” Diego said. “She’s really good. You should hear her play, ’Amá. I’ve never seen fingers move like that. She’s like la Gabriela, each finger like a match, striking a different fire.” Diego’s voice grew more and more excited as he spoke.

  “Gabriela?” Ana asked.

  “Yeah, from Rodrigo y Gabriela.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry. You’d like them,” Diego said. “I’ll make you a tape.” Ana could see Diego’s smile, bright inside the dark car, and they drove for a moment in silence.

  “How did that new guy work out?”

  “He thinks he’s all that because he’s played in Austin and has done some studio work.”

  “Well, is he?”

  Diego sighed.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty good. The best one we’ve seen so far. But we’ll see.”

  Ana glanced at her boy, tall and lean, with black curls tumbling over his head. She thought Diego was all that, too.

  “’Amá, how come girls like boys like him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, all ‘bad boy.’”

  “What girls do you mean?”

  “Girls. They always like those dangerous types. He even said he started playing bass because of all the attention he gets. I think it’s because of his tight pants, cutting his huevos in half.”

  “Diego!” Ana laughed. “Not all girls like those kind of boys. I bet Sonia likes nice boys like you.” Diego sank into his seat, staring at the dashboard.

  “Sonia? She’s Rafa’s sister,” Diego said.

  “So, she’s a girl, isn’t she?”

  Diego shrugged and Ana knew she needed to speak carefully.

  “If you ask me, I don’t think s
he’s that impressed with him. And I think I remember something about being a girl.”

  Diego needed to change the subject.

  “Yeah. Speaking of girls, how’s la cabrona?”

  “Diego!” Ana was shocked at her son’s language as well as the fact that she knew exactly who he meant. “Watch your language, son.”

  “Disculpe, ’Amá, pero … when’s she going to stop being so …”

  Ana sighed. “I don’t know, Dieguito. She’s angry.”

  “But she’s so—” Diego said. “I don’t like how she talks to you.”

  “Thank you, chulo. I appreciate it. Try not to let her get to you. Let me worry about her. You just worry about school and all your projects. So, is Sonia going to play in the band now, too?”

  “No, she just came out to give me the guitar when El Rey decided to make his movida,” Diego said.

  “El Rey,” Ana laughed. “You better be careful. You might forget and call him that to his face.”

  “That’s what he wants us to call him. You know, like Elvis?” Diego did his best Elvis impersonation, which even Ana had to admit was—cómo se dice?—lame.

  Ana began thinking as they drove through the park near their house.

  “Mi’jo. You’re doing okay, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, it must be strange with your dad gone. I would understand if you were angry, too.”

  “I’m not mad. I mean, I don’t really know what’s going on, so …”

  Neither do I, Ana thought. “Well, when we get things figured out, you kids will be the first to know.”

  But even Ana didn’t know if that was true. How long would Esteban keep avoiding her? How long should she wait? She was as in the dark as her children, the only difference being she was supposed to know what was going on. If the authority known as “They” knew how much she drove by the seat of her pants, she was convinced They would be horrified and swoop in and take her children. She could organize things and events. She had a talent for planning and putting things in order, making sense out of nothing. It was what made her good at her work. But this thing with Esteban, with its messiness, and his silence, and the confusion about their situation, left Ana helplessly poking through the remains of their marriage. The only thing that made sense to her were their children. For them, Ana knew she would do whatever she had to do to protect them from the heartache she knew they would feel if they really knew what was going on. And the best way to do that, she decided, was to keep them busy with their own lives.