Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  “So, Diego, can you help me with something? Can you help get your sister to agree to having a quinceañera?”

  “I guess. I don’t know what to say to make her get excited about it, though. You know how she is. Even if her hair is on fire, she’ll say she likes it that way.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. She’ll only go along with it if she thinks it’s her idea. Make it sound like it’s the most rad thing you’ve ever heard of.”

  “‘Rad’?”

  “You know, fly. Dope?”

  Diego smiled and shook his head. Qué cute, he thought.

  “You know, Carmen’s going to need a court. I’m sure we can arrange it for you and Sonia to be a pair.”

  “Huh?” Diego felt like someone pulled down his pants on the playground. “I thought this was her deal. What does this have to do with me?”

  “You’re her brother. You should be involved.”

  “Can’t I take tickets or hand out balloons or something? Why do I have to be in it?”

  “You don’t. I just thought it might be nice—you and Sonia as a pair. Think about it.”

  Diego was blushing so hard he thought his ears would start leaking. Pero, he liked the idea. He liked the idea a lot.

  “Just help me get her talking about it, okay?”

  The outside light came on when Ana pulled into their driveway, and they saw Carmen standing in the back door all ready for bed, arms crossed tight against her chest.

  “Now what?” Diego said.

  “Quién sabe?” Ana said. She put the car into park and helped her son with his instruments.

  “I’ll go to the quinceañera fair on Sunday,” Carmen announced, as Ana and Diego reached her. “I’m going to Mass with ’Apá first. So, I’ll meet you there after.” And with that, she turned and left Ana and Diego standing at the door, blinking at each other.

  “You’re welcome,” Diego said to his mother as he walked into the house.

  EIGHT

  Ana Ruiz was not escared of much. Mice, those flying palmetto bugs that aim for your face, and getting stuck in the elevator were on the top of the list. But after walking into the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center on a postcard-perfect Sunday afternoon, there was a new thing to add to her list: the quinceañera fair. It wasn’t that it wasn’t what she expected. She got what she expected and more. Way too much more, like a pretty girl with too much lipstick. It wasn’t because it was big (the convention center is huge, but the fair only filled one of the small halls). What Ana wasn’t expecting was the rush of mothers, girls, and ’buelitas, the vendors who swooped over her, Carmen, and Bianca everywhere they turned, and the this-is-a-once-in-a-lifetime-event-so-you-better-do-it-right ambiente covered in sparkling sugar, big smiles, and a no-refund policy. Everything you could want for the quince—and chingos of cosas Ana had never thought of—were brought by jewelers, bakers, caterers, tuxedo shops, evening-gown boutiques, stylists, decorators, makeup artists, manicurists, florists, printers, DJs, limo services, hair-care wholesalers, dermatologists, cosmetic dentists, photographers, videographers—all there to cut a good deal if you made a down payment with them right then and there. And that was not even counting the more traditional things that Ana knew of: the quince pillow, the quince muñeca, and the tiara. Nowhere did Ana see anyone showing a quince Bible or rosary.

  Mothers and their daughters roamed the hall scribbling notes on fliers, in small spiral pads, and, for one girl, on the palm of her hand. Ana had to admit it was a good idea when some of the girls pulled out cameras to snap pictures of things they liked: “I like these flowers, Mami!” Click. “Look at this cake!” Click, click. “This table is perfect! Go stand next to it.” Click, click, click. Everyone was excited, laughing and talking loud, drunk on all the pink and pastel, the lace, and all the pretty cositas that caught your eye no matter where you looked. But just as one girl got sucked into the charanga, there would be someone’s yawny-eyed tía, or the ’buelita you had to drag from her novelas, whispering complaints into her shoulder.

  “They call that queso?” a ’buelita asked her daughter, a woman whose future quince was scooping the orange glop out of a small cup with a corn chip and licking her fingers. “I make better queso than that!”

  “Sí! If you want to be making queso for five hundred, go ahead!”

  The few fathers shadowing their babbling wives and daughters were shell-shocked, their hands shoved into their pockets (with their fingers vise-gripped around their checkbooks, you can bet). As the fair went on, their expressions got more and more dazed as the cost of each “necessity” was added to the final bill in their heads. Some of the men were vendors, including two hairstylist/party-planner cousins who had the most lavish display of them all: three booths wide, with lavender tulle looped from end to end with garlands of pink flowers, and spotlights that twirled and changed colors. The cousins were the most popular after the food vendors, because they were giving out silver plastic tiaras for free and five-minute updos for girls whose names were pulled from a basket. So between all the mothers, tías, cousins, and abuelitas, a baby-faced girl walked by with her new do sprayed and clinched with a fake crown, looking like Miss America arriba but dressed in jeans and chanclas abajo.

  The cousins were todo serious, working fast, chomping on their gum, wagging their combs at any girl who thought she might have something to say. (Oh, no, you get what you pay for, esa.) The cousins took their time when they did the models’ hair for the fashion show. That’s where they really showed their stuff, working like crazy hormigas, but fast—comb, spray, pin, y ya! Instant princess!

  Ana and the girls sat down just as the next fashion show started. You didn’t need a watch to know it was going to begin. The music announcing it was pumped up so loud it made your teeth vibrate.

  Pobre Ana had a headache. Not just because of the noise or because her attention was pulled from here to there like a pinball machine, but because Carmen was being more cabrona than usual, and Bianca—ay, Bianca! Ana thought that Bianca had a hand in getting Carmen to the fair. She knew it was right to include her, but to be real, she wished it could have just been the two of them, a mother-daughter thing, Ana and Carmen on their own. But of course, Bianca should be here, Ana thought. If only she would stop talking!

  “Oye, look at that one,” Bianca said, doodling in her esqueche pad, looking at a model making her way down the runway in a pink tube trimmed in chocolate brown. “The fabric is crap, but the cut is nice. I can make it better. Híjole! Aren’t those shoes ugly?”

  “Bianca! That lady over there is looking at you,” Carmen whispered into her hand.

  “I can make you something so much better than this stuff!”

  How Bianca was heard over the music and the noise was a mystery of nature, like those places where balls roll uphill. Ana smiled at the woman who’d been glaring at Bianca, but the woman shot mal de ojos back at her. Any other time, Ana would have ignored her, but la mujer was hard to miss. Those huge brisket arms of hers were crossed over her panza, which was draped in a purple housedress embroidered with bloodred flowers. Ana wasn’t sure why the woman was looking at them so mean. Maybe she’d just put down a payment on that dress for her own daughter; or maybe she, like Ana, was tired of hearing everything Bianca had to say. When it came down to it, Ana would fight for the girl as if she gave birth to her herself, but híjole, Bianca didn’t know when to shut up.

  “Let’s go,” Ana said, when the fat woman would not stop shooting mal de ojos at them. Ana stood up and the girls followed, all of them cutting through the crowd, taking cake samples and brightly colored fliers, whether they wanted them or not. They finally found themselves in a less crowded part of the hall, where a lonely woman had a small booth piled with her own line of clutches, purses, and bags. With most everyone ignoring her (no quinceañera bolsas?), the woman was happy to have someone to talk to when Bianca stopped to look.

  “So, what do you think?” Ana asked Carmen.

  “It’s loud,”
Carmen sighed.

  “Yes, but your quinceañera doesn’t have to be big and loud. I was thinking of something smaller. It’s not just about the cake and the dress and all the stuff. It’s about recognizing that you are becoming an adult member of the family, ready to enter the world. It’s an old tradition.”

  “Then why didn’t you have one?” Carmen asked, todo snarky.

  “We were poor,” Ana said plainly. “I had a cake and I got some new earrings, but …” Ana’s voice trailed as she noticed a vendor demonstrating a miniature Cinderella coach outlined in blinking lights that changed colors from bright white to brilliant blue, fast and slow, then off and on, all from the turn of a dial. A circle of girls with new updos was watching, clapping, and squealing, looking like happy ice-cream cones made of hair and Aqua Net.

  “ … it was nothing like this. I was reading about the history of the quinceañera online. Some say it has roots in Aztec ceremonial rites …” Ana stopped when she saw that Carmen wasn’t listening. She knew it wasn’t just the noise. Ana could feel the distance between them getting wider. It was becoming normal, as if it had never been warm con cariño, like when Carmen was a little girl and she gave her mother hugs just because she wanted to. And in that moment Ana felt that Carmen was sailing out of her reach. She panicked. She was losing her girl, so she grabbed for the only thing she could think of, which was to talk about something she knew Carmen would want to talk about.

  “How is your dad?”

  Well of course, this would be the day when that was the wrong question to ask. Carmen’s temper flared like Ana had poked her finger at a bruise.

  “He wasn’t there,” she said coldly. Ana could almost see the horns sprout on Carmen’s head.

  “What?”

  “I said, he wasn’t there,” Carmen said. She was annoyed she had to repeat herself. Ana couldn’t believe what she had heard.

  “He wasn’t there? What do you mean, ‘he wasn’t there’?”

  “I mean, he wasn’t there. He didn’t show up.”

  Ana went from heartache to worry. “How did you get here?”

  Carmen acted like she couldn’t hear her mother.

  “Carmen! How did you get here?”

  Carmen nodded toward her cousin. And then, just to be dramatic, she said, “But it took me forever to get her on the phone. I almost had to walk.”

  “Where was she?”

  “I don’t know! I’m not in charge of her.”

  Ana gritted her teeth.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  But of course, Ana was the last person Carmen would call. The idea worried Ana more than it hurt her feelings.

  “You should have called me,” Ana said. “I can’t believe him!”

  “It’s no big deal,” Carmen said. She was trying to put no te preocupes in her voice, but the truth was she was trying to fool herself more than her mother. “I probably misunderstood which Mass he wanted to go to. He probably went to the Spanish one, and I just assumed …”

  “Did you call him?” Carmen clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

  “What are you getting so worked up about?”

  “Carmen, did you call him?”

  When Carmen would not answer, Ana fumbled in her purse for her phone.

  He might not want to deal with me or our marriage, but our kids? I’m not letting this go! Ana thought.

  “Yes! Yes! I called him,” Carmen finally spit.

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. His phone was off. You’re making a big deal out of nothing!”

  “You were stranded!”

  “Only for an hour, and I was at church, not in a dark alley. Chill! I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Ana stopped digging in her purse and tried to calm herself. The two of them looked over at Bianca, asking the purse lady 1,001 questions, which the woman answered once she saw Bianca flash a platinum card. Ana wondered how her brother, Bianca’s father, could be so easy with his daughter. Cars, credit cards, clothes—the girl wanted for nothing, and his rein on his daughter was loose.

  “Besides, the Mass was good,” Carmen said. “The father’s homily was about family and honor and stuff. He talked about the sanctity of marriage and honoring marriage vows. You should have been there.”

  Ana could hardly believe it. Was this fourteen-year-old girl really trying to give her mother a lesson on marriage?

  “He was saying how people take marriage for granted and that divorce isn’t the answer, and that he was leading a marriage-renewal seminar next month for couples who need to be reminded of what their vows meant. I got you a flier.”

  (Ay, por favor!)

  Ana looked at the bright blue flier Carmen pulled from her purse. What does this girl know about marriage? she thought.

  It had been years since Ana had gone to Mass. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe, but she practiced her faith “a mi modo”—in her own way. Until the separation, Carmen had nothing to say about how her mother expressed her faith. Besides, Carmen loved going to church with her ’apá. It was another one of those times when she had him all to herself. Maybe because Ana had an altarcito set up in the house, no one asked her why she stopped going to Mass. Ana loved the ceremony and rituals, the candles and the incense, the calming image of La Virgen, the murmuring sound of prayers by the faithful. She even liked the bake sales. But after a time, she began to feel the weight of the church pressing down on her. Faith she would keep, but church? No, her home altar was where she, and thousands, maybe millions, of other faithful women like her, felt closest to God—in those quiet moments when it was just her, preparing a meal or drinking her tea in time with the creaks and sighs of her house and the silent flicker of a single vela. That was when God came to her.

  After a while, it was ordinary for Esteban to go off to church with the kids, while Ana (and later Diego) stayed at home, expressing her thanks and petitions at her altarcito, then preparing a large breakfast they ate together when Carmen and Esteban returned.

  Ana looked at the paper Carmen handed her again. Maybe if she’d gone to Mass, she and Esteban wouldn’t be in this situation. She shoved the flier deep into her bolsa as she felt a throb sprouting deep in her head. She massaged her temple with the heel of her hand.

  “I’m going to sit down,” Ana said.

  “Can I have some money for a soda?”

  Why don’t you ask your dad for the money? Ana thought. But she held her tongue and handed her daughter some bills.

  “I’ll be out there,” Ana said, pointing to the outer hall where the noise was lower.

  Ana found a large window looking into a courtyard and sat down, leaning against the broad sill.

  “So, here you are!”

  Ana gasped, as if the sky had opened and delivered an angel to her feet. “Mira!” She stood up and threw her arms around Beatriz.

  “Mujer, I’ve been walking around this barn for a half hour. I called but you didn’t answer!”

  “You did? I didn’t hear the phone! You hear how loud it is out here? It’s louder in there! Siéntate conmigo. I can’t go back in there.” Beatriz sat with Ana, glad not to enter the noisy hall. “I didn’t think you were coming,” Ana said.

  “I wasn’t going to, but I couldn’t leave you hanging. So, where is your little angel?”

  “She’s in there somewhere,” Ana said. “Her cousin is in there, too. They’ll watch out for each other, which is good, because she doesn’t need me,” Ana said stiffly. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have boys. They’re no trouble.”

  “Are you kidding? For all the broken bones and sprains and split lips and all the crazy cosas boys get into? They built a wing onto Santa Rosa Hospital thanks to my Carlos alone.”

  “Yeah, but I would take a broken arm right now over all this. A broken bone, you slap a cast on it, it heals, and you’re done. With this …” Ana dropped her head. “She’s driving me crazy.”

  “So, why don’t you tell her?”

  “Tel
l her what?”

  “Tell her the truth.”

  “No—it’s not—I can’t do that.”

  “Don’t tell her everything, but just enough to let her know it’s not just about you.”

  Ana’s heart fell.

  “The sooner she learns her father is just human, the sooner she’ll grow up a little.”

  “But I don’t want her to—I mean, no, I can’t do that to her.”

  Beatriz put her hand on Ana’s shoulder warmly. “Mujer, why are you taking all the chingazos?”

  “I’m not,” Ana said, unconvincingly. “I’m not! It’s complicated.” She paused as Beatriz began digging in her huge bolsa for the aspirin she knew Ana needed. “Esteban is a good man. He is! Carmen adores him. I can’t—I don’t want to be the one …”

  Ana was embarrassed to say it, but she was a little jealous of Esteban, of how he was the moon and the stars to their little girl, of how he would always be the one she loved most of all. But Ana also knew that if her daughter knew the truth about her father, it would break her heart. She wanted to protect her daughter—both of her children—from the truth as long as possible. She knew Carmen had to grow up someday, but did it have to happen with so much disappointment and heartache?