Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  “No, no. It’s just a pull,” she said, nervously brushing her backside. “I brought some papers for you to sign. I need to get them back to the president’s office before five.”

  “What are they?”

  “There’s an i-9, a health insurance form, a payroll form. Nothing unusual.”

  Montalvo sat down and looked at the papers. Ana kept standing, her hands clasped in front of her. Montalvo looked very different from the day she met him. His skin was still smooth and dark, but his hair was ruffled. His recent exertion made a hum around him, as if all his muscles, still hot from having worked so hard, were winding down like a huge machine shutting down for the night. Montalvo wiped his face and neck with the towel.

  “All of these papers need my signature?”

  “Yes,” Ana said, assuming that was correct, and Montalvo flipped through the papers.

  “I’m sorry. I do not see where.” Ana moved to examine the folder and when she got closer, she smelled Montalvo’s aroma, the smell of sweat before it sours and stains. There was nothing artificial in it, no perfume or cologne that she could name. It was simply him. If the flavor of his skin were identified by his scent, Ana would have to say it reminded her of something surprising and thrilling, like chocolate with chipotle or mango slices dipped in wet chili sauce, or, like she heard the woman at the fancy store say about a perfume she liked: it had notes of leather (ay, tú tú!). She cleared her throat and put her fingers to her mouth, a habit she had when trying to figure something out. Here she was, working hard not to let everything about Montalvo—his neck, those nipples, his brazos like thick branches—make her drunk. But Montalvo got the wrong idea.

  “Discúlpe,” he said after a moment. “I must smell like a horse.”

  “Oh no—not at all,” Ana said, thinking that Montalvo must have taken her habit the wrong way. He got up and moved to the other side of the table.

  “I’m sorry. In my kind of work, it is to be expected to get what they call ‘ripe.’”

  “Oh no. You’re fine.” Montalvo plucked at the neck of his T-shirt to air himself. That only made his aroma stronger, and Ana felt light-headed. His scent dazzled her, made her feel unlike herself y—cómo se dice?—feral.

  “Would you like some water?” Montalvo asked. He could see Ana was woozy. “I will bring you water.” He trotted over to a small refrigerator for a bottle of water. As he twisted off the cap, Ana imagined Montalvo pouring the water over his head, letting it glide over his face, down his neck, over his chest, down his belly, and into the sudden thatch of hair she imagined just below. (Híjole!) The idea of this made Ana turn red, and, if she were to be honest with herself, she would say she felt that tension, deep between her legs. Part of her wanted to cry with joy. It had been so long, she thought those sensations had left her forever.

  “Maybe you should sit down,” he said, afraid that his stink was suffocating the poor woman. “Please, just put marks where I am to sign and push the file over to me.”

  Ana could not believe what was happening to her. She gulped the water and began to look at the file. Her vision was blurred and she began to feel faint. Before she knew it, Montalvo was offering her a carton of orange juice.

  “Drink this. I have some dried fruit, también.”

  Ana chewed on the raisins he offered her and began to go back to herself. She drank the rest of the juice and blinked her eyes.

  “When was the last time you ate?” Montalvo asked.

  Ándale! La mujer had only had a cafecito early in the morning.

  “I—I’m so sorry. I’m fine now. Let’s get back to this.”

  “No,” Montalvo said. “Those papers can wait. Would you like me to take you—is there someone I may call for you?”

  “I’m fine, really. You’re right. I haven’t eaten today and I have been running around and it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

  Montalvo jogged to the far end of the warehouse to turn on a fan, which whined and coughed but finally cooled the air.

  “Please, I would be happy to call someone for you. Perhaps Sra. Milligan, or your husband.”

  “No, no. That’s not necessary.” Ana was now all herself. The mention of her husband and Beatriz, and remembering that time was ticking and the papers were still not signed, made her sit up, push back her light-headedness, and get down to work. When she got a good look at the file, she saw that his signature was only needed on the last few papers.

  When Montalvo finished, Ana picked up the folder and turned to leave. She was partway to the door before she realized she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye.

  Coraje! she thought, as she stopped and turned back to face Montalvo.

  “I’m sorry,” Ana said. “I’m so very sorry. I—you are very kind and I was very—the other day, I mean. You caught me at a bad time, and I’m afraid I made it worse. I have been under a lot of stress lately. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I did not mean to intrude, but when I saw you, I recognized your pain. I …” Montalvo turned to roll up his plans, fumbling as he tried to slide them into a tube. He knocked over a barrel holding other tubes, making them all spill like fat straws across the floor. Ana went to help him, smiling a little at how this man, qué elegante, could be so clumsy. They picked up all the tubes and put them back as they were.

  “I was not trying to be forward,” he said. “I think with my English not being very good and coming to this unfamiliar place, and because I work alone, my manners are very poor.”

  “Oh, no,” Ana said, feeling a drop of sweetness toward Montalvo. “Your English is really very good. And you were so good with the students earlier.”

  “That was part of the reason I took this job, to have more direct contact with people, with young people. And because Bowb was so persistent.”

  Ana had to think for a moment before she knew he was talking about her dean, Robert Priestly. She chuckled.

  “Did I say his name wrong? Is it ‘Boob’?”

  “Oh, no, don’t call him Boob!” Ana laughed. “But we say ‘Bahb.’”

  “Bowb.”

  “Bob.”

  “Bowb.”

  “Bahb.”

  “I’ll call him Robert.” The two of them laughed, the stiffness from before floating off into the shadows.

  “I should go,” Ana said, picking up the file. “They are expecting this before the end of the day.”

  Montalvo walked Ana to her car and opened the door for her. The color had returned to her cheeks, and she felt good to drive.

  “It’s not a good habit, not to eat.”

  “I know. It’s just sometimes I get so busy I don’t think about it.”

  “I do the same thing, but I eat small snacks throughout the day. I don’t like to stop working when I’m in the air,” he said. “Getting light-headed up there is not a good idea.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it is.”

  “Perhaps you could tell me of some places near here to have a cafecito and one of these breakfast tacos people tell me about?”

  “Yes, I can do that,” Ana said. She stared at her lap, then back up at Montalvo. “I’ll ask my husband. He works all over town and knows the best places to go.”

  “Bueno.” Montalvo looked off toward his studio. “Would your husband mind if we had coffee one afternoon? I have many questions about this campus and this city and the students. Sra. Milligan is very encouraging, but I need more thoughts. If it is not too much trouble.”

  “Of course,” Ana said. She wanted to help. She had to help, pero she started to wonder: was she making the first prick into the cloth to embroider something big and complicated? Así no! Ana was not going to be like those other women. “I think that would be fine.”

  As Ana drove off she looked in her rearview mirror. Montalvo was still standing where she left him. And then, ay mujer! You’ll never guess what he did. He took off his T-shirt and tossed it over his shoulder as he turned to head back to his studio. Seeing his naked chest, Ana couldn’t help hers
elf. (What living woman could?) She felt—how would she say it?—euphoric. Pero, not for long, because then it came—the guilt, hard and heavy, like a fist.

  TEN

  Ay, ay, ay! Bianca was on what they call a roll. Her cell phone así, her esqueche pad acá, and Carmen’s clica all around, waiting for what was next. Y Carmen? She was taking her math test. You would think it was Bianca planning her own quinceañera. That’s exactly what Diego thought when he ran into her in the school plaza during a study break. He would have rather not got wrapped up in her tornado, but after he saw what she was up to, he was glad he did.

  “Sí, sí. No. Sí. A deposit? How much? But you’re going to be here already you said. Okay. I’ll call you back.” Bianca slapped her phone shut and crossed “DJ Juana” off her list. Las chicas groaned.

  “So, she’s not coming?” Mari or Alicia or Patti asked.

  “Probably not. I don’t know. I’ll ask my dad,” Bianca said, writing a note on her pad.

  “Who’s not coming?” Diego asked.

  “DJ Juana,” one of the chicas said.

  “DJ Juana? From New York?” Diego asked.

  “Who else?” Bianca said.

  “Yeah, right!” Then Diego remembered he was talking to his cousin Bianca. “Bianca! You can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “A DJ from New York? Who’s going to pay for her to come all the way here?”

  “My dad,” Bianca said, like it was nothing, which it wasn’t, pos …

  “This isn’t your quince,” he blurted. The girls threw each other slanty looks.

  “I know!”

  “Does my mom know you’re calling New York? ’Stás loca?”

  “I’m not crazy,” Bianca snapped. The girls sat up, waiting to hear what Bianca would say next. “I just want my cuz to have a nice party. What’s wrong with that?”

  And then one of the girls—la Alicia or la Mari, one of them—asked, “So how is your mother?”

  All heads turned to look at the bigmouthed girl. Los mal de ojos were flying so fast, you could feel the whoosh. The other girls clucked their tongues and pulled away from the hocicona, but the truth was, all of them wanted to know the chisme about Bianca’s ’amá. Las chismosas!

  Knowing what she had done, the girl pulled her books together and stood up.

  “I got to go to class,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, go to class and learn something, mensa,” one of the other girls said. The chicas sat there, todo uncomfortable, till one by one they each came up with a reason to go do whatever it was they should have been doing already.

  “I left messages for your mom, but some of this stuff can’t wait,” Bianca said to Diego.

  “Carmen’s birthday isn’t for a while. What’s the hurry?”

  Bianca clicked her tongue and whipped her ponytail from over her shoulder to her back.

  “You should be thanking me!” she said. “I talked to your novia last night and she said she would be a dama. But I had to say you would be on the court or else she would have said no.”

  “Bianca!”

  “What?!”

  “Things aren’t so good right now. It’s all messed up, and you being all crazy doesn’t help. We’re not like you.”

  “Like what?” Bianca asked, jutting out her chin. “Like what?”

  “You know!”

  “No, I don’t. Like what?”

  “My mom is worried about money, and don’t go telling your dad I said that, either.”

  “Why not? He’s her brother. He likes helping out.”

  Diego hung his head. He didn’t really know what was on his mother’s mind, but he saw the fat folder she always carried around with the bills and other papers. He knew that it had been a while since she told him he could drive the car once they got the insurance worked out. But with things the way they were, he didn’t think it was right to bother her about it. It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. He could get around; he had friends. He tried to not let it bother him … but it was bothering him, being seventeen years old and having his mother drive him around all the time, or getting rides from his cousin.

  “I just want to help,” Bianca said, bien sweet.

  Diego knew that was the truth.

  “I’m just excited because, you know …” Bianca began picking at the corner of her sketchbook. Diego hoped he would not be sorry for what he asked next.

  “So, really—how is your mother?” Pero Bianca didn’t start spitting chingazos at him, or crying, or calling him names, but went through her sketchbook to the last page.

  “That’s how she is,” Bianca said. A pencil drawing of her mother looked out from the page at him, and Diego almost didn’t want to look at it. The woman’s face was bien pretty but fierce también. Bianca put a lot of time on the eyes and the pencil marks creased the paper like scars.

  “Is she better?”

  Bianca shrugged.

  “Is she worse?”

  “It depends.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Bianca closed her book and put it into the bag she had made from sky-blue suede. “She doesn’t miss me. She doesn’t care if I come or not.”

  Diego was thinking of his own ache from not having his ’apá around. He wasn’t like Carmen. He carried his sorrow softly, hoping no one would notice the crook it put in his smile or the wobble in his throat.

  “Come on. Don’t be like that. She misses you,” Diego said, trying to sound todo wise. He had not seen his tía, Bianca’s mother, since—quién sabe?—not since she ruined Bianca’s quinceañera before it even began. He tried to remember the last time he saw his ’apá in person. When he counted three weeks, it felt like a stone fell onto his chest.

  “I have one more class. If you wait, I’ll give you and Carmen a ride home,” Bianca said, as she stood up to go.

  “I got somewhere else to be,” Diego said.

  This would have been when Bianca would usually tease Diego about trying to go see Sonia, but no. Because she had her own stone to carry, she could feel the weight of her primo’s también.

  “Okay. Thanks for asking, D.”

  ...

  Beatriz was facing the window when Ana entered her office and dropped the Montalvo folder on her desk with a loud thwack. Beatriz twirled to see Ana staring at her with her fists on her hips.

  “Qué pasó?”

  “Here’s your important file that you had to have by five o’clock.” Beatriz was confused. She looked at the folder, then back at Ana.

  “I sent this over, but I didn’t say we needed it by five.”

  “That’s what Cynthia told me.”

  Beatriz called for her assistant, Raquel.

  “She’s gone,” Ana said.

  “I told her to send the file over, but I didn’t say it was a rush. One of them must have misunderstood. Híjole! Sit down, you look like hell.” Beatriz’s office was todo fancy, in colors from the earth and bright colors jumping from the paintings on her walls. Patssi Valdez was her favorite artista. Her cozy settings in electric colors was pura Beatriz, Ana liked to say.

  “I’m fine,” Ana said, falling into the tan leather couch near her. “I just came from seeing Montalvo, and it was hot in that place where he’s set up, and I got faint.”

  “You fainted?”

  “I felt faint. And Montalvo—”

  “Caught you? Gave you mouth-to-mouth? Ay, mi dios!”

  “No! He gave me some juice. I was so embarrassed.” Ana thought about telling Beatriz about the time before with Montalvo in the workroom, when she lost her temper, but that embarrassed her even more. When her cell phone chirped, she wanted to throw it against the wall.

  “Ayyyyyy, déjame!”

  “Qué, qué, qué!?”

  “It’s Bianca. You know she’s left me ten text messages today about the quinceañera? I should have never included her. I should have asked for her help later. But now she’s planning a big pageant!”

  “What do yo
u mean she’s planning a pageant? I thought this was yours and Carmen’s thing.”

  “It’s supposed to be, but I let Bianca help because, you know, what happened to her quinceañera.”

  Beatriz frowned before she remembered. “Oh! She was the one?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one.”

  “Pobrecita …”

  “Well, pobrecita or not, I need her to calm down. She’s a good girl, but when she sets her mind on something she doesn’t let go.”

  Beatriz got up to make some tea.

  “And that girl loves to spend money.”

  Beatriz passed Ana a gold box with dark chocolates sprinkled with tiny bits of dried cherries.

  “Please, help me eat them before I eat them all.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Montalvo gave it to me.”

  Ana surprised herself. Why did Beatriz get a gift from Montalvo? she wondered. Maybe he had a gift for her, too. Maybe that’s what he came to bring her that day when he caught her in the workroom. Maybe he was unsure after what she had said. Why do I care?

  “He gave them out at the barbecue. You should have come. Mocte was there.”

  “He was?”

  “Montalvo invited him. He really likes that kid. He told me he wants him to be his graduate assistant.”

  “Oh! That would really mean a lot to him.”

  “Well, yeah, except he’s still an undergraduate.”

  Ana lay back to rest her neck on the arm of the couch.

  “Don’t worry. I’m working on it,” Beatriz said. “Come on, take one before I eat them all.”

  Ana picked one of the squares and put it on her tongue. Beatriz dropped onto the other end of the couch, the rich chocolate melting in their mouths.

  “Oh, my God,” Ana said.

  “I told you!”

  Ana began to remember Montalvo’s brown nipples through his T-shirt and wondered if they tasted the same. (Ay, mujer sin vergüenza—y qué?)

  “You know he’s not married.”

  “Well, I am,” Ana said, still looking at the ceiling. “We’re separated, not divorced. The subject hasn’t come up.”

  Beatriz swallowed the last of her chocolate and sat up, bracing herself in the corner of the couch.