“Things have been bad for a long time,” Beatriz said. Ana kept staring at the ceiling. “Two, three years now?”
“Why do you keep trying to bury my marriage like it never happened?” Ana snapped.
The hot pot Beatriz had plugged in began to grumble. Ana sighed. She did not want to argue with her friend; she just wanted to make her understand. “You don’t just throw away twenty years. And I think he still loves me,” she said.
“You think?”
Ana bit her lip to keep it still.
Beatriz spoke gently: “You’re the mother of his children. You will always be connected to him, but maybe it’s time to get on with your life.”
“My life is with him.”
“Really? Do you really believe that?”
The hot pot was now screaming, but Ana kept her eyes on the ceiling. It had been a long day. Her emotions swerving back and forth made her tired. On the outside, she stayed calm, but inside, a storm blew through her. She sat up and took another piece of chocolate.
“I want to. I want to believe that.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“I mean why?”
Ana didn’t know what to say.
Beatriz got up, shut off the hot pot, and poured the hot water over hibiscus tea she had spooned into a squat green teapot. Ana had given it to Beatriz for her sixteenth birthday. It was the first thing Ana bought with her own money, the year they each got their first summer jobs—Ana working at a dry cleaner, Beatriz waiting tables at the Blanco Street Café. The teapot was nothing fancy. The lid was cracked and the inside was stained, but it was one of Beatriz’s most precious things. She used it every day but knew it had to be handled with care.
“I got married in the church, and I still believe in my vows,” Ana said. Even without looking at her, Ana could hear what Beatriz was thinking. “Yes, I know, I know! I don’t go to Mass, I’m a bad Catholic! I’m a bad woman! I’m a bad—”
“Stop it! That’s not true. You’re not bad, but this doesn’t make any sense. You’re so good at moving past the things that hold you back. I’ve seen you do it a thousand different times. Oye, I’m the first one to say that no one knows what goes on in a marriage but the two people in it, but—”
“Esteban is not holding me back. He’s just not interested in what I do.”
“And that’s the kind of marriage you want to have, where you are two ships that happen to be in the same port? Anchored by what? Your kids?”
“If we split up, they won’t want to be with me. They’ll want to be with him.”
“Oh, that’s not true!”
“It is true! Look at how Carmen is with me now! And Diego, he’s growing up and he’ll be going to college, and …”
Even Ana could hear how todo lopsided she sounded.
“Ana …”
Ay, ay, ay! Ana knew that when Beatriz said her name, what came next was going to be la palabra, la verdad, the truth, sin feathers to make it tickle or cushions to soften the edges.
“I know he respects you, and I think he cares about you, and I think he wants to do the right thing, but you need to face the truth. He wants out. He is out. I think if you think about it—really, really think about it—you want out, too.”
“No, I …” But Ana couldn’t finish. She felt the tears coming, and she pulled a tissue from a nearby box and held it with her fingertips in the corners of her eyes.
“Ya mujer. Déjame, por fa’.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Here,” Beatriz said, handing Ana her cup of tea. “You don’t have to decide today, and you don’t have to explain anything to me, but please—don’t spend too much longer being unhappy, okay?”
Ana took the cup of tea from Beatriz and inhaled the fruity steam. She tried to take a sip, but it was too hot. And besides, she wanted to keep the taste of chocolate in her mouth as long as she could.
“I’m sorry if I tease you too much about Montalvo,” Beatriz said. “But damn, he’s a good-looking man. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”
“Maybe you should go out with him,” Ana said.
“Well, that’s not going to happen, but don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”
Ana dropped her chin to her chest.
“Hey, I’m with Larry to have and to hold and all that, but that Montalvo—he can make you think all kinds of … thoughts,” Beatriz said.
Ana blew on her tea and kept her own thoughts about Montalvo to herself. Beatriz went back to the couch, sitting slowly so not to spill her tea.
“Oye, you think Cynthia can help Raquel arrange the Montalvo reception?”
“Another reception? What was at the president’s house?”
“That was his private campus thing. I’m talking about the public artist-in-residence reception. Remember?”
“Oh,” Ana said. She thought contact with Montalvo was finished. “Well, she’s good, but she’s new. I don’t want to overwhelm her. Can’t Raquel do it?”
“She’s going on maternity leave the week after, but I think she’s going to drop that kid sooner. I don’t want her to be the point person. You want another chocolate?”
Ana looked at the shiny box, the last two pieces next to each another bien cozy. What could it hurt? she thought. Pero no. Ana knew what she had to do.
“No, I better not,” she said. She took a sip of her tea, washing away the last taste of chocolate in her mouth.
The two friends sat, the way old friends can, without words, familiar and contentas. They drank their tea, chatted about small things, and watched the shadows of the late afternoon make shapes on the walls. Something about the change of light made the piles on Beatriz’s desk look como un landfill.
“Ay! I have so much work to do!” Beatriz whined.
“I know the feeling,” Ana said.
“Do you think Sister What’s-Her-Name would believe this? Remember how we used to complain about homework? And look at all this!” Beatriz said, nodding toward her desk. “Sister is probably laughing at me from the other side as we speak. I bet she never imagined I would have this kind of job.”
“You? What about me?”
“Oh, everyone always expected good things from you. But I always thought you were going to travel the world and take many lovers,” Beatriz teased.
“N’ombre! I always thought that would be you!” Ana said. “I never thought you would get married, let alone be a mother. Remember how everyone used to cruise down Military and turn around at the river? No one crossed that river. You were the only one who crossed and came back with a nice Highland boy.”
“Yeah, by way of the University of Michigan,” Beatriz laughed. “I would have never met Larry had I not gone to grad school.”
“And I would have never gone to college if you hadn’t gone first.”
“And I would never have gone to college if you hadn’t helped me with that bio class I nearly failed.”
“And I would have never taken my first art class if you wouldn’t have driven me that one summer …”
“Oh yeah … every Thursday and Friday, three to six o’clock.”
“I was so scared. And you never missed a day. You weren’t even late.”
“Yeah. Your teacher sure was cute!”
“What? All this time I thought you were doing it because you wanted to support me!”
“I did want to support you,” Beatriz said. “But that teacher was yummy. What was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Me neither.”
Ana and Beatriz finished their tea, silently going through the long list of scenes they saw with each other—los novios, lost loves, false friends, their weddings, the births of their children, the deaths of Ana’s parents at too young an age, Beatriz’s miscarriage, new jobs, promotions, money problems, sick children, the once-in-a-while arguments, and the return to the fold of their friendship, where it was safe and familiar, como familia—the family you choose, the ones who
can leave but don’t.
“Wow. We’ve been friends for a long time, eh?” Beatriz said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You know I love you, and I love Esteban, but it’s your back that I always got.”
“And I’ve got yours.”
“Don’t forget that.”
“How could I?”
When Beatriz stood to take their empty cups, she searched Ana’s face.
“Better?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Ana stretched her arms, feeling todo relaxed until she looked at her watch.
“Damn! I’ve got to go.”
“Where are you off to?”
Ana sighed. “To meet Esteban. It’s got to be done. There’s too much stuff to take care of.”
“Well, I hope things turn out the way you want,” Beatriz said. And it was true. She wanted her friend to have a good life, to be as content as a cup of tea. Ana left, her heart warm and her mind clear from her time with Beatriz. And now, she was determined that her meeting with Esteban would not end in uncertainty.
ELEVEN
Ana got to the taquería on time, but Esteban was late. The place was only half full, and Ana stuck out because she was the only one dressed for office work. A couple and their young family sat in the middle of the room waiting for their meal. Their four small children had been told how to behave in public. Their faces and hands scrubbed clean, their feet dangling over their vinyl-covered chairs, their big eyes took in every corner of the restaurant. The woman’s smallest child nestled in her lap, while her man, who looked like he’d worked in the sun every single day of his life, slowly sipped a beer.
A group of young men, not much older than Diego, sat in a nearby booth, all dressed in the same T-shirts and white painter’s pants splattered with green spots. The one covered with the most paint was chosen to buy the first round with a slap on his back and a playful shove. The other customers were middle-aged couples, now so used to each other they didn’t bother trying to impress anymore. Some of them came in with in-laws: older, creakier versions of themselves. Ana was always touched by the old ones, noticing how few words were said between them. Had they run out of things to say, or had they moved past language? These were the couples that would die within a few months of each other, Ana thought. The one left behind, surprised at how deeply rooted his or her love was for the departed and thrust into loneliness, would will him-or herself to join the passed beloved en el más allá. When she was young, Ana thought, Well, you just start over. She had read stories of eighty-year-olds swimming the English Channel or ninety-year-olds learning how to fly when they found themselves alone once again. But since her separation from Esteban, she wondered if those people were the exception to the rule.
Maybe something in the old ones’ silence would tell her something about love. Crinkled, stooped, half-blind, or nearly deaf, leaning into walkers or balancing with canes, the old ones clung to each other through who knew what. The ones that held hands like teenagers used to make her sigh, but lately she’d been thinking, Were they staying together out of love or because they knew no other way?
And then there was the time Ana saw a viejito give his wife’s sagging behind the squeeze (todo sneaky).
“Qué chiflado!” the woman had hissed. She swatted at her viejo’s hand, but she liked it. He knew she liked it. And because she knew that he knew, she began to giggle como un schoolgirl. Ana smiled. Is this what “to have and to hold till death do us part” is supposed to look like? Ay, mujer. She could barely remember the last time Esteban touched her.
Ana looked around the restaurant remembering why Esteban liked it there. It was clean, friendly, y puro rascuache. Neon-lit beer signs hung on the mango-colored walls. A cooler near the kitchen was filled with Mexican sodas and milk jugs refilled with homemade aguas frescas and a plastic bowl with pico de gallo. A list of specials was written on bright pink poster board and taped above the register, and near that hung a line of signed photos from Tejano musicians. The owner’s wife was an Emilio Navaira fan and near the door was a small shrine to the singer, who nearly lost his life in a bus crash driving back from a Houston concert. The food was comforting, and the main language was Spanish. The owner saw Ana when she entered and, as she seated herself in the corner, he insisted she have an horchata made fresh that morning. That was really Esteban’s favorite drink, but she accepted it, thanked him, and took a few sips of the milky drink to be polite.
The painter chosen to buy the first round was told to pick a Navaira song on the jukebox. The boys at the table called out song titles, but the boy at the jukebox got confused. It wasn’t a Navaira song that played but Lydia Mendoza, singing one of her sad, fist-beating-her-chest love songs, “Besando La Cruz.” And, right on the mark, that was when Esteban walked in.
Ana could tell he was freshly showered, his jet-black hair still damp and shiny. She knew the Western-cut shirt he wore. It was her Christmas gift to him last year. The shirt was black con red piping, and she knew he would like it because, as he exclaimed when he pulled it from the box, “Mira! Now I can be como Rick Treviño!” (He was his favorite Tejano singer.) She liked it because she knew it would show off his broad shoulders and narrow waist.
And ay, how Esteban could fill out a pair of jeans! Worn, but still dark blue, they hugged his hips and his powerful thighs. He carried a stiff cowboy hat, his fingers dark and rough against the smooth, vanilla-white brim. Except for a few lines around his eyes, he didn’t look that different from when they first met. She was working in the office at Marcos’s first construction site, and he had just joined the crew after working on an oil rig in Alaska, landscaping in Michigan, working the rail yards in Omaha, and, finally, making his way back to Texas—where, he said, it felt like home. The other men on the site saw how he looked at el jefe’s sister when she handed out the paychecks and teased him without mercy.
“Ask her out, hombre! You know you want to!”
Ana noticed him, too. His gentle eyes, his skin deep brown from working in the sun, his worn hands that he made a point to make extra clean on payday, digging the dirt from under his nails with a penknife. He did not want to extend a dirty hand to Ana when he took his paycheck. The men on the worksite teased him about that, too.
“Oye, Esteban—do you want someone to paint your nails, ése?”
Esteban ignored them. The day he finally got the nerve to ask Marcos if he could ask Ana out, Marcos told him he could do what he wanted, but Ana could decide for herself. So when Ana said yes, Esteban was floating como un hot-air balloon. He worked hard, pero Ana could see he was—how she said—arrestingly gentle. After a time, when it was clear they were crazy for each other, Esteban told her that he was not always going to be working construction.
“Why not?” she had asked. Her father had started the construction business Marcos would later take over and turn into a big business. “It’s honest work,” she told him. Ana had just finished at the community college and was taking her first class at the university. He told her he wanted to take the firefighter’s exam so he could work for the city, put in his years, and retire. Maybe buy a boat. With Ana’s “buena suerte,” he took the test, ready to make this first step toward their life together. But when the letter came telling him he did not pass—ay, Esteban!—he felt like he had fallen into a hole he could not climb out from.
“You’re not the only one, mi amor,” Ana had told him. “I hear it’s tough.”
He told her it was the physical part that kept him back, but really it was the paper test that kept shooting him back to the end of the line. Ana could have helped him, but he just could not make himself ask her. He just couldn’t. Maybe that was the first drop in the pool that would, over time, turn into the wave that would rock their marriage, quién sabe?
The city had stopped the call for firefighters one year, and then the next. By the time the city put out another call, Esteban had already settled into steady work with Marcos, and Ana got her first part-time job as an administrative assi
stant at the university, and went to classes at night. That was the year they decided to buy a house and start a family. When Ana found out she was pregnant with Diego, they both believed life could not get better.
Esteban looked around the dining room, saw Ana in the corner, and walked over to her just as Lydia sang:
“You are the only one for me / There was never anyone else …”
Esteban leaned down and kissed Ana on the cheek and then sat down. Ana would have liked to believe he was dressed up for her, but she knew he always dressed like this whenever he went out—to church, to the grocery store, out to eat. It was his way.
“Cómo estás?” he asked.
“Bien. Y tú?”
“Bien, bien. Did you order?”
“No, but you go ahead,” Ana said.
Esteban ordered his usual: tres tacos de lengua, arroz, jalapeños, and the pickled cabbage salsa that the owner’s Salvadoran wife made for the few patrons who liked it. He ate quietly, nodding as Ana went through her file. She asked him how he wanted to handle the household finances now that they were living apart. He had few suggestions. She was the one with the solutions; he had no worries about how she wanted to handle things.
“So that’s it?” Ana asked, when they got to the bottom of the papers.
“You know what you’re doing,” he said, shoveling some lengua y arroz into his mouth. “You don’t need me.”
Ana sat back in her chair.
“Well then, maybe you can help with the kids.”
Esteban reached into his shirt and pulled out a rumpled envelope with several $100 bills inside and slid it toward Ana.
“It’s a little less than last time, but I can get you the rest later.”
“No, I mean, thanks. I mean, your kids miss you,” Ana said. And then she decided, what the hell. She dove head-first into the deep end of the pool.
“I miss you.”
Esteban didn’t know what to do with these words. They were small words, simple words that he knew Ana said honestly, but they made him go dumb. He knew that was not what she meant to do, but he did not know any other way to hear her. This wasn’t always the way it was. He didn’t know when it changed, and that made him feel worse. If Esteban had taken the time to really think about what Ana was saying, he would have come up with his own simple words: he missed their life; he missed the way things used to be. He missed that his kids weren’t small and full of questions he could answer. He missed the Ana he met when they were young, the woman who needed him, who found strength in him, who needed to know what he thought, the woman who didn’t need anything else in her life but an honest man, good kids, and a nice house to come home to.
Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz Page 10
