Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  Esteban wiped his mouth with his napkin. Even though he was clean-shaven, his whiskers rasped the thin paper napkin. Ana remembered how his cheek would do the same to her face when he kissed her full with desire, when they were young, before children, work, buying a house, and all the other things that brought them to this sad place in their lives. Esteban wadded the used napkin into a ball and dropped it onto his empty plate. Ana began to squirm, left hanging in the air as she waited for Esteban to answer her.

  “Did you hear me?” she pressed. Esteban could feel the shame and sorrow thundering under the surface and did what he could to ignore it.

  “Are they still doing good in school?” he asked.

  Ana felt like she had belly-flopped into the water and was being held under. She struggled, but she could hold her breath as long as he could, she decided.

  “So far.”

  “Have they asked any questions?”

  “Not yet. Diego worries too much, and Carmen … What happened to you on Sunday?”

  Esteban leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Perdóneme. Tell her I’m sorry, por fa’—”

  “You tell her you’re sorry! You talk to her more than I do. The way she talks to me, you’d think I was the cause of everything wrong in the world.”

  “What does she say?”

  “It’s not what she says; it’s her attitude.”

  Esteban looked at her blankly.

  “Her tone, her mood. You know …” Ana struggled for the words in Spanish so Esteban would fully understand. Not finding them, she resorted to her old standby:

  “The flavor of her words to me son muy picosos. Entiendes?”

  “She disrespects you?”

  “She’s angry and confused,” Ana said. “And yes, I would call her disrespectful.”

  “I can talk to her.”

  “Gracias, pero—what about, you know, what we talked about before?” Ay, no! Esteban was praying that Ana had forgotten. He leaned back in his chair like he was trying to get away from her question.

  “The marriage counselor is waiting for an answer,” Ana said. “He speaks English y Español, y él respeta confidentiality.”

  Esteban looked over his shoulder and then leaned forward and took Ana’s hand. Her heart leapt. The way he could show tenderness from his worn hands always surprised her. Maybe her patience was paying off. Maybe Beatriz was wrong when she said Esteban had already left their marriage. Maybe he did miss her. Maybe …

  “I know this is what you want, but I … I wish I had done things different, but I am trying to make things good. So, por fa’—”

  “Be patient?” Ana snapped, before Esteban could finish. She took back her hand.

  “Forgive me.”

  “I already have,” Ana said. “What else do you want from me?”

  Esteban didn’t know how to answer this question without getting to the truth that would only hurt Ana more. And that was why Ana fell in love with Esteban Ruiz. He was kind. Underneath that thick male skin, he was tender. And maybe that was the part of him that got bruised when he saw that Ana didn’t need him for the things he thought a man should be needed for: to support his family, make things better, and to keep the order. He didn’t like hearing that Carmen was not acting right, but he liked that he could bring her back to her old self. She was his angel, after all.

  “I thought I could make things better by getting Carmen interested in having a quinceañera,” Ana said. “But you have to be involved, okay?”

  “Sí. When is it?”

  “March, or early April. It depends on when Easter, la Pascua, falls.”

  Esteban stared into the air, calculating in his head.

  “Qué pasó?” Ana asked.

  “That’s a bad time of the year for me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘bad time’? Since when?”

  Esteban rolled through the new information he had in his head. He wanted to tell Ana the truth, but he couldn’t do it. Someone on the outside would have said he was a coward, a mal hombre, but the truth was he didn’t want to hurt her any more than he already had. He needed to be sure he was straight in his heart and in his head before he made any more choices that would affect her and the lives of his children.

  “I can’t change when our daughter was born,” Ana said, todo sarcastic. Her words cut deeper than she knew, and Esteban, again, sat dumbly. The two of them sat with their arms knotted across their chests, watching the water on the glass of horchata bleed into a puddle onto the table. It wasn’t an easy silence like Ana saw with the old ones. Their silence was bloated with sadness, a candle at the end of its life, its flame burning up the last drop of wax. Esteban belched a small, sad chuckle.

  “What?” Ana asked.

  “I was thinking how when Carmen was born, there was more hair than baby in the blanket. And now she’s almost a woman.” He pushed his empty plate to the end of the table.

  Ana was running out of air. She pulled herself from the deep end she had dived into and began the long, hard swim back to the surface where it was safe.

  “And Diego, también, but with curls,” she said. Esteban heard the sadness in her voice, but told himself Ana was just being a sentimental mother.

  Ana wanted to scream.

  “And how did he get to be so tall?” he went on. “No one in my family is that tall. Who in your family is that tall?”

  Ana shrugged.

  “We’re blessed to have two good kids, healthy, and smart,” Esteban said. “You did good with them.”

  This made Ana angry. “We did good with them,” she said. She was not going to let Esteban off like that, let him believe that he was always on the outside. And she didn’t like feeling that all this talk of their past was a long—cómo se dice?—bittersweet eulogy for their life, their marriage. Things were bad, but she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

  “It was you,” Esteban pushed. “You were the one who took them to those classes and put them in that school they go to now. Took them to the library y todo. I never thought about those things.”

  “You’re an important part of their lives.”

  “Gracias, pero … okay.” Esteban stood up and dug in his pocket for his wallet to pay the bill. “I’ll help with the quinceañera; just let me know what you need. I’m going to pick up some overtime once this other job is over.”

  Ana knew that when Esteban worked overtime it was his way to not face whatever waited for him at home. Pero that was only part of the truth.

  He was the kind of person who worked out all of his problems as he hammered, sawed, hauled, and built things. Depending on the problem, he could work through and let go of his worries like a snake sheds its old skin. Esteban needed more time to clear his head, find the answers, and make some decisions. He didn’t need no marriage counselor to hear his problems, he thought. He would work it out, como un hombre.

  Esteban walked Ana to her car and noticed how rundown it was.

  “Híjole, I can’t believe La ’Onda is still runnin’!” he said, remembering that they bought it right after Carmen was born. “Take it to Estrada’s, over there on Zarzamora. I’ll tell my compadre to give it a look. Pero, it might be time to start looking for a new car.”

  “I don’t want a new car!” she said. The tears were swelling in her eyes. “This one is good enough for me.” Ana didn’t tell Esteban that the “check engine” light had been glowing since he left. “Maybe a paint job.”

  “N’ombre! It might look better, but if it’s going to go out, you don’t want it to happen on the highway.” Ana’s tears made him uneasy. Was she sad about the car or something else? He knew the difference. He knew what the truth was. He couldn’t let himself recognize her pain. Not now. There was only so much he could handle. He told himself Ana’s tears were because of allergies, nada más.

  “Well, as long as it’s not giving you trouble. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

  “No, they don’
t,” Ana said, looking at her husband with a crooked smile. Esteban couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him: a sadness, thick with want. Knowing he was the cause of this misery filled him with shame.

  “Can I have a supper with the kids this week?”

  “You can have breakfast, lunch, and dinner with them anytime you want. But this week, yes. They’re expecting it. So, don’t forget, okay?”

  “No, I won’t, and I will talk to Carmen,” he said, feeling pride in the one thing, the last thing, he knew he could manage.

  Ana got into her car and buckled herself in. She expected to see Esteban waiting to lean in and kiss her good-bye through the window, but he had walked off and climbed into his truck, his mind already on what was next. Loneliness came over Ana as she watched him start his truck and drive away. She was soggy with grief.

  When she started her car and put her hands on the steering wheel, she noticed her naked ring finger. When Esteban took her hand, he didn’t even notice her wedding ring was gone, and if he did notice, he didn’t bother to ask what had happened to it. Or maybe he was glad to see it gone. Or maybe—and this was what Ana feared the most—he felt nothing. Ana leaned back in her seat as La ’Onda chugged roughly. Now, she understood why the old ones willed themselves to die after their beloveds passed. It was the only reasonable thing left to do.

  TWELVE

  If there was one thing Ana knew, it was that she had to keep Bianca from going toda loca. She called the girls together to talk about the quinceañera the following Saturday morning, and to make it feel like old times she decided to make buñuelos, just like she did when Carmen and Bianca were little girls. Carmen walked into the kitchen barely awake, her lavender robe thrown over the T-shirt and flannel shorts she liked to sleep in. Diego was right behind her, dressed for the day in his nicest pair of jeans and an Arhoolie Records T-shirt. When Carmen saw what Ana was up to, she said she was saving her calories for dinner that night with her ’apá.

  “I want some!” Diego said. He was in a happy, happy mood, muy feliz. Ana smiled as her son gave her a big hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Calories? I don’t care about no stinkin’ calories!” Ana continued to roll out the dough and mix the cinnamon-sugar. Diego crossed to the refrigerator, where his sister was searching for some juice.

  “She’s just trying to be nice, Carmensa!” he whispered.

  “Whatever.”

  Diego rolled his eyes. Ana was laying the first thin disk into the fryer when Bianca came in, hauling a white board and three presentation boards—one for dresses, one for the seating arrangements and table decorations, and the other for … quién sabe? They were on sale, and you never know.

  “Dang, B. You couldn’t get everything you needed on your PowerPoint presentation?” Diego asked. Bianca ignored him and set up her display as Ana continued cooking. Her plain three-ring notebook was puny compared to her sobrina’s todo showy display, but that did not stop her from taking charge.

  “Okay. Music,” Ana began. “There are mariachi songs specifically for the quinceañera Mass, so I was thinking—”

  “I don’t like mariachi,” Carmen yawned.

  “How can you not like mariachi?” Diego asked. Ana and the girls looked at him. “It’s mariachi! What kind of Mexican are you?”

  “When it’s bad, it’s like a squealing cat, and in church it sounds like a giant squealing cat,” Carmen said.

  “I was talking to a DJ—” Bianca said.

  “We can’t have a DJ at the Mass,” Ana said.

  “What about at the reception?” Bianca asked.

  “Why do we need a DJ?” Ana asked. “Diego, you can do that, can’t you?”

  “I guess,” he said between gulps of milk. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Does that sound good to you, Carmen?” Ana asked.

  Carmen shrugged.

  “But a DJ is better,” Bianca said. “Besides, if Diego is in the court, when is he going to have time to DJ?”

  “Wait, wait, wait—why do I need to be in the court? I can be the DJ. That’s good enough for me,” Diego said.

  “But I asked Sonia to be a dama. So who’s she going to be paired with?” Bianca asked todo obvious.

  “Oh … you should be on the court, mi’jo,” Ana said.

  “’Amá!”

  “Come on, son. You should be on the court. Carmen, who else do you want?”

  Carmen shrugged. La muchacha was starting to get on Ana’s nerves.

  This is how it went for an hour—the food, the cake, the invitations. Carmen had no interest in anything until it came time to talk about the dress. Bianca pulled out her esqueche pad, using a chair como un easel to show her drawings. The girl had talent, but to put it nicely, each dress was showing more chichi than the one before it!

  “Dang, Bianca! It’s going to look like a puta parade!” Diego said, as he crossed to the small sunroom next to the kitchen, where he went to watch TV.

  “Diego!” Ana scolded, but she could see what he saw. She turned back to the girls. “These are pretty,” she said, todo diplomat, “but they’re a little too showy for church, don’t you think?”

  “More like ‘showgirl,’” Diego scoffed from the other room.

  “And what do you know about showgirls?” Ana asked. Diego sunk into the couch and turned up the TV.

  “This isn’t for the Mass,” Bianca said. “These are for the party afterwards. She can wear some frilly Easter dress for the Mass if she wants. I want to make the dresses for the party.”

  “No,” Ana insisted. “We’re talking about the dresses for the Mass and the reception.”

  “I’m not wearing an Easter dress,” Carmen said. “I thought I got to wear something special.”

  “Well, what are your ideas, then?” Ana asked. “Did you look at any of these magazines I brought?”

  Carmen shook her head no. Ana was going to dress her girl in a garbage bag and tights if she kept acting like this. As Bianca and Ana wrestled over dress styles, Carmen licked her finger and picked the buñuelo crumbs from the bottom of the serving platter and ate them. Ana was not sure that Bianca could finish all the dresses on time, but Bianca begged her tía to believe her. When pushed, Bianca finally said that she might have to hire a dressmaker.

  “You will hire a dressmaker?” Ana said.

  “My dad will. He’ll be the padrino de vestidos.”

  “Bianca, this is a lot of work. I think we should order the dresses from someplace. Did you look at some of these? They’re cute!”

  Ay, back and forth, back and forth, como Ping-Pong balls Ana and Bianca went. Carmen let them go like this, kind of listening but mostly not, until she found a pad Bianca hadn’t opened. She flipped it open and took it to her mother and prima.

  “I like this one.”

  Bianca and Ana turned to look at her. The picture Carmen found was a simple—how they say?—cocktail-length dress with an empire waistline. Not too low cut, not too tight. The one thing about it was it was colored in wild tiger stripes.

  “That’s not for you,” Bianca said.

  “But I like it,” Carmen said. “It’s got a simple cut, and I like the pattern.”

  Finally! Ana thought. She was happy Carmen had an opinion, and she didn’t want to let the moment slip away.

  “Okay, so what if we put the girls in something similar but only you wore this dress, the cut of this dress? Bianca, you can make this dress, but the dresses for the damas will be ordered.” She wanted to talk her out of the animal stripe but decided to hold that for another time.

  “I can make all the dresses, Tía! Tell her, Carmen.”

  “Yeah, she’s crazy. She’ll do it,” Carmen said. “And I like her stuff. It doesn’t look homemade. She can do it. I know she can,” Carmen said.

  “Why, thank you, cuz.”

  But Ana was not sure.

  “Well, the girls have to be willing to wear the dresses. And they have to fit,” Ana said. “Everyone has to feel good about what they’re wearing. So,
listen to me. We’re going to create a budget and we’re going to stick to it. No last-minute changes.” Bianca could hardly stand still.

  “Are you sure you can do this, Bianca?” Ana asked.

  “I’m sure! I’m totally sure!”

  “Okay …”

  Bianca squealed before Ana could finish, jumping up and down around the room.

  “Dang, Bianca,” Diego said from the sunroom.

  “Oye! Escúchame!” Ana said, peeling herself away from Bianca, who had tightly wrapped her arms around her. “Listen to me! We’re going to pick a date sometime before the quinceañera. If the dresses aren’t coming together by that time, or it’s too hard for you to do this and keep up with school, then we’re doing it my way. Got it?”

  “Got it! Don’t worry, Tía! You won’t be sorry!”

  “Now, let’s talk about food,” Ana said.

  This was about as much girly excitement as Diego could take. That, and he was hopped up on all the sugar and honey he’d poured on his buñuelos. He was restless and needed to move.

  “Hey, ’Amá, I’m going to walk to Rafa’s house, okay? We’re having band practice.”

  “You’re going to walk over there carrying all your stuff?”

  “I’m good.” Diego would arrive at the Castañeda house all sweaty and with a crick in his neck, but he didn’t care. He needed to get away from the pink tornado. And he was anxious to see Sonia.

  “Okay, but remember you’re having dinner with your dad at five,” Ana said. Diego kissed his mother on the cheek and shot his sister a look, as Bianca gave her ideas for centerpieces.