Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  He whistled tunelessly between his teeth. “Okey-dokey.”

  The parking lot at the Rio Bravo Café looked like a used pickup sale.

  Every truck in Santa Fe County was sitting in front of this little wooden building, and it was barely noon. It crossed my mind that this would be a great thing to do—work in a restaurant, making the kind of stuff you love and having people pack in from Colorado to Texas to eat there.

  I abandoned my plan of sitting in the truck while he went inside. I wanted to see what it was like. But I wouldn’t eat anything. I’d just look around, buy a Coke, and bring it back out here to have with my cheese and bread.

  The wooden steps groaned, and Ed Farrell pushed the door open, swaggered in ahead of me like he owned the place. Inside it was bigger than it looked from outside. The light was low and the noise was high, and the air swirled with roasted chile fumes. Two ceiling fans turned slowly, like they didn’t have the energy to go faster. The tables were covered with bright-colored oilcloth in yellow, red, and blue polka dots and green stripes. They were so close together you could lean over and pick off your neighbor’s tortillas, and every single one was taken—cowboys with their hats beside their plates, families with little kids in diapers standing on chairs, “bidness” men with string ties and vests pulled tight across their bellies. All eight seats at the little counter were occupied, and people leaned against the walls waiting to pounce as soon as anyone even thought about leaving. We took our place at the end of the line. At this rate we’d be holding up this wall till about two o’clock.

  Just then the swinging door to the kitchen flew open and a woman breezed by with plates balanced halfway up both arms. The smell nearly made me high. Blue corn enchiladas with chile colorado and a capping of melted jack cheese that looked like snow on Mt. Blanca. Puffy golden chiles rellenos with tomato sauce. Refried beans sprinkled with queso fresco and snips of coriander leaf, dark red arroz con tomate.

  The woman was tall, and her black hair was pulled off her face with big silver and turquoise barrettes. She wasn’t pretty, but everybody acted like she was, including her. I liked the way she shoved through the crowd, smiling and saying hello to everyone, full blue skirt swishing. When she unloaded the plates, I saw the red burn marks up and down her arms. On her way back to the kitchen, she spotted Ed, and her smile got even bigger.

  “Ed! Corazón!” She stepped right up and gave him a big kiss on the mouth, which he didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  Then she noticed me standing there with my hands in my pockets. She raised one eyebrow in a perfect arch, and it was plain what she thought. Ed either didn’t have a clue, or he was a good faker. He gave her a big, stupid grin.

  “This here’s Avery James.”

  I waited for the moment when she saw my eyes, but she was too polite to stare. She held out her hand to me. “I’m Bettina Jacinto. Bienvenidos.”

  By the time we got a table it was close to one o’clock, and the idea of a Coke and a cheese sandwich had passed like a bad dream. I felt like I could eat one of everything on the menu. Except Bettina wouldn’t give us a menu. She said she’d bring us something special.

  In the tiny, one-holer bathroom, I pulled out my money. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and thirteen cents. I had no idea what lunch would amount to, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want Ed paying for mine. I washed my hands and face, smoothed my hair in the cloudy, cracked mirror.

  When I got back to the table, Bettina was standing there. I had the feeling of interrupting a conversation. Ed was already working on a beer, and there was a glass of water at my place.

  “What else you want to drink, Avery?”

  “Milk. Please.”

  One of the busboys brought a basket of tortillas and a dish of tiny meatballs in a nutty brown sauce. “Albondigas,” he said.

  I’d had them before, but only floating in a clear broth that Esperanza used to make on Sundays. The tortillas were great, almost as good as mine. I dipped them in the sauce, and when that was gone, I poured honey on them from the sticky-handled syrup container on the table.

  Ed laughed. “For someone who ain’t hungry, you can flat pack it away.”

  Bettina glided out of the kitchen and set down our plates. Chiles rellenos—roasted poblano peppers stuffed with cheese and raisins, deep fried and sitting on a pool of smoky red chile sauce. One taste cleared out my sinuses like Roto-Rooter, and I was glad I ordered milk.

  She sat down next to Ed, hooking her hand possessively in the crook of his arm.

  “Avery…” She rolled my name around inside her mouth. “Where are you off to with this bad hombre?”

  “I’m not off to anywhere with him. I’m going to Albuquerque. I’m just hitching a ride.”

  We stared each other down for a few seconds till I felt her defensiveness slip away.

  “You go to familia?”

  “To school,” I said. “Great rellenos, by the way.”

  She smiled. “I’ll tell Miguel you like them.”

  “Is that your husband?” I asked innocently.

  Ed looked like he might spit out what was in his mouth.

  Bettina laughed. “My brother. I have no husband.” She lifted her hair off her shoulders for a second to let the breeze from the fans cool her neck.

  “I’ve never had albondigas like those,” I said.

  “Lamb, not beef,” she smiled. “And blue corn masa. You want more milk?”

  “No thanks.” I used my napkin to blot the sweat on my forehead.

  By this time the place had pretty much cleared out except for us, and I was thinking I couldn’t eat one more bite if somebody was holding a gun to my head, but then the same busboy took our plates away, and Bettina brought out dessert—capirotada, bread pudding like Esperanza used to make, and a little pitcher of heavy cream.

  She gave me a corner piece, which is the best, because on two sides you get the little crusty, chewy strings of caramel that harden against the sides of the pan.

  As I was digging into it, she said, “It’s late to travel now. There’s a lot of traffic on the road to Albuquerque. You should spend the night here and drive down in the morning.”

  I started to protest that I was in a hurry, that I couldn’t afford a motel room, even if there was one nearby, which I doubted, but then I glanced up and caught her and Ed looking at each other with a look I knew all too well. That’s when I finally got that it had nothing to do with me. Unless I wanted to try finding another ride, I was going to be here tonight, Albuquerque tomorrow.

  Bettina Jacinto was in love with this burned-out bronc rider. I felt sorry for her.

  fourteen

  Albuquerque was a dusty brown cake baking in the hot summer sun. At least that’s what it looked like from up here. Ed had insisted on taking me up the Sandia Peak tram ride before he dropped me at the university.

  He rested his elbows on the railing of the observation platform while I looked through the skinny tubes that directed your eyes to different landmarks. “Well, kid, here you are. What d’you think?”

  I shrugged. “It’s big.”

  “Yep. It is that.”

  It was about ten degrees cooler up here, but since it was a hundred and four down at the base, it was still hot. The dry wind plastered my hair back. “Could we get a Coke? Then you can drop me off.”

  “Seen enough, huh?”

  I called Fran Talbert, the UNM counselor whose card was in the book on careers that Mr. Horton had given me. I had to waste a couple of hours with her, filling out financial aid forms and talking about courses and majors, but she also gave me a five-page listing of approved student housing.

  From that, I found a nondescript yellow stucco house near the campus. The room for rent was cramped and depressingly beige, but it was cheap; the furniture consisted of a twin bed, small chest of drawers, a chair, and a table. The resident manager told me meals were served family style in the dining room, but that I’d missed the head count for tonight. So I turned on my wh
eezy window air conditioner, unpacked my sack, laid down on my bed, and promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, the shadows outside were long. My nose was plugged up from the cold air, and my mouth was dry and stale.

  It was just after five o’clock and every street, every sidewalk, every building, every surface that had been soaking up sun all day shimmered with heat. Every car going by blew a parched backwash along with exhaust. The windows of every shop and café glared with reflected sun. Dusty leaves stirred listlessly on drooping plants.

  I gave up thinking about what I wanted to eat and opted for the first place that was air conditioned and looked affordable. It was called Sneaky Pete’s Diner. The neon sign featured a cartoon Indian peering out from behind a cactus. Obviously his beak nose and slitted eyes were meant to indicate sneakiness, but I was even too hot to take offense. Besides, the menu posted in the window offered posole and green chile pie and blue corn bread and stuffed sopaipillas, so I went in.

  The counter was empty except for a guy with his cowboy hat parked on the counter next to him, and my heart gave a feeble little thump, forgetting for a split second that no way in hell could it be Will Cameron. I scooted into the booth nearest the door.

  Suddenly the cowboy, who hadn’t turned around or looked up, bellowed, “Rita! Ya got company!” A tiny blond shot through the swinging doors like she came out of a cannon. She placed a menu and a glass of water on the red Formica table and said, “Hi. I’m Rita. Like you couldn’t figure that out, right? We got a special tonight of puerco asado with black beans and corn salad for five dollars and ninety-five cents. Be right back to get your order.”

  She reminded me of a little windup toy that somebody wound up too tight.

  In a few minutes she was back with a red plastic basket of hot tortillas rolled up in a pink napkin. I ordered the special and iced tea and then asked, “How long have you worked here?”

  “A couple months.” She shifted her weight quickly from one foot to the other, like she was waiting for music to start.

  “You like it?”

  “Pretty good.” She smiled. “At least the boss is human. Which is more than I can say for the last one. Alien life form, honey. Direct from Roswell, you know?”

  “Is he here? The human one, I mean.”

  Rita laughed. “He’s gotta be; he’s the cook.”

  “Do you think I could talk to him?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  When I unrolled the pink napkin, the rich grain smell drifted up to me. I tore off a piece of tortilla, dipped it in the dish of salsa and put it in my mouth just as a tall blond man in cook’s whites came out of the kitchen. His fair skin was pink with sunburn and he had pale blue eyes. He didn’t seem to go with the food.

  “Pete Dimon.” His big hand swallowed mine up. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Avery James. I’m just starting class at the university and I’m looking for a job.”

  He gestured at the bench opposite me. “Mind if I take a load off?”

  I nodded with my mouth full.

  “What kind of job you looking for?”

  “Waitressing. Cooking. I worked in the school cafeteria. Great tortillas, by the way. You make them here?”

  He smiled. “No, they come from Central City Tortilla Factory. It’s pretty famous around here.” His eyes narrowed. “How old are you, anyway? You don’t look old enough to be going to the U.” Then I caught that flicker in his expression as he noticed my eyes.

  “I’m eighteen. I’m just small.” I tried to sound confident. “I graduated last month from Florales County High School.”

  “So you’re looking for a part-time job?” He leaned back in the booth.

  “No. A permanent full-time job.”

  His eyebrows reached for his receding hairline. “How do you think you’ll manage to work full-time while you’re going to school?”

  “I have to work. I’m on my own. I won’t be taking a full course load.”

  “I see.”

  “And I need to start as soon as possible.”

  “Well, we can probably use another waitress, but not till fall. Things tend to slack off during the summer. We’re doing some shuffling around right now.”

  I turned to the window, staring through my reflection, into the yellow haze of heat.

  “Rita, bring me an employment app, willya? And a Coke.”

  He sipped his drink while I filled out the form.

  “You forgot your social security number,” he said.

  I hesitated. “I don’t have one. Yet.”

  “Then I couldn’t hire you right away, in any case. Everybody that works for me has to have a social security number.”

  I stared at him. “Even your dishwasher?”

  The reddish cast of his skin intensified. “Well…I…he’s paid in cash…”

  I just kept staring.

  “Or the last one was, anyway. He didn’t show up today, so I figure he’s history.”

  “I’ll wash dishes,” I said. “I can start tomorrow.”

  “Oh, hell no. That’s an awful job. Just get your social security card. It’s not that hard.”

  “I don’t have a birth certificate. I have to get one. Let me be your dishwasher in the meantime. Pay me in cash. By fall I’ll have my card and you can promote me to waitress.”

  “Have you ever washed dishes?”

  “Every day.”

  “Not in a restaurant,” he said.

  “Same principle. There’s just more of them.”

  He shook his head, frowning. “It’s hot, filthy, backbreaking work.”

  I held up my hands—brown, strong, scarred. “I think you can see I’m not afraid of that.”

  He still looked dubious. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  Those first couple of years in Albuquerque came with a pretty steep learning curve. Living with Rita sometimes threatened to push me over the edge into certifiable insanity, but I honestly don’t know what I would have done without her.

  She helped me navigate through the bureaucratic nightmare of getting a birth certificate when you had no clue who your mother was and only a general idea of where you were born. She went with me to the Federal Building to get my social security card and helped me file my first income tax return. Six months later when two feds showed up at our apartment wanting to talk to me about having “forged” Cassie’s social security checks, it was Rita who alerted Pete, who called his lawyer, who took care of the whole thing. All I had to do was pay back the money from the last one, the one I’d cashed after she died.

  In return for Rita’s trouble, I tolerated her intrusion into my life. Her questions and her sticky sentimental brand of friendship. I was an awful friend and I knew it, but I couldn’t help myself. I was so indebted to her that I resented it, and my own dependence made me angry. And, of course, I was jealous. Not so much of her conventional prettiness. I was jealous of her general good nature, her sense of herself, the family that she took for granted, the life she’d had.

  We’d go along just fine for weeks at a time, giving each other manicures, going to the movies, quizzing each other for midterms—and then something would set me off. Something really stupid and insignificant, an offhand remark about how her father had taught her to ride or how she had a sleepover party for her “sweet sixteen.” And I would withdraw like a tortoise into my shell. She’d be hurt, not understanding why, and I’d be pissed off and ashamed of it.

  From day one of my very first semester, I loved the university. Probably because I could only take one or two classes each session, each one seemed inordinately significant. Rita and I spent hours poring over the class schedule at the end of every term, analyzing, debating the options, deciding what to take next. We felt sorry for the kids that zipped through in four years and then left. Kind of like the joke Rita liked to tell about the cowboy sex manual: In. Out. Repeat if necessary.

  I could’ve contradicted her on that, but I
never did, since my experience was limited to one cowboy.

  Not that Rita and Jennifer, the other waitress at Pete’s, didn’t try. They were always trying to fix me up with friends of their current boyfriends, but it never took. The “possibles,” as Rita called them, ranged from rumpled intellectuals in black T-shirts to short-haired cowboys in tight jeans to the occasional business school yuppie.

  I got pretty good at predicting their political views and music preference within ten minutes of meeting them. One thing they seemed to have in common was wanting to have sex immediately. Some of them tried to loosen you up with alcohol or maybe smoking a joint. Some wanted to talk you into bed, which was almost worse. The end result was the same, and you had to listen to a lot of bullshit before you got there.

  For the most part, I was happier alone. I knew by then that Cassie was right—I wasn’t ugly. Not brilliant, but not stupid. Maybe too serious. I didn’t laugh enough.

  I read the magazine articles that Rita kept pushing under my nose, about how to get a guy’s attention. How to flirt. How to tell if someone was good “relationship material.” So it wasn’t that I didn’t know how the game was played, it was more that I couldn’t bring myself to unbutton those top two buttons. To appear fascinated when I felt like dozing off.

  To pretend an interest in football or the stock market or politics. So most Saturday nights found me in bed with a book instead of a guy. And when Rita got home, whether Saturday night or Sunday morning, she was only too happy to share the details, and I got my cheap thrills vicariously.

  Working at Sneaky Pete’s was okay, too. The food was good enough that I wasn’t embarrassed to serve it to people. Rita and Jennifer and I got along fine, and Pete assumed the role of our protective, if slightly befuddled, father figure.

  I knew there were places where the money would be better—night shift at the convenience store, for example. But there, you never knew whether the next person who walked through the door might stand you up against the wall and shoot you in the back of the head.