He is not very tall, no, and he doesn’t look like the men on the telenovelas. His face still scarred from acne. And he has a bit of a belly from all the beer he drinks. Well, he’s always been husky.
This man who farts and belches and snores as well as laughs and kisses and holds her. Somehow this husband whose whiskers she finds each morning in the sink, whose shoes she must air each evening on the porch, this husband who cuts his fingernails in public, laughs loudly, curses like a man, and demands each course of dinner be served on a separate plate like at his mother’s, as soon as he gets home, on time or late, and who doesn’t care at all for music or telenovelas or romance or roses or the moon floating pearly over the arroyo, or through the bedroom window for that matter, shut the blinds and go back to sleep, this man, this father, this rival, this keeper, this lord, this master, this husband till kingdom come.
A doubt. Slender as a hair. A washed cup set back on the shelf wrong-side-up. Her lipstick, and body talc, and hairbrush all arranged in the bathroom a different way.
No. Her imagination. The house the same as always. Nothing.
Coming home from the hospital with her new son, her husband. Something comforting in discovering her house slippers beneath the bed, the faded housecoat where she left it on the bathroom hook. Her pillow. Their bed.
Sweet sweet homecoming. Sweet as the scent of face powder in the air, jasmine, sticky liquor.
Smudged fingerprint on the door. Crushed cigarette in a glass. Wrinkle in the brain crumpling to a crease.
Sometimes she thinks of her father’s house. But how could she go back there? What a disgrace. What would the neighbors say? Coming home like that with one baby on her hip and one in the oven. Where’s your husband?
The town of gossips. The town of dust and despair. Which she has traded for this town of gossips. This town of dust, despair. Houses farther apart perhaps, though no more privacy because of it. No leafy zócalo in the center of the town, though the murmur of talk is clear enough all the same. No huddled whispering on the church steps each Sunday. Because here the whispering begins at sunset at the ice house instead.
This town with its silly pride for a bronze pecan the size of a baby carriage in front of the city hall. TV repair shop, drugstore, hardware, dry cleaner’s, chiropractor’s, liquor store, bail bonds, empty storefront, and nothing, nothing, nothing of interest. Nothing one could walk to, at any rate. Because the towns here are built so that you have to depend on husbands. Or you stay home. Or you drive. If you’re rich enough to own, allowed to drive, your own car.
There is no place to go. Unless one counts the neighbor ladies. Soledad on one side, Dolores on the other. Or the creek.
Don’t go out there after dark, mi’jita. Stay near the house. No es bueno para la salud. Mala suerte. Bad luck. Mal aire. You’ll get sick and the baby too. You’ll catch a fright wandering about in the dark, and then you’ll see how right we were.
The stream sometimes only a muddy puddle in the summer, though now in the springtime, because of the rains, a good-size alive thing, a thing with a voice all its own, all day and all night calling in its high, silver voice. Is it La Llorona, the weeping woman? La Llorona, who drowned her own children. Perhaps La Llorona is the one they named the creek after, she thinks, remembering all the stories she learned as a child.
La Llorona calling to her. She is sure of it. Cleófilas sets the baby’s Donald Duck blanket on the grass. Listens. The day sky turning to night. The baby pulling up fistfuls of grass and laughing. La Llorona. Wonders if something as quiet as this drives a woman to the darkness under the trees.
What she needs is … and made a gesture as if to yank a woman’s buttocks to his groin. Maximiliano, the foul-smelling fool from across the road, said this and set the men laughing, but Cleófilas just muttered. Grosero, and went on washing dishes.
She knew he said it not because it was true, but more because it was he who needed to sleep with a woman, instead of drinking each night at the ice house and stumbling home alone.
Maximiliano who was said to have killed his wife in an ice-house brawl when she came at him with a mop. I had to shoot, he had said—she was armed.
Their laughter outside the kitchen window. Her husband’s, his friends’. Manolo, Beto, Efraín, el Perico. Maximiliano.
Was Cleófilas just exaggerating as her husband always said? It seemed the newspapers were full of such stories. This woman found on the side of the interstate. This one pushed from a moving car. This one’s cadaver, this one unconscious, this one beaten blue. Her ex-husband, her husband, her lover, her father, her brother, her uncle, her friend, her co-worker. Always. The same grisly news in the pages of the dailies. She dunked a glass under the soapy water for a moment—shivered.
He had thrown a book. Hers. From across the room. A hot welt across the cheek. She could forgive that. But what stung more was the fact it was her book, a love story by Corín Tellado, what she loved most now that she lived in the U.S., without a television set, without the telenovelas.
Except now and again when her husband was away and she could manage it, the few episodes glimpsed at the neighbor lady Soledad’s house because Dolores didn’t care for that sort of thing, though Soledad was often kind enough to retell what had happened on what episode of María de Nadie, the poor Argentine country girl who had the ill fortune of falling in love with the beautiful son of the Arrocha family, the very family she worked for, whose roof she slept under and whose floors she vacuumed, while in that same house, with the dust brooms and floor cleaners as witnesses, the square-jawed Juan Carlos Arrocha had uttered words of love, I love you, María, listen to me, mi querida, but it was she who had to say No, no, we are not of the same class, and remind him it was not his place nor hers to fall in love, while all the while her heart was breaking, can you imagine.
Cleófilas thought her life would have to be like that, like a telenovela, only now the episodes got sadder and sadder. And there were no commercials in between for comic relief. And no happy ending in sight. She thought this when she sat with the baby out by the creek behind the house. Cleófilas de …? But somehow she would have to change her name to Topazio, or Yesenia, Cristal, Adriana, Stefania, Andrea, something more poetic than Cleófilas. Everything happened to women with names like jewels. But what happened to a Cleófilas? Nothing. But a crack in the face.
Because the doctor has said so. She has to go. To make sure the new baby is all right, so there won’t be any problems when he’s born, and the appointment card says next Tuesday. Could he please take her. And that’s all.
No, she won’t mention it. She promises. If the doctor asks she can say she fell down the front steps or slipped when she was out in the backyard, slipped out back, she could tell him that. She has to go back next Tuesday, Juan Pedro, please, for the new baby. For their child.
She could write to her father and ask maybe for money, just a loan, for the new baby’s medical expenses. Well then if he’d rather she didn’t. All right, she won’t. Please don’t anymore. Please don’t. She knows it’s difficult saving money with all the bills they have, but how else are they going to get out of debt with the truck payments? And after the rent and the food and the electricity and the gas and the water and the who-knows-what, well, there’s hardly anything left. But please, at least for the doctor visit. She won’t ask for anything else. She has to. Why is she so anxious? Because.
Because she is going to make sure the baby is not turned around backward this time to split her down the center. Yes. Next Tuesday at five-thirty. I’ll have Juan Pedrito dressed and ready. But those are the only shoes he has. I’ll polish them, and we’ll be ready. As soon as you come from work. We won’t make you ashamed.
Felice? It’s me, Graciela.
No, I can’t talk louder. I’m at work.
Look, I need kind of a favor. There’s a patient, a lady here who’s got a problem.
Well, wait a minute. Are you listening to me or what?
I can’t talk real l
oud cause her husband’s in the next room.
Well, would you just listen?
I was going to do this sonogram on her—she’s pregnant, right?—and she just starts crying on me. Híjole, Felice! This poor lady’s got black-and-blue marks all over. I’m not kidding.
From her husband. Who else? Another one of those brides from across the border. And her family’s all in Mexico.
Shit. You think they’re going to help her? Give me a break. This lady doesn’t even speak English. She hasn’t been allowed to call home or write or nothing. That’s why I’m calling you.
She needs a ride.
Not to Mexico, you goof. Just to the Greyhound. In San Anto.
No, just a ride. She’s got her own money. All you’d have to do is drop her off in San Antonio on your way home. Come on, Felice. Please? If we don’t help her, who will? I’d drive her myself, but she needs to be on that bus before her husband gets home from work. What do you say?
I don’t know. Wait.
Right away, tomorrow even.
Well, if tomorrow’s no good for you …
It’s a date, Felice. Thursday. At the Cash N Carry off I-10. Noon. She’ll be ready.
Oh, and her name’s Cleófilas.
I don’t know. One of those Mexican saints, I guess. A martyr or something.
Cleófilas. C-L-E-O-F-I-L-A-S. Cle. O. Fi. Las. Write it down.
Thanks, Felice. When her kid’s born she’ll have to name her after us, right?
Yeah, you got it. A regular soap opera sometimes. Qué vida, comadre. Bueno bye.
All morning that flutter of half-fear, half-doubt. At any moment Juan Pedro might appear in the doorway. On the street. At the Cash N Carry. Like in the dreams she dreamed.
There was that to think about, yes, until the woman in the pickup drove up. Then there wasn’t time to think about anything but the pickup pointed toward San Antonio. Put your bags in the back and get in.
But when they drove across the arroyo, the driver opened her mouth and let out a yell as loud as any mariachi. Which startled not only Cleófilas, but Juan Pedrito as well.
Pues, look how cute. I scared you two, right? Sorry. Should’ve warned you. Every time I cross that bridge I do that. Because of the name, you know. Woman Hollering. Pues, I holler. She said this in a Spanish pocked with English and laughed. Did you ever notice, Felice continued, how nothing around here is named after a woman? Really. Unless she’s the Virgin. I guess you’re only famous if you’re a virgin. She was laughing again.
That’s why I like the name of that arroyo. Makes you want to holler like Tarzan, right?
Everything about this woman, this Felice, amazed Cleófilas. The fact that she drove a pickup. A pickup, mind you, but when Cleófilas asked if it was her husband’s, she said she didn’t have a husband. The pickup was hers. She herself had chosen it. She herself was paying for it.
I used to have a Pontiac Sunbird. But those cars are for viejas. Pussy cars. Now this here is a real car.
What kind of talk was that coming from a woman? Cleófilas thought. But then again, Felice was like no woman she’d ever met. Can you imagine, when we crossed the arroyo she just started yelling like a crazy, she would say later to her father and brothers. Just like that. Who would’ve thought?
Who would’ve? Pain or rage, perhaps, but not a hoot like the one Felice had just let go. Makes you want to holler like Tarzan, Felice had said.
Then Felice began laughing again, but it wasn’t Felice laughing. It was gurgling out of her own throat, a long ribbon of laughter, like water.
The Marlboro Man
Durango was his name. Not his real name. I don’t remember his real name, but it’ll come to me. I’ve got it in my phone book at home. My girlfriend Romelia used to live with him. You know her, in fact. The real pretty one with big lips who came over to our table at the Beauregards’ once when the Number Two Dinners were playing.
The one with the ponytail?
No. Her friend. Anyway, she lived with him for a year even though he was way too old for her.
For real? But I thought the Marlboro Man was gay.
He was? Romelia never told me that.
Yeah. In fact, I’m positive. I remember because I had a bad-ass crush on him, and one day I see a commercial for 60 Minutes, right? SPECIAL. TONIGHT! THE MARLBORO MAN. I remember saying to myself, Hot damn, I can’t miss that.
Maybe Romelia did insinuate, but I didn’t pick up on it.
What’s his name? That guy from 60 Minutes.
Andy Rooney?
Not Andy Rooney, girlfriend! The other guy. The one that looks sad all the time.
Dan Rather.
Yeah, him. Dan Rather interviewed him on 60 Minutes. You know, “Whatever happened to the Marlboro Man” and all that shit. Dan Rather interviewed him. The Marlboro Man was working as an AIDS clinic volunteer and he died from it even.
No, he didn’t. He died from cancer. Too many cigarettes, I guess.
Are we talking about the same Marlboro Man?
He and Romelia lived on this fabulous piece of real estate in the hill country, outside Fredericksburg. Beautiful house on a bluff, next to some cattle ranches. You’d think you were miles from civilization, deer and wild turkey and roadrunners and hawks and all that, but it was only a ten-minute drive to town. They had a big Fourth of July party there once and invited everybody who was anybody. Willie Nelson, Esteban Jordán, Augie Meyers, all that crowd.
Well, all I know is he was called Durango. And he owned a ranch out in the hill country that once belonged to Lady Bird Johnson. And he and some friends of the Texas Tornadoes lost a lot of money investing in some recording studio that was supposed to have thirty-six tracks instead of the usual sixteen, or whatever. And he gave Romelia hell, always chasing any young thang that wore a skirt and …
But Dan Rather said he was the original Marlboro Man.
The original, huh?… Well, maybe the one I’m talking about who lived with Romelia wasn’t the real Marlboro Man…. But he was old.
No kidding.
He had this habit of taking off all his clothes in public. I ran into them once at the Liberty, and he was dressed up in this luscious suit. Very GQ, know what I mean? Très élégant. Well, I waved to Romelia, meaning to go over to the bar later and say hi. But by the time I got to my pecan pie, he was already marching out the door wearing nothing but a cocktail napkin. I swear, he was something.
GOD! Don’t kill me. I used to dream he’d be the father of my children.
Well, yeah. That is if we’re talking about the same Marlboro Man. There’ve been lots of Marlboro Men. Just like there’ve been lots of Lassies, and lots of Shamu the Whale, and lots of Ralph the Swimming Pig. Well, what did you think, girlfriend? All those billboards. All those years!
Did he have a mustache?
Yeah.
And did he play bit parts in Clint Eastwood westerns?
I think so. At least he played in some Wells Fargo things that I know of.
And was he originally from northern California, used to have a little brother who was borderline mentally retarded, did some porno flicks before Marlboro discovered him?
La Fabulosa:
A Texas Operetta
She likes to say she’s “Spanish,” but she’s from Laredo like the rest of us—or “Lardo,” as we call it. Her name is Berriozábal. Carmen. Worked as a secretary for a San Antonio law firm.
Big chichis. I mean big. Men couldn’t take their eyes off them. She couldn’t help it, really. Anytime they talked to her they never looked her in the eye. It was kind of sad.
She kept this corporal at Fort Sam Houston. Young. A looker. José Arrambide. He had a high school honey back home who sold nachos at the mall, still waiting for him to come back to Harlingen, marry her, and buy that three-piece bedroom set on layaway. Dream on, right?
Well, this José wasn’t Carmen’s LUH-uv of her life. Just her San Antonio “thang,” so to speak. But you know how men are. Unless you’re washing
their feet and drying them with your hair, they just can’t take it. I mean it. And Carmen was a take-it-or-leave-it type of woman. If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Like that. She was something.
Not smart. I mean, she didn’t know enough to get her teeth cleaned every year, or to buy herself a duplex. But the corporal was hooked. Her genuine guaranteed love slave. I don’t know why, but when you treat men bad, they love it.
Yeah, sure, he was her sometime sweetheart, but what’s that to a woman who’s twenty and got the world by the eggs. First chance, she took up with a famous Texas senator who was paving his way to the big house. Set her up in a fancy condo in north Austin. Camilo Escamilla. You maybe might’ve heard of him.
When José found out, it was a big escándalo, as they say. Tried to kill her. Tried to kill himself. But this Camilo kept it out of the papers. He was that important. And besides, he had a wife and kids who posed with him every year for the calendar he gave away at Christmas. He wasn’t about to throw his career out the window for no fulanita.
According to who you talk to, you hear different. José’s friends say he left his initials across those famous chichis with a knife, but that sure sounds like talk, don’t it?
I heard he went AWOL. Became a bullfighter in Matamoros, just so he could die like a man. Somebody else said she’s the one who wants to die.
Woman Hollering Creek: And Other Stories Page 5
