Authors: Sandra Cisneros
—Papacito, how are you today?
—Mabuti
, Father says, surprising us with his Tagalog.
—Me siento mabuti
.
My brothers are arguing about whose fault it is a chaise lounge hasn’t been delivered on time. Stop it! Here’s Father sick and they’re wasting oxygen over nothing. I try to think of something to change the subject so that Father won’t get upset too.
—Father, can you remember your first memory? What’s the oldest memory you can remember? The oldest, earliest thing you can think of.
Father pauses between spoonfuls of the confetti Jell-O and thinks.
—Two men shot by the firing squad. This from the time when we lived in
a house next to the army barracks. I used to wake up with the bugler. I remember once waking up one morning and standing on the bed, your grandmother still asleep with baby Fat-Face, the others weren’t born yet. It was just me. I looked out the window looking for the bugler, and there he was, same as always, but what do you think? This morning they have two
pobres
with their eyes covered and their backs to the wall. And then I hear the guns go off,
boom!
And the two fall to the ground. Just like in the movies.
Boom
and they’re dust. It gave me a fright I never forgot. I woke your grandmother with my crying. That’s what I remember.
—Was this during the Cristeros uprisings?
—I don’t know. I just know what I saw.
—How come you never told any of us this before?
—Nobody asked.
His life, mine, theirs, each, oh. And here is Father, a little leaf. Dry and light as snow. The wind could take him.
THANK YOU, CALL AGAIN
. I’d better ask now.
—And what is it … I mean, what would you say is the most important thing you’ve learned from all your years being alive? What has life taught you, Father?
—¿La vida?
—Yes.
He licks his plastic spoon and stares at the wall. A long silence.
—El dinero no vale pero ayuda mucho
. No worth the money, but they help a lot.
—Money’s worthless, but valuable?
He nods and goes back to his Jell-O.
I sigh.
—Father, did you know that the Carnicería Xalapa on the corner is expanding. They bought the whole block and are going to open a super-
supermercado
.
—Drogas
. That’s what they’re really selling. No wonder I can’t make a go of it. I’m too honest.
—Tell Father the good news. Go on, tell him.
—Father, when you were sick we had a family meeting, Rafa says. —And we’ve decided to go into business together, to use what we’ve learned in school and pool our resources, help you with your business. You have all the contacts and expertise, and Ito and I both have business training. Tikis can help if he wants when he finishes school. And the
younger boys are already working with you summers. So we decided we should start our own business, and not have you working with Tres Reyes anymore. It’s bad for your health. You should have your own shop, with your sons, and hire real upholsterers, the kind who know how to work with a hammer.
—Custom, quality work, Father says, excited. —Maybe Toto will want to join when he gets back from the army, no? And what about your sister? She can be the receptionist. Right, Lalita? You like to sit at a desk and read, don’t you?
For once I have the good sense not to say anything.
—And guess what else, Father? We got the truck painted up with the new name, Inocencio Reyes and Sons. Quality upholstery. Over forty years experience. It looks real nice.
—Wow! Has it really been forty years already, Father?
—Well, yes, but no. More or less, Father says. —It’s what the customer wants to hear.
Father’s tired. Mother makes us all kiss him good-bye, and we walk out to the parking lot where the shop van is waiting, the new business name painted on both sides and on the back door.
INOCENCIO REYES AND SONS, QUALITY UPHOLSTERY, OVER FORTY YEARS EXPERIENCE
.
Rafa’s right. It looks real nice.
85.
Mi Aniversario
—
C
inco mil bolos
, brother.
Father is busy on the phone. Calling Baby, calling Fat-Face. Dialing caterers and musicians. Looking up rental halls. —
Mi aniversario
, he keeps saying. His thirtieth wedding anniversary, although we know Father and Mother haven’t been married thirty years. It’s more like twenty-something, but Father’s afraid he won’t live that long.
—Ya me voy
. I’ll be going soon.
—Where you going?
Father’s making his phone calls sitting propped up in bed on a mound of flowered pillows. He’s stretched out on top of the covers in a faded pair of flannel pajama bottoms, his legs crossed at the thin white ankles. He’s wearing a T-shirt so old the neck is stretched
guango
, making him look skinnier than ever, his neck beginning to sag like the wattle of a turkey, the crispy chest hairs sprouting white here and there. He could use a shave and a haircut, and his bare feet with the long curved toenails look like Godzilla’s.
—How much?!!! Father shouts into the receiver. —But I have seven sons!!! Think! Seven!!!
Above the bed, la Virgen de Guadalupe keeps watch over Father from her gold frame, and beside her, in a plastic frame behind cracked glass, the black-and-white family portrait of our trip to Acapulco when we were little. The room is dark except for the blue light thrown from the television and the dim yellow light of a bedside lamp. Everything is in disorder. There are clothes, clean and dirty, cluttered here and there, the clean stacked in folded piles waiting to be put away, the dirty draped lazily on doorknobs and bedposts awaiting collection. On the floor a
balled sock sits next to a mountain of magazines—Mexican comic books,
¡Alarma!
tucked modestly in paper bags because Mother can’t stand the gory covers,
ESTO
sports newspapers, the glossy photo of a thick-thighed Mexican starlet on the back cover of a respectable news journal. Balls of crumpled Kleenex roam the hills and valleys of the blankets like stray sheep.
—Yes, my friend. Thirty years thanks to God! Father continues bragging to some stranger on the other end of the line.
Except for the bottles and vials of medicine on the bedside table, you’d never guess Father’s been sick. There’s Father’s last snack, a banana peel and an empty glass coated with milk. And, always within reach, “my toy,” Father’s remote control device for the TV.
—Hi,
mija
, Father says in his baby voice when he hangs up. —How’s my pretty girl? How’s my little queen? How’s my
niña bonita
? Who loves you more than anyone in the world, my heaven?
—You do, I say, sighing and leaning over to kiss his grizzled cheek. He smells like a jar of vitamins. Thank God the stink of death is gone.
—Only one kiss? But you owe me more than one kiss. You owe me so many kisses. How many kisses do you calculate you owe me by now?
—For crying out loud …
—See how you are. How mean you are to your papa. You’re stingy with your kisses. Poor papa. When he’s in heaven then you’ll think of him. And then you’ll realize how much your papa loved you. Remember, no one loves you like your papa. You’ll never find anyone on this earth, no one, no one, no one who loves you like your papa. Ever. Who do you love more … your mama or me?
—¡Papá!
—Just joking,
mija
. Don’t get mad … Lalita, Father adds, whispering, —do you think you could buy your poor papa some cigarettes?
Mother marches into the room with another stack of clean clothes.
—No cigarettes. Ever! Doctor’s orders, Mother says. —Christ Almighty, this room stinks. Get in that tub, old man.
—No, I don’t want to, Father says in the voice of a child. —Leave me in peace. I’m here nice and comfortable watching TV, not bothering anyone.
—Listen to me, I’m talking to you. I said I’m talking to you!
—Ay caray
, I’m trying to watch television.
Mija
, please, Father says, suddenly interested in the show he was ignoring.
—I said get in that tub. I can’t believe how stinky you’ve become in your old age. Honest to God, if your mother could see you now. Lala, you won’t believe it, but when I met your father he used to dress like
un fanfarrón
. Now look at him. How many days are you going to wear that T-shirt? This room smells like a cemetery. Do you hear me? When I finish mopping the kitchen you better be in that tub.
Father stares mutely at the television, only coming to life once Mother marches to the kitchen.
—Lala, he says, winking, —guess what I’ve gone and done?
—I don’t even want to try to imagine.
—I hired the
mariachis
. And I’m getting price quotes from bands that specialize in music from my time. For my party.
Mother yells from the kitchen, —I already told you, I’m not going!
—Tu mamá
, Father says, shaking his head. —She has the ears of a bat. But guess what else? he says, lowering his voice. —I already found a photographer, and a really good price for the gold-lettered invitations. And I called a place that will give us a group discount on the tuxedos.
—Tuxedos? Do you think the boys will go for that? They don’t even like to wear ties.
—Of course they will. And you and your mother are going to wear formals.
Ay
, Lala, it’s like the party I always dreamed for your
quince
that I was never able to give you. We’re going to have a wonderful time.
Again from the kitchen, —I already told you, I’m not going, do you hear me?
Father goes on talking about
“mi aniversario”
as if Mother has nothing to do with it. How he wants to look for a tuxedo with tails and maybe even a top hat, because he remembers a friend from before the war who had one just like it. It’s as if Mother’s complaints only make Father more determined. He’s already phoned all his friends. El Reloj, el King Kong, el Indio, el Pelón, Cuco, el Capitán, el Juchiteco. All the friends Mother says are just like him.
—Nothing but a big bunch of show-offs, Mother says to me while cooking Father’s favorite rice pudding. —Your father, I can’t stand him. His head is so fat he can kiss his behind. He makes me sick!
—Well, then, why don’t you divorce him?
—It’s too late. He needs me.
It’s too late. She means, I need him, but she can’t say that, can she? No, never. It’s too late, I love you already.
—¡Mija!
Father shouts from the bedroom.
—¿Mande?
I say, running to his room like a subject being summoned by his pasha.
—No, not you, Father says. —I meant your mother. Then he starts shouting again, —Zoila, Zoila! Come see the star from
Till Death Do Us Part
. She’s about to sing.
—I don’t care about those stupid
telenovelas
, Mother shouts angrily. —I swear there’s no intelligent life around here.
—Zoila, Zoila! Father continues shouting.
—You see? He keeps yelling for rice pudding. A banana. Jell-O with some half-and-half. Pancakes. A cup of Mexican chocolate. That’s how it is, all day yelling for me over and over like a man drowning. Drives me nuts, Mother says, but there’s something in the way she says it, like she’s bragging. —Help me carry your Father’s supper over to his room.
By the time we’ve set up his tray, Father’s already punched the mute button on the television remote and is on the phone talking long-distance. I know this because he always shouts when he talks to Mexico.
—Of course, you can stay here, Father is yelling. —Sister, don’t insult me, I wouldn’t think of it. Yes, and Antonieta Araceli and her family too. You’re all welcome.
—Like hell! Mother mutters. —The Hilton this ain’t. I’m sick of picking up after people my whole life. I’m retired, you hear me, retired!
Father ignores her until he hangs up. Then he begins …
—Zoila, don’t mortify me. After all those years we stayed with her in Mexico, how am I going to tell my sister she can’t stay here, how?
—I’m sick and tired …
—Sick and tired, Father parrots in his gothic English. —Disgusted!
Then Father asks me for one of Mother’s nylon stockings. He has a migraine.
Mother gathers up all the dirty clothes in a dirty towel and carries this bundle over to the washer. She slams and opens doors, cranks the button to start it up, and won’t look me in the eye.
—Your father, he’s terrible, Mother says, close to tears. —I’ve had it.
When I get back to the bedroom, Father is wearing the nylon stocking tied around his forehead, Apache style, eating his rice pudding in the blue light of the television.
—Tu mamá
, Father hisses without taking his eyes off the screen.
—Es terrrrrrible
.
86.
The Children and Grandchildren of Zoila and Inocencio Reyes Cordially Invite You to Celebrate Thirty Years of Marriage
O
kay, so it’s not the Ritz. It’s the Postal Workers’ Union Hall. So what? We’ve done the best with what we’ve got. Crepe paper streamers twisted and gathered at the center of the ceiling, where a huge disco ball does a slow, sexy turn and shatters light into a million pretty splinters over the wooden dance floor.
Somebody found a wire florist arch in a back room, and we tied balloons on it, and this is what you have to pass under as you enter the hall. The place is still as dark as a cave; a varnished, masculine room with wood paneling, like a hunter’s lodge or a tavern that reeks of sour beer and cigarettes, but we worked all last night to make it look nice. Plastic champagne cups filled with pillow-shaped mints in pastel colors. Scalloped napkins embossed in gold lettering with “30 Zoila & Inocencio.” I wonder if anyone cares that it isn’t quite thirty years. But who’s counting?