Clucking her tongue while scanning the table for any missing salt shakers, butter or salsa, Marta reluctantly took her seat beside Luis.
While Luis led the family in prayer, Michael studied the faces collected at the table. His family reflected Mexico’s rich and diverse history. His father was still a virile, handsome man. Tall, with dark hair boldly streaked with gray and heavy, bushy brows. His mother, Marta, had skin as fair and glowing as the Madonna in the May holy card pictures she adored. Her brown and gray hair, rolled smoothly back into a bun, accentuated the delicate, patrician features that reflected her Spanish descent.
His brother, Bobby, was the most like her. His hair was as blond as hers once was, his skin as light and his frame as delicate. His cocky smile carved deep dimples into a face already over-blessed with good looks. His sister, Rosa, was also fair. But to her lifelong dismay, she was tall and wide in the shoulders, like himself and their father, a large woman able to lift heavy machinery and do a man’s day of work. Luis had often complained bitterly to Marta that she had somehow gotten the genes between Bobby and Rosa mixed up.
Michael grew up knowing that of all the family, his features were the most Indian-like. Unusually tall, like his father, his skin was the darkest, his hair the coarsest and his face as severely chiseled as any Mayan statue. Of the three Mondragon children, only he’d been given a nasty push from behind by the local suburban boys after school.
“We do not come together every Christmas,” began Luis, his dark eyes gleaming white against terra cotta skin as he stood at the table, a glass of wine held in a toast.
“We are together—as a family should be.” His gaze scanned the family, one by one, settling firmly on Michael.
“A la familia!”
“To the family!” Michael replied in English, covertly catching Bobby’s amused glance.
“You look good,” Bobby said later, his eyes openly appreciating Michael’s black jacket, crisp white shirt and knitted silk tie. Bobby had always been the sharp dresser and used to chide Michael pitilessly while growing up. “Armani, huh? Where are the worn jeans, the mismatched socks, and God…remember the leather jacket?”
“Of course,” he replied with a wistful smile. “Wish I still had it.”
When he was young he’d always worn a shirt, even in the summer, so his already dark skin wouldn’t darken more. He could still remember how hot and sweaty he got working in the yards, covered up, while watching pale-skinned boys run and play in cool T-shirts. He’d saved every penny he earned, not buying a candy or seeing a movie, in order to buy himself that leather jacket, and it had become a second skin.
“Man, I loved that jacket.”
“Maybe, but that one’s not too shabby.
Los gringos
in Chicago finally taught you how to dress?”
Michael smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. Truth was, clothes didn’t matter to him in the least. As long as it was well cut and black, he was satisfied. What mattered to him was how pale and thin his brother looked. Bobby’s clothes hung from him as limply as from a wire hanger.
“You feeling all right, big brother?” Michael leaned over and asked, concern in his lowered voice.
A shadow flickered in Bobby’s eyes, then, as quickly, disappeared. “The flu,” he replied with a casual smile. His gaze darted to his mother. “It’s been going around.”
“
Sí
, it is terrible,” Marta exclaimed. “Everybody is getting it. One of those terrible new bugs. From China.” She crossed herself. “Be careful, Miguel, you don’t get it, too.”
“Ha!” Bobby barked out a laugh.
Luis glared at him, his spoon halted before his tightly closed lips. Bobby’s smile quickly vanished and he seemed to withdraw inwardly.
After the four cakes were served and the coffee was poured, the family gathered around the tree, as they did every Christmas Eve, to hand out a few special “parent-child” gifts.
“Bobby, you are eldest. You be Santa’s helper,” ordered Luis.
“Glad to, Papa,” Bobby replied with enthusiasm.
Michael watched with affection as his elder brother donned a red Santa’s cap and let loose a hearty round of “ho-ho-ho’s” before handing out the gifts. Although he made a pitifully thin Santa, Bobby was not above playing up the part for the sake of his niece and nephew. The children squealed with delight.
“Enough! Don’t be a fool, horsing around,” Luis barked.
Bobby’s shoulders drew back, but he smiled urbanely. “God bless us, everyone. Even you, old Scrooge.”
Luis grumbled as he shifted in his seat.
Bobby pressed on with enthusiasm, shaking the children’s gifts and making them guess. Everyone, save Luis, laughed and clapped as the children unwrapped their treasures. Instead, he sat with a bemused expression, watching as a king would his subjects.
Later, when the children were playing with their toys, the adults cast surreptitious glances at the remaining few packages under the tree. Just as when they were children, they wondered what gifts their parents had selected for them this year.
An awed hush fell in the room when Bobby opened his wrapping to find their great-uncle’s pocket watch nestled inside, the same revered uncle who’d left Luis the prime California land. Rosa and Manuel were equally surprised and delighted with the set of china that had been in Marta’s family for generations. Eyes were wide. These were not the usual token gifts: a camera, perhaps a new sweater. Tonight their parents had passed on the few family treasures they possessed. Now all eyes turned to Michael. Bobby searched under the tree but there was nothing left.
“Poor Tío Miguel didn’t get a gift,” said Maria Elena, wrapping a small, thin arm around his shoulders in consolation.
“I guess I was a bad boy,” he quipped, giving Maria Elena a hug.
At that Luis rose with great ceremony and walked before the fireplace. From the mantel he took an envelope, and after a dramatic pause, he delivered it to Michael with an expression of enormous pride.
Michael searched his father’s face for some clue, then quickly darted to the faces of Bobby, Rosa and Manuel. Their expressions were curious…guarded. Apparently no one knew what the envelope contained.
With a nod of gratitude he took the envelope from his father’s hands, opened it and read the legal documents enclosed. The color drained from his face.
“This is a promissory note.”
“I am a man of my word. I ask you to come to California to help and you came. He came!” Luis exclaimed to the others, turning his head to meet their gazes. “He has proved himself a son and now he will prove himself a Mondragon. He will rebuild the family honor in this valley. Michael will draw the designs, we will start again, as a family. I know this and it brings my old heart great joy to see.”
He moved closer, placing his hand upon the shoulder of his seated son with as much pride and dignity as any king would place a sword upon the shoulder of his champion knight. “I promise to you the land, the business, everything! In you I place the future of the Mondragon name.”
The burden of the honor was heavy on Michael’s shoulders. Unwelcome, unspoken promises were tied up with this promissory note: A promise of loyalty, of continuance. A promise to marry, to settle on the land, to produce an heir. Looking into his father’s eyes, he saw Luis’s determination to collect each promise.
“Father, how can you do this?” cried Rosa. She was the first to break the stunned silence and her bitterness rang clear. “Manuel and I, we’ve slaved for you all these years. Years that Miguel was away. We always understood…”
“Understood what,
querida?
” asked Luis, his voice strained in warning. Slowly he turned toward his only daughter. “You will always be part of the business. But
your
name is not Mondragon. Your son’s name is not Mondragon.
This
is what is understood.”
Rosa flushed as bright as a poinsettia, and she cast a furious glance at her husband. “Speak up, Manuel. Why must you always sit there like a beaten dog and let me fight your battles?”
Manuel flushed and his jaw set, forcing his lips into a tight line. Without a word, he rose and hurried from the room.
“What about you, Roberto?” she charged, turning to face her elder brother.
Bobby raised his glass to his lips with a shrug. “It’s Papa’s land to do with what he wants. And—” he paused, taking a sip “—Papa wants to give it to Michael.”
“You are the eldest son! It should be yours!”
Michael saw pain flash in Bobby’s eyes, but it quickly was doused with wine. “I paint murals, Rosa. What would I do with a landscape business?”
“Enough, all of you,” Michael said, standing in the middle of the tightening circle, unaware that he’d just sounded exactly like Luis. He silenced Rosa with a sharp glance, then turned to his father. Looking him in the eye, he handed back the papers. “Papa, this is a great honor.” He paused.
“Too great an honor.”
“You are
fuerte,
no?” Luis replied, pushing back the papers. “Strong. In heart and character.” He patted his son firmly on the back, and it shamed Michael to feel such joy in his father’s pride. “You will not turn your back on me. You will help the family, no?”
“Help, yes. You need me, that’s true. And I’ll do what I can. But I didn’t ask for all this in return.”
“Ask? Miguel, I
give
you everything. The lawn maintenance company, the nursery, the spring, everything! I give you freedom. Your own place makes you your own man. Nobody to tell you what to do, to make you feel small. With this a man with skills such as yours could be rich.”
He exaggerated, but to some extent, Michael knew it was true. The land was very valuable now, and the springwater could be tapped for untold amounts. He was humbled by the enormity of the gift.
“
Gracias,
Papa. Truly. However, I need time to think this through.”
“Think? Think?” Luis’s eyes were wide with shame and embarrassment that his most precious gift was refused. He swung his hand down like a machete. “You always need to think. Sometimes you think so much you don’t see with your heart. It turns to stone.”
Father and son stared at each other across a familiar impasse. It was always this way between them. Hot temper versus cool stone. Luis abruptly turned toward the Christmas tree. The lights were flashing green and red against the white and black of his father’s hair. His eyes were mournful. Michael thought he looked like a great bull that had just received the sword.
“Papa.” Michael moved to speak.
Luis cut him off with a backward wave of his hand. He glanced sharply at Marta. She stood quietly with her small hands clasped meekly before her apron, her eyes cast downward. Then, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, he turned and stomped from the room.
“So, you think this is fair, little brother?” Rosa said, her sharp voice breaking the brittle silence. “Is this why you came home? To get it all?”
“Rosa!” Marta exclaimed, horrified.
Michael, saddened and insulted by her bald-faced resentment, met her sharp gaze evenly. She was hurt, he knew this, and she was very angry to be ignored by her father. Poor Rosa, she would never be happy filling the traditional female role in their culture, despite their mother’s determination. She was too bold, too smart. She deserved better treatment than this. But so did he.
“First off,” he began, his voice low, trembling with control, “I only came home because our father asked it of me. Second, I don’t want any of this.” His hand angrily slashed the air. “And if you’d listen instead of shout, you’d have heard me turn it down. Third, and pay good attention,
hermana.
If you paid half your mind to building up that husband of yours instead of tearing him down, perhaps Manuel
would
be able to take over the operation.
“As it stands, Papa is right. I
am
the only one in this family who can rebuild this nursery, and if you’d quiet your waspish tongue long enough to consider it, you’d realize it’s true. I didn’t come here to take anything from anybody. I came here to help my family. And I intend to honor that promise. But when I’m done, I’m out of here. It’s clear nothing has changed. I’m still
‘pobre negrito’
in your eyes. Undeserving. But I’ve learned something in that wide world out there. I deserve everything I work hard for.”
He scanned the faces of his family. They were flustered and silent. Then he followed his father out to the front porch.
He found Luis standing, one foot before the other, leaning against the porch railing. His eyes stared out at the dark. Michael knew it must seem to the old man that in rejecting the land he rejected him. Was it true? he wondered, gazing at the fertile property stretched out before him. Was he rejecting his father or the land?
“I will give you one year,” he said aloud. “This I will do out of love for you and my mother.”
“One year is not enough. We cannot rebuild in that time. Two. I need two. We can do much in that time.”
Michael set his jaw, realizing that a two-year leave would jeopardize all he’d worked for. Yet his father was right. Two years would be enough time to begin again.