Caramelo (9 page)

—What’s this? What’s this?

It’s the Little Grandfather in the doorway. He’s taken off his party shirt and jacket, but still looks all dressed up because he’s wearing his Sunday trousers with the suspenders. In his sleeveless undershirt his arms
are fleshy and white as pizza dough. A thick cigar glows in one hand, and in the other he holds a crumpled newspaper.

—What a silly you are, Private Lala! No need to cry because of a plate of
mole
. Come now,
niña
.

—But the Grandmother said …

—Never mind what she said. Do you think she’s the boss around here? Watch what I’m going to do. Oralia!

—Sí, señor
.

—Give this to the neighbor’s dog. And if my wife asks, say the child ate it.

—Sí, señor
.

—You see how easy that was?

—But it’s a lie.

—Not a lie! A healthy lie. Which sometimes we have to tell so that there won’t be trouble. There, there, stop crying. Would you like to watch television with me in my room? You would! Well, then first you have to stop crying. I can’t have you crying all over my room, that’s for sure! Put on your shoes. That’s a good girl.

The Little Grandfather grunts as he walks like a Pekingese.

—Don’t tell the others, because they’ll get jealous, but you’re my favorite, the Grandfather says, winking.

—Really?

—Truly.
Eres mi cielo
. You are my sky, the Little Grandfather says, showing off his English. —Did you know I used to live in Chicago once? A long time ago, before you were even born, when I was a young man I lived with my Uncle Old in Chicago. I bet you don’t know the capital of Illinois. What’s the capital of Illinois? What’s the capital of California? What’s the capital of Alaska? Don’t they teach you anything in school?

—I don’t go to school yet.

—That’s no excuse. Why, when I was your age I knew the names of all the states in the republic and their capitals, as well as the capitals of all … What are you looking at?

—Abuelito, how did your hair get like fur?

The Little Grandfather laughs like the letter “k,” exactly the way Father laughs.

—It used to be like yours. For many years. Then, when I retired, it started growing white. I dyed it at first—I was very vain once. Then one day I just let it go, just like that, and it went from shoe-polish black to
white-white-white in a matter of days. Like the snowy peaks of the twin volcanoes Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, he says, laughing. —Do you know the story of the twin volcanoes?… You don’t?!!!

—Nobody tells me anything. They say I talk too much and can’t keep a secret. That’s why they say they can’t tell me things.

—Is that right? Well, let me tell you. Izta and Popo, Izta and Popo, the Grandfather says, adjusting his cigar and looking up at the ceiling. —A Mexican love story. He clears his throat. He puts his cigar down and then picks it back up. He scratches his head.

—Once, under the sky and on the earth there was a prince and a princess. The prince’s name was Popocatépetl. You can imagine how difficult it was for his mother to shout, “Popocatéptl, Popocatépetl.” So she called him Popo for short.

There is a pause. The Grandfather stares at a spot on the rug. —Now, the princess’s name was Iztaccíhuatl and she was in love with this Prince Popo. But because the families of Izta and Popo hated each other, they had to keep their love a secret. But then something happened, I forget what, except I know he killed her. And then as he watched her die, he was so overcome with her beauty he knelt down and wept. And then they both turned into volcanoes. And there they are, the Grandfather says, raising the venetian blinds and pointing to the volcanoes in the distance. —See? One lying down, and one hunched over watching her. There. That’s how you know it’s true.

—But if he loved her so much, Abuelito, why did he kill her?

—Well, I don’t know. I don’t know. That’s a good question. I don’t know. I suppose that’s how Mexicans love, I suppose.

—Abuelito, what’s in there?

—Where?

—In there. Inside that.

—¿El ropero?
Oh, lots of things. Lots. Would you like to see?

The Grandfather walks over to the walnut-wood armoire, runs his hand along the top, and brings down a small key with a faded pink tassel at the end. This he turns twice and the tumblers give their familiar click, then the doors open with a sigh that smells of things old, like a shirt ironed till it’s brown.

In one drawer the Little Grandfather shows me his cadet uniform, and in another a red bundle.

—This handkerchief used to belong to my mother. During the revolution
she made a promise to la Virgencita to keep me safe. They had to saw three ribs out of me. And here are the three ribs, he says, undoing the cloth and placing them in my hand.

They’re as light as old wood and yellow like dog teeth.

—Grandfather, is it true you lost them in a terrible battle?

—Oh, yes! Terrible, terrible.

—But don’t you miss your three ribs?

—Well. Not very. He picks up an old sepia photo of himself. Seated on a cane bench, a young man with the surprised eyes of someone who knows nothing of the world. The person he is leaning on has been cut out of the picture. —You can get used to anything, I’ve learned, he adds, looking at the photograph and sighing. —Well, almost.

—And what’s this? I say, tugging an embroidered pillowcase.

—This? the Grandfather says, pulling out of the pillowcase a cloth of caramel, licorice, and vanilla stripes. —This was your grandmother’s
rebozo
when she was a girl. That’s the only
recuerdo
she has from those times, from when she was little. It’s a
caramelo rebozo
. That’s what they call them.

—Why?

—Well, I don’t know. I suppose because it looks like candy, don’t you think?

I nod. And in that instant I can’t think of anything I want more than this cloth the golden color of burnt-milk candy.

—Can I have it, Grandfather?

—No,
mi cielo
. I’m afraid it’s not mine to give, but you can touch it. It’s very soft, like corn silk.

But when I touch the
caramelo rebozo
a shriek rises from the courtyard, and I jump back as if the
rebozo
is made of fire.

—¡¡¡Celayaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!

It’s the Awful Grandmother yelling as if she’s cut off a finger. I leave the Grandfather and the
caramelo rebozo
, and run slamming doors behind me, jumping down stairs two at a time. When I get to the courtyard, I remember to answer the way the Grandmother instructed.

—¿Mande usted?
At your orders?

—Ah, there she is. Celaya, sweetness, come here. Don’t be frightened, my child. Remember how she used to sing when she was just a baby?
¡Qué maravilla!
She was the same as Shirley Temple. I-den-ti-cal, I swear to you. Still in diapers but there she was singing her heart out, remember?
We should have put her on the
Chocolate Express Show
, but no, no one listens to me. Think of the money she could’ve brought home by now. Come, Celaya, dearest. Get up on this chair and let’s see if you can still sing like you used to. Let’s see.
Ándale
, sing for your granny. Watch.

—I … don’t know.

—What do you mean you don’t know?

—I don’t know if I can remember. That was when I was little.

—Nonsense! The body always remembers. Get up here!

The relatives begin chanting, —
Que cante la niña Lalita, que cante la niña Lalita
.

—Stand up straight, the Grandmother orders. —Throw your shoulders back, Celaya. Swallow. A big gulp of air. That’s it. Now, sing.

—Pretty baby, pretty baby,
tan tarrán-tara taran-ta, tara-ranta-ranta-rán …

My voice tiny in the beginning, but then I puff up like a canary and sing as loud as I can.

—PRETTY BABY OF MINE, OF MINE. PRETTY BABY OF … MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!

A small silence.

—No, the Grandmother announces matter-of-factly. —She can’t sing. Juchi, play that song I like, the one from my times, “Júrame.” Come on, don’t be bad, play it for me.
Todos dicen que es mentira que te quiero …

For the rest of the evening I hide upstairs and watch the party from the covered balcony where no one can watch me watching, my face pressed against the rails, the rails cool against my hot skin. Once I got my head stuck between the space between an “s” and a flower. They had to use the brown bar of laundry soap to set me free, and afterward my head hurt … from the iron bars and from the scolding. And my heart hurt from the brothers laughing, but I don’t like to think about that.

The music and the spirals of cigarette smoke rising up like genies. The other kids already asleep wherever they fell. Draped on a chair. Or on a volcano of coats. Or under a table. Everywhere except in their beds. But no one notices.

The bodies below moving and twirling like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. Tables and chairs pushed to the edges to make room for dancing. “Vereda tropical” playing from the hi-fi. Aunties in silk dresses so tight they seem to explode like orchids, aunties laughing with their big flower mouths, and the air sweet-sweet with their ladies’ perfume, and
sweeter still the men’s cologne, the kind men wear here in Mexico, sweeter than flowers, like the sugary words whispered in the women’s ears
—mi vida, mi cielo, muñeca, mi niña bonita
.

The men in their shark suits, gray with a little lightning bolt of blue, or olive with a gleam of gold when they move. A stiff white handkerchief in the pocket. The man’s hand leading a woman when they dance, just a little tug, just a little like when you yank a kite to remind it—Don’t go too far. And the woman’s hand nesting inside the man’s big heart-shaped hand, and his other hand on her big heart-shaped hips. A beautiful woman with black-black eyes and dark skin, who is our mother in her good fuchsia satin dress bought at the Three Sisters on Madison and Pulaski, and her matching fuchsia cut-glass earrings. Swish of stockings against the cream-colored nylon slip with its twin shells of lace on top and an accordion pleat at the hem, and one strap, always one, lazy and loose asking to be put back. My father with a curl of lavender cigarette smoke, his mouth hot next to my mother’s ear when he whispers, his mustache tickling, the roughness of his cheek, and my mother throwing her head back and laughing.

I’m so sleepy, except I don’t want to go to bed, I might miss something. I lean my head against the balcony rails and shut my eyes, and jump when the guests start roaring. It’s only Uncle Fat-Face dancing with a broom as if it was a lady. Uncle likes to make everyone laugh. When I’ve had enough of the broom dance, I get up to look for the Grandfather. The dining room door is heavy, I have to pull it open with both hands.

But when I step inside I don’t move.

I scramble downstairs to tell everyone, only I don’t have the words for what I want to say. Not in English. Not in Spanish.

—The wall has fallen, I keep saying in English.

—What?

—Upstairs. In the big dining room. The wall fell. Come and see.

—What does this kid want? Go see your mother.

—It’s that the wall has fallen.

—Later, sweetie, not now, I’m busy.

—The wall in the dining room, it came down like snow.

—How this child loves to be a pest!

—What is it, my queen? Tell me, my heaven.

—La pared arriba, es que se cayó. Ven, Papá, ven
.

—You go, Zoila. You’re the mother.

—¡Ay!
Always, always I’m the mother when you can’t be bothered.
All right, all right already. Quit pulling at me, Lala, you’re going to rip my dress.

I tug Mother upstairs, but it’s like tugging a punching clown. She tips and wobbles and laughs. Finally, we make it all the way up the stairs.

—Now, this better be good!… Holy Toledo!!!

The dining room is powdered with a layer of white plaster like sugar. White plaster over everything, rug, tables, chairs, lamps. Big chunks of plaster here and there, too, like pieces of birthday cake.

Mother shouts downstairs. —Everybody, quick! The ceiling’s fallen!

¡Se cayó el cielo raso!
Father says.

And then it is I learn the words for what I want to say. “Ceiling” and
“cielo.” Cielo
—the word Father uses when he calls me “my heaven.” The same word the Little Grandfather reaches for when he wants to say the same thing. Only he says it in English. —My sky.

—
Y
ou know I don’t like to say, and I tell you this in confidence, but it’s that Memo who is responsible. I found him hiding on the roof just this morning.

—You don’t say! That monkey! Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.

—Poor thing. He’s so much slower than our Elvis. After all, they’re only a month apart in age. Have you ever considered that maybe he’s retarded?

—Like hell! It’s the cheap contract work, for crying out loud!

—Aunty, this is the truth! Antonieta Araceli hid some of our toys under the Grandfather’s bed. I saw.

—¡Mentirosa!
It wasn’t me! You just like to invent stories,
mocosa
. You believe me, don’t you, Mami?

—Ya mero
. Almost! Did you see that? He almost put out her eye!

—Who did this to you, my heaven?

—It was … cousin Toto.

—You know my
gorda
has never lied to me. Never. If she says she didn’t do it, she didn’t do it. I know my own daughter!

—¡Chango!
If I catch you touching my kids again I’ll take off my belt …

—Take your hands off my boy, or I’ll beat the crap out of you myself.

—Estás loca
, I wasn’t going to …

—You can’t address my wife like that,
tarugo!

—Who are YOU to call me an idiot? You’re the one who organized this picnic.

—¡Ay, caray!
Don’t start, brother. Don’t even begin. Don’t YOU blame me for your bright ideas.