Signal to Noise (33 page)

“My Duncan Dhu record. I want it.”

“You’re scaring me,” Daniela said, stepping back, closer to the wall.

Meche shrugged. Always such a little baby, Daniela. The wax snaked around them, drawing secret patterns upon the floor.

“You’re scaring me,” Daniela squeaked, the flashlight trembling in her hands, the beam of light bouncing up and down.

“Stop it,” Sebastian said. “She’s frightened.”

“Oh, come on,” Meche said rolling her eyes. “I’ll make it stop when you give me my record.”

“Enough of this,” Sebastian said.

“I’m scared!” Daniela wailed.

“Enough!”

Sebastian screamed. The scream made her jump back, staggered by the ferocity of it. Sebastian reached for his backpack and pulled out a record.

Meche could not see from where she was standing because Sebastian was half in shadows. Instead, she felt it, like a great, beating heart crouched in the corner of the room.

For a moment she smiled, feeling her object of power so close to her, almost back in her arms...

... and then he snapped the Duncan Dhu record in two. It made a sound like bones breaking .

She screamed as an invisible fissure traveled up her feet, up her legs and through her chest until it reached her chest. There came the sensation of being ripped apart. Her heart was squeezed ferociously and she could not breathe...

... and then breath returned to her in a shocked gasp.

The candles all went out at the same time, plunging the room into darkness.

Meche dropped down, crouching by the record player.

Her trembling hands touched the needle, quieting the music.

The whole factory was silent.

Sebastian stepped forward, his flashlight pointed at her.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s gone,” she whispered. “The magic.”

Meche looked at him and could not stop the tears streaming down her cheeks.

He stretched out a hand towards her. Meche slapped it away. She closed the record player and grabbed it in one hand, hurrying down the stairs and holding on to the bannister with the other.

“Meche, you can’t see!” he yelled.

He was right. It was very dark. But it did not matter. Blindly she stepped down and in darkness found the way out, bursting onto the street with the record player clutched against her chest.

She ran home, her feet pounding the pavement, jumping from puddle of light to puddle of light.

When she reached the apartment she pulled her suitcase from under the bed and filled it with some clothes. She latched it and hurried to the door, bumping against her mother in the living room.

“Meche,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” Meche said. “I’m getting out of this place and going to live with dad.”

“Meche, you are not going anywhere.”

She had to. She could not stay. Humiliation, rage, despair, that was the only thing which could grow between these walls, on that whole street.

“Dad will be glad to have me over.”

“Your father can’t take care of you,” her mother said, tugging at the suitcase.

Meche pulled it back.

“Why not? He’s my dad.”

“Because he drinks. Because he’s never able to do anything right.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“You don’t even like me! And I don’t like you!”

“He stole our money!” her mother roared and tugged at the suitcase hard enough to pull it free from Meche’s grasp.

Meche huffed, pressing a hand against her chest. “What do you mean?”

“Our savings, Meche. He stole our savings and spent them on that woman.”

“He did not,” Meche said, feeling offended. “The savings fund is for me. For university and for—”

“I barely have enough money to put food on the table. Your grandmother is going to end up in Monterrey because I can’t support both of you. I am not making this up. I am—”

“You are nuts!”

Meche rushed out, carrying the record player under her arm. She heard her mother screaming after her, but she ran down the stairs fast as she could and out onto the street.

H
ER DAD SMILED
, though his smile was a little creased at the edges.

“Meche. How’s it going?” he asked. “Um... were you coming to visit today?”

“No,” she said and set the record player by the entrance, looking around the apartment.

It was very small and there were lots of boxes. He had not unpacked most of his things, it seemed. Meche sat down on a little blue couch and her father took an old rattan chair across from her. There was a ratty coffee table in between them and she noticed an ashtray filled to the brim and a glass with some dregs at the bottom. It smelled like whiskey. Her father grabbed the glass.

“I should take this to the sink. Do you want a soda?” he said. “I’ve got soda in the refrigerator. I don’t have food. I’m eating out. I do have potato chips.”

Meche took off her green jacket and placed it on her knees.

“It’s cool. I don’t really—”

“They’re good chips,” he said.

Her father wandered into the kitchen, pulling out glasses, filling a little bowl with chips.

“Dad, is it okay if I come stay with you?” she asked, trying to sound casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it probably wasn’t.

He poked his head out of the kitchen.

“For the weekend?” he asked, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “I’m busy this weekend.”

“No, for good.”

“Aw, Meche... seriously?”

Meche nodded. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His smile wavered.

“That’s probably not a great idea.”

“Why not?”

“This place is very small.”

“You said you were trying to get a bigger place. And next year you’re moving to Puerto Vallarta, anyway. So it almost doesn’t matter at all.”

He placed the glasses and the soda on the coffee table. He went back to the kitchen and returned with the bowl of chips.

“Yes, but it’s a bit difficult right now with the current situation,” he said. “And the Puerto Vallarta thing is a little messy. I’ve sent my demo tape. I did. A couple of weeks ago. As soon as they play it they’re going to love my voice. But, of course, these things take time. The whole hiring process is so silly these days. Human resources department this and fill that form and... it’s best if you stay with your mom.”

Meche felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of bleach.

“You said I could go with you one day,” she said. “We’ll live in Puerto Vallarta and get nice tans all year long.”

“Things are a bit weird right now, Meche. But we will absolutely go to Puerto Vallarta and I’ll finish my book there. It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”

“Dad, I can’t stay with mom.”

“You can’t stay here either, sweetheart.”

Her father took out a cigarette and lit it, raising it to his lips.

“Did you steal money from mom?”

He smiled a jovial smile. “What?”

“Did you steal from her?”

“Stealing is an exaggeration.”

“Our savings,” Meche said, through gritted teeth. “Did you take them?”

Her father’s smile, which was always so big, folded and disappeared. He nodded and took a drag.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Awesome,” Meche said, standing up.

“Meche, you don’t get it—”

“No dad,
you
don’t get it.”

She put on her jacket and zipped it up in one quick motion.

“You’re a fucking disgrace,” she said. “I can’t believe you’d steal from us.”

“Hey,” Vicente said, spitting the cigarette from his mouth. “Hey, you watch that mouth!”

“I’m not watching anything! You’re a lousy father.”

“Yeah, too bad,” he said with a sneer.

“Good thing I figured it out.”

“You don’t have to come back ’round here if you feel like that, Meche!”

Meche opened the door. She eyed the portable record player sitting on the floor and gave it a good kick. After all, it didn’t matter anymore. Very little did.

“Bye, dad.”

W
HEN SHE CAME
home, her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen, looking at her cup of coffee. Meche rested her hands on the chair and sighed. Her mother stared at Meche. Neither one spoke for what seemed an aeon.

“You think it’s so simple, don’t you,” her mother said finally, “Life. It’s very hard, Meche. I do what I can.”

“I know.”

“When you were a baby you cried a lot. Nothing could calm you down. You bawled and bawled. But when your dad put on a record and held you, you’d quiet down. It was like magic. I tried putting on records and holding you, but it wasn’t the music. You knew it was him. And you knew when it was me. I can’t be him.”

“I don’t want you to be him.”

Meche found a stray crumb and rolled it between her fingers.

“Mom, I just... I want to go away. I can’t stay here.”

“Where would you go?”

“Monterrey. With grandma. I’d help take care of her.”

“Your school?

“There are schools in Monterrey.”

Her mother shook her head and chuckled, resting her elbows on the table. “You want to get away from me so badly?”

“No,” Meche said. “But I do want to go somewhere else. This is not my place.”

“We all think that when we are fifteen.”

“It really isn’t. And I’ll phone. I’ll be here during vacation.”

“What kind of mother would I be if I send you to live with your aunt?”

“Mom,” Meche said extending her hand. “You know I love you. But I can’t live with you. You know that, don’t you?”

Her mother grabbed her hand and shook her head.

V
ICENTE
V
EGA LEANED
down and picked up the portable record player, setting it on the counter. He opened it, pressed a button and saw the platter was not spinning. It could be fixed. He’d work on it in the morning. For now, he needed a drink. Vicente grabbed a glass and poured himself some whiskey. He was out of ice and it was warm and unpleasant, but he drank it and lit a cigarette.

He walked back to the living room and patted one of the boxes filled with records, opening it and pulling out the
danz
ó
n
of
danz
ó
nes
: Danzon 2 by Arturo Marquez.

The slow rhythm of the
danzón
—music fit only for prostitutes in the early 20th century—soothed him

He turned off the lights, sitting in the dark.

L
OVE DIES IN
different ways. For most, it is a slow, agonizing death. Meche, however, cut her love the same way the executioner might chop a head: with a single, accurate swing.

She never saw her father after that day.

She did not speak to Daniela and Sebastian either.

Mexico City, 2009

M
ECHE’S MOTHER WAS
boiling hibiscus flowers for the
jamaica
water and the whole apartment had a sweet, pleasant smell.

“Your cousin was looking for you,” her mother said, wiping her hands against her apron. “She wanted to know if you need a ride to the airport tomorrow.”

“I could use a ride from Jimena. But I’m leaving early. I don’t know if she wants to get up at four a.m.”

“You can ask.”

“Sure.”

She leaned over her mother’s shoulder to look at the big, boiling pot of water. The water was blooming into a nice shade of red.

“You know,
jamaica
water is essentially tea, but cooled down.”

“I know that,” Meche said.

“You should take a few bags of it and make it at home.”

Meche nodded. Her mother stirred the pot with a wooden spoon.

“I’m getting rid of most of dad’s records.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said firmly and paused before speaking again. “I read his book.”

“Was it any good?”

“It was. A bit jumbled. It needs some editing... but it was good.”

It felt odd admitting it. And it was sad. Sad to know her dad could have done something else with his life. He’d wasted away in that little apartment, with his notes and his records, so close to finishing his big project and yet so far.

“I salvaged something for you. Wait a second.”

Meche returned to the kitchen with a small box and set it on the table. Her mother peeked inside.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling out an envelope.

“Dad was obsessive about keeping everything he wrote. These are letters he sent to you. Remember?”

“Letters?”

“Yeah. When he was trying to get you to go out with him.”

“Oh, my,” her mother whispered, unfolding one. “I remember. I didn’t know he kept them.”

“I thought you might want them.”

“I do.”

Her mother pulled out another letter and shook her head, chuckling.

“He could write, couldn’t he? He wrote on anything. Bits of napkins and the backs of receipts. That was Vicente.”

Her mother put the letters back in the box. She closed the lid and looked at Meche.

“I wish you could have talked to him before he died,” her mother said.

“Whenever we talked he was drunk and sad,” Meche said. “But I wish I’d talked to him.”

“Well, are you going to need help packing? Do you need—”

“I could use a hug.”

Meche placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. Her mother smiled.

A
SSORTED EMPANADAS CONSTITUTED
the dish for the last day of the
novena
. There were spicy tuna ones and sweet ones filled with pineapple jam.

Meche played tangos. Her father said tango was a music for mending or breaking hearts. Rhythms for close embraces and invitations to dance telegraphed with the eyes and a tilt of the head.

She saw Daniela and waved to her. The woman approached her, a broad smile painting her face.

“Hey,” Meche said. “How... um... how’s your day been?”

“Long. I’ve been up since six and have not stopped. Two kids and a full-time job,” she said. “They’re six and ten.”

“Seriously? You have a ten-year old child? That’s impossible.”

“Not that impossible. It’s been a while.”