—And then what happened?
—And then her husband ran off with that floozy across the street and was never heard from again. And she said, “Alone at last, thank God!” Tan tán.
Floozy is one of Mother’s words, from her time not mine, but I use it anyway to make her laugh, and it works. Mother’s in a good mood. We’re helping Father put some order to his shop. Mother’s mopping, and I’m sweeping. Every once in a while, out of nowhere, Mother will ask, —And then what happened? Even though I haven’t been telling a story. It’s kind of a game between us. I have to come up with something out of the blue, the more outrageous the better. It helps pass the time.
Father was putting up a series of shelves for his fabric sample books, but now he’s talking to a walk-in customer. Some of the people who come in are downright rude. Not the Mexicans. They know to be polite. I mean los güeros. Instead of calling Father “Mister Reyes,” they call Father “Inocencio.” What lack of respect! Qué bárbaros. Pobrecitos. Father says we have to forgive the ignorant, because they know not what they do. But if we know enough about their culture to know what’s right, how come they can’t bother to learn about ours?
—Hey, that’s right. Where you from, amigo?
—Mexico. And you, my friend?
—Oh, well, little bit of everywhere, I guess. Here. There. I was an army brat. My father was with the U.S. Army.
—I was in the U.S. Army! This during the Second World War, my friend.
—You’re kidding! I didn’t know Mexicans fought with the Allies.
—Both in Mexico and here.
—My dad fought in that war. Saw enough action to get promoted to a post at Camp Blanding.
—Camp Blanding? I cannot believe! For basic training at Camp Blanding I did too.
—Well, don’t that beat all! Maybe you knew my dad.
—Please, your name.
—Cummings. Dad was Major General Frank Cummings.
—Oh, my Got! I remember! Everybody loved General Cummings. He was a gentleman.
—That’s no lie! He sure was a swell guy, my dad.
—More. He was very nice and very kind. Just like you, my friend. Always, he say, my son, my son. So proud he was.
—Was he now? Aw, that sure is a heck of a nice thing to hear, especially since he never told me to my face when he was alive. But Dad was like that. I kind of always knew, you know. It sure is nice to hear it, though.
Father and the big Texan talk and talk and talk for what seems forever. Oh, you’re kidding. No, I swear. Well, I’ll be! Like that. When he finally folds himself into his blue Mustang and drives away, the Texan toot-toots the horn and we all wave, except for Father, who salutes. That’s when Mother lets Father have it.
—What a liar you are! Mother says. —You didn’t go to Camp Blanding! You went to Fort Ord. Can’t you even tell a story straight? I can’t stand liars.
—It’s not lying, Father says. —It’s being polite. I only say what people like to hear. It makes them happy.
—Qué lambiache, Mother hisses, using the word that means “lick.” —That’s what I can’t stand about Mexicans, she continues. —Always full of bullshit!
—Not sheet, Father corrects her. —Politeness. I am a gentleman. He tips a box of black tacks and pours them onto his palm, then pops a few into his mouth as if they were raisins.
—Well, güeros don’t see it as polite, if you want the truth, Mother says.
Father just keeps kissing the magnetic tip of the hammer and hammering the wing chair he’s working on.
—Do you hear me? Mother says. —Te hablo, I’m talking to you, Inocencio …
I click on my transistor radio and find a station playing oldies. The Supremes’ “Stop in the Name of Love.” Turn the volume up so loud, I can’t hear a word of Father’s story and Mother’s history.