—Cinco 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.