Chapter 44

The hotel bar was filled with its evening regulars. Two old men playing dominos were seated on the front porch; three tan, wrinkled men in white, brimmed hats sat in their usual seats in the far left booth; and at the bar, sat Tomás and Ricardo. The two men, about my father’s age, sipped dark rum several evenings a week while arguing over the TV news. Once, Tomás grabbed my butt while I was leaving the hotel for the evening and my uncle screamed at him with such fury I thought flames were going to shoot from his nose like a blowtorch.

I glanced around the establishment hoping to find Lilly. She wasn’t at home (I had already checked) and I had run out of places to look. I could already sense that she wasn’t there. I spotted my Aunt Carmen and Uncle Miguel seated at a table near Tomás and Ricardo. I needed the company. Even if they couldn’t help with my current problems, at least I was no longer alone.

“Buenas noches, Mariana!” yelled my Uncle Miguel from across the room. My aunt immediately waved.

I walked over and plopped down on a wooden chair.

“¿Cerveza?” my uncle asked, pointing to his beer.

I hated beer, but at this point, I figured nothing could make me feel any worse.

“Sí.” I nodded.

Ricardo, who was seated at the bar not far from me, awkwardly grabbed a can of Medalla Light from the bartender. His torso swayed slightly on his stool as he turned around to hand me the beer.

“Gracias,” I said.

He continued to hold the can after I took hold of it, touching my skin to savor the moment. His eyes were glassy and his nose red, and I could smell alcohol floating off him in waves. The perverted curve of his smile made my stomach lurch, and I scrunched my nose in disgust. Finally, he released the can.

It was damp and cold, and part of me wanted to rest it on my forehead to relax but I didn’t want to concern my aunt and uncle with the gesture. I took a small sip and winced, the flavor rank and bitter.

My uncle looked at me, tilted his head and asked if I was tired. I thought of lying, of telling him that I was tired, but I realized that there really was no point. We all lived in the same house; he’d figure out Lilly and I were fighting, eventually. So out of a sheer desire to have an audience to listen to my problems, I unloaded everything that had happened the best I could, given the language barrier. They nodded their heads at the appropriate times, looked shocked and horrified at others, and then quite sad after I discussed the big blow-up I’d had with their granddaughter earlier that afternoon.

“¡Ay Dios mío!” cried my aunt, placing her hand over her heart.

“Mariana Ruíz,” said my uncle sternly. “Esto es un problema.”

Hearing him state that I had a problem seemed like the most obvious observation in the world, but it still made me sad, like I had disappointed him somehow. And all this was happening right before my parents were set to arrive, which was just perfect.

“Dad’s gonna be pissed,” I mumbled to myself. “The great Lorenzo Ruíz sends his kid off to get cultured and I cause a scene.”

Ricardo suddenly swung his fat, drunken body around to face us, the leathery skin on his forehead wrinkled with confusion.

“¿Lorenzo Ruíz?” he asked in a raspy voice.

I glared at him from my chair a few feet away from his bar stool and cocked my head without saying a word.

“¿Americana, verdad?” he asked, hiccupping slightly as he stared down at me.

“Yes,” I replied in English, hoping to deter further conversation.

“¿Tu papa . . . es Lorenzo?” he asked slowly. His head rocked above his shoulders like a palm tree in the wind.

“Yes, Lorenzo Ruíz,” I stated again, continuing in English to discourage him. “He grew up here. Why? Did you know him?”

My great aunt and great uncle loudly adjusted their weight in their seats at the sound of my father’s name, and I turned and saw them both staring in opposite directions. They weren’t catching my gaze.

“Yup, yup. Ah knew ya papa,” Ricardo slurred, but in English this time. “Ah went to sh-chool wit ’lil Lorenzo. Fun, fun we had! And, yah know whah? Ah still see his sidder from tim to tim.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked, shaking my head at him.

“Lorenzo’s sidder,” he repeated.

“Sidder? What the heck’s a ‘sidder?’ ”

“His sissster,” he moaned slowly.

“Like, ‘hermana?’ ”

“Yeah, sidder. Dat’s wha Ah said.” He glared at me like I was an idiot who couldn’t understand my own language.

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy, mister. My dad doesn’t have a sister. He’s got two brothers who live in Jersey.”

“Ah know!” he shouted. “Roberto and Diego Ruíz.”

My breath caught in my throat. Those were my uncles’ names.

“Your granfadder, Arturo, he had a dahter, Teresa.”

I blinked at the man. Teresa.

A flash of the woman from the church flickered in my head. The woman with the small toddler, the woman who spoke English, the woman with red hair, the woman who sat next to me at the Quinceañera reception, the woman who wanted to know about my family in the States.

I swiveled my head to look at my aunt and uncle. Their faces were as white as clouds, even their lips. Realizing they couldn’t have possibly understood our conversation in English, I knew that the mention of her name must have triggered this reaction.

“What’s he talking about?” I yelled in English. My aunt and uncle stared back, saying nothing. “What the hell is this guy talking about?” I screamed again.

If I had been more rational, I would have attempted to communicate with my aunt and uncle in Spanish. But I could barely form a clear thought let alone translate those thoughts into Spanish.

“Who’s Teresa? Teresa!” I shouted, all the blood rushing to my face. “¿Quien es Teresa?”

“Teresa, Teresa,” the old man sang to himself as he swayed.

My uncle slowly put down his beer and stared directly into my brown eyes. I could feel the air thicken between us. I knew whatever was about to happen wasn’t going to be good. I almost wanted to stop him from saying it.

“Teresa es tu tía,” he stated softly.

She was my aunt.