Tuesday, June 20: 62 days until I go home
Dear Mamá,
I hope you and Evan are having fun on your honeymoon. Things are really weird here. Like 24-hour-suicide-watch weird. Why didn’t you tell me Papá has threatened to kill himself?
I want to come home early. Half the time I’m bored and half the time I’m scared I’ll do the wrong thing and something bad will happen. I hardly ever see Papá because he’s either working at the radio station or getting completely wasted. Tía Ileana’s pretty cool, but she and Papá don’t get along because . . .
I erase the last line and try again.
The only good thing that’s happened is that I met this boy. His name is Frankie Zamora, and he’s 18. I erase and write 16. There are things I don’t want my mother to worry about.
I check my watch. Just one hour until Frankie picks me up. I fold the paper in half, slide it under the letter I just received from Petra, and stack books on top so no one can see it’s there. I weave my hair in front into small braids like Petra does. Then I shake out the braids because they look better with long natural-blonde hair than they do with layered dark brown hair. I think a ponytail would be more practical for riding Frankie’s motorcycle, but it takes me three tries to get rid of the lumps.
Picking an outfit is even harder, and by the time Frankie rings the bell at the gate, rejected T-shirts and sweaters cover my floor. I kick them under my bed in case Tía Ileana looks in my room. I don’t want her poking around my stuff.
Downstairs, Papá’s already seated at the table, and Tía Ileana’s putting two fish fillets in the microwave. I give my aunt a quick hug, then my father.
“Do I get to meet this boy?” Papá asks.
I sniff alcohol on his breath. “Maybe another day. We’re rushing to catch a movie.”
Papá scrapes his chair back. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.” He starts to stand, but his face goes pale and he collapses back into his seat. “Leg spasms,” he says, his voice brittle. Tía Ileana rushes to him.
“I already talked to him, Chelo,” she says as she unsnaps his leg brace and massages his calf. He groans and writhes in his chair. My aunt turns to me. “Bring me his pills.”
The bell rings again. I grab the bottle that Graciela prepared that afternoon and hand it to Tía Ileana on my way to the front door. I poke my head out. “Just a minute, Frankie. We have a little problem.”
“Totally understand,” he responds.
When I get back to the dining area, Tía Ileana holds the bottle in front of my father’s face. “It says take with food. If you go drinking with the guys after work, eat something or the new medicine isn’t as effective.”
“I can’t. My—” He sucks in his breath with a moan, then grabs his leg with his good hand.
“Chelo, I don’t know what to do with you.” My aunt places a pill on his tongue and tips a water glass toward him. “Your stomach hurts because you drink and don’t eat. You need to start taking responsibility for your own health.”
I clasp my hands in front of me. “Guys, Frankie’s waiting. Can I go now?”
“It’s all right.” Tía Ileana crouches in front of Papá. “Francisco said his parents voted for the ‘NO.’ His father’s PS,” she says, referring to the initials of the Socialist Party. “But not active because he’s sick.”
Sick like Papá’s sick?
Papá grips my forearm. “Fine, go. Home by midnight.”
Tía Ileana watches me leave. I know those same eyes will be on me when I walk back through the door tonight.
Outside under the streetlamp, Frankie kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say and switch to English. “My father had, like, this small seizure.”
“Es okay. You look beautiful.” Tonight he wears a green-and-white striped scarf over his leather jacket, and a white shirt underneath with a brown tie. Instead of his usual blue jeans, he has on dark brown corduroy pants. My insides relax and my jaw falls slack. I didn’t expect him to dress up this nice for me. And I don’t feel like a kid in high school anymore.
I slip on my helmet. “Where are we going?”
“I know a good restaurant in Providencia.”
The Providencia neighborhood is a twenty-minute trip with stoplights and traffic. It was the fancy neighborhood when I lived here, and I’m guessing from the way Frankie is dressed that it still is. One- and two-story houses and low-rise apartment buildings give way to high-rises with plate-glass windows that reflect the light of old-fashioned wrought-iron streetlamps. The wide avenues here are clean and lined with trees. At night, this could be a fancy part of Chicago, except for the palm trees and the occasional older Spanish-style building. I orient myself using the huge illuminated statue of the Virgin Mary on top of the Cerro San Cristóbal. To get to the restaurant, we pass the hill.
Frankie pulls into a parking space on the narrow street just past the restaurant and tosses a coin to an old watchman with bloodshot eyes and a rotten odor. I don’t think he’ll be much use if anyone tries to mess with Frankie’s moto. When he opens his mouth to thank us, I see that he has no teeth. Frankie grimaces and turns away.
I had expected Frankie to take me to a McDonald’s, which they have here, too, or a local fast-food place—like where I’d hang out with my friends at home. But this is a real restaurant, specializing in asados, different types of meat cooked over an open fire, which the waiter serves straight off the spit. I savor the aroma of all kinds of grilled meats mixed together. Most of the people eating here are in their early twenties. I see lots of couples.
This is a real-live date. On the way to our table I redo my ponytail and straighten my sweater, conscious that I wore jeans instead of the clingy, knee-length 1950s-style skirts that seem to be popular here. On the other hand, I rode here on a motorcycle. They probably came in cars.
The table for two has a sheet of thick white paper covering the tablecloth. I’ve never seen paper over cloth, but Frankie says a lot of restaurants do this. I guess it saves on laundry, but he says it has to do with the customs of immigrants from the Basque region who settled in Chile.
Frankie scans the handwritten menu and recommends the pork. Then he asks me to translate the entire menu into English and listen to him repeat the words I say. He slides an empty wine glass out of the way, pulls a small notepad from his back pocket, and writes down words that he has trouble remembering. Some I can’t translate for him because we don’t have those dishes at home.
“How long have you studied English?” I raise my voice above the din around me.
“Five years in school. But school . . . not good.”
“How is it not good?”
“Classes very big.” He holds his arms outstretched. His shirt pulls tight against the muscles of his chest. He has great muscles, but if these are his best clothes, he’s outgrown them.
“How many students were in a class?” I ask.
“Forty. Maybe more. But many no come.”
My classes have twelve to fifteen students. Lucky me, but it doesn’t seem fair. “I hope you can come to the United States. You’ll learn English fast. Just like I did.”
“I have to take test in English to come. And I need money.” He frowns.
“There are scholarships,” I say, in as cheerful a tone as I can manage. “My brother got a full scholarship to Georgia Tech.”
Frankie perks up, which makes me smile, too. “How?”
“They have a special program for Hispanic students to study engineering. He had good grades. And we didn’t have any money, either.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “My parents split up three years ago. And my mother went back to school in the United States. All of us were students at the same time.” Even though we were poor, I liked that Mamá was in school along with Daniel and me.
“But you have a big house here.”
“Papá’s only lived in the house four months. He saved the money from his job with the radio station.”
“What station?”
“Radio Colectiva.”
“I don’t listen to that one. Too much talk.” He makes a talking gesture with his hand. I laugh.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I figure Frankie doesn’t pay much attention to politics, since he doesn’t like that kind of radio. Maybe something happened to his father to scare him away.
The waiter brings us a platter of pork still on the spit. Using a two-pronged fork, he slides the pieces onto our plates. The aroma of barbecue makes my mouth water. The meat is crisp on the outside and soft in the center, spiced with salt, pepper, and garlic. I’ve been to barbecues at my friends’ houses, but I’ve never eaten a piece of pork so tender and juicy.
“How did you know about this place?” I ask.
“My uncle. Me, I’m a McDonald’s guy.” He winks, and I laugh.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You don’t mind that I brought you here?”
“Of course not, Frankie.” I slide my hand toward him, and he covers it with his larger, rougher hand. “It makes me feel special.”
He gives my hand a light squeeze.
I know it’s none of my business, but I want to know more about Frankie’s father and what Frankie said at the ice-cream shop about the rats that drink and don’t work. As soon as we finish our meal, I ask him, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Three younger sisters. No brothers.” He pats his chest. “I’m the hope of the family.”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. “What?”
Grinning, he switches to Spanish, “I’m the only son. King of the house.”
Another machista like my father and brother. I can ignore his king of the house comment and write him off. Or I can try to change his mind. I switch to Spanish to make sure he understands. “You want to live in the United States, right?”
“Of course.” He squints at me. “Is my English that bad?”
“No, you were perfectly clear. I just wanted to be extra sure because things are different there.” Deciding to make my points with silverware, I pick up the fork. “First of all, women work at the same jobs as men, and even if it doesn’t always happen, they’re supposed to get the same pay.” I point my fork at him. “Does your mother work?”
Frankie shakes his head. “She takes care of all of us. Even my father who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Second.” I pick up the spoon. “Girls and boys go to school for the same amount of time. My mother went all the way to get her PhD and is now starting a job as a university professor. Girls don’t have to drop out to get married and make babies. And they can go back to school even when they have kids like Mamá did.”
I think I’ve silenced Frankie this time. I set the spoon down and hold the knife up. “When a girl is born, it’s not like some huge tragedy for the family. It’s not the end of”—Frankie’s words come to me—“the family’s hope.” I tap the knife on the table. “Girls have value for themselves and not just for catching a husband. We’re awesome, and we can do anything that you can do.” I set down the knife, fold my hands across my chest, and bare my teeth in triumph. I make a mental note to give Papá this speech one day.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Frankie says in English. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. All is forgiven by the warmth of his fingers.
“My father’s the same way. And because he’s old, he’s probably never going to change his mind.” I stroke the smooth skin of Frankie’s wrist and smile at him, trying for what my counselor at school would call a win-win situation. I want this win.
“At least your father got a real house,” Frankie says. “Mine, he doesn’t do anything. That’s the other reason it’s all up to me.”
“Is he unemployed?”
Frankie snorts. “He hasn’t worked a steady job in years. All he does is drink.” He lets go of my hand and waves it toward the door of the restaurant, where groups of people wait for tables. “That bum across the street where I parked my bike? That’s him.”
“That was your father?” Frankie wouldn’t even talk to the guy.
“No, not really him. But my father is always passing out in the street, and people don’t bother bringing him home anymore. Last weekend he was arrested for public intoxication, and my uncle had to pay his fine.” He glances at his empty plate. “That’s why I was late to pick you up. And sort of pissed off.”
“I’m sorry.”
Frankie holds his head in his hands. “Tina, I’m embarrassed to have his name.”
I want to cheer Frankie up since it’s our first big date. Besides, this is something we share—something nobody else in the world but he and I understand.
I scoot my chair toward him. “You want to hear a secret?”
Frankie nods, so I continue. “My father didn’t work for the longest time, either. Remember when I said he was disabled? He drinks, too. A lot.”
“Did he ever pass out in the middle of the road like a dead pig?”
“No, but he used to hit me.”
Frankie leans across the table and points to the bridge of his nose. I saw a bump there before, but now I notice the way his nose bends to the right. “He broke it. Twice. When I was eight and when I was thirteen.”
Papá never hit me hard or with his fist, not even when I talked back to him after he got out of prison. But I bet Frankie never had to take his father outside like a dog. I suck in my breath. “My father would pee on the bathroom floor because he couldn’t find the toilet.”
“At least he made it home. Mine was arrested for urinating in public.” He pauses. “In public. In the middle of the day. With the whole neighborhood watching.”
That must have been so embarrassing for Frankie’s family. But there are worse things. “My father threatened to kill himself,” I say.
Frankie jerks up straight. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. He tried to get a gun.”
“My father hasn’t done that.” He stares at his empty plate again. “Sometimes I wish he would.”
“You don’t mean it?” I wouldn’t want Papá to shoot himself, no matter how awful he’s acted or how messed up he is. But maybe it’s because he survived so much, and I can’t believe after all that he really wants to die.
“Haven’t you felt that way about your father? When he was hitting you, or drinking up all the money for food and rent?” There’s a strange brightness in Frankie’s voice, as if he’s discovered a solution for a bad situation.
“No.” I want to tell Frankie about Papá’s time in prison, and what he was like before, but I can’t. Even if his father is on our side, that doesn’t mean Frankie agrees with him.
“You probably think I’m a horrible person,” Frankie says.
I shake my head. “It sounds like you had it worse than I did. I haven’t seen my father for three years. You see yours all the time.”
He seems to accept my explanation. He changes the subject, to English words for fun things to do. Music. Movies. Soccer. Basketball.
When the check comes, I reach for my wallet, for the allowance money Papá gave me yesterday. “No,” Frankie says. “That’s not how we do it here.”
He counts out a stack of bills, more than a delivery boy with an unemployed alcoholic father should be spending. Maybe we should have gone to McDonald’s.
When he gets to the corner half a block from my house, he cuts the engine. I climb off. “Are you free on Thursday?” he asks.
“Yes!” I have to restrain myself from jumping up and down in the street.
“How’s a movie and dinner?” He tells me he can get off work early and be at the house by six. Then he puts one arm around me and plays with the strands of hair that fell out of my ponytail. I smile. He stops and looks into my eyes. I see the streetlamp’s reflection in his eyes, framed by his long lashes. Then he kisses me.
Frankie’s lips are full and soft. The smoky taste of the asado fills my mouth. This isn’t my first kiss, but it’s easily the most delicious. I want us to stay like this all night, but he pulls away. My lips tingle. My whole body tingles. He straddles the bike. I give him a weak, stupid wave as he rides off.
I talk my way past Tía Ileana. My room hasn’t been touched. I slide the letter to my mother from under the stack of books. Without reading it again, I tear it in half, then in quarters, and finally in little pieces that I slowly sprinkle into the wastebasket.