Caramelo (6 page)

The girl Candelaria with long bird legs and skinny arms is still a girl, even though she is older than any of us. She likes to carry me and pretend she is my mama. Or I can say, —
Caw, caw, caw
—and she will drop a little piece of Chiclets gum in my mouth as if I was her little bird. I say, —Candelaria, swing me in a circle again, and she will swing me. Or, —Be my horsie, and she tugs me on her back and gallops across the courtyard. When I want, she lets me sit on her lap.

—And what do you want to be when you grow up, Lalita?

—Me? I want to be … a queen. And you?

Candelaria says, —I want to be an actress, like the ones that cry on the
tele
. Watch how I can make myself cry. And we practice trying to make ourselves cry. Until we start laughing.

Or she takes me with her down the street when she is sent to run an errand. On the way there and back, we say, —Let’s play the blind game, and take turns walking down the street with our eyes shut, one leading, the other being led. —Don’t open your eyes until I say. And when I do, I am standing in front of the gate of a strange house, the girl Candelaria laughing and laughing.

¿Qué quiere usted?

Mata rile rile ron
.

Yo quiero una niña
.

Mata rile rile ron
.

Escoja usted
.

Mata rile rile ron
.

Escojo a Candelaria
.

Mata rile rile ron
.

When we play
mata rile rile ron
I want to hold hands with you, Candelaria, if your mother will let you, just for a little, before you go back to the job of the laundry, please. Because did I tell you? The girl Candelaria is a girl who likes to play even though she wakes up with the rooster and rides to work asleep on the hard shoulder of her mother, the old washerwoman,
the long ride into the city, three buses to the Grandmother’s house on Destiny Street each Monday, to wash our dirty clothes.

—How can you let that Indian play with you? my cousin Antonieta Araceli complains. —If she comes near me, I’m leaving.

—Why?

—Because she’s dirty. She doesn’t even wear underwear.

—Liar! How do you know?

—It’s true. Once I saw her squat down behind the laundry room and pee. Just like a dog. I told the Grandmother, and the Grandmother made her scrub all of the roof with a bucket of soap and the broom.

Who can say if the cousin Antonieta Araceli is telling the truth or telling a story? To see if it’s true that Candelaria doesn’t wear underwear, my brother Rafa makes up this game.

—We’re going to play “It” except you can’t be tagged “It” if you squat down like this, understand? Now I’m “It.” Run!

Everyone, brothers and cousins, scatters across the courtyard. When Rafa tries to tag Candelaria, she hunkers like a frog, and the rest of us squat down too and look. Candelaria smiling her big corn teeth smile, skinny legs drawn beneath her.

Not underpants. Not exactly. Not little flowers and elastic, not lace and smooth cotton, but a coarse pleat of cloth between her legs, homemade shorts wrinkled and dim as dish towels.

—I don’t want to play this game anymore, Rafa says.

—Me neither.

The game ends as suddenly as it began. Everyone disappears. Everyone is gone. Candelaria squatting in the courtyard, grinning her big teeth grin like kernels of white corn. When she gets up finally and comes toward me, I don’t know why, I run.

—
S
top that! Stop it, Mother scolds. —What’s wrong with you?

—It’s that my hair is laughing, I say.

Mother makes me sit on her lap. She tugs and parts my hair in every direction.

I’m rushed to the outdoor sink, my scalp scrubbed raw with black soap till my crying makes Mother stop. Then I’m not allowed to play with Candelaria. Or to even talk to her. And I’m not to let her hug me, or chew the little cloud of gum she passes from her mouth to her fingers to my
mouth, still warm with her saliva, and never let her carry me on her lap again as if I was her baby. —Never, understand?

—Why?

—Because.

—Because what?

—Because they won’t let me, I shout from the courtyard balcony, but before I can add anything else they bring me inside.

Candelaria in the courtyard leaning against the wall, biting a thumbnail, or standing on one stork leg, or slipping off her dusty shoes with the backs squashed like house slippers, making a circle with her big toe on the courtyard tiles, or folding sheets, or hauling a tin basin of wet laundry to the rooftop clothesline, or hunkered in a game we made up, the dingy cloth of her underpants like the wrinkled diaper Jesus wears on the cross. Her skin a
caramelo
. A color so sweet, it hurts to even look at her.

11.

A Silk Shawl, a Key, a Spiraling Coin

            —
A
silk
rebozo
? From Santa María? For what? So that Celaya can mop the floor with it? Really, Inocencio, where’s your head? What does a little girl need a silk shawl for?

—It’s that I promised Lalita we’d find her one one day. Isn’t that right, Lala? Father says, tapping his cigarette into his coffee cup, the ash dropping with a sizzle. Then he breaks into a Cri-Crí song about a duck that wears a
rebozo
.

—But silk, Inocencio! How exaggerated! the Grandmother says, plucking the cup off the table and replacing it with a “souvenir” ashtray stamped “Aeromexico.” —You’re talking about shawls that cost a fortune. They don’t make them anymore. Good luck trying to find one.

—Not even here in the capital?

—They’re disappearing. If you want an authentic one, you’ll have to find a family that’s willing to part with it. Some old lady who needs the
centavos
, somebody going through hard times. No, the famous
rebozos
from my village you can’t find anymore. Go look here in the capital. Look in the countryside. Ask and see if I’m lying. All you’ll come back with are the ones they sell in the market. Factory made.
Rebozos
that look as if somebody made them with their feet. And not even artificial silk! Of that, you can be sure. Look, the more work is put into the fringe, the higher the price. Like this one I’m wearing, count how many rows of braiding … Just count. This one?!!! I already told you. Not for sale. Not even if God commanded it. Not while I’m alive. Don’t even ask.

—What, what, what? What’s not for sale? the Little Grandfather
says, coming back to the table for his second cup of coffee and another
pan dulce
.

—We were talking about silk
rebozos
, Papá, Father says. —I wanted to find one for Lalita.

—I was saying you can’t find them anymore, Narciso. You tell him. Better he buy Celaya one of the cotton ones in the market, am I right? No use spending on something she can’t even wear till she grows up. And what if she grows up and doesn’t even
want
to wear it. Then what, eh? So that she can save it for her funeral? Over there on the other side do they even wear them? I don’t think so. They’re too modern. Why, my own daughter doesn’t even want to be seen wearing a
rebozo
. In another generation they’ll look on them as rags, barbarities, something to spread on a table or, God forbid, a bed. If you find a real silk one, better buy it for your mother. I’m the only one who knows the true worth of a
rebozo
around here.

—Listen to your mother, Inocencio. The Devil knows more from experience …

—Than from being the Devil. I know, I know.

After coffee and a sugared
cuernito
, the Little Grandfather is satisfied and makes the same joke he always makes after each meal:

—I sleep. And it makes me so huuuun-gry. Then I eat. And it makes me so sleeeee-py!

—Out, out, all of you! the Grandmother scolds, shooing us out of the dining room with her shawl as if we are flies. —How are we ever going to get this table clean with everyone dawdling about after every meal?

I
t’s the hour of the nap. The house is finally quiet, all the apartments are still, front and back, up and down, even the courtyard. The world is napping. As soon as Oralia has cleared off the lunch dishes, the Grandmother retreats to her room. Bedroom door shut, key
click-clicking
twice behind her. Everyone knows better than to knock.

—Never bother your grandmother when she’s napping, understand? Never!

From our side of the door we can hear the Little Grandfather snoring, the Grandmother’s nervous shuffling about in her
chanclas
with the squashed heels. They used to be the Grandfather’s slippers. The Grandfather
says she never throws any of his things away even though he hasn’t worn them since … since when I was dirt.

Tikis, who is always complaining about how much work he has to do, who never sits down and eats with the rest of us, because he’s too busy washing Father’s new station wagon for extra money, or polishing Father’s shoes the way only Tikis can polish them, or making a chart with how many
pesos
there are to dollars, and finds an excuse to run off and eat somewhere alone, comes back from wherever he’s been hiding with his empty glass and plate. Everyone else has gone to their rooms to sleep after eating. Except for me and Tikis.

—How come the Grandmother always locks the door when she goes in there? I ask, pointing to the Grandmother and Little Grandfather’s room.

—Beats me.

I lie on my belly and peek under the door.

—Get up, Lala, before someone sees you!

But when I don’t get up, Tikis lies down on his belly and peeks too. The Grandmother’s
chanclas
stop in front of the windows, the metal venetian blinds shutting their metal eyes, and then the curtains screeching shut,
chanclas slap-slapping
over to the walnut-wood armoire, a key turning, the armoire doors creaking open, drawers opening and closing. The feet of the Grandmother, fat little
tamales
shuffling over to the overstuffed velvet chair and the chair’s springs groaning under her weight. The legs crossing themselves at the thick ankles. Then the best part; the Grandmother who cannot sing, singing! It’s hard not to laugh. Singing in a high parrot voice and humming.

—What she got locked in the
ropero
? I ask, —Money? A treasure? Maybe a skeleton even?

—Who knows? But I betcha anything I’m gonna find out.

—Honest?

—When Grandfather goes to his shop and the Grandmother runs to church. Watch.
I’m
going in there.

—Nuh-uh!

—Yup! You want to help? Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you.

—Really? Please, Tikis. Please, please, pleeeease!

—But you gotta promise not to tell, big-mouth. Promise? Honest, hope to God you don’t lie, step on your mother’s eye?

—I promise, honest-honest!

I
t’s true. I can’t keep a secret. Before the end of the day all the brothers find out and want to help us too. It’s Rafa, same as always, who takes over. It’s because of that year he went to Mexican military school. That’s why Rafa likes ordering us about. He studied ordering.

—Toto, to the kitchen. Ask Oralia to make you something to eat. Lolo, you stay on the balcony and watch over the courtyard. Memo, your job is to keep the cousins busy, start a game of Turista. Tikis, your post is the rooftop, keep an eye down the street. If anyone comes to the gate, just start whistling. And make sure you whistle good and loud!

Tikis whines, —I always get stuck doing the dirty work. Why do I have to stay up on the roof when this was my idea?

—Because I’m in command, Captain Tikis. That’s why. And that’s an order. Ito comes with me. No one is to leave their position until I say. Any more questions, men? You stay here, Lala … naw, on second thought, you’re better off with us. If we leave you alone, you’re liable to squeal.

The Little Grandfather has already gone back to his
tlapalería
for the afternoon. Finally, the Grandmother leaves the house with her purse full of coins for the candles she is going to light at
la basílica
, her good silk
rebozo
looped around her shoulders and her fancy crystal rosary in her pocket. She shouts commands to everyone she sees even as she crosses the threshold, the door-within-the-gate clanging behind her. Rafa, Ito, and me move into our positions.

Ito swings me up on his back and carries me piggyback. I must be holding on to his neck too tight. —Hey, what’s the matter, you turning chicken, Lala?

—Uh-uh. I like this a whole lot better than playing
mata rile rile ron
, don’t you?

—Shh! You guys keep quiet unless I say you can talk, Rafa says. —Is that clear, donkey-private Lala?

—Yes, sir! I say. I’ve already been demoted twice this summer, from a skunky-private to a monkey-private, and then to a donkey-private. So far there is nothing lower than a donkey-private.