The Ladies of Managua (16 page)

“The hearse is here,” she said as her reflection came into view. “My Bela wants us all to ride behind it, in her car. But she said maybe you want to have a driver bring the office car, too, in case people leave early and someone needs a ride back?”

I realized I was holding my breath. Sometimes, when I see Mariana, I have the same feeling I did when I was sixteen and rushing to meet Manuel: excitement and nerves and disbelief that I'm somehow connected to someone so beautiful. It sounds like bragging to say your daughter is beautiful; okay, it is bragging. But it's also a fact. Mariana is attractive, anyone would agree. But this morning, in the mirror, it was more than that; she seemed imbued with some of Manuel's magic, with the rushing power of the waterfall. She was young and forceful and so unbelievably beautiful.

“Are you okay, Mama?” she asked. I must have been scaring her, standing there, not speaking, because she hasn't called me “mama” since she was six years old.

“I'm fine, mi coraz
ó
n,” I said, finally turning around. “I'll just go splash some water on my face.” I patted her on the shoulder as I started to make my way back down the hall.

“Isn't there a bathroom right here?” Mariana said, nodding toward the kitchen door.

“It's for the staff.” When she was more mobile, Madre used to barge through the kitchen door to see if she could catch any of the maids or cooks up to some kind of mischief, but now it's just Do
ñ
a Olga and her daughter keeping the house and I respect their privacy as much as I do Mariana's.

Mariana laughed or snorted, I couldn't tell which, then asked, “Didn't you fight the revolution so that there wouldn't be separate bathrooms for the help?” She shook her head a bit. “Shake” is probably too strong a verb, it was more of a twitch, really, a Morse code telegraphing nerves and annoyance, and with the movement, she somehow shook off the image of her I'd seen reflected in the mirror. The glass had frozen her, giving her a hint of placid calm that she doesn't carry in real life. Even though she's always been a good sleeper, able to rest on planes and nap anywhere, I've never seen Mariana look anywhere nearly as relaxed or blissful as I did in my own, old photo.

I want her to have that serenity. Partly, I'll admit, because if she were happy and calm, my life would be easier. Mariana is so tolerant of my mother. But she is so ready to find fault with whatever I say or do, even which bathroom to use. If she lost the nervous energy she carries around, she might not be so vigilant, so watchful for any reason to be annoyed with me. Maybe the serenity of the photo escapes her because she doesn't know what it is to be loved so completely. And for that, I blame the gringo we saw last night. If he can't make her feel safe and calm, the way Manuel made me feel, even in a war zone, then he isn't the one for my daughter.

That's not fair, I know. It takes two people to be in a relationship. And perhaps I should be sympathetic to him; I know how difficult Mariana makes it to get close to her. But if I don't blame him, then I have to consider another terrifying possibility. What if the nervous anger comes from something she herself lacks, as opposed to something he has failed to provide? What if no matter how much he loves Mariana, she'll never feel safe, even in a world where the worst thing that can happen is a painting selling for fewer millions than anticipated? And if it's impossible for her to feel beloved or cared for by someone who entered her life fresh just a year or so ago, then what are the odds she will ever love or feel loved by me, after I've spent three decades disappointing her?

 

19

Maria

Last night Do
ñ
a Olga had the night off so she could attend the calling hours, so we stopped by Tip Top Chicken on the way home to get some take-out. None of us was really hungry, but there would be no food at home, and, besides, Don Pedro said you should never go straight back to the house from a wake, or death might follow you. When I asked him where we should go for take-out, he suggested Tip Top; it's his favorite place to eat. I sat up front next to him, to give my Bela and Madre more room, and he kept chatting the entire drive, trying to distract me from feeling sad. Or embarrassed; maybe he had noticed the fuss Allen made, the scene I'd caused. I appreciated his efforts because if he kept talking to me, my grandmother couldn't ask the questions that must have been choking her—who was that gringo, and why was I so angry at him? And I would be tempted to tell her the whole, overwhelming story, to describe the situation her granddaughter had found herself in despite all her years of careful advice-giving and cautionary soap operas starring women who'd been made fools of by more powerful men. Madre would be too proud to ask about the incident, but without Don Pedro's chitchat, she would have made some subtle comment about the unexpected disturbance at the funeral home, or at least some weak joke about having been worried, for a minute there, that she might have to use her combat training. A little reminder that if I would just let her into my life, she might be able to clean up my messes, or at least advise me wisely enough that I wouldn't make messes that needed tidying; even though, in reality, she was never around when I actually wanted her help.

But, gracias a Dios—y a Don Pedro—neither of them said anything. Maybe Madre was embarrassed herself, about fainting. And my Bela also seemed wrapped up in her thoughts. Throughout the wake she had looked glazed, as if there were a sheer curtain hanging in front of her eyes.

“It's a funny thing about chicken,” Don Pedro said as we approached Tip Top. “When it's cooked with the skin on, it's the most delicious dish in the world. When it's cooked without the skin, it's tasteless, like eating cardboard.”

I had to laugh. He's right of course. But a skinless chicken breast is probably the single food I eat most frequently. What does that say about me? That I'm choosing to live a life of boredom, of self-deprivation?

I ran in to pick up our food, and when I came back, both my Bela and Madre were asleep in the backseat, Madre leaning against my Bela's shoulder. She looked so helpless, cuddled up to her own mother. It made me wonder if she had fainted because she's ill. Madre is the healthiest person I know, never been sick as far as I can remember. Still, she works crazy hours and travels nonstop; she could be wearing herself out. For the first time in my life, I wanted to ask about her health. There'd never really been a reason to before: She doesn't have allergies, had 20/20 vision until her late forties, and has always been able to out-hike me, even when I was sixteen. But I didn't want to wake her, and, under the circumstances, tonight probably wasn't the best time to start a serious conversation. It could wait until after the funeral, when everything had calmed down.

I thought that I could use tonight, the quiet left behind by the tense hum of the calling hours, to give my Bela what had been in my pocket all day; it was the reason I hadn't hung up my jacket at the funeral home, but left it on a chair where I could see it, even though there was no way I'd need it in Managua's heat, now that I was off the plane with its frigid, recycled air.

But once we'd gotten home, as we all sat at the table trying to eat our chicken, I understood that this was not the time to distract my Bela. She was floating in her mind somewhere; maybe looking for Abuelo, whose soul, Do
ñ
a Olga said, is supposed to be hovering for the next forty days. If I followed her to her room, I might have been able to get her to focus. But it would feel disloyal to distract her if she was with Abuelo in her thoughts. And it would hurt Madre if I got up from the table to go talk to my Bela, leaving her sitting alone. Even though she was the one who left us alone together, Madre is sensitive about how close my Bela and I are. I've learned it's best to give them the exact same Christmas present so that one of them doesn't feel she got the better gift when both decide that the blue scarf is infinitely lovelier than the green, and my choosing it for one and not the other is a coded message revealing whom I love most. Last month, when I had an article in the gallery newsletter, and I mailed one to my Bela, Madre called me just to demand that I send her one, too. I'd emailed her an electronic copy—my Bela doesn't have email—but Madre said she wanted a physical copy of the nice, glossy pamphlet, so she could leave it on her coffee table for guests to see, just like my Bela did.

It's true that if the weather is nice enough for me to walk to work, it's my Bela I call to chat with, not Madre. But isn't it only natural for me to be most comfortable around the woman who actually put in the time to raise me? Besides, my Bela is so much easier to be around; she thinks I'm the greatest thing since control-top panty hose, whereas Madre just keeps judging me, even if it's not out loud.

Still, I didn't want to make Madre feel worse, not after what I said to her at the wake, so I didn't suggest to my Bela that I walk her to her room, and sit in bed for a while, talking, like we used to back in Miami. And I wouldn't bring out the envelope in front of Madre; I pride myself on my discretion. To this day, I haven't told a soul about Amy Santiago peeing herself, not even in the fifth grade when she convinced every girl in the class not to speak to me. She actually apologized for that at our tenth reunion. I remembered that her parents got divorced at some point in middle school, but she told me that was the year her dad moved out. He'd been a Marine, and before he left he'd spent a lot of time watching the Oliver North trials on TV, railing at the screen that North was a hero, and that we should have been sending troops to help the Contras, too. “And you knew my mom was a Sandinista?” I asked Amy. She actually had tears in her eyes; it was as if she was making some sort of formal confession, but she looked about six months pregnant, so it was probably the hormones. “I'd heard rumors,” she said. “But I didn't know what was going on. Sandinista, Contra, it was all one big
Saturday Night Live
‘Nightly News' skit to me. I just knew how pissed my dad was at the Nicaraguans. I thought if I was mean to you, I'd be helping him somehow. That he'd be able to tell and it would count.”

The other girls forgot about shunning me after a few weeks, but I never really trusted them after that. I had a group of kids I hung out with in high school, but I knew it could happen again, they could turn on me for no reason, or at least none that I knew of. That was the worst part, not knowing why everybody hated me all of a sudden, what horrible aspect of myself I should change, or at least hide. I didn't really have a close friend until I met Beth in college. But at the reunion, I told Amy not to worry about it, that I understood. Because I did. I remember a time when I would have hurt anybody if it would have kept my mom from leaving.

Not giving my Bela the letter meant I'd have to wait until after the funeral, until the next day, probably. It could be days before the right moment came, especially now that I had Allen to deal with on top of the funeral. Just the thought of talking to Allen made me tired. And both my Bela and Madre were glassy-eyed, whether with fatigue or sorrow. But neither of them made a move to get up; it was as if we all thought the longer we stayed awake, the longer we could keep tomorrow, and the funeral, relegated to the future.

I was the one who finally said, “I'm not really hungry; I'm just going to go to bed.” I kissed Madre and my Bela both on the tops of their heads before walking across the courtyard to the room that was once the nursery, which is smack in the middle of the place, dividing the wings of the house. Even sleeping, I'd be caught between them.

*   *   *

As I got ready to go to the funeral in the morning, I packed my shoulder bag with my wallet, a notebook, and a camera; it felt a bit sacrilegious to be slipping the camera in with the rest of my things, as if I were going to a party, not a burial. But I want to remember what the city looked like on Abuelo's last day aboveground. Besides, I love taking pictures of Granada. I even felt the tiniest bit guilty for telling Allen he shouldn't come. Granada may be the Nicaraguan town foreigners visit most, with its Spanish colonial churches and brightly painted houses all unfurling toward the banks of Lake Cocibolca; and I love the architecture, the history, the prim-looking homes hiding jungle-green courtyards deep in their interior. But Allen would be more into the topography, would probably make some incredible painting inspired by Lake Cocibolca with blobs representing the islands that float inside it. Volcanoes, parrots, white-faced monkeys—Allen would go crazy for the lush drama of the lake, and scorn the town with its peach and blue churches piped in white gingerbread trim. He wouldn't see that what makes the place work is the balance of the two, that there's something both sweet and brave about such fussy, ornamental structures in the middle of such wildness.

I had told Allen about Granada before, promised that I would take him there if he ever visited Nicaragua. I said Granada looked like a combination of Havana and Walnut Grove, but he had no idea what Walnut Grove is; he seemed sort of proud, actually, of never having read or watched
Little House on the Prairie.
Still, I could tell he had been intrigued; he promised he'd make time for a trip to Nicaragua in the new year. I said that we could come incognito so that I could play tourist, hike volcanoes and swim off the Caribbean coast and not have to visit 101 relatives and coo over their offspring and explain that yes, I really did like New York even though it was expensive and crowded. But Allen put his arm around me and said, “Maybe on the last day we'll blow our cover and go see your grandparents.”

He knows how much I love them. Allen gets it. That's the part that makes me wish I hadn't been so proud and so angry, that I had let him see how thrilled I was for that second when I first saw him, that I had let him sit beside me now, in this freezing car bumping its way toward my grandfather's funeral. I think that may be part of why he's here, to support me at this sad and scary time, not just to change my mind or make a grand gesture. Maybe I shouldn't have made him stay behind in Managua. But I'm not ready for these two worlds to crash into each other, to find out if they can coexist or if one would inevitably obliterate the other. I don't want the first time Allen sees Granada to be at my grandfather's funeral. And I don't want to be thinking about him during the service and the burial. I want to be able to remember Abuelo, to wallow in the past for a little bit, and not have to worry about my future.