The Secrets of Peaches (14 page)

I
t was sleeting when they pulled up to Hartsfield airport in Atlanta on Christmas afternoon. Poopie waited to the side while Birdie checked her luggage, and they got hot chocolates at Seattle's Best to kill time and have something to do with their mouths besides talk.

“You have your tickets?” Poopie asked, for the third time in a row.

Birdie nodded. She waited for Poopie to ask if she'd packed enough underwear too or her toothbrush. Then she would have felt like Poopie was really looking out for her and not asking just to feel like she was saying something. But Poopie only sipped her chocolate and finally grabbed someone's discarded newspaper on the table next to them.

When it was time for Birdie to head to her gate, Poopie walked her up to the long security line. They exchanged a stiff, awkward hug. Birdie didn't even try to look Poopie in the eyes. She made her long way to the X-ray machines, rolling her old, reliable teddy bear suitcase behind her, feeling juvenile, like the only thing missing was a T-shirt that said
Off to Grandma's House
.

In the air, Birdie thought about how she would broach the topic of sex with Enrico. That she didn't want it to happen again. But nothing she came up with quite fit the bill. Birdie had never heard of a precedent of doing it one time and then going backward. She had always thought that once it happened, it was smooth sailing.

She wondered if he'd be disappointed. But then she thought, he was a guy. He had to be. She wondered if she could
sign
it to him somehow. Like, make hand signals or something so she wouldn't have to say it.

Before she could figure anything out, she was already winding her way through baggage claim on the other end, through a sea of Mexican faces and voices. Among all the unknown faces staring at the passengers coming out of the gate was a kid—eight years old or so—pointing at her. Then she saw Enrico standing next to him, a steaming cup in one hand and a flower in the other, beaming. She'd only seen him a little over a month before, but now he looked incredibly grown—not so boyish. He moved forward to hug and kiss her, then took her hands. She realized her palms were sweaty and pulled them out of his, backing away quickly and looking at the kid. “My brother, Luis.”

“In the photo, she looked like Kate Winslet,” Luis said in Spanish, disappointed. Unfortunately, Birdie understood.

Enrico smiled at her apologetically. “She looks better in person.” It seemed to Birdie that Luis wasn't convinced.

It was late and dark, and as they left the airport, they skirted downtown Mexico City altogether. The air was arid. Birdie avoided looking at Enrico as much as possible—his profile, his arms—and watched the landscape go by instead. She couldn't
believe it all actually existed. It felt very real, of course. Not cartoonish at all. She could see the lights in the distance, with the remnants of the sunset lying just behind it, a soft pink stripe just below the skyline. Her pulse thrummed with the rhythm of the wheels. Her mind reeled at how far from home she was.

They drove for miles beyond the city limits, Enrico chatting happily about what they'd do while Birdie was there, and school, and the National Autonomous University of Mexico, which he said was probably the best university in the Spanish-speaking world. Luis had fallen asleep in the backseat, and Birdie stared out the window, letting Enrico rest his hand lightly in hers. Rolling nondescript brownish hills stretched along either side of them. The whole way, Birdie's nerves sang and vibrated.

About an hour and a half after they had started, they pulled through a brick entrance to a suburban development. A white statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a pedestal. Birdie eyed it curiously as they pulled past. Beyond that were one-level houses with large, dusty yards, situated in front of a rise to the mountains. She tried to picture Poopie here, but she could only picture her at home in Bridgewater, with a harness full of peaches, maybe, or gliding around the stove in the kitchen.

Enrico turned into the driveway of a small white brick house on the right, and they all climbed out. Birdie felt like she was on Mars. She stood looking at Enrico's back as he grabbed her bags. Somebody, a boy, was
carrying her bags
. There was already a thick layer of dust on her shoes, and even her skin felt slightly gritty. She shuffled behind him into the house.

All was dark. “They're asleep,” Enrico whispered. “My parents wake up before six.”

Luis frowned at her. “She's not sleeping in my room,” he said in Spanish.

“She understands everything you're saying,” Enrico said. He turned to Birdie and said in English, “He's always mean to the girls he thinks are cute.”

Luis punched him and disappeared down a hallway. Enrico led Birdie into the kitchen and fed her out of the fridge—long slices of cheese he wrapped up in
flautas
and drenched in green chile sauce.

Afterward they sat on the couch in the dark and whispered about anything they could think of to talk about: Texas, the orchard, the weather. They talked about their plans. Enrico had already planned to join everyone on the orchard for spring trimming during his spring break. April seemed like a million years away.

As they touched on this and that, Birdie knew what they both must be thinking about underneath it all. When a lull slid into the conversation, she knew it was the moment to bring up what she needed to say. But she couldn't imagine talking about what had
already
happened between them. Making the embarrassing request for it to not happen again seemed far beyond her.

“Why do you want to go to school in Mexico?” she asked instead. It seemed obvious. But it was a good filler.

Enrico thought. “It is a great opportunity for me to go to this school. It is very old.” He squinted in concentration, humble, thoughtful. “Many presidents, great writers, great scientists have come from there. It's a…political school, which I like. And it's an important school.” He stroked her hand. “Birdie, I can feel myself getting more and more American,” he explained. “I want to be Mexican.”

Birdie couldn't imagine wanting so much from her future. Or thinking it was all there for her to take. Enrico's mind was always searching and moving forward. It reminded Birdie how much she didn't just like him, but admired him.

A few minutes later, when they heard Luis close his door and go to bed, Enrico snaked his hand down to her rib cage and snuggled into her neck. “I think about your neck.”

Birdie sat up, swallowing. “I'm exhausted,” she said, exaggerating a yawn. “Where's my stuff?”

Enrico sat up too. “You're in my room.” Birdie must have looked horrified because he laughed and then said, “Don't look so worried, I'm on the couch.”

At her door, after he'd put her suitcase on the bed, he stood in the doorway. Birdie stared mostly at his feet because looking at the rest of him did strange things to her. Had he gone through a growth spurt or something? He reached out for her waist to draw her in and kiss her good night and Birdie instinctively dodged it at the last minute, so that his nose collided with her forehead. They both jerked back, Birdie holding her forehead and Enrico, his nose.

“Sorry,” she whispered, feeling herself going red in shades, like a sunset. Reflexively she raised her fingers to his shoulder and patted him. “Good night,” she chirped. They both stared at her hand. She'd
patted
him. Birdie was mortified.

Enrico leaned against the doorjamb, abashed, a faint smile on his lips that tugged at her nerve endings. “Good night.” He pulled her door closed, and Birdie stared at the wood, took a deep breath, and let it out.

After she'd listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall,
she turned and surveyed the room, noticing a white cordless phone by the bed. She stared at it, biting her lip. She wanted to call Murphy or Leeda. But she decided to settle on imagining them in the room instead, like invisible cheerleaders.

But the minute she turned out the lights and crawled into bed, it wasn't her friends Birdie imagined in the room. She closed her eyes, and all she could see was Enrico.

B
irdie woke to a warm dry breeze streaming through the open window and the sun making shadows on her face. She sat up, looked out, and breathed deeply. It was impossible to reconcile that the cold, and Poopie, and Honey Babe's ashes occupied the same universe as the one lying outside her window.

She padded down the hallway into the empty family room, sunlight making rectangles on the rust-colored carpet. Outside the front door, she could hear voices.

Birdie opened the door and stepped into the bright sunlight on the patio. The air was dry and warm. She could hear birds chirping. Enrico was in the driveway, shirtless—which sent a tingle down Birdie's stomach—washing the car with his brother. Luis was crouched over the bucket, green hose in his hands, holding the nozzle under the water so it bubbled up. Enrico was rubbing at one of the rearview mirrors with a rag. He was so lost in what he was doing that he didn't notice Birdie.

A hand emerged from one of the white Adirondack chairs on the square of a lawn, waving Birdie forward. Mrs. Fiol had a neat, brown, boy haircut and salmon-pink capris. Her full lips
were painted plum. She stood from her seat, kissed and hugged Birdie. “So finally we get to meet
the
Birdie,” she said, gesturing for Birdie to sit.

As Birdie slid into the chair shyly, she threw a glance at Enrico. He looked over his shoulder and squinted, then smiled at her.

“What do you think of Mexico in the dark?”

“Good,” Birdie said. “It's nice.”

“Are you hungry?”

Birdie shook her head. She was too excited to be hungry. “Not really.”

They sat for a while, Birdie trying to think of something to say, but Mrs. Fiol didn't seem bothered. “Has my son talked you into moving here yet?” she asked.

Birdie laughed.

“Don't laugh,” Mrs. Fiol said. “If I know him, it's part of his plan. All he talks about is Birdie, Birdie, Birdie. All summer too, before you told each other how you felt.” Birdie was shocked. It had never seemed, before they had gotten together, like Enrico was thinking of her all that much. Birdie glanced at Enrico again, sure he would be horrified to know what his mom was saying, but she was desperate and giddy to hear more. “He thinks you are a hero, Birdie.”

The conversation rolled along easily. Mrs. Fiol switched from Spanish to English to Spanish, expecting Birdie to understand, and for the most part, Birdie did. There was the requisite bragging about her son, but then they talked about the different parts of Mexico Birdie should see someday—not on this trip, but on fictional ones in the future. Trips to temples and volcanoes
and beaches. Villages and cities she had to see, each with some distinctive flavor Mrs. Fiol tried to capture with words. Whenever Birdie let her eyes drift toward the car, she found herself staring at the tiny movements of Enrico's finely muscled back and quickly looked away. They talked about school, and where Birdie planned to go, and the orchard. Mrs. Fiol wanted to know what growing up on a farm was like and whether Birdie had any other ambitions besides farming. Birdie didn't really know what to say. She had never thought about ambitions. It just wasn't something that was ever really in her head.

“Finished,” Enrico finally said, appearing over her. His T-shirt had materialized back on his body. He scooped up the bottom edge and wiped his face with it, revealing his stomach, which made Birdie want to die. He reached his hand into hers, but she pretended to have an itch on her forehead and pulled it away. He seemed to notice because he frowned slightly as he swiped sweat off his neck. “You want to walk?” he asked.

 

They wove through the streets, Birdie gazing at the landscape. The rolling, dry hills. The small houses lined neatly along the street. It was all incredibly
open
. It was wide enough to make you feel like you were floating. Birdie fell instantly in love with it.

Twice Enrico took her hand, and she let her fingers lie there for a while like dead fish until she felt enough time had passed to pull them away. She was careful not to brush shoulders with his, but whenever she accidentally did, it zinged down her arm like fire. She wondered if her sign language was working.

He pointed to the houses, talking about various neighbors and exchanging hellos with a couple that walked by, his voice a
low and soft rumble. Occasionally he laughed in the middle of some description of controversies between the neighbors or kids he had grown up with and what they had gotten into. He seemed to want Birdie to know about him, and it made Birdie feel treasured, like she was visiting royalty.

Even that made her physically tingly. What was she, some kind of fiend? Maybe she was one of those sex addicts like you saw on daytime talk shows, and she just didn't know it yet. She tried to think of Saint Francis, lying on the pillow beside her. She prayed to him to give her the strength to get her mind out of the gutter.

When she floated back out of her head, they had stopped walking and were standing in front of a little green house. A figure moved behind one of the windows. “That's Poopie's old house,” Enrico said. Birdie came back to earth with a thud.

Birdie stared at it. It was an ugly house. Sixties green and dandelion yellow. Small and plain. “It's nice.”

“That's her sister living there.”

“Oh.” Birdie waited to feel something. Maybe envy that this was more home to Poopie than Birdie's world was. But she just couldn't believe it. Her heart told her Poopie couldn't have lived here. Maybe a cartoon Poopie, but not the real one. That Poopie belonged at Darlington Peach Orchard. Birdie couldn't feel anything else.

“I think…” Enrico's forehead wrinkled. “A home is always beautiful when you've left it behind. Even if it's ugly.”

Birdie shook her head. “I can't see her here.”

He put his arm around her waist, but Birdie jerked and stiffened. Enrico immediately pulled his hand away. “Sorry.”

The word
sorry
sank to the bottom of Birdie's heart. She turned to him. His brown eyes were cast at something on the grass ahead of them, confused and hurt. She opened her mouth to try to explain. But it was too much like jumping off a high dive. She was right there at the edge, but she just couldn't make herself take the step.

He tugged the bottom edge of her loose white cotton blouse gingerly. “Come with me.”

They walked to the edge of the neighborhood, past people sitting in their yards soaking up what remained of their Christmas holiday or with their doors flung open so you could hear them eating, laughing, talking. Past cactus and jacarandas and other exotic plants Birdie didn't recognize. Finally the road curved away from the houses, back toward the entrance they'd driven through last night.

The white pavement, coated with a fine, uneven layer of white sandy dirt, reflected so brightly it reminded Birdie of the white dusty roads back home. The air smelled not like peaches, but like scrubby green bushes, low to the ground.

They came to the brick balustrade that stood on either side of the road. Enrico turned her toward the side with the Virgin Mary. Birdie studied the Virgin's serene face, her hands stretched out in welcome or maybe forgiveness, her stone skin smooth and faultless.

“The Virgin of Guadalupe,” he said.

“It's very pretty.” Birdie stood slightly awed, slightly spooked. Not the Virgin Mary.

“Here.” Enrico gestured toward the concrete base. It was not as pristine as the statue it held. Apparently when the concrete had been poured, several kids had carved their names
in with their fingers just before it had dried. Birdie smiled.

“Do you see it?” Enrico asked.

Birdie looked closer at a crooked, childish scrawl.

Poopie Pedraza. 1969.

Birdie's gut sank. She felt gut-wrenching, ugly jealousy flare up. Of the house, of the sister, of Mexico. Suddenly it made sense to her. The crooked words—made by Poopie—connected it for her more than any house could have. She'd left herself carved in concrete as evidence. Poopie didn't belong to Birdie at all.

“It's funny,” Enrico said. “When I noticed this, it made me think of you as a little girl. I pictured you writing your name here instead of Poopie. Like you had been here.”

Birdie looked at him. She didn't understand, but she also did. Enrico leaned toward her, and she lost her breath, longing for him, prickly all over. But she pulled back at the last moment.

He stopped mid-move and looked at her like he was taking something in or deciding something.

“Would you mind,” Birdie asked, “letting me walk back by myself?” She knew it would only make him feel worse. But she desperately needed it. She hurried to add, “I just think I need to be alone for a couple of minutes.”

He took this in too, then nodded. “Sure.”

Birdie watched him go, his white T-shirt, his khaki pants, his gentle stride back the way they'd come. It seemed to her he was slipping through her fingers. That the trip was slipping through her fingers.

She sat by the Virgin statue and swirled her feet in the white dust. It was like the dust you saw in pictures of astronauts standing on the moon.