Cuba 15 (6 page)

9

I barely had time to finish all my homework that weekend. Saturday got kind of busy after dinner, when Dad and I trounced Mom and Abuelo in team dominoes after a lengthy match/rematch syndrome that nobody wanted to end. Abuela came out to kibitz during the commercials of the Spanish television miniseries she was watching,
El Amor
y Almuerzo
.

“Love and Lunch?”
I said. “What kind of show is that?”

Abuela scrunched up her face, cracking the thick whitish-pink lipstick she’d applied with a steamroller. “No love and lunch,” she said. She began to try to explain, then shook her head. “These things, they do not translate literal-
mente
.”

And Sunday we all drove to the old neighborhood to go to twelve o’clock Mass. This seemed to take all day, because Abuela and Abuelo stopped to chat with a few hundred of their old friends out on the church steps afterward.

St. Ignacio’s is nothing like St. Edna’s, our sleek, modern church in the suburbs. At St. Edna’s, the furnishings are so spare that the stations of the cross look like the universal symbols on rest rooms and road signs. St. Ignacio’s, on the other hand, was built a hundred years ago, when Catholics still believed in pumping up the decor to inspire the proper state of awe.

The building itself is made of huge limestone blocks set stories high, broken by vaulted archways of heavy honey-colored wood at every door and window. Wide concrete stairs frame the church on all sides, and an old-fashioned copper-tipped steeple, the metal long gone to sea green, tops it off. Tiny first-floor windows shine a deep amber, etched in a crisscross pattern, and a rainbow of stained glass forms starburst designs around ornamental crucifixes in the large panes overhead. Personally, I wouldn’t mind visiting St. Ignacio’s more than just a couple of times a year.

Inside, hundreds of votive candles flicker from orange glass holders in little alcoves set with kneelers. Rows of maple pews face a high stage that houses the altar and organ. The loft above them holds a choir balcony. The way it’s cut out of the wall reminds me of a puppet theater. St. Edna’s doesn’t have a stage for its altar, much less a loft, choir, or puppet theater. We are supposed to focus on the priest, and therefore on God. I couldn’t help thinking that if God had a flair for the dramatic, as all accounts suggested, he’d probably like St. Ignacio’s better.

Out on the steps, my brother, Mark, practiced his pitching windup while I trailed after Mom and Dad, who were saying hello to people they knew. A man about Dad’s age, huskier and with more dark hair, approached, shook Dad’s hand, then grabbed him in a bear hug.

“Berto Paz,
¿cómo estás?
”

“
Quién
. . . Rudi? Rudi García, is that you?”

They danced around a minute; then the man released my father. “This is Rudi García, everybody. Diane, Violet,” he presented us. “Mark,” he said uncertainly, looking over a shoulder; then he spied Mark’s blue Cubs hat a ways away and pointed him out. “Rudi and I grew up on the same block. He moved away when we were teenagers. What are you doing back in the old neighborhood,
amigo
?”

“You know what? I got tired of L.A. It’s no place to raise four daughters. Too many movie stars, no?” Rudi smiled, his round cheeks pushing laughter right up into his dark brown eyes. “So this is your Violet,” he said. “I hear you are making your
quinceañero
. Congratulations!” To Dad and Mom, he said, “You must be very proud.”

“Proud?” Dad’s olive skin ripened a shade, and he tried to cover with a goofy smile.

Mom came to the rescue. “Oh, we are
very
proud. Violet turned fifteen this month, but the celebration is in May. You’ll come, won’t you? And bring your family.”

Rudi nodded. He clapped a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Put me down for some of the refreshments,
amiguito
. Send me a bill.” He leaned over to give Mom and me a kiss on the cheek. “It was nice meeting you! Call me sometime, Berto.” They shook hands again, and he left.

“You and Rudi grew up together, huh, Dad?” I said. Why was that so hard to picture? “When’s the last time you saw him?”

My father did some inner calculation. “Oh, it’s been at least twenty, twenty-five years. That Rudi! You know what he did one time . . . ?”

I wasn’t listening. A guy my dad hadn’t seen in twenty years had just offered to pay for refreshments at my party. That was like signing your paycheck over to someone you met at the bus stop who’d been kind enough to tell you your bus had gone by. Who was that generous?

Rudi García, obviously. Mom was already making a note on the back of the church bulletin with one of the dozen Chestnut Oaks Golf Course pencils she carried in her purse. “Give this to your
abuela,
Violet,” she said. Abuela was keeping track of sponsors for the party. “And tell her it’s time to go!”

We drove by White Castle for lunch on our way home, where Mark made a pig of himself as usual, ordering a whole dozen Slyders but eating only nine and a half. We finished the leftovers in the car.

“
Ay,
I am going to miss the White
Castillo,
” Abuelo declared sadly, crossing his arms over his peach-colored
guayabera.
He’d be going home in a week or so, and the hamburger chain didn’t operate in Miami.

“We’ll send you some frozen ones, don’t worry,” Mom said.

At that, Abuelo displayed several octaves of teeth and practiced a drumroll on his knees. I would miss him when he went home.

I changed into jeans and watched the end of a late-season Cubs game on TV with Mark (Cubs beat the stinky Mets at Wrigley, 5–3). Then I helped Abuela make Cuban chicken salad for a light dinner. She always lets me decorate the top with baby peas and pimientos. Maybe I’m getting too old for that, but there’s something satisfying about making art out of vegetables. That’s why the guy who invented Mr. Potato Head did so well, no doubt.

After dinner, which we all picked at, someone said the word
domino,
and I saw a blood lust surface in Dad’s eyes.

Mom squinted and returned his gaze. “Rematch?”

Abuelo was already jingling the change in his pocket for dimes (he can find them without looking), and Abuela rubbed her manicured hands together greedily.

“Count me in!” I said. “Do you have any dimes, Mom?”

“Not for you, young lady. These dishes need to be washed, and then homework.”

“Dishes? But what about Mark . . . ?”

The four adults headed for the back porch, Abuelo stopping to pull two cigars from the fridge. Mark pushed up from the table and ran.

I had just finished my workbook assignment for Spanish class when Dad knocked his brisk domino knock on my door and walked in.

I put down my pencil. “What happened to you?”

“Kicked out of the game for cheating,” he said, with a hint of a grin. “No, I’m working the early shift tomorrow, and I want to get some reading done. So I thought I’d say good night.” He sat down on my bed and crossed his legs in their burnt-orange polyester slacks, with no intention of leaving. Sometimes when Dad wants to talk, you have to worm it out of him.

I took the bait. “What is it you’re reading?”

“
¡Ay,
caramba!
Your
abuela
thinks I should read up on this
quinceañero
business. And since I’ll be paying for it . . . I thought I should see if there’s a financial section. A big party is a big expense, and . . .”

I narrowed my eyes. Dad was never this talkative about money. “You’ll have lots of help paying for it,” I said. “Dad, how come you act like you don’t know about the
quinces
? You must’ve gone to some, growing up in the old neighborhood, or when you lived in Miami.”

He gave me the same goofy smile he’d used on his friend Rudi earlier. “I wouldn’t do it,” he admitted. “Some of the kids I ran around with thought it was—
afeminado
—to be in a court. To have to dress up in a monkey suit, and learn all those silly dances . . . we just wanted to be Americans, to drive around in cars and be cool.”

“And you still can’t dance to this day.”

He threw me a look of mock hurt. “I can dance the macarena!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him how uncool the macarena was.

“But your friend Rudi—he did go to the parties, didn’t he?”

Dad ducked his head. “Well, yes, apparently so.”

Aha!

“And you’re
jealous
of your old pal for knowing more about your own daughter’s
quince
than you do!”

Dad’s face sort of melted then, his features becoming fluid in a way that signaled my cross-examination had worked. I thought about what I had just said. “That’s okay, Dad,” I soothed him. “I’d never even heard about this
quince
thing before Abuela brought it up. I don’t know any more than you do, other than what I’ve read in this book.” I patted the copy of
Quinceañero for the Gringo Dummy
on my desk.

“Er, that’s what I’ve come to ask you, Violet. Can I borrow that book for a day or two?”

Oh no you don’t, I thought. The book was the only thing that stood between me and complete chaos. “Why don’t you just ask Abuela if you have questions?”

He stood to leave and growled, “She’s the one who told me to go read the book! Said if I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me when I was growing up, well, it wasn’t her fault.”

We both gave fractured smiles.

“So can I borrow it, please?” Dad asked. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a cassette tape from the pocket of his shirt and tossed it on the bed. It was his favorite
Women in Blues
compilation tape, the one with Koko Taylor singing “Hound Dog” on it. I’d been begging him to make me a copy of it forever.

I handed over the book. “Deal.”

10

The
quince
bible was making the rounds. “Listen, listen. Get this,” Leda said to Janell and me a few days later. She sprawled on my bed in jeans and a tank top that said HERBIVORE on it, paging through the manual. “After the opening dance number by the court comes the presentation—when the
quince
-babe makes her entrance. That’s you, Violet,” she reminded me, as if I needed it. “Followed directly by the waltz with the father.”

I grimaced.

She quoted from the book: “ ‘The presentation shows the passage from the girl onto a woman.’ ”

Janell hooted. “Sounds suggestive.”

“It says that different countries have different customs. In Puerto Rico and Mexico the
quince
-chick makes her entrance and sits on a throne, where one of her parents changes her shoes from flats to heels. You don’t even own a pair of heels, do you?”

“Dad says they’re bad for your feet.”

“Oh, come on,” said Janell. “So are toe shoes.” She sat on my floor in tan leggings and an orange T-shirt, stretching. “What’s wrong with dressing up every once in a while?”

My face colored. “Sometimes you just have to make your own style,” I said. Thank God for Mom’s common-sense approach to fashion.

“Listen, listen,” Leda interrupted, and read aloud: “ ‘Cuban
quinceañeros
lies somewhere in between the myth and the legend. Girls has been presented in giant silver teacups, in swings lowered from the ceiling, and on an Egyptian litter carried by bearers in costume.’ ” She turned her blue eyes pleadingly on me. “
Dude
. . . can we?”

“I’m not that much of a ham. Besides, the theme’s not Egyptian.”

“ ‘All the World’s a Stage,’ ” said Janell. “I like it. So, the presentation has to be dramatic.”

“Hey! I know. You could descend from a spiral staircase in one of those vamp outfits,” suggested Leda.

The thought made me squeamish. “That’ll all be taken care of.” I waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “We’re going to a party planner who will design the whole event. We’ll have rehearsals and everything. There are supposed to be some dances. I’ll let you guys know when the parts have been figured out.”

“But we’ll definitely perform, right?” asked Leda. “One of the big production numbers or something?” She
was
that big of a ham.

“This isn’t a Broadway show,” I said.

Janell looked at me like lightning had just struck. “But it could be. It could be,” she said excitedly. “We could give performances instead of going through those old-fashioned routines. I could give my poetry interpretation and do one of the jazz numbers from last year’s recital. Then Leda could do”— she gazed at our friend quizzically—“whatever it is that Leda is doing, and you could be the star attraction.”

Leda leaned forward, intrigued.

“It sounds like fun, but there are these traditions—”

Leda jabbed a finger at the book. “But it says right here that you can throw tradition in the toilet and flush hard, if you want.”

Janell nodded. “Yeah, why should you follow a tradition that doesn’t reflect who you are? You’ve already decided on an all-girl court. Why can’t you take that a step farther?”

I shook my head. “All-girl courts have been done. You don’t understand, Abuela has already made the appointment with Señora Flora. Party planner to the
eh
stars.”

“Party planner to the stars?” crowed Leda.

I wasn’t sure I believed this anymore, but I said, “It’ll be easier this way. Less decisions. Less arguments.”

They looked at me. “Between them, not us,” Janell concluded.

It appeared that I was going to have to please everybody. “Look,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys are the most important ones in this production. Well, besides my dad. And me.”

“Yeah, and you,” echoed Leda with a note of jealousy.

“Honest. I’ll take any suggestions that you have and refer them to the committee. You guys are my
damas
. They’ll have to listen to you.” I folded my arms.

This seemed to satisfy them for the time being. Janell turned to a stack of poetry books she’d brought with her, and Leda and I quizzed each other on Spanish vocabulary for a while. We seemed to do more harm than good.

“Window?” Leda asked.

“Ventana,”
I answered.

“No, that’s French. The
español
is
fenêtre.
”

“No, it’s not,” I argued. “
Fenêtre
is French.”

She looked at me, confused. “What is it again?”

By the time we’d both made it through the list, I knew we were doomed. The test was tomorrow.

Janell got fed up with our bickering. “Why don’t you just ask your dad to coach you?” she asked me.

This hadn’t even occurred to me. “We don’t . . . speak Spanish together,” I said. “Mom says she can’t help because she learned by ear. And Abuela tried to teach me and Mark one time, but it didn’t work out.”

“So what happened?” asked Janell.

“Not much. Before Abuela and Abuelo moved back to Miami, Abuela brought some Spanish workbooks over. She tried to hold a little class.
‘Es una
lástima,’
she said,
‘que
no hablan el
español.’
Mark and I didn’t pay much attention. It was the weekend, and we wanted to be playing.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to study some more tonight.”

Leda stuck her notebook back in her rainbow-colored backpack. “Aren’t we gonna look at Janell’s stuff?”

“Sure. What’ve you got so far?” I said, moving over to Janell’s spot on the floor. Leda joined us.

“Well, I’ve got it narrowed down to Maya Angelou and Alice Walker, but I need one more poet. And a theme. I’m supposed to pick several poems that demonstrate one concept.”

“Who’s your coach?” Leda asked.

“I’ve got Ms. Joyner.”

“I’ve got that new guy, Mr. Soloman,” I put in. “Who’s your coach, Leed?”

“Mr. Axelrod,” she said casually.

“No way!” said Janell, catching my eye. How did Leda do it? I shrugged.

Leda tucked stray strands of her long white-gold hair behind her ears. “Yeah, well, Rick doesn’t usually coach Oratory, but he said he had an opening for a sophomore.”

Rick? This was too much. “I’m going to tell him that you’re only fourteen!” I threatened. “That you’re a sophomore in name only. You should still be buying elevator passes and paying cafeteria tolls with the freshmen.”

Leda stuck her tongue out at me. “I got here fair and square,” she sassed. “I can’t help it if I’m gifted.”

“We’ll see how gifted you are when the competition starts,” Janell said, stuffing her books in her dance bag. “I’m going to go get in some horn practice before dinner.” She got up. “You guys have been a real big help. Looks like I’ve got some more reading to do before I can pick my routine.” She looked at us sympathetically. “I’m glad I don’t have to
write
it.”

“Hey, are you coming over this weekend?” I asked. It was party time at the Paz house. Abuela and Abuelo had invited all their old friends over for a domino marathon. Dad was moving the extra back-porch furniture out to the garage to make way for more playing tables, and Mom was already cooking. People would come and go all weekend, and the domino matches would never end.

“Can’t,” said Janell. “We’re visiting my cousins in Kankakee.”

“I’ll be there for some of it,” said Leda. “I can practice my Spanish on your relatives. But on both days we’re collecting donations for a homeless shelter. Beth signed us up for six suburbs. I’ll probably still be out there Sunday night, canvassing in one of those coal miner’s hats with a flashlight on it, trying to make quota!”

“Jeez,” I said. “I thought they were going to lay off.”

She shuddered. “Speech team can’t start soon enough for me.”

“First tournament’s in three weeks,” I said. “Hang in there.”