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
“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
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