Read Online Dorothea Dreams (Heirloom Books) by Suzy McKee Charnas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
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didn’t know she was alive, her mother fussed over her too much, and her brother thought he could boss her around. That was how it was, being the youngest and having asthma. With Mom and Mina gone to work, Beto acted like he had the whole place to himself.
“Hey, Quita!” he yelled finally, “got a pen? I can’t find nothing to write down license numbers — shit, there’s nothing in here but a bunch of stupid crayons!” She could hear him rummaging furiously in the kitchen drawer that served as a catch-all.
“Here,” she said, tossing him a pencil she had already chewed. “Where are you going to be?”
“At the ditch,” he said. Pinto Street ran east at right angles to Fourth, the major road up the north valley, and ended at the big irrigation ditch that ran along Second Street, parallel to Fourth. The access to Pinto from Second, across the plank bridge over the ditch, was to be Roberto’s station. “Me and Horacio and John Archuleta. I could do it myself, but it’s going to be more fun with some other guys around.”
He left running, but slammed back in again almost at once. He grabbed a bowlful of cold potatoes out of the fridge and dashed out again, hollering with his mouth full, “Hey, Horacio! Wait up!”
At least he’d remembered to take food. They were supposed to guard the two entries to Pinto Street’s short length, Fourth on the west and Second on the east, all day long. The chances were pretty good that Beto would not come barging back in here at lunch time and find her gone.
Blanca waited a little before she went to the kitchen to get herself something to eat outside: a chunk of cheese in its cellophane wrapper and an orange. She hated cold cooked leftovers.
Back in her bedroom, she took off her bathrobe and laid out fresh underwear. Out of habit she looked in the long mirror on the closet door, the mirror that her sister Mina used for her preening. To Blanca it showed nothing new and nothing good, reminding her merely that there were reasons why her mother babied her and the others bullied her or forgot she existed.
Her arms and legs were sticks like broomsticks. But that was better than before, when the doctor had her on corticosteroids and she had swollen up and couldn’t stop crying. Another doctor had finally taken her off that stuff and given her cromolyn powder to inhale instead. Now she was thin, little and thin, and they said — she wasn’t supposed to hear — that she would stay little. The corticosteroids had permanently stunted her, that was what the new doctor had said in a roundabout way until Mom pinned him in a corner and he said it straight out.
Mom said, you’ll be like other kids, give the doctors a chance. There was another doc at the clinic who said that Blanca would begin to grow again now and “fill out.” That was what they always said, meaning, start looking like a cow, like Blanca’s sister Herminia. As if you weren’t a human person, if you were female, until you got great big tits. That was going to be a while, because Blanca was fifteen and still didn’t menstruate.
Mom never gave up. She had even let Great-Uncle Tilo try the old trick of getting a Chihuahua dog and tying it to the bed that Blanca slept in so the dog would take the sickness from Blanca. Blanca remembered being devastated when it didn’t work. That was back when Blanca still thought Great-Uncle Tilo could do things, before she realized what being a drunk really meant.
Mom always said, I’m not mad at you, mi hija, I’m mad at the asthma. A lie; Blanca could feel it.
Mom said, you’re a girl like the other girls, Quita, and you have to learn how to live like them. They had had a huge fight about that because Blanca had voiced her own thought: that she wasn’t a girl, not really. A girl is somebody who grows up and gets married and has babies of her own. Nobody was going to marry Blanca. If she had babies they could be sick like her, so why would anyone want to have them with
“Hey, Quita!” he yelled finally, “got a pen? I can’t find nothing to write down license numbers — shit, there’s nothing in here but a bunch of stupid crayons!” She could hear him rummaging furiously in the kitchen drawer that served as a catch-all.
“Here,” she said, tossing him a pencil she had already chewed. “Where are you going to be?”
“At the ditch,” he said. Pinto Street ran east at right angles to Fourth, the major road up the north valley, and ended at the big irrigation ditch that ran along Second Street, parallel to Fourth. The access to Pinto from Second, across the plank bridge over the ditch, was to be Roberto’s station. “Me and Horacio and John Archuleta. I could do it myself, but it’s going to be more fun with some other guys around.”
He left running, but slammed back in again almost at once. He grabbed a bowlful of cold potatoes out of the fridge and dashed out again, hollering with his mouth full, “Hey, Horacio! Wait up!”
At least he’d remembered to take food. They were supposed to guard the two entries to Pinto Street’s short length, Fourth on the west and Second on the east, all day long. The chances were pretty good that Beto would not come barging back in here at lunch time and find her gone.
Blanca waited a little before she went to the kitchen to get herself something to eat outside: a chunk of cheese in its cellophane wrapper and an orange. She hated cold cooked leftovers.
Back in her bedroom, she took off her bathrobe and laid out fresh underwear. Out of habit she looked in the long mirror on the closet door, the mirror that her sister Mina used for her preening. To Blanca it showed nothing new and nothing good, reminding her merely that there were reasons why her mother babied her and the others bullied her or forgot she existed.
Her arms and legs were sticks like broomsticks. But that was better than before, when the doctor had her on corticosteroids and she had swollen up and couldn’t stop crying. Another doctor had finally taken her off that stuff and given her cromolyn powder to inhale instead. Now she was thin, little and thin, and they said — she wasn’t supposed to hear — that she would stay little. The corticosteroids had permanently stunted her, that was what the new doctor had said in a roundabout way until Mom pinned him in a corner and he said it straight out.
Mom said, you’ll be like other kids, give the doctors a chance. There was another doc at the clinic who said that Blanca would begin to grow again now and “fill out.” That was what they always said, meaning, start looking like a cow, like Blanca’s sister Herminia. As if you weren’t a human person, if you were female, until you got great big tits. That was going to be a while, because Blanca was fifteen and still didn’t menstruate.
Mom never gave up. She had even let Great-Uncle Tilo try the old trick of getting a Chihuahua dog and tying it to the bed that Blanca slept in so the dog would take the sickness from Blanca. Blanca remembered being devastated when it didn’t work. That was back when Blanca still thought Great-Uncle Tilo could do things, before she realized what being a drunk really meant.
Mom always said, I’m not mad at you, mi hija, I’m mad at the asthma. A lie; Blanca could feel it.
Mom said, you’re a girl like the other girls, Quita, and you have to learn how to live like them. They had had a huge fight about that because Blanca had voiced her own thought: that she wasn’t a girl, not really. A girl is somebody who grows up and gets married and has babies of her own. Nobody was going to marry Blanca. If she had babies they could be sick like her, so why would anyone want to have them with
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