Read Online Night at the Fiestas: Stories by Kirstin Valdez Quade - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kirstin Valdez Quade
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Manuel Garcia is qualified to judge this new Christ, and it appears that he has arrived at his verdict, because he coughs again, wet and low, dislodges something deep in his throat, and spits it through a space in the fence so it lands just inches from Amadeo and his cross.
D RIVING HOME , A MADEO TRIES to regain the clarity he felt when pounding nails, but hand and foot and universe are no longer working together. When the gears scrape, he hits the steering wheel with his fist and swears and hits it again. This last week was the most important in Jesus’s life. This is the week everything happened. So Amadeo should be thinking of higher things when his daughter shows up eight months pregnant. Angel sits in front of the house on the bumper of the old truck, waiting for him. He hasn’t seen her in more than a year, but he’s heard the news from his mother, who heard it from Angel.
White tank top, black bra, gold cross pointing the way to her breasts in case you happened to miss them. Belly as hard and round as an adobe horno. The buttons of her jeans are unsnapped to make way for its fullness, and also to indicate how it got that way in the first place. Her birthday is this week, falls on Good Friday. She’ll be fifteen.
“Shit,” Amadeo says when he pulls in and yanks the parking brake. She must not have seen his expression, because she gets up, smiles, and waves with both hands. The rosary swings on his rearview mirror, and Amadeo watches as, beyond it, his daughter advances on him, stomach outthrust. She pauses, half turns, displays her belly.
She’s got a big gold purse with her, and a duffel bag, he sees, courtesy of Marlboro. Amadeo gets out. Her hug is straight-on, belly pressing into him.
“I’m fat, huh? I barely got these pants and already they’re too small.”
“Hey.” He pats his daughter’s back between her bra straps, then, because he is thinking of her stomach, thinking of her pregnant, steps away. “What’s happening?” he says. He realizes it’s too casual, but he can’t afford to let her think she’s welcome, not this week, Passion Week, and with his mother away.
“My mom and me got in a fight, so she dropped me off. I didn’t know where you and Gramma were.”
Amadeo hooks his thumbs in his pockets, looks up at the house, then back at the road. The sun is gone now, the sky a wan green at the horizon.
“A fight?”
Angel sighs. “I don’t know why she’s gotta be all judging me, trying to act all mature. Whatever,” she says without bitterness. “What me and the baby needs right now is a support system.”
“A what?” The clarity is long gone. He shakes his head. “I’m real busy,” he says, like an actor portraying regret. “Now’s not a good time.”
Angel doesn’t look hurt, just interested. “Why?”
She lifts her duffel and begins to walk toward the door. “My mom’s not here,” he calls. He’s embarrassed to tell her, embarrassed by the fervor that being a penitente implies. “I’m carrying the cross this year. I’m Jesus.”
“And I’m the Virgin Mary. Where’s Gramma, well?” She holds the screen open with her hip, waiting for him to unlock the door.
“Over there in Vegas with her boyfriend.”
Angel laughs, a raucous teenage laugh. “We’re all kinds of Virgin Mary.”
Yolanda is making her way across Nevada in a travel trailer with Cal Wilson, and, depending on how things go, she could be home tomorrow or in a month. As if to check if she’s coming, Amadeo turns and sees Manuel Garcia standing in the road, watching him and his daughter.
The old man’s ruined face spreads into a grin around collapsed teeth. Loose, dirty pants are cinched at his waist with a belt, his wounded hands before him. Amadeo’s mouth goes dry.
Up on the step, Angel is saying, “I was all, Whatever, take me to Gramma’s if you want to. She don’t care.”
Amadeo turns from Manuel Garcia. He takes the duffel from Angel’s hand and pushes open the
D RIVING HOME , A MADEO TRIES to regain the clarity he felt when pounding nails, but hand and foot and universe are no longer working together. When the gears scrape, he hits the steering wheel with his fist and swears and hits it again. This last week was the most important in Jesus’s life. This is the week everything happened. So Amadeo should be thinking of higher things when his daughter shows up eight months pregnant. Angel sits in front of the house on the bumper of the old truck, waiting for him. He hasn’t seen her in more than a year, but he’s heard the news from his mother, who heard it from Angel.
White tank top, black bra, gold cross pointing the way to her breasts in case you happened to miss them. Belly as hard and round as an adobe horno. The buttons of her jeans are unsnapped to make way for its fullness, and also to indicate how it got that way in the first place. Her birthday is this week, falls on Good Friday. She’ll be fifteen.
“Shit,” Amadeo says when he pulls in and yanks the parking brake. She must not have seen his expression, because she gets up, smiles, and waves with both hands. The rosary swings on his rearview mirror, and Amadeo watches as, beyond it, his daughter advances on him, stomach outthrust. She pauses, half turns, displays her belly.
She’s got a big gold purse with her, and a duffel bag, he sees, courtesy of Marlboro. Amadeo gets out. Her hug is straight-on, belly pressing into him.
“I’m fat, huh? I barely got these pants and already they’re too small.”
“Hey.” He pats his daughter’s back between her bra straps, then, because he is thinking of her stomach, thinking of her pregnant, steps away. “What’s happening?” he says. He realizes it’s too casual, but he can’t afford to let her think she’s welcome, not this week, Passion Week, and with his mother away.
“My mom and me got in a fight, so she dropped me off. I didn’t know where you and Gramma were.”
Amadeo hooks his thumbs in his pockets, looks up at the house, then back at the road. The sun is gone now, the sky a wan green at the horizon.
“A fight?”
Angel sighs. “I don’t know why she’s gotta be all judging me, trying to act all mature. Whatever,” she says without bitterness. “What me and the baby needs right now is a support system.”
“A what?” The clarity is long gone. He shakes his head. “I’m real busy,” he says, like an actor portraying regret. “Now’s not a good time.”
Angel doesn’t look hurt, just interested. “Why?”
She lifts her duffel and begins to walk toward the door. “My mom’s not here,” he calls. He’s embarrassed to tell her, embarrassed by the fervor that being a penitente implies. “I’m carrying the cross this year. I’m Jesus.”
“And I’m the Virgin Mary. Where’s Gramma, well?” She holds the screen open with her hip, waiting for him to unlock the door.
“Over there in Vegas with her boyfriend.”
Angel laughs, a raucous teenage laugh. “We’re all kinds of Virgin Mary.”
Yolanda is making her way across Nevada in a travel trailer with Cal Wilson, and, depending on how things go, she could be home tomorrow or in a month. As if to check if she’s coming, Amadeo turns and sees Manuel Garcia standing in the road, watching him and his daughter.
The old man’s ruined face spreads into a grin around collapsed teeth. Loose, dirty pants are cinched at his waist with a belt, his wounded hands before him. Amadeo’s mouth goes dry.
Up on the step, Angel is saying, “I was all, Whatever, take me to Gramma’s if you want to. She don’t care.”
Amadeo turns from Manuel Garcia. He takes the duffel from Angel’s hand and pushes open the
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