Read Online Night at the Fiestas: Stories by Kirstin Valdez Quade - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kirstin Valdez Quade
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aluminum door. “Come on.”
T HAT NIGHT , A NGEL CHATTERS about food groups as she makes dinner—a can of chili dumped over an underdone squash and a package of frozen cheese bread—then takes over the TV. She talks to her belly as she watches America’s Next Top Model . “See, baby? That heifer is going home . You can’t be like that to your girls and win the game.”
Amadeo sits at the other end of the couch, uneasy. He wipes his palms along his thighs, works his tongue inside his mouth. Three times he looks out the front window, but the old man is gone. With a sudden stitch in his gut, Amadeo thinks of Tío Tíve. He can’t know that Angel’s here and pregnant for all the world to see.
“So,” Amadeo says. “Your mom’s probably gonna want you back soon, no?”
“Nah. I’m staying here with you and Gramma awhile. I gotta teach her she’s not the only one in my life.”
Amadeo kneads his thigh. He can’t tell her to leave. Yolanda would kill him. He just wishes that Yolanda were here.
She and Angel are pretty close; Yolanda sends the girl checks, twenty-five here, fifty there, and a couple of times a year the two go shopping at the outlets near Santa Fe. Amadeo tries to remember the last time he was alone with his daughter, but can’t. Two or three Christmases ago, maybe; he remembers sitting awkwardly in this same room asking Angel about her favorite subjects while Yolanda was at the grocery store or the neighbors’.
Amadeo is having trouble breathing. “Maybe you could visit when my mom gets home.” A needle of guilt slides into his side.
Angel doesn’t seem to have heard him. “I mean, the woman’s all preaching to me about how I messed up and why couldn’t I learn from her mistake, but what am I gonna do now, huh? I mean, I get it. It’s gonna hurt like hell and I’m missing prom and did you know I probably won’t get to sleep a whole night until it’s three years old? I’ll be eighteen by then.”
Angel looks like her mother. Amadeo doesn’t remember Marissa acting this young back then. Marissa was sixteen, Amadeo eighteen, but they felt old, he is sure of that. Her parents had been angry and ashamed, but had thrown a baby shower for the young couple anyway. Amadeo had enjoyed being at the center of things: congratulated by her relatives and his, handed tamales and biscochitos on paper plates by old women who were willing to forgive everything in exchange for a church wedding. He stood to sing for them, nodding at Marissa: “This is dedicated to my baby girl.” Bendito, bendito, bendito sea Dios, los ángeles cantan y daban a Dios. They all clapped, the old ladies dabbing their eyes, Yolanda blowing kisses across the room.
Later, of course, after there was no wedding, no moving in together, after Angel was born and learned to walk and talk—with no help from Amadeo—he was relieved by how easily the obligation slipped from his shoulders. The old women shook their heads, resigned; they should have known better than to expect anything from Amadeo, from men in general. “Even the best of them aren’t worth a darn,” his grandmother used to say. (“Not you, hijito,” she’d say kindly to Amadeo. “You’re worth a darn.”) By the time Angel was five and Amadeo had moved with his mother back to the little town where he’d grown up and where their family still lived, he felt lucky to have been let off the hook.
As though answering a question, Angel says, “I didn’t drop out of school for real. I’m gonna start back up after the baby comes, so don’t worry.” She looks at him, waiting.
Amadeo realizes that he forgot to worry, forgot even to wonder. “Good. That’s good.” He gets up, rubs his shorn head with both hands. “You got to have school.”
She’s still looking at him, demanding something: reassurance, approval. “I mean, I’m serious. I’m really going back.” Then she’s off, talking about college and success and following her dreams, the things
T HAT NIGHT , A NGEL CHATTERS about food groups as she makes dinner—a can of chili dumped over an underdone squash and a package of frozen cheese bread—then takes over the TV. She talks to her belly as she watches America’s Next Top Model . “See, baby? That heifer is going home . You can’t be like that to your girls and win the game.”
Amadeo sits at the other end of the couch, uneasy. He wipes his palms along his thighs, works his tongue inside his mouth. Three times he looks out the front window, but the old man is gone. With a sudden stitch in his gut, Amadeo thinks of Tío Tíve. He can’t know that Angel’s here and pregnant for all the world to see.
“So,” Amadeo says. “Your mom’s probably gonna want you back soon, no?”
“Nah. I’m staying here with you and Gramma awhile. I gotta teach her she’s not the only one in my life.”
Amadeo kneads his thigh. He can’t tell her to leave. Yolanda would kill him. He just wishes that Yolanda were here.
She and Angel are pretty close; Yolanda sends the girl checks, twenty-five here, fifty there, and a couple of times a year the two go shopping at the outlets near Santa Fe. Amadeo tries to remember the last time he was alone with his daughter, but can’t. Two or three Christmases ago, maybe; he remembers sitting awkwardly in this same room asking Angel about her favorite subjects while Yolanda was at the grocery store or the neighbors’.
Amadeo is having trouble breathing. “Maybe you could visit when my mom gets home.” A needle of guilt slides into his side.
Angel doesn’t seem to have heard him. “I mean, the woman’s all preaching to me about how I messed up and why couldn’t I learn from her mistake, but what am I gonna do now, huh? I mean, I get it. It’s gonna hurt like hell and I’m missing prom and did you know I probably won’t get to sleep a whole night until it’s three years old? I’ll be eighteen by then.”
Angel looks like her mother. Amadeo doesn’t remember Marissa acting this young back then. Marissa was sixteen, Amadeo eighteen, but they felt old, he is sure of that. Her parents had been angry and ashamed, but had thrown a baby shower for the young couple anyway. Amadeo had enjoyed being at the center of things: congratulated by her relatives and his, handed tamales and biscochitos on paper plates by old women who were willing to forgive everything in exchange for a church wedding. He stood to sing for them, nodding at Marissa: “This is dedicated to my baby girl.” Bendito, bendito, bendito sea Dios, los ángeles cantan y daban a Dios. They all clapped, the old ladies dabbing their eyes, Yolanda blowing kisses across the room.
Later, of course, after there was no wedding, no moving in together, after Angel was born and learned to walk and talk—with no help from Amadeo—he was relieved by how easily the obligation slipped from his shoulders. The old women shook their heads, resigned; they should have known better than to expect anything from Amadeo, from men in general. “Even the best of them aren’t worth a darn,” his grandmother used to say. (“Not you, hijito,” she’d say kindly to Amadeo. “You’re worth a darn.”) By the time Angel was five and Amadeo had moved with his mother back to the little town where he’d grown up and where their family still lived, he felt lucky to have been let off the hook.
As though answering a question, Angel says, “I didn’t drop out of school for real. I’m gonna start back up after the baby comes, so don’t worry.” She looks at him, waiting.
Amadeo realizes that he forgot to worry, forgot even to wonder. “Good. That’s good.” He gets up, rubs his shorn head with both hands. “You got to have school.”
She’s still looking at him, demanding something: reassurance, approval. “I mean, I’m serious. I’m really going back.” Then she’s off, talking about college and success and following her dreams, the things
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