Probably from a movie or TV. Not from school. We hardly studied Spain at all. Once we memorized the names of all their explorers, our teachers seemed to think there was nothingelse worth knowing about it. Instead they’re hung up on countries we’ve beaten in wars, like Germany, or countries we’ve saved in wars, like France, or countries we’ve beaten in one war and saved in another, like England; and of course they all love Italy because just about everyone in America has some great-great-grandfather Vincenzo who came over on a leaky boat and cried when he saw the Statue of Liberty.
Miss Jack tells us to take a seat, then she excuses herself for a moment.
The three of us look at one another. The table’s not as big as I expected. There are only eight chairs sitting around it. I thought we’d eat in a cold, gloomy room the size of a school gym with one of those long tables that seat a hundred people and Klint and I would sit at one end and Shelby and Miss Jack at the other, and whenever we wanted to talk to each other we’d have to cup our hands and shout, “I say, my dear, could you be a good chap and please pass the caviar?”
The table’s set for four: two on one side and two on the other. Klint and I take seats beside each other, and Shelby sits across from me.
The whole room’s not what I expected. It’s kind of wild. Nothing matches but still everything seems to go together.
Most of the mothers I know would freak out in a room like this. Everything in their houses has to be color coordinated.
Aunt Jen’s house is that way. The carpet is dark purple. The furniture is light purple. The walls are white with purple flowers. The curtains are white lace. She has white lace all over the place: on the coffee table, on the arms of the chairs, on the back of the couch.
She has a statue of a ballerina in a purple tutu, a purple glass bowl filled with fake grapes, and a bunch of white candles in purple holders that smell like vanilla. She has a painting of a field of violets and another one of a litter of kittens with purple fur.
All of it’s very girly stuff. I think she picked the style on purpose not because it suits her but because she’s trying to make people think she’s a real woman. It’s like laying palm leaves across a pit for a lion to fall into, only she lays a trap of doilies and cookie-scented candles for men to fall into.
“Your aunt has a real thing for Spain,” I say to Shelby after we sit down.
“You have no idea,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why?”
“I guess she spent some time there when she was young. She doesn’t talk about it, and my dad says Granddad never talked about it, either, except to complain about Calladito.”
“Who’s Calladito?”
“On one of her trips she brought back a bull named Calladito. According to Dad, she paid a fortune for him and she and Granddad had a big fight about it and didn’t speak to each other for a long time. But when it turned out she could make a ton of money from breeding him, then Granddad didn’t hate him so much.”
“What happened to Calladito?”
“He got old and died. But Aunt Candace has always kept one son from each generation. Ventisco is Calladito’s grandson.”
She opens her napkin and puts it on her lap. Klint and I do the same.
We hear the click of Miss Jack’s boots on the tiles heading in our direction.
“What’s Calladito mean?” I whisper across the table to Shelby.
“The Quiet One,” she whispers back.
“Excuse me,” Miss Jack says as she returns and takes a seat. “I had something I needed to attend to in the kitchen.”
Following at her heels is a short, brown man in butter-colored pants and a turquoise shirt carrying a basket of bread and a big glass pitcher of water with ice and lemon slices in it. He’s bald except for a ring of gray hair around the top of his head that’s the same color as the bristly mustache covering his upper lip and drooping down both cheeks. His face is shiny,
Miss Jack tells us to take a seat, then she excuses herself for a moment.
The three of us look at one another. The table’s not as big as I expected. There are only eight chairs sitting around it. I thought we’d eat in a cold, gloomy room the size of a school gym with one of those long tables that seat a hundred people and Klint and I would sit at one end and Shelby and Miss Jack at the other, and whenever we wanted to talk to each other we’d have to cup our hands and shout, “I say, my dear, could you be a good chap and please pass the caviar?”
The table’s set for four: two on one side and two on the other. Klint and I take seats beside each other, and Shelby sits across from me.
The whole room’s not what I expected. It’s kind of wild. Nothing matches but still everything seems to go together.
Most of the mothers I know would freak out in a room like this. Everything in their houses has to be color coordinated.
Aunt Jen’s house is that way. The carpet is dark purple. The furniture is light purple. The walls are white with purple flowers. The curtains are white lace. She has white lace all over the place: on the coffee table, on the arms of the chairs, on the back of the couch.
She has a statue of a ballerina in a purple tutu, a purple glass bowl filled with fake grapes, and a bunch of white candles in purple holders that smell like vanilla. She has a painting of a field of violets and another one of a litter of kittens with purple fur.
All of it’s very girly stuff. I think she picked the style on purpose not because it suits her but because she’s trying to make people think she’s a real woman. It’s like laying palm leaves across a pit for a lion to fall into, only she lays a trap of doilies and cookie-scented candles for men to fall into.
“Your aunt has a real thing for Spain,” I say to Shelby after we sit down.
“You have no idea,” she says, shaking her head.
“Why?”
“I guess she spent some time there when she was young. She doesn’t talk about it, and my dad says Granddad never talked about it, either, except to complain about Calladito.”
“Who’s Calladito?”
“On one of her trips she brought back a bull named Calladito. According to Dad, she paid a fortune for him and she and Granddad had a big fight about it and didn’t speak to each other for a long time. But when it turned out she could make a ton of money from breeding him, then Granddad didn’t hate him so much.”
“What happened to Calladito?”
“He got old and died. But Aunt Candace has always kept one son from each generation. Ventisco is Calladito’s grandson.”
She opens her napkin and puts it on her lap. Klint and I do the same.
We hear the click of Miss Jack’s boots on the tiles heading in our direction.
“What’s Calladito mean?” I whisper across the table to Shelby.
“The Quiet One,” she whispers back.
“Excuse me,” Miss Jack says as she returns and takes a seat. “I had something I needed to attend to in the kitchen.”
Following at her heels is a short, brown man in butter-colored pants and a turquoise shirt carrying a basket of bread and a big glass pitcher of water with ice and lemon slices in it. He’s bald except for a ring of gray hair around the top of his head that’s the same color as the bristly mustache covering his upper lip and drooping down both cheeks. His face is shiny,
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