letters.’
‘No, that’s the thing, I don’t know you and letters.’
‘Ah, I’m just not very good at it.’
He nodded and used a hand against the wall to guide himself along the landing: ‘I thought you’d have written.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Well, I am.’
‘I believe ya,’ he grunted, his back to me.
I found a mosquito coil tonight, shattered into little green bits at the bottom of my backpack. Those mosquitoes in Mexico were always ecstatic in the hot, hot air. Waiting. Hovering. Moving away from the smoke under the ceiling fan. It was truly vicious, that heat, but in an odd way I liked it. When I arrived in San Francisco it was the coolness of it all that assaulted me. The immigration officer in the airport looked at the Mexican stamp in my passport. ‘Hope you didn’t catch the clap,’ he said with a grin, waving me through with a sweep of the hand after stamping a six-month stay in my passport.
THURSDAY
a deep need for miracles
Brutally romantic, of course, but he has kept every single one of Mam’s dresses. They hang in a riot of colours amongst a dozen mothball bags. The cupboard was open in his room this morning when I looked in before going downstairs. Hems spilled on the floor, edges that were unsewn over the years, continually dropped another inch, always lengthening, until even her skirts covered her calves. The sleeve of an old adelita dress stuck out. Some blouses. A dressing gown hung with one shoulder on a hanger. Her sarapes neatly folded on the shelf beside some coiled belts. I stared at the old man asleep in the bed, the marmalade cat on the pillow beside him. His hat was perched on the bedside table, beside a full bottle of Bushmills. There was a bit of a smell in the room – he has bad gas these days. Finds it hard to control. Let one go at the kitchen table last night.
‘Oops!’ he said. ‘Barking spider around here somewhere!’
But I could tell he was embarrassed by the smell – even got a bit of a flush in his cheeks as he walked upstairs to his bed. But at least he sleeps. When Mam was here there were nights she would get out of bed – she was sleeping in the room at the end of the landing at that stage – and sometimes she would go down to work on her stone walls, those black bags collecting under her eyes.
* * *
It was the first time Mam had seen the northwestern part of Mexico, and the Model A negotiated narrow roads that often ended in dry floodbeds. They drove over cracked platelets of mud, past weedgrown churches, through long sweeps of prairie where whitewashed haciendas rose up and flared out against the grasses. In the mornings the towns were alive under spectacular red reefs of cloud, migrating flocks moving through them, and once a single white crane seemed to follow them for miles, noisily flapping in the air, until the bird veered off and joined a mate. Mam looked backwards over the car-seat – she wanted to feel the rhythms of her land before they went to El Norte.
It was a quiet trip, except for the crunch of three jackrabbits under the wheels of the car along a dirt road in Sonora. Mam wanted to chop off the paws of the rabbits at the side of the road – some tribute to her mother – but the old man drove biliously on, disturbed by the rattling gearwhine of the car. Besides, Mam already had a jar full of rabbit’s feet with her, and as they moved westward she affixed a half-dozen of them around the rim of his hat. It looked ridiculous – the way they pattered around his head – but my father bent to Mam’s superstition, put the hat on while he drove. In the vast expanses they haggled with gaunt garage owners over petrol prices. Children in ragged shirts stared as the car threw out smoke. Riders pulled their horses over into ditches. The horsemen sometimes carried rifles, and my father slowed as he went past, guffaws rising at the sight of his hat. He drove with fingers drumming heavily on the wheel, impatient
‘No, that’s the thing, I don’t know you and letters.’
‘Ah, I’m just not very good at it.’
He nodded and used a hand against the wall to guide himself along the landing: ‘I thought you’d have written.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Well, I am.’
‘I believe ya,’ he grunted, his back to me.
I found a mosquito coil tonight, shattered into little green bits at the bottom of my backpack. Those mosquitoes in Mexico were always ecstatic in the hot, hot air. Waiting. Hovering. Moving away from the smoke under the ceiling fan. It was truly vicious, that heat, but in an odd way I liked it. When I arrived in San Francisco it was the coolness of it all that assaulted me. The immigration officer in the airport looked at the Mexican stamp in my passport. ‘Hope you didn’t catch the clap,’ he said with a grin, waving me through with a sweep of the hand after stamping a six-month stay in my passport.
THURSDAY
a deep need for miracles
Brutally romantic, of course, but he has kept every single one of Mam’s dresses. They hang in a riot of colours amongst a dozen mothball bags. The cupboard was open in his room this morning when I looked in before going downstairs. Hems spilled on the floor, edges that were unsewn over the years, continually dropped another inch, always lengthening, until even her skirts covered her calves. The sleeve of an old adelita dress stuck out. Some blouses. A dressing gown hung with one shoulder on a hanger. Her sarapes neatly folded on the shelf beside some coiled belts. I stared at the old man asleep in the bed, the marmalade cat on the pillow beside him. His hat was perched on the bedside table, beside a full bottle of Bushmills. There was a bit of a smell in the room – he has bad gas these days. Finds it hard to control. Let one go at the kitchen table last night.
‘Oops!’ he said. ‘Barking spider around here somewhere!’
But I could tell he was embarrassed by the smell – even got a bit of a flush in his cheeks as he walked upstairs to his bed. But at least he sleeps. When Mam was here there were nights she would get out of bed – she was sleeping in the room at the end of the landing at that stage – and sometimes she would go down to work on her stone walls, those black bags collecting under her eyes.
* * *
It was the first time Mam had seen the northwestern part of Mexico, and the Model A negotiated narrow roads that often ended in dry floodbeds. They drove over cracked platelets of mud, past weedgrown churches, through long sweeps of prairie where whitewashed haciendas rose up and flared out against the grasses. In the mornings the towns were alive under spectacular red reefs of cloud, migrating flocks moving through them, and once a single white crane seemed to follow them for miles, noisily flapping in the air, until the bird veered off and joined a mate. Mam looked backwards over the car-seat – she wanted to feel the rhythms of her land before they went to El Norte.
It was a quiet trip, except for the crunch of three jackrabbits under the wheels of the car along a dirt road in Sonora. Mam wanted to chop off the paws of the rabbits at the side of the road – some tribute to her mother – but the old man drove biliously on, disturbed by the rattling gearwhine of the car. Besides, Mam already had a jar full of rabbit’s feet with her, and as they moved westward she affixed a half-dozen of them around the rim of his hat. It looked ridiculous – the way they pattered around his head – but my father bent to Mam’s superstition, put the hat on while he drove. In the vast expanses they haggled with gaunt garage owners over petrol prices. Children in ragged shirts stared as the car threw out smoke. Riders pulled their horses over into ditches. The horsemen sometimes carried rifles, and my father slowed as he went past, guffaws rising at the sight of his hat. He drove with fingers drumming heavily on the wheel, impatient
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