when mothers gathered small, warm bodies to their own—a thousand brawls fought on the edge of clinical delusion, once, spectacularly, in Paris, followed by the physical propulsion out of a private club onto unforgiving tarmac. At the hospital, the doctor had shaken his head, “Elle est folle, celle-ci.”
“Yeah,” Anna said, her eyes on the dance of an aspen’s leaves. “Just one night.”
“One night doesn’t count. Santiago Archuleta, my neighbor, no, he got caught for drugs and he’s still down in Albuquerque! And his wife can’t see him!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know and, with these boxes, you and me, we end up in jail and where’s the money for bail? The kid’s broke, the kid’s got no money, no?”
Money or no money, the kid had taken over in a flash, an instant. She had imagined his possessions to be in proportion to his age, so she had tried to hide her dismay when he’d pulled up in a U-Haul. It was astonishing to her, never mind to Esperanza, how quickly she’d accepted the clutter, how soon she’d held it up daily against the sparseness of her previous life, wondering how she could have ever inhabited such hollow spaces without grief.
Days passed. The boy came and went, shifting the magnetic field of the house in his direction with every move, every breath, every smile. Determined to reclaim some territory, restore some balance, Anna bought the ingredients to make lasagna. Milk, flour, and butter for the béchamel; onions, carrots, celery, ground beef, veal, and pork for the sauce. She was cubing an onion when the phone rang.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, the tiny one! Hey, the little one! Hey, my love! How are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you. How are you?”
“Eva, you can’t talk like that.”
“Mom.”
“Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you in school? The minute you open your mouth?”
“Mom.”
“You’re not coming home like that. Rent some videos. Watch some American movies. In fact, let me speak to your father.”
“Daddy, Mamma wants to speak with you.”
“Oh hello, Anna. Are you incarcerated? Do you need money for bail?”
“God, how funny. You’re going to send her back sounding like that?”
“Sounding vaguely civil, you mean?”
“You’ve clearly forgotten, because such minutiae are vastly beneath you, but your daughter is no longer in private school. She’s in public school. Public as in public, not private. Yeah? They’re going to crucify her.”
“Eva, your mother seems to think speaking proper English will get you crucified in school. Small price to pay, I should think, for the privilege of speaking proper English.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“Always a pleasure, Anna. Always a pleasure.”
“Mom?” Eva’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill.
“Yes my love.”
“Can we please not talk about this?”
“We can, my love. What do you want to talk about?”
“Has Paco been fed?”
“He has.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cooking.”
“Cooking? You never cook!”
“That’s because you’ve usurped my position. Two more weeks, Eva.”
“I know. Have you registered me for soccer?”
“I have,” Anna said, laying down the knife, wiping her hands, and writing on a board by the fridge, EVA SOCCER!
“Did you get me a new lunch box?”
“A new lunch box? What’s wrong with the old one?”
“The handle broke. Remember?”
“Yeah,” lied Anna, scrawling LUNCH BOX! “I want you home, Eva.”
“I am. I’m coming home,” her little girl said.
“We’re going to have tons of Mamma-and-me time. I’m going to teach you how to play chess.”
“Can we play Wig Out?”
“We’re definitively playing Wig Out.”
“Daddy says you cheat at cards.”
“Your father lies. As a practice, as a principle. Darling, come home.”
In her younger days, Anna had often thought that death would come for her quickly, that it would grab her by the neck and shove her under. There would be no time to
“Yeah,” Anna said, her eyes on the dance of an aspen’s leaves. “Just one night.”
“One night doesn’t count. Santiago Archuleta, my neighbor, no, he got caught for drugs and he’s still down in Albuquerque! And his wife can’t see him!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know and, with these boxes, you and me, we end up in jail and where’s the money for bail? The kid’s broke, the kid’s got no money, no?”
Money or no money, the kid had taken over in a flash, an instant. She had imagined his possessions to be in proportion to his age, so she had tried to hide her dismay when he’d pulled up in a U-Haul. It was astonishing to her, never mind to Esperanza, how quickly she’d accepted the clutter, how soon she’d held it up daily against the sparseness of her previous life, wondering how she could have ever inhabited such hollow spaces without grief.
Days passed. The boy came and went, shifting the magnetic field of the house in his direction with every move, every breath, every smile. Determined to reclaim some territory, restore some balance, Anna bought the ingredients to make lasagna. Milk, flour, and butter for the béchamel; onions, carrots, celery, ground beef, veal, and pork for the sauce. She was cubing an onion when the phone rang.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, the tiny one! Hey, the little one! Hey, my love! How are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you. How are you?”
“Eva, you can’t talk like that.”
“Mom.”
“Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you in school? The minute you open your mouth?”
“Mom.”
“You’re not coming home like that. Rent some videos. Watch some American movies. In fact, let me speak to your father.”
“Daddy, Mamma wants to speak with you.”
“Oh hello, Anna. Are you incarcerated? Do you need money for bail?”
“God, how funny. You’re going to send her back sounding like that?”
“Sounding vaguely civil, you mean?”
“You’ve clearly forgotten, because such minutiae are vastly beneath you, but your daughter is no longer in private school. She’s in public school. Public as in public, not private. Yeah? They’re going to crucify her.”
“Eva, your mother seems to think speaking proper English will get you crucified in school. Small price to pay, I should think, for the privilege of speaking proper English.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“Always a pleasure, Anna. Always a pleasure.”
“Mom?” Eva’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill.
“Yes my love.”
“Can we please not talk about this?”
“We can, my love. What do you want to talk about?”
“Has Paco been fed?”
“He has.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cooking.”
“Cooking? You never cook!”
“That’s because you’ve usurped my position. Two more weeks, Eva.”
“I know. Have you registered me for soccer?”
“I have,” Anna said, laying down the knife, wiping her hands, and writing on a board by the fridge, EVA SOCCER!
“Did you get me a new lunch box?”
“A new lunch box? What’s wrong with the old one?”
“The handle broke. Remember?”
“Yeah,” lied Anna, scrawling LUNCH BOX! “I want you home, Eva.”
“I am. I’m coming home,” her little girl said.
“We’re going to have tons of Mamma-and-me time. I’m going to teach you how to play chess.”
“Can we play Wig Out?”
“We’re definitively playing Wig Out.”
“Daddy says you cheat at cards.”
“Your father lies. As a practice, as a principle. Darling, come home.”
In her younger days, Anna had often thought that death would come for her quickly, that it would grab her by the neck and shove her under. There would be no time to
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