removed the gloves, wiped her hands on the apron, and looked at Allie. “You look so worried,” she said. “I promise you, Roger will be fine. Do you want me to take you to see him?”
“Um . . .” Allie barely knew Roger. But she did feel she should go see him. She needed to apologize.
“It won’t be scary. Jorge stopped by and said he’s sitting up and pointing and everything.” Consuela smiled.
“Okay, I guess.” Allie looked down at the newspaper that was folded open on the table. There was a boxed-in square with the dates and times for bands at the Hollywood Bowl. Mighty Zamboni was listed. Allie snatched up the paper and looked at the date. It was three days old. Her mother had played here only two days ago.
“It takes me forever to read the paper,” Consuela said as she started to put away the clean dishes that were drying on a dishtowel on the counter. “I just got to that today!”
Allie stood up, holding the paper. “Can I use the phone again?”
“Sí, sí!” Consuela said. “I promise you, it’s free long-distance!” She waved both hands at Allie as if to shoo her back into the bedroom.
Allie dialed the number for the Hollywood Bowl. A man answered. He sounded whiny.
“Hey, do you know where Mighty Zamboni went after they played there?” Allie asked.
“I’m not Mighty Zamboni’s manager,” the guy snorted.
“I know but they were just there, so they’re probably doing the whole state, right?”
“I have no idea what they’re doing. They’re not a band that interests me.”
“I really need to find them,” Allie said. She switched to a whisper so Consuela wouldn’t hear, and added, “My mother’s the tambourine girl for Mighty Zamboni and I need to find her.”
“Why on earth are you whispering?” the guy said. He talked to Allie as if they’d known each other for years and he was allowed, entitled even, to be irritated with her.
“Because the woman whose phone I’m on thinks my parents are dead,” Allie whispered.
“What is wrong with you that you tell people your parents are dead if they’re not?”
“Please just tell me where Mighty Zamboni is now,” Allie said in her normal speaking voice.
“Fine. Hold on.” There was a clanking sound as the guy let the phone fall.
Allie opened the drawer of Consuela’s bedside table and poked through it while she waited. There was a red leather Bible with a pink feather bookmark. There were also condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Most of the Catholics Allie knew used birth control in spite of the pope’s insistence against it. But she didn’t know anyone who kept their birth control and their Bible in the same place. Allie loved imagining that Consuela and Jorge had a vigorous, hearty sex life. Eat some tamales, put the kids to bed, say a little prayer, and then BOOM. Roll around and make each other happy.
“Miss?” The guy was back on the phone.
“I’m here,” Allie said.
“Leonard, the gaffer, said he talked to some of the Zamboni roadies and they mentioned they were playing the Santa Barbara County Bowl next. He thinks they’re opening for either Blondie or Billy Idol.”
“Blondie or Billy Idol?” Allie said. “How do you confuse Blondie with Billy Idol?”
“Both blonds, I guess,” the guy said.
“All right, well, thanks,” Allie said, and she hung up the phone and stared at it. She had the slightly jittery feeling under her skin that she always had when she knew she was going to see her mother. Allie had spent hours, days, years fantasizing about being with her mother in a traditional way. Fantasy Penny would cook for her, feed her, push Allie’s face into her belly as Consuela had, and let her cry. In reality, she’d never experienced her mother like that. But there was a difference between their past encounters and now, Allie thought. In the past, Allie had never been in a tough situation in which she honestly needed Penny to help her out. But now, with the bag of coke, Rosie
“Um . . .” Allie barely knew Roger. But she did feel she should go see him. She needed to apologize.
“It won’t be scary. Jorge stopped by and said he’s sitting up and pointing and everything.” Consuela smiled.
“Okay, I guess.” Allie looked down at the newspaper that was folded open on the table. There was a boxed-in square with the dates and times for bands at the Hollywood Bowl. Mighty Zamboni was listed. Allie snatched up the paper and looked at the date. It was three days old. Her mother had played here only two days ago.
“It takes me forever to read the paper,” Consuela said as she started to put away the clean dishes that were drying on a dishtowel on the counter. “I just got to that today!”
Allie stood up, holding the paper. “Can I use the phone again?”
“Sí, sí!” Consuela said. “I promise you, it’s free long-distance!” She waved both hands at Allie as if to shoo her back into the bedroom.
Allie dialed the number for the Hollywood Bowl. A man answered. He sounded whiny.
“Hey, do you know where Mighty Zamboni went after they played there?” Allie asked.
“I’m not Mighty Zamboni’s manager,” the guy snorted.
“I know but they were just there, so they’re probably doing the whole state, right?”
“I have no idea what they’re doing. They’re not a band that interests me.”
“I really need to find them,” Allie said. She switched to a whisper so Consuela wouldn’t hear, and added, “My mother’s the tambourine girl for Mighty Zamboni and I need to find her.”
“Why on earth are you whispering?” the guy said. He talked to Allie as if they’d known each other for years and he was allowed, entitled even, to be irritated with her.
“Because the woman whose phone I’m on thinks my parents are dead,” Allie whispered.
“What is wrong with you that you tell people your parents are dead if they’re not?”
“Please just tell me where Mighty Zamboni is now,” Allie said in her normal speaking voice.
“Fine. Hold on.” There was a clanking sound as the guy let the phone fall.
Allie opened the drawer of Consuela’s bedside table and poked through it while she waited. There was a red leather Bible with a pink feather bookmark. There were also condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Most of the Catholics Allie knew used birth control in spite of the pope’s insistence against it. But she didn’t know anyone who kept their birth control and their Bible in the same place. Allie loved imagining that Consuela and Jorge had a vigorous, hearty sex life. Eat some tamales, put the kids to bed, say a little prayer, and then BOOM. Roll around and make each other happy.
“Miss?” The guy was back on the phone.
“I’m here,” Allie said.
“Leonard, the gaffer, said he talked to some of the Zamboni roadies and they mentioned they were playing the Santa Barbara County Bowl next. He thinks they’re opening for either Blondie or Billy Idol.”
“Blondie or Billy Idol?” Allie said. “How do you confuse Blondie with Billy Idol?”
“Both blonds, I guess,” the guy said.
“All right, well, thanks,” Allie said, and she hung up the phone and stared at it. She had the slightly jittery feeling under her skin that she always had when she knew she was going to see her mother. Allie had spent hours, days, years fantasizing about being with her mother in a traditional way. Fantasy Penny would cook for her, feed her, push Allie’s face into her belly as Consuela had, and let her cry. In reality, she’d never experienced her mother like that. But there was a difference between their past encounters and now, Allie thought. In the past, Allie had never been in a tough situation in which she honestly needed Penny to help her out. But now, with the bag of coke, Rosie
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