Cuba 15 Page 4

  Abuela, Mom, Janell, Leda, and our sales delegate, Iona, all trooped into the fitting room with me and at least two thousand purple dresses. Plus two pink ones that Abuela insisted I “just try.”

  Gaping into the full-length mirror, wearing the first gown, I discovered why clothing choice is important to a shopping trip. The summery dress Mom had picked out had a plum-colored bodice and a white muslin three-quarter-length skirt. In the harsh light of the dressing room, I—and everyone else, even though we were all girls—could see right through the skirt. I hadn’t worn a slip, of course. And my athletic shoes gave me a macho air.

  “Xena the Warrior Princess meets Tinkerbell,” pronounced Leda.

  “Try this one on,” said Janell.

  The saleswoman brought me a borrowed half-slip. I wriggled in and out of thousands of dresses, from those that would have been suitable for, say, a midsummer ship’s christening to some that, I thought, would have been perfect for the funeral of the owner of a bridal shop.

  “Shall we repair to the Bridal Circle?” Iona asked when I’d been zipped into yet another lavender chiffon. She wanted me to go out and model on the pedestal, where everyone else in the store was waiting for a good laugh, and subway lowlife probably pressed their noses up against the outside window for a free show whenever they passed this way.

  “But we’re all in here already,” I pointed out, feeling a little punchy. Everyone else was looking strained too. “I’ve tried on so many dresses, I’ve got sliplash!” I said.

  “Ha!” yelled Mom after a beat, followed by three silent has through open lips.

  Iona was not amused.

  “Hey,” I said, grabbing one of my grandmother’s peppermint ice cream selections. “Is this dress awfully pink, or is that just a pigment of my imagination?”

  “HA!” Mom laughed more loudly, shaking her shoulders hard three times afterward.

  Even Abuela smiled.

  “If there won’t be anything else . . .” Iona huffed from the room.

  I got back into my comfy clothes, and we walked over to State Street to have lunch in the Oak Room at Marshall Field and Company.

  6

  The adults were arguing already. I hadn’t been fifteen a week, and I could see that it was going to be a very long year.

  After lunch, Mom and Abuela had reached an impasse in the clothing negotiations, nearly causing a scene in the After Five shop in Field’s. Mom kept insisting on styles reminiscent of that fourth-grade corduroy jumper of mine, and Abuela couldn’t stay away from the candy-frosting types. When the two appeared to be on the verge of a slapfight, I reminded them that we had agreed the night before that I would have final say on the dress. I had worn Abuela down.

  We marched back to Chez Doll and grabbed the first purple and white dress I had tried on, plus a slip, which Mom charged to her credit card. The damas dresses would have to wait; no one complained about that. Luckily, the northbound train was crowded, so Mom and Abuela sat in separate rows all the way home. Janell and Leda looked relieved as we dropped them off, saying they’d see me tomorrow.

  When we got home, Mom made me model the new dress for Dad and Abuelo. “But don’t get it dirty, whatever you do!” she admonished. “We’ll have to return it to the store after the dressmaker copies the pattern.”

  Dad must have asked in Spanish how much the dress cost. Mom said, “Nine ninety-five, plus tax,” and Dad rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. “But we’ll get a refund,” she assured him.

  At dinner, Abuela had gone on and on about all the party pieces that needed to fall into place by May. “Here, in Lincoln Ville”—she insisted on saying the name as two separate places—“we arrange for the dresses, the hall, la música, y las invitaciones. Por allá, in Miami, I will find the party favors, the cushions for the gifts, and the especial guest book made to order. Then, don’t forget—”

  “And just who is supposed to pay for all this?” Dad asked.

  Abuelo grinned. “El papá.”

  My brother, Mark, laughed with his mouth full and pointed at Dad.

  “Y los padrinos,” added Abuela seriously, “the ehsponsors who pledge to give one of these things as a gift to Violeta—to the quinceañera. Your abuelo will give the beegest gift,” she pronounced, beaming, “for the hall.”

  Abuelo’s smile vanished. Abuela said a few more words in Spanish to Dad.

  “I am supposed to beg Carlos for dinero? No, not even for a fotógrafo, no.” He listened to her for a moment, then sat back in his chair. “A photographer costs that much?”

  “Claro que sí,” murmured Abuela.

  They continued their logistical discussion in Spanish, inflections and tempers rising and falling like stormy ocean waves. Mom and Abuelo joined the fray. Mark paid no attention. But I sat up straight when I started to hear Violeta over and over again, and Dios, which means God.

  “What are you talking about?” I cut in.

  Nobody answered.

  “What are you saying?”

  Dad’s glare was all eyebrows. “Not now, Violet!”

  I felt about five years old. “But I’m supposed to . . .”

  They continued without me.

  The rice I’d been eating stuck in my throat. This scene was too familiar. I slammed my fork down on my plate and got up. “You people are so rude!” I threw my napkin on the table. “It’s not my fault I don’t know Spanish. But then you wouldn’t have your little code language, would you? How do you think that feels?”

  “Don’t you talk to your family that way!” said Dad.

  Mom looked surprised to see me still there. “You may be excused, young lady,” she said. Then she turned back to Abuela and finished what she’d been saying. En español.

  Now my whole family was downstairs arguing. Urgent tones of Spanish drifted up to my room along with the too-sweet aroma of frying plantains for dessert. I don’t like mushy ripe plantains anyway.

  I flopped on my bed upstairs and coaxed Chucho into my lap. Even on a warm day, his poodle body heat was comforting. I kissed his neck and took a deep breath with my nose in his fur. Some dogs smell doggy, but Chucho, despite his other foul habits, always smells nice. Aromatherapy for the dog lover.

  I popped a tape of mournful harmonica tunes into my cassette player and turned the volume low. “I’ve got the Cuban blues, Chucho,” I told him. He sighed his little-old-man sigh and snuggled tighter into a ball on my lap.

  I had finally blown up over something that had been boiling inside me for as long as I could remember. Mom and Dad had always used their shared language to discuss whatever they didn’t want me and Mark to hear. Dad, of course, had grown up speaking Spanish. Mom had learned to speak it with the kitchen staff during her waitressing years in the city. That’s what had endeared her to Abuela and Abuelo.

  Spanish was currency. Currency I didn’t have.

  I understood a few dozen words, maybe more, now that I remembered Señora Wong’s cognates. I could usually figure out what Mom and Dad were talking about from their tone of voice and the words I knew, but I couldn’t connect those things to the whole Spanish vocabulary. “That must be how it sounds to a dog,” I said to Chucho, who was snoring now. I thought of a comic strip I once saw about what dogs really hear when you talk to them: “Blah blah blah, Ginger, blah blah.”

  That’s how I felt. Blah.

  I couldn’t see what the fuss was about—why I had to tip-toe around the subject. Abuela and Abuelo, Dad, and even Mom were so touchy about Cuba that anything I knew, I’d learned by accident. I was half afraid to ask pointed questions anymore, never knowing whether they would draw blood or be deflected like weak arrows with some offhand remark. Whichever it was, I rarely got answers.

  Someone owed me an explanation. I decided to give my aunt Luz a call.

  Chucho felt me stir and opened his big black eyes. He brayed a mighty yawn that ended in a little squeak, got up, and resettled himself on my pillow. I went to Mom and Dad’s room to call Tía Luci long dist
ance.

  Dad’s sister, Luz, is my favorite aunt. She lives on the West Coast and travels around the world, documenting whatever needs documenting with her camera. We never know when she’s going to show up, but she always makes me feel like she came all the way just to see me. And she includes me in stuff no other grown-ups would.

  Dad says she’s poca loca, but I know he loves her and admires her. It’s funny, though. Luz, who was born in Miami, seems more . . . Cuban than Dad. Or more willing to admit it.

  “What’s happening, Birthday Girl?” Tía asked when I reached her.

  “Oh, I got in some trouble over this party Abuela wants me to have.”

  She purred sympathetically on the other end of the line.

  “Tía Luci, did you ever have a quince party?”

  “Not me, niñita. Your abuelo was too cheap,” she said, kidding. “Actually, they gave me a trip to Spain for my fifteen. I refused the party.”

  “Refused!” God, Luz was a strong woman.

  “I had already been to about fifty quinces back when we lived in Miami. All my Chicago friends were going to Spain. It was the cool thing to do. I leaned on Papi until he came around. It cost less than a party, that’s for sure.” She paused. “Mami, well, she was a different story. But Chicago wasn’t Cuba, and it wasn’t Miami either. I think she knew what I needed most. In the end, she let me choose.”

  “But what about the . . . the . . . color tradicional? You know, the pink dress?”

  “Pink dress? It doesn’t have to be pink anymore. Of course, Mami wore a pink dress. She made her quince in Cuba, you know.”

  Cuba. That was traditional. And not a subject I intended to broach downstairs.

  “So,” said Luz, “am I invited?”

  “You’d come?” I asked.

  “Por supuesto. I wouldn’t miss your quince for the world!”

  Well, that made one of us.

  “You think it’s a good idea, then?”

  “I can’t tell you what’s on Mami’s mind, but I’m sure her heart is in the right place.”

  I had known there wouldn’t be any easy answers.

  I sighed. “Thanks, Tía. Oh, one other thing. What is the tie-in with the church? That’s what they’re all downstairs arguing about right now. The truth is, we haven’t all been to Mass together since Mark made his confirmation last spring. Will we have to do some kind of penance, or what?”

  I heard the line hum while Tía Luci thought. I could almost see her roll her eyes and purse her lips before telling me, “Violet. How can you make your quince if you don’t even know what it is? Would you jump out of a plane before looking for your parachute?” I could practically hear her smiling wryly. “Not everybody has a church ceremony, chica. Now go find out what you need to know before you start jumping off the big cliffs.”

  “I will, Tía. And thanks.”

  I marched back down to the kitchen to bust up the junta.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I began. “But I have something to say.”

  They all looked at me: Mom, perturbed; Abuela, skeptical; Abuelo, curious; and Dad, still upset, but looking sharp in a brown short-sleeved rib-knit shirt that zipped up the front. His long legs stuck out from under the kitchen table in knee-length blue plaid shorts. As a concession to the warm weather, he wore his bowling shoes with no socks.

  Must I invite these people to my party? I thought, trying to hold firm. “Being the one turning fifteen and all,” I said to my audience, “I just want to say that I would rather have gone on a trip to Spain. But I was not given that choice.”

  Abuela opened her mouth. “However,” I continued, silencing her, “since my dear grandmother has offered to throw me a quince party, I have gratefully accepted the idea.” If only to find out why, I thought.

  Mom smiled and started to say something. “Now,” I went on, “I don’t know what Dios has to do with it, but I do know one thing: The dress, the hall, the music, the photographs, the dinner . . . all this—ehstuff—is going to be a huge job to pull together.”

  Mom and Abuela heard this and nodded eagerly. Abuelo nodded soberly. At last, people were agreeing with me.

  I continued. “As far as I can tell, it’s going to take a no-holds-barred onslaught of time and energy from all of us. And not just the ladies.” Here, I addressed Dad, who was squirming on the edge of his chair. “There will be tuxedos rented, friends invited, and dances learned.”

  I eyed each of them in turn. “And I’m making it my duty to see that every one of you”—I gave Dad an extra-hard stare—“looks presentable.”

  Dad started to protest, but I raised an index finger. “And we are going to have one person, and one person only, in charge: me! Is that clear?”

  They looked at each other and buzzed worriedly.

  “Listen up, people! This quince planning means war, and I need to know whose side you’re on. Are you with me?”

  Mom and Abuela nodded meekly.

  Abuelo was unconvinced.

  “Momentito, Violet!” said Dad. “That’s fine to have one general, but don’t forget, I have the keys to the war chest.”

  Mom stepped in. “She’s right, though, Alberto. Too many generals spoil the troops.” She raised an eyebrow, looking for any takers for her joke.

  I ignored her. “Okay,” I said. “Dad, you’re general of finance. You’ll have the final say on el dinero. Mom, you’re captain of strategy, with Abuela and Abuelo as your Miami liaisons. Now, can everyone live with that?”

  They hesitated, glancing at one another, then nodding.

  “And you, Violeta. Who, may I ask, are you?” asked Abuelo, smiling his great piano-keyboard of a smile.

  “That,” I said, “is what we are about to find out.” I picked up Quinceañero for the Gringo Dummy and retreated to my quarters.

  7

  I nearly fell asleep reading that night. The quince book must have been translated from the Spanglish; it was packed with information but pretty hard to follow. I read past the part I’d skimmed before.

  After listing all the components of the traditional fifteenth-year celebration—the court, the formal wear, the dances—the book seemed to address me personally: “You may choses to embrace all of the elements of the quinceañero, or you may choses to flush traditions into the toilet and rewrite the ceremony for to fit your personality.”

  It was good to see this in writing. And, it turned out, the church service was optional.

  This lightened my load a whole lot. I practically skipped down to breakfast to find Mom alone at the kitchen table, in an orange terry cloth robe and running shoes, writing.

  “G’morning,” I said, glancing at her work. Phew, no calendar today. I recognized the blue Snoopy notebook, open wide, with a floor plan on one page and her big loopy script covering the other. “Restaurant plans?”

  Mom put down her Walgreens ballpoint pen. She never bought writing utensils but stocked up on freebies whenever she could get them. She looked at me, her wide face animated. “Violet, I think I’ve got it this time.” She paused for suspense. “The two cuisines that I really know from top to bottom: Cuban and Polish. A combination that’s never been tried before.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “Picture it,” she said, framing the air with her hands. “The finest Polish and Cuban gourmet dishes in one restaurant. I call it: La Polka Grande!”

  I smiled. Another of my mother’s million-dollar ideas. “Polish meets Cuban in America. Sounds good to me,” I said honestly. Mom’s a great cook. I especially like the non-American dishes she makes. “But will it fly?”

  Mom knit her brow and nodded slowly. “That is always the question.”

  It had been her dream since her waitressing days to open a restaurant, her own little neighborhood place that would serve great comfort food. She’d been saving her thrift-store earnings for years. Of course, the suburbs are teeming with ethnic places that serve soul food. But Mom was determined to find her niche. Someday.

&
nbsp; I whipped up my own breakfast, a dish I like to call Cornflakes and Milk, and sat down at the table with her.

  I love our kitchen. The built-in cabinets are made of real wood, with a pretty grain the color of maple syrup. Very breakfasty. Of course, nothing else matches them. The oval kitchen table has a fake-marble top and four fake-stone columns for legs. Five of the chairs are yellow vinyl (finds at the Rise & Walk), but the sixth is a black ladder-back wooden model that Mark and I dubbed the Death Throne. One of us is forced to use it whenever Abuela and Abuelo come to visit. Shiny red paper scattered with little gold fleurs-de-lis wraps the walls, and the floor is done up in indoor/outdoor carpet in a blue-green shade not found in nature.

  Mom’s thrift-store discoveries hang everywhere. My favorites are the gold, plaster-of-paris, smiling and frowning Janus masks; a wrought-iron wall clock in the shape of a chicken that always says 5:30; a framed, signed portrait of Betty Crocker; and a goofy plaque with loud lettering that reads WORLD’S GREATEST KNITTER. No one can say Mom doesn’t have an eye for Americana. She collected it all to decorate her someday restaurant. Incredibly, this stuff is back in style now.

  “Mom, can I talk to you about the party? We’re supposed to pick a theme.”

  She closed her notebook. “The party is my top priority, sir!” she said, snapping off a salute and smiling.

  I grinned back through my cornflakes. It was too bad I’d been so rough on my family the night before, but it’d had to be done.

  I swallowed. “That book you gave me says you don’t have to follow traditions to the letter. You can go with whatever’s right for you. I heard the same thing from Abuela and Tía Luci. So we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to.”

  She listened.

  “The book says there are places that will coordinate the whole party for you, all the stuff: banquet hall, catering, invitations, music—the works.”

  She nodded. “Lupita did mention that. It sounds so impersonal, though.”