Мэри Элис Монро – Girl In The Mirror (страница 12)

Once inside, he was tempted to walk around the family home, to peek into bedrooms and closets, to see if he still had a room. He felt nervous. Out of place. The family clustered around him, however, chatting amiably, reminiscing over events that were far sweeter in memory. After a few minutes the conversation slowed, but this was to be expected. After all, it’d been several years since he’d been home. His ear was quick to pick up the soft, intimate sounds of Spanish, the language of his family. Michael could feel his tongue stumble around the vowels and consonants as he struggled with his broken replies.

“Little Francisco speaks better Spanish than his uncle Miguel,” his mother teased. Michael only smiled. This was an old stalemate that had begun when Michael, the only Mexican in his suburban first grade class, announced one night at family dinner that he would only speak English as the nuns had instructed him to. His mother, hurt and confused, had ceased her fluid flow of Spanish and met his announcement with obedience. “If the nuns said so…”

His father had responded typically, exploding in anger and casting him off to his room, where Michael preferred to be, anyway. It was the beginning of the unraveling of his ties to his family. The first step in the distance he was to create between them.

Tonight there was no criticism in Luis’s eyes, however. He beamed at his youngest son.

“Rosa,” Luis boomed to his daughter. “Settle your children. I want to talk to Miguel alone for a moment.” He guided Michael to the large family kitchen. Closing the door, he paused and sighed a bit theatrically. “Ah, some peace and quiet, eh? If I could harness the energy of those bebés, I could live forever! But—” he shrugged with his whole body, arms and palms lifting upward “—I’ll settle for a small glass of beer.”

“Ah, Mama,” Michael said, accepting a bottle and sniffing the air. The familiar scents of Mexican cooking, mingled with the sounds of children laughing and grown-ups talking in Spanish in the room next door, was like a soothing balm, restoring his sense of place.

“Smells like heaven.”

Marta said nothing, but her skin flushed with pleasure as she hovered over the huge stove covered with simmering pots. He and his father leaned against the wood counter in the delicious-smelling room, arms crossed, bottles held in fists as they began the awkward conversation that always followed months of separation.

“So,” Luis began. It was more a clearing of the throat.

“How are you?”

“Fine…fine,” Michael responded slowly. He hoped he didn’t sound cautious, and took a long swallow of beer.

“Real good.”

“What you doing in Chicago?”

He shrugged. “Same old, same old. Mayor Daley wants more trees planted, so when we finish a building, we plant him more trees.” Father and son exchanged glances over their bottles and shared a mutual laugh.

“Glad to see you’re still planting something.”

They tried hard to maneuver their conversation into friendly territory, and the occasional quips Marta offered as she stirred at the stove helped. Yet it was clear to Michael that his father was pining to talk plainly but didn’t want to push his son hard the moment he stepped in the door. Luis was a tall, big-fisted and broad-shouldered man with a voice to match. Seeing him stutter over inanities was like watching a bull stumble in a china shop. Michael decided to make it easier for him.

“The nursery looks hard hit,” he opened, going straight to the point.

Luis’s face revealed surprise, immediately followed by relief. He began to nod his burly head widely. “Yes, yes, exactly!” he boomed, stretching out his arm in agreement. “The drought last year, aieee! We lost so much, and what is left—” he shook his hands to the heavens “—it’s not fit to live. Son of a bitch drought. Grass burn like hell, and the people call and say, ‘No cut.’ When we no cut they no pay. Do they care? No! ‘No cut’ is all they say.” He shook his head. “So much dies.”

“I heard it was bad. I’m sorry you were so hard hit.”

Luis shrugged. “Will of God, no?”

“Perhaps…” He took a long swallow of beer, avoiding a religious debate. In the Mondragon household, life’s twists and turns were all part of God’s infinite plan. To be endured. “How is Manuel doing?” Michael didn’t know his brother-in-law very well. He seemed a decent sort of fellow, but the man would have to be a saint to live with his hot-tempered sister, Rosa.

His father shrugged noncommittally. “He does okay cutting the lawns. The men they like him, but…” Luis rubbed his jaw. “It’s not just drought. He no can draw the land pictures like the people want now. They want something special, you know? And if you can draw the pictures, you can sell stock, too. Draw for free sometimes, just to get the job.”

“I know what you mean, Papa. It’s common now. Why didn’t you hire someone? A designer?”

“Why I go hire someone when my son is best there is?”

Michael’s sigh rumbled in his chest. “Perhaps because I’m an architect in Chicago? Papa, I build skyscrapers. High in the sky.” He ground his teeth and said softly, “I don’t dig in the earth anymore.”

“Madre de Dios. How can you like working away from the soil? What you want to play with concrete blocks for in Chicago when you can have all this fine California earth? This precious land. I ask you!”

Michael heard the pleading hidden in the boisterous exclamation and it broke his heart. His father was a proud man, raised harshly as an orphan by his relatives in Mexico. At twenty-two he brought his family to America because a bachelor uncle had died and left a small piece of California land to his only living nephew. From the moment he’d seen the fertile valley, Luis Mondragon’s life had had purpose. He’d turned a deaf ear to the many lucrative offers for the land and held on tight to his future—a risky move for a poor Mexican with three hungry children.

When he’d saved enough money, Luis had moved his ragtag family to the suburbs and established a modest lawn maintenance company. He slaved in suburban yards from dawn till sundown seven days a week, like a huge bull in the harness. Luis hated the suburbs, but Marta had wanted the good “gringo” schools where the nuns would teach her children the same things as white children. Besides, what could he do? The suburbs was where the money was. The people liked his wit and strong back, and his business thrived. When the boys grew older they helped run the mowers and hedge clippers, working for a pittance.

Though his father may have been cheap with a dollar, he was very generous with his knowledge. Like his precious nursery, he nurtured his boys, teaching Roberto and Miguel about the soil, stock and the family secrets for a vigorous plant. Every spare penny earned went back to the land. When at last he could begin a nursery, he sold only a few select plants, just the ones his customers were likely to buy. Then, slowly, with his twinkling eyes and infectious laughter, he teased his customers to “try something a little bit different, no?” Plant by plant, Luis built the reputation of the Mondragon nursery, and Michael knew it had to break the old man’s heart to see a lifetime of struggle strangled by heat, drought and competition. Looking at his face now, he saw how the drought had coursed new crevices in his father’s handsome face as well.

“What would you have me do, Papa?” he asked simply.

His father searched his face, then relaxed with a satisfied, proud grin. “Ah, Miguel. You are a true son to me. Sí! I see so much of me in you.”

Michael stepped back from the bear hug, rebelling against the comparison. He wasn’t like his father. Not at all. “Papa…”

“You see, Marta?” Luis interrupted, tightening his possessive arm around Michael’s shoulders. The force of his will flowed through him. “I told you my son would help me. I have one good son.”

Michael met his mother’s gaze over his father’s head.

“No, Luis,” she replied somberly. “You have two good sons.”

When the feast was prepared, the family gathered around the long, dark wood table while Marta served the family favorites with pride. Ceviche, roast leg of pork in adobe sauce, corn pudding and green rice. For dessert, Marta insisted on no less than four cakes with fresh strawberries and cream.

“Sit down now, Marta,” bellowed Luis. “Enough! You run like a rabbit. It makes me tired just to watch. Sit! It is time to eat.”

Clucking her tongue while scanning the table for any missing salt shakers, butter or salsa, Marta reluctantly took her seat beside Luis.

While Luis led the family in prayer, Michael studied the faces collected at the table. His family reflected Mexico’s rich and diverse history. His father was still a virile, handsome man. Tall, with dark hair boldly streaked with gray and heavy, bushy brows. His mother, Marta, had skin as fair and glowing as the Madonna in the May holy card pictures she adored. Her brown and gray hair, rolled smoothly back into a bun, accentuated the delicate, patrician features that reflected her Spanish descent.

His brother, Bobby, was the most like her. His hair was as blond as hers once was, his skin as light and his frame as delicate. His cocky smile carved deep dimples into a face already over-blessed with good looks. His sister, Rosa, was also fair. But to her lifelong dismay, she was tall and wide in the shoulders, like himself and their father, a large woman able to lift heavy machinery and do a man’s day of work. Luis had often complained bitterly to Marta that she had somehow gotten the genes between Bobby and Rosa mixed up.