Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Mama Molina!

“Hey, Ma!”

Mariah came tearing into the bedroom, throwing her backpack on the bed’s foot.

“Slow down, chica!” Carmen pushed her pistol and remote close to the pillows.

Mariah had moved from tween to teen keeping Hispanic slang, but not other words. Hence her mother was no longer “Mama” but “Mom” or “Ma.”

“I forgot! Next week is What Your Daddy Does. I was wondering if you could—”

“No problemo. Uncle Morrie will be happy to show up and help.”

“‘Problemo!’” Mariah whined. Whine was the new “beg.” “You’ve already been there and done that. That is so boring! To have cops for both days. Can’t I, can’t you—”

“You don’t like Uncle Morrie? Honey, he has kept us going when I’ve been off work. You don’t realize what he’s done for us, for me.”

“He’s good. I like him fine. Only I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if . . . if we did the same thing as for the father-daughter dance next fall? You know.”

She was trying to make Mom come up with daughter dear-est’s obvious and only conclusion. What She Really, Really, Really Wanted.

Only Carmen’s head had ached all day, in pulsing tempo with her stitches. Next fall was a long, long time away. This was only May and school would be ending soon. Luckily, Carmen would be on her feet by then. In a few days. Good as new. Hah!

“Honey . . .”

“I want him! Matt. It would be so cool. I mean, he’s famous. He’s on the radio.”

Mariah was not alone, Carmen reflected. Thank God he was finally taken. Temple Barr had won the brass ring that lonely, late-night, radio-listening women all over Vegas lusted for, including her alarmingly hormonal daughter.

She thought as fast as she could.

“I don’t know, honey. He said okay for the fall dance, but this is coming up so fast. He’s a busy man.”

“He works nights, and this is a daytime gig. I mean, middle school. Come on, Mom!”

Mariah’s cheeks glowed rosy with emotion, warming her dark eyes. She had the as-yet-unmade-up beauty of the young.

“I’ll think about it.”

Mariah made a face, but left to make supper for them. Something microwaved that would be tippy on Carmen’s lap tray and leave oily, red-dye-tinged sauce on the paper napkin and on the bedspread, if she wasn’t careful.

Carmen sighed. It still hurt.

Damn. Matt was Temple’s official guy now. She couldn’t keep drafting him for absentee father duty. Even the fall dance was a terrible imposition. He was an ex-priest, for God’s sake. Children were the last thing he had signed up for.

She wondered if Temple wanted any. If they would have any.

None of her business. Mariah was her business. Mariah and her phantom dead dad. The cop killed trying to assist a stranded motorist.

The fake. The figment of her mother’s imagination.

Now Carmen was lying about the present, about her unauthorized breaking and entering at Kinsella’s house, and worrying about Dirty Larry using his knowledge of that against her.

Oh, what tangled webs we weave, and all that.

What Your Daddy Does Day.

Somehow Carmen didn’t think Our Lady of Guadalupe grade school was looking for a Who’s Your Daddy Day.

War was hell, but family relations could be hellacious.