Savages

53

Lado drives home listening to some radio talk-show host go on and on about a “wise Latina” and he thinks it’s pretty funny.

He knows what a “wise Latina” is: a “wise Latina” is a woman who knows to shut her mouth before she gets the back of the hand, too, that’s what a “wise Latina” is.

His wife is a wise Latina.

Lado and Delores have been married for coming on twenty-five years, so don’t tell him it don’t work. She keeps a nice home, she’s raised three beautiful, respectful kids, and she does her duty in the bedroom when requested and otherwise doesn’t make demands.

They have a nice home at the end of a cul-de-sac in Mission Viejo. A typical suburban California home in a typical suburb, and when they moved up from Mexico eight years ago Delores was delighted.

Good schools for the kids, parks, playgrounds, excellent Little League program in which their two sons are stars—Francisco is a pitcher, Junior is an outfielder with a strong bat—and their oldest, Angela, made cheerleader at the high school this year.

It’s a good life.

Lado pulls in to the driveway and turns off the radio.

Health care, who gives a shit about health care? You put money aside and you take care of yourself if you get sick. He had to set up a group insurance plan for his employees at the landscaping business and it pissed him off.

Delores is in the kitchen fixing dinner—

—wise Latina—

—when he comes in and sits down.

“Where are the kids?”

“Angela is at cheer practice,” Delores says, “the boys are at baseball.”

She’s still a guapa, Delores, even after three kids. Should be, he thinks, with the time she puts in at the gym. I should have invested in 24-Hour Fitness, got some of it back. Either that or she’s at the spa getting something worked on—her hair, her skin, her nails, something.

Sitting there yapping with her friends.

Bitching about their husbands.

He don’t spend enough time at home, he don’t spend enough time with the kids, he never takes me out anymore, he don’t help around the house …

Yeah, maybe he’s busy. Making money to pay for the house he don’t spend enough time in, paying for the cheerleader outfits, the baseball equipment, the English tutors, the cars, the pool cleaners, the gym, the spa …

She wipes the counter down in front of him.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Get me a beer.”

She reaches into the refrigerator

—new, three thousand dollars

grabs a bottle of Corona and sets it down—a little hard—on the counter.

“What, you unhappy again?” Lado asks.

“No.”

She sees a “therapist” once a week. More money that she resents him busting his ass for.

Says she’s depressed.

Lado gets up, steps behind her, and wraps his arms around her waist. “Maybe I should make you pregnant again.”

“Sí, that’s what I need.”

She slips from his grasp, walks over to the oven, and takes out a casserole of enchiladas.

“Smells good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Kids home for dinner?”

“The boys. Angela’s out with her friends.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Good. You tell her.”

“We should sit down the whole family,” Lado says.

Delores feels like she’s going to explode.

Sit down as a family—when you show up, when you drop in from God knows what you’re doing, when you’re not out with your muchachos, or doing your putanas, we should sit down the whole family. But she says, “She’s going to Cheesecake Factory with Heather, Brittany, and Teresa. Dios mio, Miguel, she’s fifteen.”

“Back in Mexico—”

“We’re not in Mexico,” she says. “We’re in California. Your daughter is an American. That was the idea, wasn’t it?”

“We should go back more often.”

“We can go next weekend, if you want,” she says. “See your mother …”

“Maybe.”

She looks at a calendar fastened to the refrigerator by a magnet. “No, Francisco has a tournament.”

“Saturday or Sunday?”

“Both, if they win.”

This is her life—professional chauffeur. Baseball games, soccer matches, gymnastics, cheerleading, playdates, the mall, Sylvan Learning Center, dry cleaner’s, supermarket, he doesn’t even know.

Delores can’t wait for Angela to get her license, drive herself anyway, maybe help with the boys. She’s gained five pounds, all of it around the hips, just driving around sitting on her ass.

She knows she’s still a good-looking woman. She hasn’t let herself go like a lot of the Mexican wives her age do. All the time at the gym—Jazzercise, treadmill, weights, torture sessions with Troy—staying away from the sodas, the bread. The hours at the spa and the salon, getting her hair colored, her nails done, her skin so it’s nice, and does he even notice?

Maybe they go out once a month as a family—to TGIF’s or Marie Callender’s, California Pizza Kitchen if he’s feeling generous, but just the two of them? To someplace nice? An adult restaurant for a little wine, a nice menu? She can’t remember the last time.

Or the last time he fucked her.

As if he wanted to, anyway.

What’s it been? A month? More? The last time he came in at two in the morning a little drunk and wanted some? Probably because he couldn’t find a whore that night, so I would have to do as a segundera?

The boys come rolling in and they’re all over him. The pitches they made, the hits they got, don’t even bother to take their cleats off until she yells at them to do it. Mud all over the kitchen floor and tomorrow Lupe will bitch about the extra work, the lazy Guatemalan puta. Delores loves her boys more than life, but dios mio …

It hits her like a smack in the face

That she wants a divorce.