The Scared Stiff

35

Arturo’s house in San Cristobal turned out to be more upscale than I would have guessed. It was on a nice residential street in the outskirts of town, all the houses along here being concrete block covered with stucco and painted bright colors, most with cement porches and painted tin roofs. Several, including Arturo’s, had chain-link fences defining the property. There was a driveway gate, but it was open, so Arturo just turned in and stopped on the concrete pad beside the house. A number of toys and tricycles were on the weedy lawn.

Arturo had insisted on coming here first, because he said he needed to speak severely to Ifigenia and also because he had an idea involving a cousin of hers. “More cousins,” I said.

“We got cousins by the dozens,” he agreed, “but some cousins are better than other cousins.”

So here we were, and Arturo got out of the car and went marching into the house. I was still in the backseat, the window open beside me, and the first thing I heard was a very loud female voice. Then I heard a very loud male voice. Then I heard them both, and then I just heard him, and then it became very quiet.

Too quiet, for too long. What was going on in there? I sat for ten minutes, not liking this, wondering if I should go into the house, a little afraid of what I would find there. Arturo was usually an easygoing guy, but he was also big, and if he got mad he could do some real damage. What should I do?

The front door opened, and a woman came out. She carried something in front of her in both hands, like a cake. She was buxom, in a sexy kind of way, with great billowing waves of gleaming black hair all around her face. She wore a lot of makeup and a scarlet peasant blouse and black toreador pants and a white apron. Her stiletto heels clacked on the concrete floor of the porch.

She came down the stoop and turned toward me, and I saw she was crying. Not sobbing, just with tears running down her cheeks and a tragic expression.

It took her awhile to get to the car because her heels kept sinking into the lawn. She’d take a step forward, rock back, take the next step forward, rock back; and all the while weeping. What she carried was actually a white cake of some kind, round, about seven inches wide, with something dark gold poured over the top and running down the sides here and there.

Was this Ifigenia? Was she going to throw a pie in my face? What was going on?

Behind her, Arturo came out the front door, looking solemn. The woman reached the car. She extended her arms, putting the cake through the open window, offering it like a sacrifice, lowering it so I had to take it and hold the cut-glass plate it was on from underneath on both my palms.

The woman looked at me with great dark eyes in a wet tragic face, all her makeup running. “I sorry,” she said, and turned around, and step-rocked, step-rocked, back toward the house. Now that her hands were free, she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

She and Arturo passed each other on the stoop, he coming down. He started to say something to her, but she vigorously waved him off, turning her head away, holding the apron to her face. She hurried on up the stoop and into the house, as Arturo came back to the car. He gave me a weak grin and a headshake as he walked around the front, and then he got behind the wheel.

I said, “Arturo? What was that?”

“Ifigenia,” he said. “I ’splained the situation to her, and she’s sorry.”

“She said she was sorry.”

“Well, she is,” he said, and started the engine, and backed the Impala into the street. “She just gets too whaddaya call it, dramatic. Dramatic.”

I hefted the cake or whatever it was. I said, “But what’s this?”

“That’s to say she’s sorry, man.” We were driving down the street now, turning toward downtown San Cristobal. “She just make that, so she give it to you, say she’s sorry.”

“But what am I supposed to do with it?”

He raised an eyebrow at me in the mirror. “Do with it? You’re supposed to give it to me. That isn’t gringo food.”

“Wait wait wait,” I said. “What is it, Arturo, what is this?”

“Quesillo,” he said. “It’s like a caramel custard, like a flan. It’s a great dessert. Ifigenia makes great desserts. But not for you.”

“She gave it to me, Arturo. She gave it to me.”

“We don’t have to fight over it,” he told me. “You wanna know what it tastes like, I’ll give you a piece.”

“Arturo, she gave it to me. And,” I said, “I am getting tired of holding it on my lap. But if I put it on the seat, it’ll fall over or something.”

He pulled to a stop at the curb and twisted around. “Give it to me, I’ll put it on the floor in front.”

I didn’t trust him. “Arturo,” I said, “just remember who she gave it to.”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later. Gimme.”

So I gave it to him, and he put it on the floor in front on the passenger side, and wedged it into position with a couple of beer bottles against the edge of the plate.

“There. It’s safe now,” he said, and we drove on.

I said, “Arturo, excuse me, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not? You’re my brother now, remember?”

“That house back there,” I said. “Can you really afford that?”

“Who, me? No way, man.”

“Then who pays for it? I’m sorry if I shouldn’t ask that—”

“No, no, man, Ifigenia pays for it. She’s rich, man.”

“Oh, yeah? What, did she inherit money?”

“Naw. Her family’s poorer than us. She’s a writer, man, and an actress.”

“She is?”

“In the — you know — photo novels. You know what I mean?”

“Luz had a million of them,” I said. “I read some. Mostly, I looked at the pictures.”

“Then you probably seen Ifigenia. She writes those things she always puts in a nice little part for herself. She makes a ton of money, man. See, that’s the dramatic thing in her. Anonymous letters, call the police, all this. Her head’s full of that stuff all the time.”

“Well,” I said, “I can see where it might be a little wearing to be around that every day.”

“But every once in a while...” he said, and grinned like a baby.