A Handbook to Luck by Cristina Garcia Page B

cousin was in beauty school and had ruined her own mother’s hair and the hair of several aunts (they’d taken to wearing kerchiefs and cheap wigs until their hair grew back) before persuading Marta to give it a try. Luckily, the permanent took hold. Erlinda showed Marta how to care for it with castor oil and a hair lotion called Bay Rum, and warned her to stay away from ordinary soap and shampoo.
    â€œMy hair is normally straight,” Marta said, twirling a dark curl around her finger.
    â€œSo’s mine,” Alfonso chimed in, though it couldn’t have been curlier, and Marta giggled. “I have a transistor radio. Do you want to listen to it?”
    â€œThere’s music here.”
    â€œI know, but the band’s awful. They play so fast everyone’s hopping around like rabbits. Besides, there’s this show every Sunday night that plays the Rolling—”
    â€œWhat time is it?” Marta interrupted him. She’d noticed the watch on Alfonso’s wrist, its face shimmering with mother-of-pearl.
    â€œAlmost seven.”
    â€œ
La novela
is about to start!”
    â€œHaven’t those two gotten married yet?” Alfonso rolled his eyes.
    â€œNo, that’s what’s so exciting. You don’t know if they’ll ever be together.”
    â€œIf I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t wait for her forever. I wouldn’t care if she came from one of the fourteen families. You’re either in love or you aren’t. There’s no in-between. You can’t go through life being afraid all the time.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t you need her parents’ permission?”
    â€œWe could run away to Los Angeles.”
    Marta’s eyes widened. Mamá’s oldest brother, Víctor, had left for Los Angeles ten years ago and never returned. Everyone said that Víctor worked all night cleaning office buildings and slept during the day, like an owl. They said he’d married a selfish Mexican woman, born there, who refused to have his children and made him wear rubber sleeves on his penis when they made love. At Christmas, Víctor sent the family money but they didn’t hear from him the rest of the year.
    Nobody talked much about Víctor anymore. It was as if he were dead, or worse than dead because at least you could visit the dead in the cemetery. How soon would her family forget her if she left?
    â€œAre you thinking of leaving?” Marta asked.
    â€œYes, but don’t say a word to anyone. I’m only telling you this because I like you.”
    Marta warmed with pleasure at his words, but she didn’t show it. “Now, don’t get any ideas about me. We’ve just met.”
    â€œIt’s not like that.” Alfonso jammed a fist in his pocket.
    â€œMamá says it’s always like that, no matter what the boy tells you.”
    â€œDid she follow her own advice?”
    Marta didn’t like the expression on his face, as if he knew everything and she knew nothing. Was he insulting Mamá? Maybe she should just get a piece of birthday cake for her brother and stay clear of this boy altogether.
    A commotion broke out by the avocado tree. Her stepfather was lying flat on the ground with a crowd around him. A fat lady in a linen dress ripped a leaf off a banana tree and began fanning him furiously. Someone passed Mamá a handkerchief. She wiped his forehead, but he didn’t move. His twin brother hovered close by like a ghost.
    â€œThrow some cold water on him!”
    â€œHit him on the chest!”
    â€œGo find the doctor!”
    Marta pushed her way through to look at her stepfather. His eyes were frozen open, like the fish she’d caught in Chalatenango two summers ago. Tía Matilde had fried up the fish, white and tasty, and served it with tortillas and pickled cabbage. Marta stared at her stepfather and felt nothing.
    â€œSe murió.”
She heard a voice whisper from the edge of the