Jubana! by Gigi Anders Page A

tiny Cuban Jewish community. When he arrived at her grand house, Papi told Mami that they’d have to take la guagua, the bus, because his car was broken. Mami said okay. But then Papi said, “No, I have the car. I was just testing you to see if you’d accept riding la guagua.”
    She dumped him on the spot.
    Papi was devastated. He lost a lot of weight. But he eventually got back at Mami by dating her girlfriend: Nedda. When Mami saw them out together she had a sudden change of heart. Papi made her beg for a looong time before he would deign to take her back. Mami called Zeide Leon and asked him to help her. Zeide Leon encouraged Papi to go see Mami. Mami convinced Papi she’d suffered from temporary insanity. Papi said, “Okay. Let’s give it a try.” That would be the last time Mami would ever beg Papi for anything.
    Nedda’s suave Mexican husband, Enrique, was Old World glamorous, like Oscar de la Renta but not bald. Their house smelled of her signature scent, Calandre, and had so much original artwork that paintings were even hung on curtains. We ate roasted cabrito (goat) and steamed cactus. Mami admired Nedda’s collection of black clay pottery, which Nedda explained was a specialty made in Oaxaca. Naturally, Mami had to have some—partly for herself, a compulsive tchotchkes hoarder, and partly to resell for profit at St. Elizabeths to staff and patients alike, whoever could pay—and insisted we fly down there, which would take less than an hour. Papi, of course, didn’t want to go; he’s never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. It was a miracle he came with us to Mexico in the first place. He hates having “new experiences” and meeting “new people.”
    But comme d’habitude, as always, Mami got her way. The following overcast afternoon the three of us were en route to Oaxaca. Everything was fine for about ten minutes. Then the sky went dark and rainy, and we hit some serious turbulence.
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    MAMI (hysterical): ¡Ay, Dios mio! ¡Ay, Dios mio!
    PAPI (semiconcerned): ¿Qué pasa?
    MAMI (annoyed): What do joo mean, ¿qué pasa?
    PAPI (getting nervous about bleeding to death in flight from mymother’s sixteen-inch painted talons digging into his exposed arm skin): Coño, cálmate. Esto no es nada. [Dammit, calm down. This is nothing.]
    MAMI: Nos vamos a MORIR. [We’re going to DIE.]
    PAPI (chuckling): No nos vamos a morir, gorda. Es un poco de viento. [We’re not going to die, fat girl. It’s just a little bit of wind.] (Gorda is a Cuban term of endearment that is sweet and has nothing to do with actual girth. Just like calling a female “China,” pronounced CHEE-nah, has nothing to do with China.)
    MAMI (crying and burrowing inside her grocery bag–size Louis Vuitton purse for tissues and the St. Joseph medallion): Joo are an ASShole!
    PAPI (indulging her, as usual): Why am I an asshole?
    MAMI (beyond steamed): De fact dat joo even have to ask ees what makes joo one. Look at my face! My makeup ees gehtteengh all a mess because joo. Are. Here. Weeth. Dee. Turbulence! Dees ees from hell! We are all goheengh to DIE an’ den joo have to ask why are joo an ASShole.
    GIGI (noticing a fresh scuff mark on her brand-new Corkies, pigskin crisscross sandals with a cork wedge heel, purchased from the FBS catalogue; the French Boot Shop was a fabulous store in New Rochelle, N.Y., that always had all the latest styles): Mom, not to put too fine a point on it, but, uh, this was YOUR idea. Want a Tic Tac?
    MAMI: No! I want to get the hell off de damn PLANE!
    GIGI: God is protecting us! I wish he’d protect me from scuff marks. Dammit. These are brand-new sandals!
    MAMI: I can’t see anytheengh. What I can see ees dat we are here alone on a bumpy plane fool of fohkeengh Mexicans. Dees people do beesness weeth Feedehl Castro! Okay? An’ das why I don’ know how God feels about dees other people