would have to be like that, like a
telenovela
, only now the episodes got sadder and sadder. And therewere no commercials in between for comic relief. And no happy ending in sight. She thought this when she sat with the baby out by the creek behind the house. Cleófilas de …? But somehow she would have to change her name to Topazio, or Yesenia, Cristal, Adriana, Stefania, Andrea, something more poetic than Cleófilas. Everything happened to women with names like jewels. But what happened to a Cleófilas? Nothing. But a crack in the face.
Because the doctor has said so. She has to go. To make sure the new baby is all right, so there won’t be any problems when he’s born, and the appointment card says next Tuesday. Could he please take her. And that’s all.
No, she won’t mention it. She promises. If the doctor asks she can say she fell down the front steps or slipped when she was out in the backyard, slipped out back, she could tell him that. She has to go back next Tuesday, Juan Pedro, please, for the new baby. For their child.
She could write to her father and ask maybe for money, just a loan, for the new baby’s medical expenses. Well then if he’d rather she didn’t. All right, she won’t. Please don’t anymore. Please don’t. She knows it’s difficult saving money with all the bills they have, but how else are they going to get out of debt with the truck payments? And after the rent and the food and the electricity and the gas and the water and the who-knows-what, well, there’s hardly anything left. But please, at least for the doctor visit. She won’t ask for anything else. She has to. Why is she so anxious? Because.
Because she is going to make sure the baby is not turned around backward this time to split her down the center. Yes. Next Tuesday at five-thirty. I’ll have Juan Pedrito dressed and ready. But those are the only shoes he has. I’ll polish them, and we’ll be ready. As soon as you come from work. We won’t make you ashamed.
Felice? It’s me, Graciela.
No, I can’t talk louder. I’m at work.
Look, I need kind of a favor. There’s a patient, a lady here who’s got a problem.
Well, wait a minute. Are you listening to me or what?
I can’t talk real loud cause her husband’s in the next room.
Well, would you just listen?
I was going to do this sonogram on her—she’s pregnant, right?—and she just starts crying on me.
Híjole
, Felice! This poor lady’s got black-and-blue marks all over. I’m not kidding.
From her husband. Who else? Another one of those brides from across the border. And her family’s all in Mexico.
Shit. You think they’re going to help her? Give me a break. This lady doesn’t even speak English. She hasn’t been allowed to call home or write or nothing. That’s why I’m calling you.
She needs a ride.
Not to Mexico, you goof. Just to the Greyhound. In San Anto.
No, just a ride. She’s got her own money. All you’d have to do is drop her off in San Antonio on your way home. Come on, Felice. Please? If we don’t help her, who will? I’d drive her myself, but she needs to be on that bus before her husband gets home from work. What do you say?
I don’t know. Wait.
Right away, tomorrow even.
Well, if tomorrow’s no good for you …
It’s a date, Felice. Thursday. At the Cash N Carry off I-10. Noon. She’ll be ready.
Oh, and her name’s Cleófilas.
I don’t know. One of those Mexican saints, I guess. A martyr or something.
Cleófilas. C-L-E-O-F-I-L-A-S. Cle. O. Fi. Las. Write it down.
Thanks, Felice. When her kid’s born she’ll have to name her after us, right?
Yeah, you got it. A regular soap opera sometimes.
Qué vida, comadre. Bueno
bye.
All morning that flutter of half-fear, half-doubt. At any moment Juan Pedro might appear in the doorway. On the street. At the Cash N Carry. Like in the dreams she dreamed.
There was that to think about, yes, until the woman in the pickup drove up. Then there wasn’t time to think
telenovela
, only now the episodes got sadder and sadder. And therewere no commercials in between for comic relief. And no happy ending in sight. She thought this when she sat with the baby out by the creek behind the house. Cleófilas de …? But somehow she would have to change her name to Topazio, or Yesenia, Cristal, Adriana, Stefania, Andrea, something more poetic than Cleófilas. Everything happened to women with names like jewels. But what happened to a Cleófilas? Nothing. But a crack in the face.
Because the doctor has said so. She has to go. To make sure the new baby is all right, so there won’t be any problems when he’s born, and the appointment card says next Tuesday. Could he please take her. And that’s all.
No, she won’t mention it. She promises. If the doctor asks she can say she fell down the front steps or slipped when she was out in the backyard, slipped out back, she could tell him that. She has to go back next Tuesday, Juan Pedro, please, for the new baby. For their child.
She could write to her father and ask maybe for money, just a loan, for the new baby’s medical expenses. Well then if he’d rather she didn’t. All right, she won’t. Please don’t anymore. Please don’t. She knows it’s difficult saving money with all the bills they have, but how else are they going to get out of debt with the truck payments? And after the rent and the food and the electricity and the gas and the water and the who-knows-what, well, there’s hardly anything left. But please, at least for the doctor visit. She won’t ask for anything else. She has to. Why is she so anxious? Because.
Because she is going to make sure the baby is not turned around backward this time to split her down the center. Yes. Next Tuesday at five-thirty. I’ll have Juan Pedrito dressed and ready. But those are the only shoes he has. I’ll polish them, and we’ll be ready. As soon as you come from work. We won’t make you ashamed.
Felice? It’s me, Graciela.
No, I can’t talk louder. I’m at work.
Look, I need kind of a favor. There’s a patient, a lady here who’s got a problem.
Well, wait a minute. Are you listening to me or what?
I can’t talk real loud cause her husband’s in the next room.
Well, would you just listen?
I was going to do this sonogram on her—she’s pregnant, right?—and she just starts crying on me.
Híjole
, Felice! This poor lady’s got black-and-blue marks all over. I’m not kidding.
From her husband. Who else? Another one of those brides from across the border. And her family’s all in Mexico.
Shit. You think they’re going to help her? Give me a break. This lady doesn’t even speak English. She hasn’t been allowed to call home or write or nothing. That’s why I’m calling you.
She needs a ride.
Not to Mexico, you goof. Just to the Greyhound. In San Anto.
No, just a ride. She’s got her own money. All you’d have to do is drop her off in San Antonio on your way home. Come on, Felice. Please? If we don’t help her, who will? I’d drive her myself, but she needs to be on that bus before her husband gets home from work. What do you say?
I don’t know. Wait.
Right away, tomorrow even.
Well, if tomorrow’s no good for you …
It’s a date, Felice. Thursday. At the Cash N Carry off I-10. Noon. She’ll be ready.
Oh, and her name’s Cleófilas.
I don’t know. One of those Mexican saints, I guess. A martyr or something.
Cleófilas. C-L-E-O-F-I-L-A-S. Cle. O. Fi. Las. Write it down.
Thanks, Felice. When her kid’s born she’ll have to name her after us, right?
Yeah, you got it. A regular soap opera sometimes.
Qué vida, comadre. Bueno
bye.
All morning that flutter of half-fear, half-doubt. At any moment Juan Pedro might appear in the doorway. On the street. At the Cash N Carry. Like in the dreams she dreamed.
There was that to think about, yes, until the woman in the pickup drove up. Then there wasn’t time to think
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