Post by jeannerené on Feb 28, 2009 18:59:27 GMT -8
REVISION 2.2009 ... REVISION ORIGINALLY POSTED AT STORIESMANIA
Mi Corazón by jeanne rené watson
The mid afternoon heat was stifling, but an electric fan stood silent in the corner. Directly in front of the motionless fan, just a few feet away, Daria sat on the edge of the bed, absorbed in her own thoughts and drenched in sweat. A thin white t-shirt, the cotton soaked with perspiration, lay almost transparent against her stomach, clung to the shape of her small breasts and narrow back. Loose hair, dark and wavy, pressed against a shiny neck. The young woman sat in solitude on the bed, chin dropped to her chest.
The bed was unmade except for an obviously old and worn country quilt and bare pillows strewn across a mattress. A few colored photos were taped haphazardly at the top of an oak headboard. To the right of the bed sat a small two-drawer nightstand and on top of it an overly ornate lamp which remained on day and night. Next to the lamp was a spindly cactus with Mr. Potato Head eyes, nose and ears and a mini cowboy hat atop its protruding spikes. Daria eventually lifted her head and seemed to survey the entire room, sparsely furnished, but neat and tidy.
The only two items of apparent luxury in the bedroom were the showy 60” Sony TV, and to the left of the TV, on top of a small bookcase covered with several decorative and religious candles, a delicate Lladro figurine of an enchanting ballerina. At the foot of the bed, stacked neatly to one side, were several text books, mostly on agriculture. Her eyes fixed on the TV and she reached searching for something that lay behind her back.
Although the bedroom’s only window was open, there was no breeze. The air outside would be suffocating, and on a day like today, you’d only find stir-crazy kids willing to go outside. It was the weekend after all, and kids would bargain with the hellish heat. The rest of the neighborhood you’d likely find hunkered up to the TV, fan in their face and plenty of beer in the fridge. Midway between Fresno and Bakersfield, California, the small but prospering town of Lindsay was no stranger to dry, dusty 100° + days throughout the summer.
But the Indian summers of late September or October in the Central Valley could be merciless, and today, on October 7th at 103° in the shade, it felt as if the devil himself could strut down Main Street and buy up the whole town as prime real estate.
But this heat mattered little to Daria.
Beads of sweat riding above her lip, she sat bolted to the bed, toes digging into the carpet, hands turning a DVD disc over and over in her lap. From time to time, she’d gently traced the handwritten label on the plastic case with her long fingers or press the case up to her cheek. Perhaps 40 minutes passed between staring at the giant TV screen in front of her, and fiddling with the DVD, but Daria was unaware or unconcerned with the passing time. Her only other movement was to sweep back long dark bangs and wipe the dampness off her forehead with her t-shirt. The expressionless girl sat and she wondered, when had they bought the TV? Had it been two or was it three years ago? Had it been before or after the Easter holiday? It annoyed her that she couldn’t quite remember. It had been way too expensive for their budget, and she had complained, but secretly was thrilled once it was all set up.
It was now 3 p.m. and shouts came from just outside the bedroom window. The Ramos boys, John and Buddy were arguing again. They had argued early this morning, again at mid morning and again at noon just outside Daria’s window. Their fights, no matter how short-lived, were always seriously loud, but never anything serious. Daria stopped turning over the disc and listened to the boys’ familiar curses. The brothers’ rough-housing had broken her spell, and suddenly realizing how hot it was, she set the DVD down on the bed and walked over to the fan and turned it on high. Moving over toward the window, Daria went to investigate the prepubescent nonsense, but the argument once steadily brewing outside came to a sudden halt.
“Hey, Buddy you wanna go down to the canal?”
“Naa, not now. Maybe later. You wanna go see if anyone is hanging out at ….”
Their voices trailed off, along with the sound of their shuffling feet through the pea gravel. Daria gave a hint of a smile. 'Boys!' she thought.
She remained at the window; after a while, she finally drew the faded blue curtains from either side across the glass. The curtains began to dance against the flutter of the rotating fan. They brushed against her arms and she stood still with her face almost within the curtains, the tip of her nose being slapped by the cloth. Daria breathed in slowly, and even more slowly, exhaled, her chest rising and falling along with the dance of the drapery. Along side Daria, a desperate yellow jacket flirted with the tumble of curtains trying to find his way outside. Finally, she held a curtain aside, and the yellow jacket darted toward freedom. Daria was the type to lift up a wayward spider on a piece of paper and take it to the door, sending it off with “Good luck.” She had never been afraid of bees or yellow jackets, bugs or snakes, or anything creepy or crawly, thinking it was just plain silly to be afraid of something so small. As she dropped the curtain, Buddy and John suddenly came running back quickly across the gravel. She listened to them calling to each other. Had they decided to go down to the canal, after all?
Sixty inches is a big screen. Daria stared at it again from across the room, wondering why had they bought such a big TV. It looked way too big in this little room. They could have lived very easily with 24” or maybe a 30” screen. It had definitely been a mistake; she was absolutely sure of that now.
The DVD was labeled in big blue letters. It hadn’t been hidden very well. Daria could read the label from where she stood across the room. Her eyes moved from shiny disc, encased in plastic, to the TV … from blank screen to disc and back to the television again. She didn’t want to move. Maybe she could climb out the window, run down to the canal, sit and watch the trickle of water running over debris. No, she couldn’t do that; she just didn’t want to move … but she did. Reaching the bed, Daria picked up the disc. Funny how it happened, but as she grabbed the disc, for some reason she remembered the time she had gathered up the ‘shiny silver round thingies’ laying around her brother’s room and made a mobile. He had been very angry with her and made her swear on the Bible never to go into his room again unless he was there. This memory passed quickly , but for an instant she was elsewhere, away from the heat, somewhere other than where she was today. The memory gone, as if it never was, Daria stood head down, limp. Then with sudden decision, she moved to the TV and placed the disc into the tray without hesitation. Turning the power on with an gentle push of the button, Daria Morales stood breathless as the homemade movie began.
A big toothy smile suddenly filled almost the entire 60 inches of the screen. Out of the grin oozed a low sinister laugh obviously in jest, and girlish giggles erupted sporadically from someone in the background. Daria hadn’t been prepared for the close-up and she let out a gasp. The owner of the grin backed up a bit as if inspecting the angle or perspective of the camera. and for a while all the camera caught was the midsection of a Samuel Adams t-shirt. Done fiddling with the camera, an obviously buff body and handsome, dark face looked out from the TV screen. At the sight of the young man’s impishly smiling face, Carlos’s face, Daria wobbled. Drawing away from the screen in apparent shock, her legs began shaking uncontrollably and she collapsed backwards unto the bed. She pushed herself up against the head board, grabbing the pillows for protection and holding them tight against her body.
Satisfied with the camera arrangements, Carlos turned his back to the camera and pounced on the bed, wrestling about with a dark-haired beauty and amusedly accepting a girlish beating on the chest. He grabbed the slender brown forearms and pulled his lover closer. She tired to get away, pretending to be more perturbed than necessary. Carlos relinquished his grip and she, in a halfway serious voice squealed, “What if someone finds it? What if it gets mixed up with the other CDs? Oh my God! Oh my God! No, no lo puedo! "
"Oh yes. Sí, te puedes. Come onnnnn …. give me a big old sloppy kissssss." Carlos tried wrestling again.
“Shut up!” she protested pulling away. “What if it gets mixed up with the others and …” she giggled in horror this time.
“Well, what if it does?” He raised an eyebrow and gave her a provocative wink.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Baby, don’t worry. Nobody is going to find it. I’ll hide it. Come here, Baby.”
He pulled her to him, lifting her hair and finding her neck. “Baby, don’t worry,” barely audible this time.
“You better hide it real good, Carlos. I mean real good, Carlos.”
“I will, Baby. I will.” he kissed her forehead. “ I will,” he kissed her eyes.
“You will?’ finding his mouth.
“I promise.”
Daria watched transfixed. Through her tears, she followed every movement of the woman. She watched as wondering fingertips found the bottom of Carlos’ t-shit and slowly, provocatively pulled it up and over Carlos’ head. She watched the t-shirt be tossed onto the nightstand, and how the small hands drifted up and down Carlos’ back, watched them wrap around his neck and slide over his chest to the zipper of his jeans. She watched as the fingers played along the zipper, pressing down on his groin, squeezing harder on the inside of his thighs. She watched as pretty pink fingernails traveled back up and circled the large birthmark on the stomach, and followed the lines of well defined muscles on a taut, hairless chest. Tears streamed from Daria’s eyes, and she beat her head shamelessly into pillow as Carlos slipped a yellow blouse off rounded shoulders and buried himself in the nape of a slender neck.
As if on cue, Daria looked up again from the pillow, as Carlos broke away and spoke softly, caressing a flushed cheek, “Do me one favor, Baby.”
“¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres, mi corazón?” She murmured trying to draw him in again, back to the rhythm of their bodies.
“Smile for the camera!” Carlos whipped her around to face the camera head on, laughing hysterically.
She pushed away, but in an instant had lunged back, pounding on his chest once more, “Oh you brat! You idiot! I ought to make you wait just for that. Go away!“ pushing Carlos full force off the bed.
Carlos laughed all the harder, “I’m sorry, Daria. I just …..“
But Carlos didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. Daria pulled him back up, desperate to be touching him again, “You’re getting weird, you know. Really, really weird!”
Laughter… and then only laughter filled the screen. The two lovers tumbled over one another in childish hysteria, and the memory pounded against the walls of the bedroom. Daria sat spellbound, eyes locked on the television, hands trembling, chin quivering , and relived every moment as the couple continued to wrestle in play, grinning stupidly, and making faces at the camera. Hating … loving this damned screen, Daria reached toward the figures as play tumbled into making love . . . love meant for no one else in the world to remember but the two of them . . . and the camera they finally forgot. Daria remembered how Carlos' body said everything a man’s body ought to say, felt how every man’s body ought to feel. She knew how every muscle in his body made love. The camera didn’t see it, but Daria knew when Carlos would close his eyes and when he would open them again. She sobbed, muffling her cries in a pillow. She wanted to be part of the screen, to be etched into the silver disc, captured forever in the moment of their love making. Her sorrow changed to anger and she gagged chocking down her desire to scream. She’d cry…. She knew she would cry forever, because she could hear his every whisper that the camera couldn't hear. Cried, because she would answer her husband's whisper with her own and it would lost in this horrid stuffy little room.
Carlos placed his ear to a rounded stomach, listening. He smiled and kissed it gently… reverently. Rolling off the side of the bed, he walked over to the camera and turned it off.
The screen jittered and the bedroom bristled with the sound of TV snow. The whirr of the fan accompanied the TV sizzle. The curtains still fluttered and Daria looked away from the screen. The pillows were too damp and too warm. Another yellow jacket had found its way in through the window and was now trying to find its way out. It was too hot . . . too hot for a measly fan. Daria’s eyes caught the slender figure of the ballerina. “The ballerina is beautiful,” she thought. Leaning over, she opened the top drawer of the night stand and took out a box of Kleenex.
There was a soft cry from the other side of the bedroom door, a whimper at first.
Someone rapped at Daria’s door. It was not gentle, not hard, but a simple determined rap at the door.
“Daria, abra la puerta. Daria?”
“It’s open, Tía.”
Neta entered, carrying an undiapered baby girl.
“It’s just too hot, even for a diaper.“ Neta sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey, she’s hungry. Try to breast feed a little bit, before the formula.”
“I can’t. I don’t have any more milk.”
“Daria, try,” Neta’s voice was firm as she held the whimpering baby out to the young mother.
“No. I’ll fix the formula.”
Neta scooted herself up against the headboard next to Daria. She handed Daria her daughter, took the wet pillows out from under her arms and pushed the damp hair away from her face. The older woman adjusted the baby’s position in Daria’s arms.
Neta considered the TV’s snow. “What were you watching?” As she spoke, the aunt lifted the mother’s t-shirt and guided the baby toward the breast, touching the baby’s lips to Daria’s nipple. The child stopped whimpering and began to suckle hard.
Daria looked down at her baby daughter, Solana. She caressed the infant’s hand, playing with the tiny fingers and hoping to feel something other than weariness.
With her eyes locked on Solana, Daria spoke, “Tía, Carlos was the one who really wanted a big-screen TV.”
“You have to stop this, Daria,” Neta spoke softly.
“Did you know that on his last leave, he drove to Visalia and bought a real fancy digital recorder at Best Buy? He wanted me to record every second of when the baby was born and record her everyday he was away. He brought home that stupid Potato Head Cactus the same day, because some poor guy was selling them in the parking lot to make an honest buck, so he went ahead and gave the guy twenty dollars. Can you imagine anyone else paying twenty dollars for a potato man catus? Tía, he made me laugh so much. . . . That same night he recorded us making love.”
Daria handed Neta the plastic case with a label that read, “So you won’t forget me.” Neta read the label, looked over at the TV and understood immediately, wrapping her hand around Daria’s and the baby’s. When Carlos first introduced Daria to his familia muy grande, he had told her that she was going to love his Aunt Neta. She was everyone’s favorite Tía. He had been right. From Neta’s first over-powering embrace, unexpected kiss on the cheek and the heaping plate full of BBQ chicken and Mac and Cheese “especial” that she instantly shoved into Daria’s hands, Daria had loved her. Aunt Netty even reminded her of her own mother, small, round and sassy. Daria’s mother had been of Portuguese background and Daria soon came to realize these Latin sisters shared several common traits. They were often the backbone of the family, warm and generous who found it their utmost responsibility to make sure everyone who visited sat down to the table to eat … and eat some more. Daria quickly merged, melted into the Mexican American family, thankful for their open arms.
“It was three years ago.” Daria looked up with a smile.
“¿Qué?”
“It was three years ago. I remember now.”
“Remember what, mija?
Just before Easter … 2005... It was two months after our second anniversary. It was the year Danny graduated from high school and broke his arm that same night. It was ten years … 2005 … since mom and dad were killed. It was the year before Carlos enlisted … that we bought the TV.
“Daria?” Neta tried taking Solana from Daria’s breast.
Pushing Netty’s hands aside, “It’s OK, Aunt Netty, I was just trying to remember.“
The breeze from the fan hit Neta’s face and she closed her eyes to absorb the fleeting cool air.
“He was my heart, Tía. He was mi corazón. Mi corazón. They took my heart. I have no heart anymore. “
Daria shook with her sobs all over again. Neta quickly managed to take the baby from her trembling arms before Daria collapsed on the bed. The unsatisfied child screamed.
“No, Daria,” Neta rocked rapidly back and forth with the distraught baby. “Solana is your heart.
Daria looked away, ashamed of her own weakness.
“You would have changed nothing with Carlos’ going. He felt … he believed he had a duty. I do not claim to understand or even to have agreed with his reasons, mija, but you must honor him. You must honor him always with your strength. Solana is your heart now. She is his love. He left his love with you. Why you cannot feel it … I don’t know why. If you cannot love her, as you loved Carlos then you have truly lost everything.”
Perplexed, annoyed Neta turned her back on Daria, bouncing the fussing baby in her arms.
She said no more, but let the young woman sit in her own despair, let her collapse again in grief on the mattress. Neta waited in silence and rocked the baby with a gentle sway from hip to hip, waiting… knowing that eventually Daria would have to sit up.
And when she did Neta held the child out again to Daria.
“Take your new heart, mija. Take her.”
Daria reached for her baby daughter and Neta gently placed the infant in the mother’s arms.
Her body shining from sweat and tears, Daria offered Solana her nipple. The baby suckled hard, placing both tiny hands around her mother’s breast.
The women sat on the edge of the bed , calm, but weary. Neta, sitting near the nightstand, opened the top draw, replaced the Kleenex box and took something else out, a small framed picture. It was a picture of a very serious Carlos in desert cammies, standing with two small children, a girl and a boy. The faces of the children were grey from all the dust and they looked no more than six or seven years old. Neta placed the picture upright on the stand, next to the potato head catus.
Outside someone ran through the pea gravel again, stopping next to the bedroom window. It was the Ramos children again.
“Johnny, Buddy … Poppí said I could go with you ,” their little sister yelled after them.
“No you can’t,” one of the boys yelled back. “Go home!”
“Poppí said I could. Wait!"
“No! Go home!” and off the boys ran.
The little girl started to cry.
Neta and Daria sat in silence, side by side, struggling to hear the sound of Solana’s cooing over the sizzle of TV snow.
Mi Corazón by jeanne rené watson
The mid afternoon heat was stifling, but an electric fan stood silent in the corner. Directly in front of the motionless fan, just a few feet away, Daria sat on the edge of the bed, absorbed in her own thoughts and drenched in sweat. A thin white t-shirt, the cotton soaked with perspiration, lay almost transparent against her stomach, clung to the shape of her small breasts and narrow back. Loose hair, dark and wavy, pressed against a shiny neck. The young woman sat in solitude on the bed, chin dropped to her chest.
The bed was unmade except for an obviously old and worn country quilt and bare pillows strewn across a mattress. A few colored photos were taped haphazardly at the top of an oak headboard. To the right of the bed sat a small two-drawer nightstand and on top of it an overly ornate lamp which remained on day and night. Next to the lamp was a spindly cactus with Mr. Potato Head eyes, nose and ears and a mini cowboy hat atop its protruding spikes. Daria eventually lifted her head and seemed to survey the entire room, sparsely furnished, but neat and tidy.
The only two items of apparent luxury in the bedroom were the showy 60” Sony TV, and to the left of the TV, on top of a small bookcase covered with several decorative and religious candles, a delicate Lladro figurine of an enchanting ballerina. At the foot of the bed, stacked neatly to one side, were several text books, mostly on agriculture. Her eyes fixed on the TV and she reached searching for something that lay behind her back.
Although the bedroom’s only window was open, there was no breeze. The air outside would be suffocating, and on a day like today, you’d only find stir-crazy kids willing to go outside. It was the weekend after all, and kids would bargain with the hellish heat. The rest of the neighborhood you’d likely find hunkered up to the TV, fan in their face and plenty of beer in the fridge. Midway between Fresno and Bakersfield, California, the small but prospering town of Lindsay was no stranger to dry, dusty 100° + days throughout the summer.
But the Indian summers of late September or October in the Central Valley could be merciless, and today, on October 7th at 103° in the shade, it felt as if the devil himself could strut down Main Street and buy up the whole town as prime real estate.
But this heat mattered little to Daria.
Beads of sweat riding above her lip, she sat bolted to the bed, toes digging into the carpet, hands turning a DVD disc over and over in her lap. From time to time, she’d gently traced the handwritten label on the plastic case with her long fingers or press the case up to her cheek. Perhaps 40 minutes passed between staring at the giant TV screen in front of her, and fiddling with the DVD, but Daria was unaware or unconcerned with the passing time. Her only other movement was to sweep back long dark bangs and wipe the dampness off her forehead with her t-shirt. The expressionless girl sat and she wondered, when had they bought the TV? Had it been two or was it three years ago? Had it been before or after the Easter holiday? It annoyed her that she couldn’t quite remember. It had been way too expensive for their budget, and she had complained, but secretly was thrilled once it was all set up.
It was now 3 p.m. and shouts came from just outside the bedroom window. The Ramos boys, John and Buddy were arguing again. They had argued early this morning, again at mid morning and again at noon just outside Daria’s window. Their fights, no matter how short-lived, were always seriously loud, but never anything serious. Daria stopped turning over the disc and listened to the boys’ familiar curses. The brothers’ rough-housing had broken her spell, and suddenly realizing how hot it was, she set the DVD down on the bed and walked over to the fan and turned it on high. Moving over toward the window, Daria went to investigate the prepubescent nonsense, but the argument once steadily brewing outside came to a sudden halt.
“Hey, Buddy you wanna go down to the canal?”
“Naa, not now. Maybe later. You wanna go see if anyone is hanging out at ….”
Their voices trailed off, along with the sound of their shuffling feet through the pea gravel. Daria gave a hint of a smile. 'Boys!' she thought.
She remained at the window; after a while, she finally drew the faded blue curtains from either side across the glass. The curtains began to dance against the flutter of the rotating fan. They brushed against her arms and she stood still with her face almost within the curtains, the tip of her nose being slapped by the cloth. Daria breathed in slowly, and even more slowly, exhaled, her chest rising and falling along with the dance of the drapery. Along side Daria, a desperate yellow jacket flirted with the tumble of curtains trying to find his way outside. Finally, she held a curtain aside, and the yellow jacket darted toward freedom. Daria was the type to lift up a wayward spider on a piece of paper and take it to the door, sending it off with “Good luck.” She had never been afraid of bees or yellow jackets, bugs or snakes, or anything creepy or crawly, thinking it was just plain silly to be afraid of something so small. As she dropped the curtain, Buddy and John suddenly came running back quickly across the gravel. She listened to them calling to each other. Had they decided to go down to the canal, after all?
Sixty inches is a big screen. Daria stared at it again from across the room, wondering why had they bought such a big TV. It looked way too big in this little room. They could have lived very easily with 24” or maybe a 30” screen. It had definitely been a mistake; she was absolutely sure of that now.
The DVD was labeled in big blue letters. It hadn’t been hidden very well. Daria could read the label from where she stood across the room. Her eyes moved from shiny disc, encased in plastic, to the TV … from blank screen to disc and back to the television again. She didn’t want to move. Maybe she could climb out the window, run down to the canal, sit and watch the trickle of water running over debris. No, she couldn’t do that; she just didn’t want to move … but she did. Reaching the bed, Daria picked up the disc. Funny how it happened, but as she grabbed the disc, for some reason she remembered the time she had gathered up the ‘shiny silver round thingies’ laying around her brother’s room and made a mobile. He had been very angry with her and made her swear on the Bible never to go into his room again unless he was there. This memory passed quickly , but for an instant she was elsewhere, away from the heat, somewhere other than where she was today. The memory gone, as if it never was, Daria stood head down, limp. Then with sudden decision, she moved to the TV and placed the disc into the tray without hesitation. Turning the power on with an gentle push of the button, Daria Morales stood breathless as the homemade movie began.
A big toothy smile suddenly filled almost the entire 60 inches of the screen. Out of the grin oozed a low sinister laugh obviously in jest, and girlish giggles erupted sporadically from someone in the background. Daria hadn’t been prepared for the close-up and she let out a gasp. The owner of the grin backed up a bit as if inspecting the angle or perspective of the camera. and for a while all the camera caught was the midsection of a Samuel Adams t-shirt. Done fiddling with the camera, an obviously buff body and handsome, dark face looked out from the TV screen. At the sight of the young man’s impishly smiling face, Carlos’s face, Daria wobbled. Drawing away from the screen in apparent shock, her legs began shaking uncontrollably and she collapsed backwards unto the bed. She pushed herself up against the head board, grabbing the pillows for protection and holding them tight against her body.
Satisfied with the camera arrangements, Carlos turned his back to the camera and pounced on the bed, wrestling about with a dark-haired beauty and amusedly accepting a girlish beating on the chest. He grabbed the slender brown forearms and pulled his lover closer. She tired to get away, pretending to be more perturbed than necessary. Carlos relinquished his grip and she, in a halfway serious voice squealed, “What if someone finds it? What if it gets mixed up with the other CDs? Oh my God! Oh my God! No, no lo puedo! "
"Oh yes. Sí, te puedes. Come onnnnn …. give me a big old sloppy kissssss." Carlos tried wrestling again.
“Shut up!” she protested pulling away. “What if it gets mixed up with the others and …” she giggled in horror this time.
“Well, what if it does?” He raised an eyebrow and gave her a provocative wink.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Baby, don’t worry. Nobody is going to find it. I’ll hide it. Come here, Baby.”
He pulled her to him, lifting her hair and finding her neck. “Baby, don’t worry,” barely audible this time.
“You better hide it real good, Carlos. I mean real good, Carlos.”
“I will, Baby. I will.” he kissed her forehead. “ I will,” he kissed her eyes.
“You will?’ finding his mouth.
“I promise.”
Daria watched transfixed. Through her tears, she followed every movement of the woman. She watched as wondering fingertips found the bottom of Carlos’ t-shit and slowly, provocatively pulled it up and over Carlos’ head. She watched the t-shirt be tossed onto the nightstand, and how the small hands drifted up and down Carlos’ back, watched them wrap around his neck and slide over his chest to the zipper of his jeans. She watched as the fingers played along the zipper, pressing down on his groin, squeezing harder on the inside of his thighs. She watched as pretty pink fingernails traveled back up and circled the large birthmark on the stomach, and followed the lines of well defined muscles on a taut, hairless chest. Tears streamed from Daria’s eyes, and she beat her head shamelessly into pillow as Carlos slipped a yellow blouse off rounded shoulders and buried himself in the nape of a slender neck.
As if on cue, Daria looked up again from the pillow, as Carlos broke away and spoke softly, caressing a flushed cheek, “Do me one favor, Baby.”
“¿Qué? ¿Qué quieres, mi corazón?” She murmured trying to draw him in again, back to the rhythm of their bodies.
“Smile for the camera!” Carlos whipped her around to face the camera head on, laughing hysterically.
She pushed away, but in an instant had lunged back, pounding on his chest once more, “Oh you brat! You idiot! I ought to make you wait just for that. Go away!“ pushing Carlos full force off the bed.
Carlos laughed all the harder, “I’m sorry, Daria. I just …..“
But Carlos didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. Daria pulled him back up, desperate to be touching him again, “You’re getting weird, you know. Really, really weird!”
Laughter… and then only laughter filled the screen. The two lovers tumbled over one another in childish hysteria, and the memory pounded against the walls of the bedroom. Daria sat spellbound, eyes locked on the television, hands trembling, chin quivering , and relived every moment as the couple continued to wrestle in play, grinning stupidly, and making faces at the camera. Hating … loving this damned screen, Daria reached toward the figures as play tumbled into making love . . . love meant for no one else in the world to remember but the two of them . . . and the camera they finally forgot. Daria remembered how Carlos' body said everything a man’s body ought to say, felt how every man’s body ought to feel. She knew how every muscle in his body made love. The camera didn’t see it, but Daria knew when Carlos would close his eyes and when he would open them again. She sobbed, muffling her cries in a pillow. She wanted to be part of the screen, to be etched into the silver disc, captured forever in the moment of their love making. Her sorrow changed to anger and she gagged chocking down her desire to scream. She’d cry…. She knew she would cry forever, because she could hear his every whisper that the camera couldn't hear. Cried, because she would answer her husband's whisper with her own and it would lost in this horrid stuffy little room.
Carlos placed his ear to a rounded stomach, listening. He smiled and kissed it gently… reverently. Rolling off the side of the bed, he walked over to the camera and turned it off.
The screen jittered and the bedroom bristled with the sound of TV snow. The whirr of the fan accompanied the TV sizzle. The curtains still fluttered and Daria looked away from the screen. The pillows were too damp and too warm. Another yellow jacket had found its way in through the window and was now trying to find its way out. It was too hot . . . too hot for a measly fan. Daria’s eyes caught the slender figure of the ballerina. “The ballerina is beautiful,” she thought. Leaning over, she opened the top drawer of the night stand and took out a box of Kleenex.
There was a soft cry from the other side of the bedroom door, a whimper at first.
Someone rapped at Daria’s door. It was not gentle, not hard, but a simple determined rap at the door.
“Daria, abra la puerta. Daria?”
“It’s open, Tía.”
Neta entered, carrying an undiapered baby girl.
“It’s just too hot, even for a diaper.“ Neta sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey, she’s hungry. Try to breast feed a little bit, before the formula.”
“I can’t. I don’t have any more milk.”
“Daria, try,” Neta’s voice was firm as she held the whimpering baby out to the young mother.
“No. I’ll fix the formula.”
Neta scooted herself up against the headboard next to Daria. She handed Daria her daughter, took the wet pillows out from under her arms and pushed the damp hair away from her face. The older woman adjusted the baby’s position in Daria’s arms.
Neta considered the TV’s snow. “What were you watching?” As she spoke, the aunt lifted the mother’s t-shirt and guided the baby toward the breast, touching the baby’s lips to Daria’s nipple. The child stopped whimpering and began to suckle hard.
Daria looked down at her baby daughter, Solana. She caressed the infant’s hand, playing with the tiny fingers and hoping to feel something other than weariness.
With her eyes locked on Solana, Daria spoke, “Tía, Carlos was the one who really wanted a big-screen TV.”
“You have to stop this, Daria,” Neta spoke softly.
“Did you know that on his last leave, he drove to Visalia and bought a real fancy digital recorder at Best Buy? He wanted me to record every second of when the baby was born and record her everyday he was away. He brought home that stupid Potato Head Cactus the same day, because some poor guy was selling them in the parking lot to make an honest buck, so he went ahead and gave the guy twenty dollars. Can you imagine anyone else paying twenty dollars for a potato man catus? Tía, he made me laugh so much. . . . That same night he recorded us making love.”
Daria handed Neta the plastic case with a label that read, “So you won’t forget me.” Neta read the label, looked over at the TV and understood immediately, wrapping her hand around Daria’s and the baby’s. When Carlos first introduced Daria to his familia muy grande, he had told her that she was going to love his Aunt Neta. She was everyone’s favorite Tía. He had been right. From Neta’s first over-powering embrace, unexpected kiss on the cheek and the heaping plate full of BBQ chicken and Mac and Cheese “especial” that she instantly shoved into Daria’s hands, Daria had loved her. Aunt Netty even reminded her of her own mother, small, round and sassy. Daria’s mother had been of Portuguese background and Daria soon came to realize these Latin sisters shared several common traits. They were often the backbone of the family, warm and generous who found it their utmost responsibility to make sure everyone who visited sat down to the table to eat … and eat some more. Daria quickly merged, melted into the Mexican American family, thankful for their open arms.
“It was three years ago.” Daria looked up with a smile.
“¿Qué?”
“It was three years ago. I remember now.”
“Remember what, mija?
Just before Easter … 2005... It was two months after our second anniversary. It was the year Danny graduated from high school and broke his arm that same night. It was ten years … 2005 … since mom and dad were killed. It was the year before Carlos enlisted … that we bought the TV.
“Daria?” Neta tried taking Solana from Daria’s breast.
Pushing Netty’s hands aside, “It’s OK, Aunt Netty, I was just trying to remember.“
The breeze from the fan hit Neta’s face and she closed her eyes to absorb the fleeting cool air.
“He was my heart, Tía. He was mi corazón. Mi corazón. They took my heart. I have no heart anymore. “
Daria shook with her sobs all over again. Neta quickly managed to take the baby from her trembling arms before Daria collapsed on the bed. The unsatisfied child screamed.
“No, Daria,” Neta rocked rapidly back and forth with the distraught baby. “Solana is your heart.
Daria looked away, ashamed of her own weakness.
“You would have changed nothing with Carlos’ going. He felt … he believed he had a duty. I do not claim to understand or even to have agreed with his reasons, mija, but you must honor him. You must honor him always with your strength. Solana is your heart now. She is his love. He left his love with you. Why you cannot feel it … I don’t know why. If you cannot love her, as you loved Carlos then you have truly lost everything.”
Perplexed, annoyed Neta turned her back on Daria, bouncing the fussing baby in her arms.
She said no more, but let the young woman sit in her own despair, let her collapse again in grief on the mattress. Neta waited in silence and rocked the baby with a gentle sway from hip to hip, waiting… knowing that eventually Daria would have to sit up.
And when she did Neta held the child out again to Daria.
“Take your new heart, mija. Take her.”
Daria reached for her baby daughter and Neta gently placed the infant in the mother’s arms.
Her body shining from sweat and tears, Daria offered Solana her nipple. The baby suckled hard, placing both tiny hands around her mother’s breast.
The women sat on the edge of the bed , calm, but weary. Neta, sitting near the nightstand, opened the top draw, replaced the Kleenex box and took something else out, a small framed picture. It was a picture of a very serious Carlos in desert cammies, standing with two small children, a girl and a boy. The faces of the children were grey from all the dust and they looked no more than six or seven years old. Neta placed the picture upright on the stand, next to the potato head catus.
Outside someone ran through the pea gravel again, stopping next to the bedroom window. It was the Ramos children again.
“Johnny, Buddy … Poppí said I could go with you ,” their little sister yelled after them.
“No you can’t,” one of the boys yelled back. “Go home!”
“Poppí said I could. Wait!"
“No! Go home!” and off the boys ran.
The little girl started to cry.
Neta and Daria sat in silence, side by side, struggling to hear the sound of Solana’s cooing over the sizzle of TV snow.
