Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

The front door was painted a vibrant red with an orange stained-glass window. Ramirez gave a familiar shave-and-a-hair-cut knock and opened the door without waiting for an answer, pushing me in ahead of him.

The air was warmer than outside and smelled like tamales, Pine Sol, and sugar cookies. Music played from somewhere deep in the house, and a chorus of children’s voices all vied for attention just beyond my vision. Ramirez walked me into a cozy living room that looked about to burst at the seams with chatchkes of every variety. Colored glass vases, a collection of Anaheim Angles bobble head dolls, homemade afghans in bright greens and assaulting pinks, and glass candle holders painted with pictures of the Virgin Mary filled every conceivable surface. A man in a worn work shirt and jeans dozed in a burnt orange lay-z-boy in the corner, a black cowboy hat resting on the coffee table beside him. The television I saw from the street was muted, playing a John Wayne western.

Just beyond the living room I could see a kitchen done in baby blue Formica, bustling with round women chattering in rapid Spanish.

I had serious second thoughts about coming in with Ramirez. I’d envisioned questioning a suspect under blaring lamps, breaking into a suburban crack den, even squeezing information out of Greenway’s second cousin’s neighbor. But I had a sinking feeling I’d walked into something much more scary.

“Hello?” Ramirez called.

The Spanish ceased and five little faces popped out of the kitchen. All were a warm, tan color, topped by waves of thick black hair. One woman seemed about my age, while the other four wore soft wrinkles and streaks of gray through their locks.

The shortest one (and none of them seemed over five feet) clapped her hands in front of her as she spied Ramirez. “ Mijo , you came!”

“Of course I came.” Ramirez walked over to the woman, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. “You didn’t think I’d miss your birthday, Mama?”

Mama? Uh oh. Sinking feeling realized.

I tugged at the hem of my dress, wondering if I could make it grow about three inches if I just wished it hard enough. I wasn’t fond of meeting anyone’s mother dressed like this, let alone one who baked sugar cookies. Maybe if I backed up real slowly I could just disappear out the front door with some shred of my dignity left.

As if he could read my mind, Ramirez said, “Mama, this is Maddie.”

I froze as five pairs of deep brown eyes turned on me. So much for backing out the door.

Mama looked me up and down. She raised one thick eyebrow at Ramirez. The other women simply stared at me, their eyes as big and round as their soft faces. All except the younger one. Her eyes narrowed into a tight line and she pursed her lips together.

“Maddie, this my sister BillieJo, and The Aunts – Swoozie, Cookie, and Kiki.”

The Aunts stared. BillieJo glared.

“Hi,” I said. I did a little one finger wave. No one waved back.

I felt the word “hooker” flashing on my forehead like a neon sign. “I, uh, don’t usually dress like this,” I said quickly, my cheeks burning brighter than Rudolph’s shiny nose.

Mama gave me a slow once over. Her gaze lingered on my hemline. Self-consciously, I gave it another tug south.

“Nice legs,” she said.

“Uh…” I looked to Ramirez for an appropriate response. No help there. He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, a smirk pasted on his face that clearly said this was payback for following him around town.

“Thanks,” I finally managed.

“I used to have legs like that,” Mama went on. “Before I had babies. Babies ruin your legs. Varicose veins, cellulite. It’s not pretty. You have any babies?”

“No. No babies.” Yet.

“Good for you. Keep those legs as long as you can. I had my first baby when I was seventeen. How old are you?”

“Um. Twenty-nine,” I answered. Only it sounded more like a question, as if I was hoping I’d gotten the right answer on the pop quiz

“Oh.” Mama leaned in and pseudo whispered. “Are you barren?”

I think I heard Ramirez snort.

“No! No, I’m not barren. I’m just… I have a job.”

“Oh. Well, then. Good for you. A career girl. I always wanted to be a career girl. I thought I’d make a really good firefighter.”

I tried not to laugh as I pictured Mama’s portly frame hauling someone from a burning building.

“So, what do you do?” she asked.

“I design shoes.”

Mama looked down at my acrylic chunky heels.

“Not these,” I added quickly. “I design children’s shoes.”

Mama perked up. “See, she does like children. This one’s good. I like her.” Mama gave Ramirez a pat on the cheek.

“Glad you approve,” he said. He really was enjoying this too much.

Mama gave me a pat on the cheek too, for good measure. Then she gestured to Ramirez. “Make him use condoms. You gotta keep those legs as long as you can.”

I think I swallowed my tongue. I looked to Ramirez to dispel his mother’s idea that we needed condoms. But he was trying too hard not to laugh.

“Well,” Mama said to the room at large, “tamales are ready, let’s eat.”

I blinked hard, watching Mama’s stout frame waddle back into the kitchen. The Aunts followed as one, BillieJo bringing up the rear with one last glare at me over her shoulder.

I was still contemplating whether it was too late to bolt for the door when I felt Ramirez’s breath on my neck.

“I told you, you didn’t want to come in here,” he murmured. He shot me a grin to rival the Cheshire cat’s as he grabbed my hand and led me into the kitchen.

I was so going to get him for this.

Ramirez led me outside to a spacious backyard that made my paltry window box of geraniums look downright pathetic. Three picnic style tables were set up on the lawn, covered in brightly color tablecloths. Mismatched chairs and benches surrounded them, while piles of fragrant tamales, chilies, and empanadas sat atop. Strings of lights had been hung between the tall oak trees and a battered piñata swung from one of the lower branches. A handful of dark haired children sat beneath it, lollipop sticks protruding from their mouths.

“Uncle Jack,” one of them yelled, flying at Ramirez. Two more little girls followed suit and soon Ramirez had candy fingered rug rats permanently affixed to both his legs.

My turn to smirk a little. “Uncle Jack” was about the last role I’d have picture Ramirez in. But, to his credit, he didn’t even grimace as one of his nieces made a chocolate covered handprint on his white shirt.

Mama came out carrying another tray of tamales and sat down on one of the benches. This seemed to be the signal as suddenly a swarm of people appeared from nowhere. BillieJo and three other young women came out the sliding glass doors, followed by the man I’d seen dozing in the lay-z-boy. Two men came around the side of the house, both with an unmistakable resemblance to Ramirez, though one was a little pudgier and the other wore his dark hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Mama shoved a plate into my hands, with a commanding, “Eat, eat,” and under her watchful eye I piled one of everything on my plate, for fear of offending her. (I figured my outfit was offensive enough for one evening.)

As we sat down to eat, two more men emerged from the house, guitars slung over their shoulders as they converged on the food, laughing, talking, and generally adding to the roar of voices that seemed to surround me.

Now, my grandmother is, as I may have mentioned, Irish Catholic. Before my grandfather bought his one-way ticket to St. Peter’s, we used to spend every Christmas Eve at their house. All seven of my aunts and uncles, all nineteen of my cousins, and all forty gazillion of their little darlings running around the house in plaid Christmas dresses and tiny red bow ties. So, I’m no stranger to big families. But I had never in my life encountered people who could talk so loudly and yet eat so much, all at the same time. I was in awe.