Kirstin Valdez Quade - Night at the Fiestas - Stories

“You’ve got good curl. I used to love giving permanents.”

She remembered her friends at Mount Holyoke, winding each other’s hair in curlers at night, the smuggled bottles of rum they mixed with pineapple juice from large cans and drank out of their coffee mugs. It wasn’t the nights they snuck out with boys from Amherst or UMass that she missed; it was the nights they spent in, intending to read, that instead unfolded in wonderful laughter and silliness.

In college Margaret had slept with three boys: two boyfriends, the other the visiting brother of her roommate. Margaret liked sex, liked the intrigue, the playacting, the real passion that invariably caught her by surprise. She also liked the ultimate safety of it, orchestrated and anticipated and reviewed as it was with her friends. It was this intimacy, the intimacy with women, that had really mattered.

Margaret shifted ever so slightly, leaned her shoulder into Carmen’s thigh.

“What happened?” Margaret murmured.

“Oh, I got away from it, and six years ago Reina Sanchez opened the salon by the gas station. Anymore, I have a heck of a time getting the energy to do my own hair.”

AFTER AUTUMN HAD BEEN put to bed — both Carmen and Margaret had tucked her in — they sat in the living room petting Daisy and watching a late show. It was past eleven when the driveway light flicked on. Margaret went to the window and looked out. She could see Ruben backlit by the glow of the spotlight, a dark, unsmiling face in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t looking toward the house, but at some point in the distance.

She backed away from the window, suddenly afraid of being seen. When the doorbell rang, she didn’t move to answer it.

“Ruben.” Carmen sighed and rose to open the door, as if she lived here. Daisy trotted after her.

Up close, Ruben wasn’t nearly as tall as Margaret had imagined, just an inch or two taller than she. His facial hair was scraggly and long, his teeth crooked and scummy-looking.

“What’s wrong, hijito?” Carmen said.

The remaining sensation of drunkenness washed away and Margaret felt sharp and dry and alert. “Come in,” she said politely, even though he was already inside and something was clearly wrong.

Ruben looked over Carmen and Margaret’s shoulders, his head darting about in quick stabs. Margaret had imagined him handsome, disarming; she had imagined she might have to brace herself against his charm. Instead, she was repulsed. This was the son Carmen spent all her money on? This was the man responsible for half Autumn’s genes?

“Where’s my daughter?” he said, head jerking. He moved into the living room.

“Hijito,” Carmen said again, voice wary. “What’s the matter?”

“Where were you? Where have you been?” His voice was whiny.

Daisy began to yap foolishly. Over the noise, Carmen continued to step toward her son. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Her eyes were on something in his hand.

With a horror that flooded her throat and extremities, Margaret realized Ruben was holding a gun. She’d never seen a real handgun before — shockingly solid and metallic.

Margaret had the impulse to run to the child, asleep in the guestroom, and push her deep under the bed. The old childhood memories of hiding from her shouting father. Autumn must have the same instincts.

“Where’s my fucking daughter?” He scratched at his neck as though clawing something out of him. “You been talking to that bitch Chelsea? The two of you keeping my daughter from me?”

Margaret drew herself up. “You need to leave my house. You need to go.” She extended a hand toward the door, an absurdly formal gesture.

But Ruben didn’t hear. He lunged at Carmen, the gun swinging at his side. “You stupid cunt bitch, trying to—” He stopped short without touching her, put his face right into hers. “Where’s my fucking daughter?”

“I’m not keeping her from you, honey. We’ve been here, waiting. For you.” Carmen’s voice was imploring. She didn’t shift her eyes from her son’s.

Without warning, Ruben lifted the gun, shot it into the ceiling, barely missing a recessed light. The crack stunned Daisy into silence, and they all stood frozen as the gypsum dust rained down. Then Daisy started yapping again.

Margaret tried to think how far out the police would be. Ten minutes. Longer. Maybe a highway patrol would be near. Maybe not. They might have trouble finding the turnoff, navigating the dirt road at night. A lot could happen in that time.

“I’m calling the police.”

“Please,” cried Carmen. She did not shift her eyes from Ruben’s. “Please! He’s a good boy. He’ll stop.”

Margaret looked wildly at the German knives lined up in the block on the kitchen counter. She remembered something she’d heard about knives being no good for self-defense because they can so easily be turned against you. She lifted her hands, looked at them: so thin, veins showing blue through her skin, the wedding band heavy and loose.

Ruben’s voice rose. “You better listen to me. Listen to me, listen to me. You never listen to me.” He moaned as he spoke, as if in physical pain.

“I’m listening, Ruben. I’m listening. Tell me what you have to say, and I’m listening.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do!”

He was shaking, jumping, scratching at his neck, so there were red lines running down it. Margaret wondered if the skin might break. Margaret wondered if this was meth, if this was drunkenness, if it was a combination of the two.

Margaret imagined the scene from outside, where she wanted to be: the house all lit up like a silent stage, the terrible drama going on inside. But the house couldn’t be seen from the road. And any shout would sound like the wail of a coyote.

The car keys were on the counter in the kitchen. With her purse and her cell phone. Could she grab Autumn, grab the keys? It would take too long. There were too many open spaces in this house. It was all exposure and space. These were surfaces you could crack your head on.

Daisy’s bark hammered off the high ceilings, incessant. Margaret longed to run to her, clamp her mouth shut, longed for her to shut up so she could think. “I’ll give you money,” Margaret cried, hands shaking. She swung her arm wildly. “Take whatever you want, just leave us…”

Ruben turned fast, and Margaret shrank against the wall. “Fuck you,” he said, the words cutting. “I don’t want your money, rich cunt. Fuck you .”

Give this maniac Carmen, give him Autumn. Negotiate. You can have them all, she shouted in her head. Just leave, just leave.

“Calm down, hijito. Calm down.”

He turned back to his mother. “Don’t you fucking get near me! You want to keep me sucking at your fat tits.” Sinking to a crouch, Ruben buried his head in his arms, weeping. The gun hung loosely from his hand. Carmen knelt beside him and touched his shoulder gently.

Margaret’s courage returned. In a loud voice, so that she could be heard over Daisy’s panicked barking, she declared, “Get out now. I will not allow you to terrorize us.”

Carmen whipped around, eyes savage. Her voice was quiet, cruel. “You leave him alone.”

Whatever this was, they all understood it. Even Autumn. The terror and fury and love and whatever else was mixed up in it was theirs alone, and it was Margaret’s own stupid fault it was taking place in her house. She wanted them out, all of them, the little girl, too. She didn’t care what happened to them — they could tear each other limb from limb for all she cared — she just wanted them away from her. She wanted it all gone: the sun finding its way in, the dust sifting under the doors. Rattlesnakes. Coyotes and scorpions. God knows what else. Everything wailing, crying, howling.