American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [62]
When George and I came down to meet him with kitchen scraps, it was as if he knew we belonged to him. He trotted up, nuzzled our legs with his big blond head, licked our damp faces, and ate from our hands. He took his commands in Spanish: Piso, we’d say, and he’d fall to the floor, limp as a rug. Puerta, and he’d shoot to the gate with his eyes on fire. He was gentle with those in our company, fierce with the unintroduced. The cook told us that he had been raised by a German who lived in the far-off hills. The man had been a Nazi, they said—a word we’d heard often in stupefyingly wearisome dinner conversations—and now he’d gone native, living in a shack with a chola, raising dogs to be killers.
It seemed an unlikely story to me. It was true Sigurd was a colossus, but he was full of love. When he sat on his haunches, I could draw up all seven years of me and meet his snout with my chin. When I put my hand on his shoulders and looked him in the eye, he would cock his head and place a soft paw on my foot. He would allow George to lasso, even mount him, and then he’d turn circles, flashing my brother a tender grin. He was attentive to the point of obsession, following us around from morning until bedtime, pushing his wet nose into our crotches, wagging a long, fringed tail. It wasn’t until later that I realized the dog didn’t exist to entertain us. Sigurd had been my father’s way of shoring up our fence, raising a wall against those nervous times.
As George and I grew closer, forging a lifelong collusion, Vicki seemed to float off to far corners of consciousness, like Abuelito in his towered world. She was, to us, an adult, even though she was barely eleven. Her hair had gone from gold to black. She had turned into a serious girl with a serious air and a low tolerance for fools. We could make her wince just by giggling. Hearing us approach, she would recede: into the next room, out to the balcony, up to her bedroom. She was happiest when reading or painting, pursuits that busied her days. Now that she no longer had Billy, the sun-faced Scot of Cartavio, the only company she wanted seemed to be Mother’s. We’d find her hunched over a table by the piano, drawing detailed tableaus of all the Olympic gods, as Mother played “Barcarolle” beside her. Or we’d find her out on the porch, belly-down on a lounge chair, twirling her black hair over a Brontë novel, with Mother in the next chair, deep into a teacher’s manual. Vicki was slow to move, quick to bristle. Her features would shrink, her neck grow short when something was said that irritated her. When the Club de Bowling’s señoras addressed her, I could see her neck virtually disappear: Oye, Vicki! Chica! When are you going to lose that baby fat, learn to mambo, get yourself a good-looking novio? Better start soon, hija. You’ll be an old lady quick as you can say Hac Roboso!
To me they said equally confounding words: Oye, Marisi! You fat-faced little monkey! Climb up on the diving board like you did yesterday, beba. Come on, give us a flying jump. You’re a jungle Arana, no? Like the cauchero—the rubber man—no? Go ask your papi to tell you about him. Then they’d cackle into their drinks.
I shrugged my shoulders. El Bowling’s señoras were brightly painted, strident, and silly, but they were harmless as toucans; they didn’t bother me at all.
They bothered Mother. She had announced to the señoras that she would not be available for coffee klatches or chicha lunches. She was not to be disturbed during the day. From early morning to late afternoon she would be teaching her children. We saw the ladies lift their brows when she said that one day, at poolside. As we moved away, they watched us silently, slurping