American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [75]
“Right,” I said, and took off for the thatch-roofed dining room.
No sooner did I step into the candlelight than I saw Mrs. Birdseye’s white hair. She turned and met my gaze with a twinkle of recognition and a forefinger in the air. She was standing with someone—I couldn’t see who—and now she reached down, took the man’s hand, swiveled around, and marched toward me with him in her wake.
It was Tommy Pineda. I drew myself up and considered running away. But Mrs. Birdseye’s mouth was moving at me, and as she pushed through the party with Tommy in her grip, she shook a finger at me mischievously.
“There you are! There you are!” she puffed. Behind her, the huge boy was plodding toward me, his heavy feet turned in, his guayabera loose and yellowed. I recall thinking that his head was as squirmy as a rum-drunk turkey’s just before the cook swings it from a pole—upside down—to drown it in its drool.
“Here, here. Look who I have here,” she said. She took a deep breath and looked from me to him.
I had never seen the Pineda boy this close. He was thick and pale, with black hair cropped short and dimples like navels. His forehead was flat as slate, his eyes creased like Wong’s. When he focused on me and grinned, bubbles danced from the corners of his mouth.
“Tommy, this is the little Arana girl I was telling you about. She and her brother live down the street. The ones with the dog that died.” El perro que murió. “You remember, dear?”
“Perrr,” he said, and grunted, his large head bouncing vigorously.
“Muy triste,” she said. So sad.
“Trisss,” he repeated, his spit misting my face and neck.
“I told Tommy what happened to your dog,” said Mrs. Birdseye. “That earthquake—it seems so long ago now—and the terrible way he died. I hope, little one, that when you get where you’re going, your mama lets you have another.” Her curls were shimmering in the candlelight. The giant’s eyes shone black as stones. It struck me how impossible it would have been for this docile colossus to kill a dog, suck it dry, float it out in the country-club pool to be screeched at by servants.
He then reached a ham hand in his pocket, pulled out a fist, and held it in front of me, fingers curled tight.
I was fascinated. I stretched one finger out to touch it. He smiled and opened it up like a flower.
I know now that what I saw there meant I was leaving Pachamama. It was a tiny seashell, as pink and as perfect as a freshly cooked shrimp.
“Adiós,” he said, working his mouth with his tongue. “A-Diósss.”
And then he took me by the wrist and turned his gift into my palm.
8
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SKY
El Mundo Arriba
THE SHELL WAS more than a good-bye gift. It was an omen. Not only would I say good-bye to Paramonga, I would say good-bye to my closest link to Pachamama, to the ground beneath our feet. We skimmed south along the dunes, down the Pan American Highway, eyes riveted on the sea. The Pacific was grizzled and unruly, spitting with indignation. I clutched Tommy’s shell, fiddled with Antonio’s stone, imagined my future as a city girl. But by the time we arrived at Abuelita and Abuelito’s house in Miraflores, eight hours later, it was clear that Lima was not our final destination. Not for a while at least. A telegram sat on their mantel, and when we entered, my grandmother shooed the children into the comedor, seated my mother in the sala, and slipped the bright yellow paper into her hands.
The notice was terse but said all Mother needed to know: Grandma Lo was dying. She wasn’t likely to last through spring. By the time Mother raised her eyes from that missive, she had made a decision: She would travel to her mother’s bedside, take us with her, stay through midsummer if necessary, until Grandma Lo died. The Grace Company routinely granted Papi three months of vacation for every three years of work. That arrangement had allowed my family to go to