I was standing barefoot in my kitchen, making Cajun Guacamole with the avocados I’d just picked from the trees in my backyard, when the honk of a horn blasted through the open window behind me. The noise was so startling that my hand jerked, and I nicked my finger with the knife I was using to slice the green onion. I yelped in pain and muttered a few expletives en español (I’ve always thought that Spanish swear words were more expressive and violent-sounding than their English counterparts), then turned on the water in the sink and held my bleeding finger under the stream of cold liquid.
Hearing that obnoxious horn blare once again, I wrapped my finger tightly in a paper towel and stomped angrily over to the window to see who was disrupting my quiet evening at home. The perpetrator of this crime against my senses was the driver of a rusted old Harley that sat curbside in front of my little bungalow. He wore dark sunglasses, had long, stringy brown hair, and sported a variety of colorful tattoos that covered his arms from wrist to shoulder. Another one of my sister’s charming boyfriends.
“Isidora!” I screamed her name, but my voice was almost drowned out by the sound of the motorcycle’s engine being revved.
“What?” She strutted into the kitchen dressed in a silk babydoll dress that belonged to me. It was a little too short on her, but, of course, that’s the way she liked to wear all of her clothes.
“Your date is here.” I pointed out the window. “I don’t remember you asking to borrow that dress.”
“We’re sisters.” She picked up a chunk of avocado and popped it into her mouth. “What’s yours is mine and vice versa.”
Since Izzy had nothing of value, that seemed like a pretty rotten deal to me.
“Where are you going, and who’s the rebel without a car?”
“His name’s Marco. We met at the beach the other day,” she said as she headed towards the front door and I trailed behind her. “He seems cool. He’s taking me to this new club down on Ocean. His friend, Bruiser, bounces there, so we can get in for free.”
Bruiser? The company my sister kept really did leave something to be desired.
Izzy reached out her hand for the door knob, but I stepped in front of her before she could make contact with it. “I don’t want you riding on that motorcycle without a helmet. It’s against the law and it’s dangerous.”
“What are you - my mother?”
“No, but speaking of mothers, have you called ours yet?”
“Why should I?” she asked petulantly.
“Because you owe her an apology for hanging up on her last week. You really hurt her feelings.”
“I don’t care. She deserved it. She’s always so hateful to me. I can’t do anything right in her eyes.”
“We’re always hardest on the ones we love the most.”
“Spare me the psychobabble,” Izzy sneered.
The horn sounded for a third time. If crotchety Mr. Miller across the street hadn’t already called the police to report a public disturbance, I was sure that his hand was now poised over the telephone.
“I’ve got to go,” my sister insisted irritably.
I didn’t budge. “Please, just give Mamá a call and keep the peace.”
“That’s your job. Mine is to stir the family pot and as long as one of our parents is threatening to disown me, then I’ve done my duty. Now if you’ll excuse me, my date is waiting.” She reached around me for the door handle, and I resignedly moved out of her way.
“Don’t get anything on that dress,” I warned.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring it back good as new. I’ll even wash it for you,” she promised as she stepped outside, letting the screen door slam shut in my face.
“That dress is not washable silk! You’ll have to take it to the dry cleaners!” I yelled through the mesh at her retreating back.
Without acknowledging what I’d said, she hopped on the back of Marco’s bike, and they took off . . . without putting on helmets.
Sighing, I went back to my guacamole in the kitchen and finished chopping up all of the ingredients. I had just started to mash the avocados when my phone rang. “Am I ever going to get to eat?” I grumbled as I grabbed the cordless.
“Hello.”
“Pilar, it’s Mamá.” Of course, it was. She always knew when people were talking about her. All I had to do was say her name out loud and her ears began to burn no matter how many miles separated us. I was surprised that she had waited until five minutes after my argument with Izzy had ended to call.
“Buenas tardes, Mamá. How are you?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” I asked while I squeezed a lemon into a measuring cup.
“You know how my birthday depresses me every year. I hate getting older.”
“Age is just a number. What’s important is how you look and feel, and you look beautiful.”
“You think so?” she fished for more compliments.
“Of course, I do. You attract attention everywhere you go. People are always saying that you look like Salma Hayek, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know why,” she scoffed. “I’m much taller than she is.” Not to mention a good 10 years older.
I folded some diced red bell peppers and quartered cherry tomatoes into the avocados. “It’s still nice to be compared to an international sex symbol, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” she acceded, “but I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”
Since when? My mother’s favorite subject had always been herself.
“I called because I have some exciting news for you.”
Sprinkling an assortment of seasonings into the mixing bowl, I murmured, “Oh, yeah, what is it?”
“I ran into an old friend of mine at a dinner party last night, and we started chatting about our lives and families . . .”
“Uh huh.” I stuck my finger into the guacamole and did a taste test. Not spicy enough, I decided and reached for the cayenne pepper.
“ . . . and it turns out that Marisol has a son who’s just about your age. And he’s single!”
Oh, crap. I knew exactly where this was going.
“Mamá, you know how I feel about fix-ups.”
“Don’t be difficult,” she chastised. “This man is a good prospect for you, mija. He’s Cuban and he’s never been married, so there are no ex-wives or children to worry about. He’s, also, a successful businessman.”
“What type of business?” I found myself slightly intrigued.
“He owns a couple of health clubs up in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Does he live there, too?”
“Yes, he has a nice condo a few blocks from the water. 3 bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, underground parking, a terrace with an incredible view. He bought it last year at a really low interest rate.” Leave it to my mother to get all of the pertinent details.
“I don’t know. Dating someone outside of Miami is such a hassle. With the demands of my job, I just don’t have the time to commute back and forth.”
“It’s a 40 minute drive for heaven’s sake! You’re never going to get a man if you don’t put some effort into it, Pilar.”
I took a bag of tortilla chips out of the pantry. “Do you know what he looks like?”
“Marisol showed me a picture. He’s very handsome,” she enthused. “Dark hair, olive skin, well-built, good teeth.”
“You’re sure that it was a recent picture?” I dipped a chip in the guacamole, then shoved it into my mouth.
“Pilar!”
“I’m just asking,” I said with my mouth full. “You probably carry around a photo of me that was taken in college.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d give me something more current.”
“Why don’t I get some head shots taken? Then, you can pass them out to every eligible bachelor in South Florida. Of course, you’ll want to list my vital statistics on the back of each photo . . . Age: 29, Hair: Brown, Eyes: Hazel, Measurements: 36-25-36, Likes: Stargazer lilies, rainy weekends, Bossa Nova, movies that make her cry . . .”
“You’re making a joke, but this isn’t funny. Do you want to be the first woman in our family who’s unmarried when she turns 30? Even your cousin Sancha managed to find a man by the time she was your age, and she’s got that lazy eye and a laugh that makes her sound like a donkey! Your father and I will be totally disgraced if you don’t . . .”
“Alright, alright,” I interrupted my mother’s harangue, “I’ll go out with . . . what did you say his name was?”
“Tony Escarda,” she replied. “You’re going to meet him for dinner Friday night at eight.”
“Did you already pick out the restaurant and make a reservation?”
“No, I thought I’d let the two of you work that out when Tony calls to confirm. I gave his mother your home, office, and cell numbers.”
I groaned with exasperation. “Mamá! You shouldn’t have given out my phone numbers without getting my permission first.”
“Bah! You’d never get a call from a man if I didn’t give out your phone number. I went to a lot of trouble to get you this date, Pilar, so don’t make a mess of it.”
“I know how to conduct myself on a date.” I crunched down on another guacamole-covered chip.
“Apparently not, or you wouldn’t be alone,” she managed to work a dig in before she began reeling off her rules for ensnaring a man.
“Be friendly, but not too friendly. You don’t want him to think that you’re a puta. Men don’t marry girls who are easy. Don’t pick at your dinner. Latin men like to see a woman enjoy her food. But don’t stuff your face, or he’ll think that you don’t have any self-control. Laugh at all of his jokes. Let him do most of the talking, and try not to act too smart. You scare men off when you start babbling about all of your degrees and use strange words like superego and Jungian.”
“Right, I wouldn’t want a potential mate to know that I have a functioning brain,” I quipped.
“Be sure to mention that you love babies,” she continued, completely ignoring my sarcasm. “It never hurts to let a man know that you have a strong maternal instinct.”
Or I could just offer to bear his children right after we’d introduced ourselves. That seemed like the more straightforward approach. “Thanks for the advice, Mamá. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. Now, I’ve really got to go. I haven’t eaten dinner and I’ve got some case files to make notes in.”
“You work too hard, mija. You need more balance in your life. If you had a family, you’d have something other than your crazy patients to focus on. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you and Tony hit it off? You could have a short engagement and get married at Christmastime. I just love holiday weddings! Dark green bridesmaids’ dresses would be so pretty on your sisters, and we could do red . . .”
“Let’s see how the first date goes before you plan out the next fifty years of my life with this guy, okay?”
“I guess I was getting a little bit ahead of myself. It’s just that I want grandchildren so badly.”
“You already have grandchildren,” I reminded her about the trio of holy terrors Ana had given birth to.
“Bah! They’re boys. What am I going to do with boys? I can’t buy them anything pink, or braid their hair, or paint their little fingernails. Boys are so loud and dirty, and Ana just lets hers run wild. That’s why they’re always getting into trouble.
Did I tell you that George has been setting things on fire? First, it was paper, then it was piles of leaves and twigs in the backyard. Yesterday, he almost burned down the neighbors’ garage. Their cat barely escaped with its life. What’s next? Pouring lighter fluid on one of his brothers and striking a match? My grandson’s an arsonist; he’ll probably end up in prison and we’ll all be disgraced.”
“George is not an arsonist. It’s perfectly normal for boys his age to experiment with fire. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll have a talk with him and rule out any pyromaniacal tendencies.”
“Pyro-what-ical? Oh, never mind,” she said wearily, “just promise me that you won’t use that word, or any others that have more than two syllables, when you go out with Tony. A man shouldn’t have to bring a dictionary with him on a date.”
“Good night, Mamá.”
“Before you go, do you have any idea what you’re going to wear on Friday? I think your yellow sundress would be perfect. Yellow’s such a nice color on you; it brings out the gold in your eyes. Of course, you can’t wear that dress without a tan and you looked a little pasty when I saw you last week. Have you been out in the sun at all since then? If not, maybe you could make an appointment at one of those tanning salons?”
“I don’t have time—”
“Oh, your father just got home! He must be starving. I need to go and fix him a plate. I’ll call first thing Saturday, and you can tell me all about your date with Tony, okay? Love you!”
I heard a kissing sound, then a click when she hung up the phone. I put my cordless back in the cradle and laid my head down on the kitchen counter. Conversations with my mother were always so exhausting.