Under the Mesquite Read online

  under

  the

  mesquite

  under

  the

  mesquite

  Guadalupe Garcia McCall

  Tree image on front cover and leaf motif on interior pages and back cover adapted from photographs by Guadalupe Garcia McCall.

  Earlier versions of four poems previously appeared in the following publications:

  The Concho River Review (Vol. XII, No. 1, Spring 1998): “En Los Estados Unidos” and “Mi Madre”;

  Entre Nous (June 1998): “Elotes”;

  Bueno (In One Ear Publications) (Vol. VII, No. 4, Summer 1998): “En Los Estados Unidos”;

  The Dirty Goat (Vol. 10, 1999): “Swimming the Rio Grande.”

  Thanks to the hardworking editors at these literary magazines for finding un rinconcito within the pages of their journals for my poetry—G.G.M.

  Definition of mesquite on page v adapted from: Feller, Walter. “Mesquite,” Mojave Desert Plants: Trees. http://mojavedesert.net/trees/mesquite

  Ramos, Mary G. “The Ubiquitous Mesquite.” Texas Almanac (2006–2007).

  http://www.texasalmanac.com/health/mesquite-tree.html

  The Random House College Dictionary, Revised Edition. New York: Random House, Inc., 1988.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Guadalupe Garcia McCall

  All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. LEE & LOW BOOKS Inc., 95 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 leeandlow.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America by Worzalla Publishing Company, September 2011

  Book design by Kimi Weart

  Additional design work by Christy Hale

  eBook conversion by Neustudio

  First Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McCall, Guadalupe Garcia. Under the mesquite / by Guadalupe Garcia McCall. — 1st ed. p. cm. Summary: Throughout her high school years, as her mother battles cancer, Lupita takes on more responsibility for her house and seven younger siblings, while finding refuge in acting and writing poetry. Includes glossary of Spanish terms. ISBN 978-1-60060-429-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) [1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. Responsibility—Fiction. 3. Family life—Texas—Fiction. 4. Cancer—Fiction. 5. Mexican Americans—Texas—Fiction. 6. Texas—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.M47833752Und 2011

  [Fic]—dc222010052567

  mesquite(meh-SKEET or MES-keet)

  [from Spanish mezquite, originally from Nahuatl mizquitl]

  A sturdy tree or shrub with sweet, beanlike pods, sharp thorns, and extraordinarily long roots, native to the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. To survive in harsh climates, the mesquite can adapt to almost any soil, can endure droughts by reaching deeper than other trees to find water, and can grow back from even a small piece of root left in the ground.

  Este libro está dedicado con mucho cariño

  a la memoria de mi madre, Tomasa Ruiz de Garcia—

  porque siempre estarás en mi corazón.

  In loving memory of my mother,

  Tomasa Ruiz de Garcia—

  because you will always be in my heart.

  And to my sons,

  James, Steven, and Jason—

  You’ve brought immense joy and love into my life. May these poems bring you closer to understanding the strength you have within you; and may you find the courage to live, laugh, and love with all your heart, here en los Estados Unidos, or wherever else life may take you.

  Love,

  MOM

  contents

  PART ONE

  the weight of words

  PART TWO

  remembering

  PART THREE

  crossing borders

  PART FOUR

  give us this day

  PART FIVE

  cut like a diamond

  PART SIX

  words on the wind

  NAMES, SPANISH WORDS,

  AND CULTURAL REFERENCES

  PART ONE

  the weight of words

  the story of us

  Eagle Pass, Texas

  Freshman year of high school

  I am standing just inside

  the doorway, watching Mami talk

  to the television screen.

  As the latest episode

  of her favorite telenovela unfolds,

  the soap opera drawing her in,

  the skins from the potatoes

  she is peeling

  drop into her apron

  like old maple leaves.

  I wait until

  she is too busy to notice—

  eyes, lips, and heart

  all fixed on the television.

  Seizing the moment, I tiptoe

  into Mami’s bedroom

  and sneak into her closet.

  Eyes shimmering, I am

  a ratoncita, a sly little mouse.

  I reach into her old purse,

  the one that has sat

  in her closet for years.

  I know no money hides there—

  she keeps that

  in her newer purse,

  the one she takes everywhere.

  No, today I am Eve in the garden,

  stealing secretos,

  mining for knowledge,

  hoping for a taste

  of the forbidden fruit.

  A click of the purse’s clasp

  and my hand, novice thief,

  draws out official documents.

  A dried-out rubberband

  snaps—no warning,

  just a bite that smarts.

  Folded wings of paper

  tremble in my hands

  like frightened doves.

  My ravenous eyes

  greedily devour the words

  inscribed on birth certificates,

  a marriage license,

  a Mexican passport.

  But nothing about the secreto

  I know she is keeping from us.

  No new discoveries,

  no revelations,

  just a crumpled tissue

  inside a plastic bag

  that sighs quietly

  as I lift it out of Mami’s purse.

  The tissue blossoms in my palm

  to reveal a tangled brown mass,

  wrinkled, leathery, and dry,

  the length of it held together

  with a yellowed plastic

  medical clamp.

  Startled and repulsed,

  I drop it.

  I am on my knees,

  trying to pick it up with the tissue

  without actually having to touch it,

  when Mami walks in

  and catches me in the act.

  My face burns with shame,

  and fear grips my limbs.

  I can’t move.

  But instead of getting mad,

  Mami laughs.

  She helps me stand up

  and says, “This is probably

  going to sound strange. . . .”

  Then she takes the shriveled thing

  in her h
ands and tells me

  it is her tesoro.

  “It’s your umbilical cord,

  Lupita, a treasure I keep

  to remind me of the tie

  that binds us together.

  You were my first baby,

  my first love.”

  Hearing her explain it that way,

  I’m not grossed out

  by the cord anymore.

  “What about Papi?” I ask teasingly.

  “I thought he was your first love.”

  For a second I catch a glimpse

  of that same secret smile

  I’ve seen on Mami’s face

  when Papi comes up behind her

  while she’s at the kitchen sink

  and he starts to sing to her

  a soft love song

  like Pedro Infante.

  “Well,” Mami says, looking

  at me now, “that’s different.”

  She wraps the cord carefully

  in the tissue, puts it in its plastic bag,

  and hands it back to me.

  “This,” she says, “is the story of us.”

  thorns

  I was born at home,

  in our little blue house

  on Avenida López Mateos,

  in Piedras Negras, Coahuila, Mexico.

  Even though there was no doctor there

  because I came so quickly

  and unexpectedly,

  I arrived perfectly healthy.

  Mami says I was so strong,

  I didn’t act like a newborn.

  By the time my sister Analiza

  was born the year after,

  I was already walking and talking.

  Victoria came along two years later,

  and then my brother Paco the next year.

  When I was six years old,

  our family left our beloved Mexico

  and moved to los Estados Unidos.

  In our backyard in Texas,

  Papi planted a tall mulberry tree

  to shade us in the afternoons.

  Mami planted a garden

  in our front yard: rosebushes,

  rows and rows of them,

  all the way down to the street.

  It’s been more than eight years

  since my parents transplanted us,

  and our family has grown.

  The four youngest kids—

  my sisters Tita, Juanita, and Rosita

  and my baby brother, Benito—

  were born here.

  We’ve been pretty happy,

  living the American Dream

  in Eagle Pass,

  this bilingual border town

  most of us call El Águila.

  But lately Mami’s changed.

  A thorny mesquite has sprouted

  in the middle of her rose garden.

  Even after she has pulled it out

  by its roots repeatedly,

  pricking herself on its thorns each time,

  it keeps growing back.

  Today the resilient mesquite

  causes her to cry with frustration.

  I abandon the journal

  I’ve been writing in

  to kneel beside her on the grass

  and put my arms around her.

  After a few minutes Papi comes over

  and tells Mami gently,

  “Leave it alone, mi amor.

  It’s in the tree’s nature

  to be stubborn. It’s a survivor.

  Come on, it’s getting late.

  Let’s go inside.” He coaxes her

  away from the rose garden.

  Papi says the mesquite is nice to have.

  He says someday

  when the eight of us kids are all grown

  and the tree is sturdy and tall,

  Mami will come to appreciate

  its simple beauty

  among her delicate roses.

  With Papi about to go work

  on a new carpentry job

  far away from home again

  and Mami looking more troubled every day,

  I think that fiesty little mesquite

  is the least of our problems.

  something’s different

  Despite the beautiful unfurling

  of new spring buds and leaves,

  Mami seems distracted.

  Worry lines burden her forehead

  day and night no matter how hard

  I try to make her smile.

  Her heavy sighs

  brush against our skin

  when we walk by,

  and she reaches for us

  for no reason at all,

  holding us in a fierce embrace.

  While Mami sits at the kitchen table

  with her two closest comadres,

  Lucía and Serafina,

  we sit on the floor with their kids

  playing lotería,

  our tablas set up like bingo cards.

  By the doorway, we are

  just far enough away not to hear

  what they are whispering about.

  Still, I can’t help but notice

  the anxious, sympathetic glances

  Mami’s friends are giving her.

  The room I share with Victoria

  is the one closest to

  Mami and Papi’s bedroom.

  Victoria usually climbs into her bed

  and falls asleep as soon as the lights

  are off. But not me.

  Most nights I lie awake,

  listening to the soft breathing

  of Victoria sleeping

  peacefully beside me.

  Tonight, however, I hear

  Mami in the other room,

  trying to smother

  the sound of her crying

  by having the television on low,

  and the murmur of Papi’s voice

  comforting her

  the way I wish I could.

  chismosa

  I thought I was being clever

  by sitting just outside the kitchen window,

  but I was wrong.

  “¡Chismosa!” Mami chastises me

  when she catches me eavesdropping

  on her and her comadres.

  Then she orders me to go scrub

  the bathrooms, toilets and all.

  After her friends leave,

  Mami calls me into her and Papi’s room.

  “You embarrassed me today,”

  she says, sitting on the edge of the bed

  with her arms folded.

  I sit down cautiously beside her.

  “Secretos should not be kept

  from the oldest daughter,” I tell her.

  “You may be the eldest, Lupita,

  but there are some things

  you are too young to understand,”

  she says firmly, her face still angry—

  disappointed.

  “I know I shouldn’t have

  been listening,” I admit.

  “But I’ve been worried about you.

  Mami, I’m good for more than

  changing diapers and putting little ones

  to sleep. I can bear up when things

  go wrong. You’re the one

  who raised me to be that way.”

  Mami puts her arms around me.

  T
hen she kisses my temple

  and rocks me back and forth

  as if I were a baby.

  But I haven’t been her baby

  in fourteen years.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper

  against her cheek. “I know.”

  My heart aches

  because I have heard the word

  that she keeps tucked away

  behind closed doors.

  “What do you know?” Mami asks.

  We lock eyes,

  and she knows I know.

  “Don’t tell the others,” she begs,

  and I hold her while she cries it out.

  the talk

  “You know what this means,

  don’t you?” Mireya says

  on our way home from school.

  My best friend is staring at me

  like I just slapped the pope.

  “What?” I ask, looking away,

  pretending this is just a routine

  conversation between amiguitas.

  “She’s going to die.”

  “No, she’s not!” I insist,

  stopping midstride to glare at her.

  “Yes, people with cancer die, Lupita.”

  “She’s having an operation,”

  I inform Mireya,

  walking on ahead of her.

  “When?” Mireya presses,

  catching up to me as I round a corner.

  “Soon.” The word leaves my mouth

  quietly, tentatively, because I’m afraid

  to talk about it.

  “That doesn’t mean she’s

  going to beat it,” Mireya says.

  “People with cancer usually die.”

  As we stand at an intersection,

  her words rattle around in my head

  like an old dime

  tumbling down an empty well,

  and I feel hollow inside.

  I press the heel of my shoe

  against the dirt

  and listen to the crunch

  of thin twigs and leaves breaking

  under the weight of my foot.

  The silence between us

  is unbearable.

  “We can’t be friends anymore,” I tell her,

  blinking away my tears.

  “I’m not trying to be mean, Lupita.

  I’m trying to prepare you,” Mireya says.

  She’s as ruthless as a rattlesnake,

  but she can’t just open her big, fat mouth