Buckskin Cocaine Page 10

  I tried to look nonplussed, after hearing that his father was years older than his mother, but frankly it disturbed me. I wondered if he could see that in my eyes and I wondered what else he could see in them, considering that he seemed to be able to manipulate me so well.

  “So, in any case,” he said, adjusting himself, “they met at a party.”

  “A party?” I said. This didn’t seem to fit the profile of either one of them.

  “Oh, not just any party. The kind of party wealthy people go to in this city. My father liked…likes to think of himself as a sophisticated man. Though he grew up with nothing. Ten billion siblings, parents illegal immigrants who worked in restaurants, you know, that whole story,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Yes. That whole story,” I repeated.

  “What? It is a Mexican story. And I know it’s not a particularly interesting one. But it’s his,” he said, turning and looking deeply into the restaurant, his eyes clouding over. He looked back at me. “But my father has tried very hard to distance himself from all of that. He started a scholarship for Latinos, you know, for folks who want to go to college but don’t have the money.”

  “Well, that’s decent of him,” I said.

  “Yes. Decent. Though of course he hasn’t seen his own family in years. There was some sort of big fight. He won’t talk about it. And he doesn’t like how close my mother is to her family.”

  I didn’t like hearing that.

  “Why?”

  He sighed heavily. “I think because he wants to be her only focus. He’s miserably in love with her, and he deals with it by being insanely possessive.”

  I frowned.

  He smiled. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I tightened my mouth. Then I said, “I didn’t know you were psychic. I’ll have to watch my thoughts from here on out.”

  “Oh, you should. They’re very dirty.”

  I rolled my eyes while he laughed.

  “No, Olivia, I know what any woman would be thinking if she were told that this was what his father was like. That this is what the son is like. Let me assure you, I am far more like my mother than my father. For example, my father is very practical, and very intelligent. And hard working, obviously. But he is the least funny man I think I’ve ever met. And my mother is funny. And very nice, by the way. And she loves my father. She just…probably wishes that she hadn’t married so early. And that he wasn’t so jealous.”

  “I see,” I said, sighing deeply.

  “He does cheat though.”

  “Oh,” I said. “How does your mother feel about that.”

  “Frankly, it’s a relief for her. For at least while he’s involved with someone else, the pressure is off of her. And she knows he’ll always come back. And that he does it just to get her attention. It’s all very telenovela.”

  I laughed. Those would come on sometimes in the afternoon, and I liked watching them. It would help me with my Spanish, and they were somehow more fun than the soap operas in English. There was more flare, more drama. More of a sense that they were a performance.

  The waitress came back, steel carafe in hand. “More coffee?” She asked, and I nodded. Tomás also nodded and she poured.

  “You mean I haven’t scared you off?” he asked, and I could tell that through his confidence lay some fear.

  “Well, you’ve scared me. But not scared me off. Yet.”

  “I see.”

  I drank from my cup and wondered what I was doing here, why it was that this person had gotten through when so many hadn’t. I didn’t think of myself as some sort of sacred object, no one could afford to look at themselves that way in my situation, but I did think of myself as an escape artist. And I had never let anyone get in the way of that. And this person could. I didn’t like that.

  “So this party,” I asked, “for the wealthy. Where they met.” I was interested in these kinds of things. They were the kinds of things that I wanted to be invited to someday, the kinds of parties where I felt I would meet the kinds of people who would appreciate me.

  “Yes. Well, it was sort of an after-party, if you will. My mother was in Swan Lake and my father of course had front row seats. And an invite to the after-party. He said he was in love with her from the first step she made onto the stage, but then again, my father has a flair for the dramatic. And he drinks.”

  “Is he an alcoholic?” I asked, then wished I could take it back. But Tomás seemed unoffended.

  “No. Actually, he really can’t take his alcohol, which amuses my mother to no end, because even though she’s not a huge drinker herself, she can drink practically anyone under the table.”

  “I like your mom already.”

  “Me too. She’s my best friend. And she makes sure that my Spanish is on-point. We speak more in Spanish than in English, actually. Which is nice for me, because sometimes we travel, and I never have to feel left out.”

  “Do you travel to Peru?”

  “Yes, and we visit my mother’s family when my father isn’t throwing a temper tantrum about it. My mother is very close to her mother and sisters. And they’re very funny. And we drink and talk and walk to the ocean and swim. They live in Lima. Sometimes I think I want to move there, but I don’t know what I’d do besides mooch off of them. And though they’re not ridiculously poor, they’re not in the kind of financial place where that would be a very nice thing to do. And they’d let me, because they love my mother, and therefore me.”

  “I bet they have a nickname for you,” I said slyly.

  He colored slightly. “Why…how do you…why do you ask that?”

  “I don’t know. I know that Natives do that. And…I just can tell that your aunties are the kind to do that. Come on. Tell me.”

  “Dear God. OK, on one, well two conditions,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes, which was tremendously disconcerting. He leaned towards me. He smelled like sweet almonds, like I had always imagined my mother to smell like.

  “What’s that?” I asked. It was my turn to adjust in my seat.

  “Well, that we finally talk about you. Because somehow you’ve gotten my entire life story out of me without telling me a thing about yourself.”

  “OK,” I said. “We’ll stop talking about you. But what’s the second condition?”

  “That you agree to have dinner with me and my mother next Saturday. It’ll be fun. My father will be gone on business, and my mother and I always have wine and watch a movie and relax.”

  “You’re asking me to meet your mother on the second date?” I said. I shifted again uncomfortably.

  “Oh, this is a date now?” Tomás said. “I thought I told you not to make any large declarations of love but you’re just so enamored of me, you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

  “Don’t tease. Really, can’t we meet her another time? I mean, meeting a parent is sort of, well, serious. And I barely know you. And hardly like you,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “My mother is great, Olivia, you’ll love her. And I promise. She won’t think we’re about to be married. She’s very modern. And hip. You know, she’s a dancer and you guys could talk dance. She’s seen the world.” He sat back and smiled at me mischievously. “Even if you spent the night, she wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

  I looked at him indignantly. “If you think…” I started, and he quickly interrupted.

  “I don’t. But it’s fun to tease you.”

  I sat back and contemplated him for a moment, and he didn’t try to prod me. I liked that.

  “OK. But only if it’s nothing serious.”

  “Relax. Babies on the third date,” he said.

  I couldn’t help it, I smiled a little, though I tried desperately not to.

  “OK. Now pay up. Nickname, please.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That. It’s…well, it’s guapito.”

  I died laughing. “Cutie. Little cutie pants. Little cutie from America,” I said, in a slightly sing-songy manner. He reddened again.<
br />
  “Yes. I guess it does directly translate to…cutie.”

  “Well, guapito, I’ve got to go.”

  “Hey! I thought you were going to tell me about yourself. That was part of the deal,” he said, looking pouty.

  “Next time. At your house. I’ll give you all of that David Copperfield kind of crap.”

  He stood up with me. “You’re very cruel you know. But of course, I like that in a woman.”

  “What a glutton for punishment,” I said, putting on my coat.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, slipping his coat on.

  “That’s not necessary. I live only two blocks away,” I said, not wanting him to see the complex where I lived. It was old and shitty looking. And he was rich. And I wanted to keep him wanting. To keep him not knowing whether he had me or not.

  “Really, Olivia, it’s no trouble. It’s cold.”

  “I like to walk,” I said, heading for the door, Tomás behind me. I could feel the heat of his body behind me, and I tried my best to shrug it off, as if I’d had one too many glasses of red wine.

  He was silent for a moment. “You know…I don’t care where you live. I grew up well. But my parents didn’t. And…so if.,” he said awkwardly, struggling not to insult me.

  It was my turn to color. “That’s not it,” I snapped, and then felt badly. That was it, and he knew it.

  “I’m sure. But really, I’d love to.”

  “OK,” I said softly, and he led me to his car. It was a new looking Subaru, and I stopped myself from saying something about it being a yuppie car. I hated it when I felt that kind of thing because in all honesty, I wanted those things. Badly. And acting like a class warrior would only keep me out.

  On the way home, I was silent. I couldn’t help but feel that I shouldn’t have accepted his offer of a ride. I hardly knew him. And I didn’t want him to see where I lived, however he felt about it. There was a certain kind of dignity I needed to maintain to the outside world, in order to make me feel like I was something that I wasn’t, that I could be something else someday.

  “It’s here,” I said, and Tomás pulled over. “And you don’t need to pull close, I can get out here.”

  He sighed heavily and he turned to me, compassion in his eyes. “No. No way Olivia. I don’t want you to think I’m the kind of guy who drops a girl off and doesn’t walk her to her door.”

  I was silent again.

  “Please. I want to walk you to your door. I don’t care what kind of a door it is,” he said and I could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  “I just…”

  “I know. But Olivia, if you could only see where my mother’s family lives in Peru. And I like it there! And you’re special. Please, let me treat you that way.”

  “OK,” I said, and he slid into a parking spot. I opened the door as he was coming around and smiled awkwardly. He had been coming around to open the door for me.

  He smiled back and I led the way.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He placed his hand on the small of my back lightly and briefly, and I shuddered. When we got to the stairs that led to my door, I paused. “Really, this is far enough.”

  He cocked his head, looking at me with an expression of pure exasperation. “Olivia, you’ve come so far. Let me take you to your door.”

  I felt something screaming inside then, screaming in frustration. I didn’t want to believe this person, I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him in. Not only because I was afraid he would hold me back, but because I feared he would unlock something that I had kept buried for as long as I could remember. And if I let it out, what would I be then? And what if he took it from me?

  “OK,” I said petulantly and he followed me up the stairs.

  At the door, he paused. “Well, goodnight. And see you Saturday. How about I pick you up? At 6:00?”

  “Sure. That would be great,” I said, already feeling nervous. I felt already that I wouldn’t be enough, that his mother would find me lacking.

  “My mother will love you,” he said, briefly touching my arm.

  “OK…guapito,” I said and he closed his eyes briefly.

  “I really wish you hadn’t gotten that out of me. You have special powers.”

  “Goodnight,” I said and opened the door.

  “Goodnight,” he said back, and I could feel his presence outside even as I closed it.

  That night, I lay back on my bed, and thought about Tomás. Dad had been sitting by the TV, asleep, his big head lolling back into the couch, his hand curled around a half-finished beer like a kitten. I had smiled and taken the can from his hand and dumped the remainder in the sink, and thrown it into the trash. I didn’t want to wake him, because he looked so deeply asleep, his face like a gorgeous old bull’s. I had tucked an old pink and blue afghan around him and gotten ready for bed as quietly as possible.

  I felt conflicted. Almost angry even. I had designed an impervious fortress, and somehow Tomás was gently breaking it down. I could picture it in my mind, that fortress, and I often did. It was a castle with a moat. A long, wide deep moat, that contained all kinds of mysterious monsters. Beyond it was everyone I feared being, the girls with babies in their arms, cooing over the soft faces of the children that only meant their destruction. The first one was at fifteen. The second, seventeen. By the time they were in their thirties, they looked ancient, their children clinging to them in the grocery stores like so many demented animals, their faces slack, devoid of humanity, of life. Or they were filled with a kind of stupid rage, striking their children back from the cart, from their arms, from the miles and miles of breakfast cereal in the aisles. The kids would look hurt, then try again, their arms around their heads, blocking the inevitable blow. I had determined to never be like that. Just thinking about it made me shudder, but I often did to remind myself of what happened when people let their emotions get the better of them, when they didn’t think about their futures, when they let the people around them tell them they were nothing without a man, when they let those men control them. I felt revulsion at their simpering faces, their baby-voices developed especially for boys, their constant need for approval from boys who were much more interested in getting it from each other. I watched boys sometimes, and though I respected the jocks for what they were doing, their constant verbal and physical horseplay made them look stupid, vulnerable. And the way they treated their girlfriends, or the girls that surrounded them was abhorrent. I liked being able to control them, to flirt with them, to make them want me and yet never, ever show any vulnerability. I never answered the phone. I never stayed long in a conversation, and I always flirted with the edge of a promise, but I never promised anything, and I certainly didn’t deliver. This wasn’t because I was a good girl, those girls disgusted me more than anyone, the ones who held their virginity up as if it were some sort of prize. What my father didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that I had been on birth control for years, and had on occasion, gotten into a few of the nicer bars downtown and had had sex with a number of men. I knew that it was important that I understood these kind of men, these men in expensive grey suits, with expensive haircuts, bored with their expensive wives that they treated like any other thing that they had bought. But I could see what would make them vulnerable, what I could do to control them. They were bored, their expressions of desperation so close under their skin, it made me laugh. And because my look was sophisticated, and my features very mature, I was never turned away from a bar, or turned away from a man. I was light-skinned enough to look exotic and whenever I was asked about my ethnicity I told them I was European, and they would nod, as if this were not the most obvious fabrication in the world. I liked them married, because rarely was there a sense that they would get attached, though I’d seen one married man who I particularly liked for a while, until I was sick of him. I wasn’t afraid of sex. I was afraid of pregnancy and I was afraid of being vulnerable. Something about Tomás made me feel like I was surging out of control, that he h
ad untapped a dam inside me, and that I didn’t know what I would do once the water had pushed past every gate that I had worked so hard to put up. I decided that when I woke up, I would call him and cancel for Saturday. There was nothing I could learn from him that would help me get out of here. He could only keep me back.

  Every day after work, I picked up the phone, and put it down.

  “You seem strange lately,” Dad said. He was making me breakfast.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “You seem like you’re always thinking about something…someone.”

  I laughed. “Oh, daddy, you know how I feel about boys,” I said, smoothing my robe. It was a silky pink one that I’d found in the thrift store one Saturday. I adored it. I hoped it made me look older.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, putting a fork in a sausage.

  He was silent then, and I knew he knew I was lying.

  “I find them all so booooring. Except for you, of course.”

  He sighed and pushed the eggs around in the pan.

  “You know I’m just scared for you. I want you to get out of here.”

  “Daddy, we’re of one mind here, you know that. I’m much more interested in ballet and taking French and just about anything beyond boys. They’re all children anyway! I mean, if you could only see the boys that I know in school.” I said, trailing off, knowing that I was going on, knowing that I would go to Tomás’ that night, grateful with the knowledge that daddy was working the late shift. All I had to do was tell him that I was going to the coffee shop to study after dinner, and then I’d be scot-free. I nearly hated Tomás.

  Daddy finished the sausages and eggs and made a plate for me. I already had a large cup of coffee in front of me, and moved it aside to make room. I picked at it, trying to eat a bit more than I normally would to make daddy happy.