Cholo

Most thirty-one-year-old men didn’t spend a lot of time with their mother, but I did. I loved her dearly, but the amount of time I spent with her wasn’t all by choice. She was more demanding of my time than I was willing to offer her by choice.

In her eyes, I was the man in the family.

I took a sip of coffee. “Do you remember Lucy?”

My mother was always cooking something. It was her way of relaxing. She spread masa on a cornhusk, sprinkled pork on top, and then added a few thin slices of green chile. She rolled it methodically, and then glanced over her shoulder.

“Lucy? The little puta across the street?”

Puta meant whore in Spanish. It didn’t surprise me to hear my mother say such a thing, but I was shocked to hear her say it about Lucy.

“Mother,” I howled. “She was--”

“She had a baby, and they said it was her little sister.” She shook her head. “We knew. I saw her when she was embarazada.”

“You knew Alexandra was her daughter?”

“Was that her name? Alexandra? A pretty name for the daughter of a--”

I glared at her. “Don’t say it.”

She grinned. “Whore.”

My mother was the daughter of Mexican immigrants who had both become US citizens. She was raised by Spanish speaking parents who did their best to instill traditional Hispanic values in her.

Despite their efforts, when she was in her early twenties, she married an Irish-Catholic man she was madly in love with. Her husband fathered my sister, and then me. One day, weeks before my first birthday, he went to work and never returned home.

He was never seen or heard from again. By anyone.

To this day, she still loves him, and has never been in another relationship. The separation, at least in my opinion, left her bitter.

“She’s not a whore,” I said.

She turned to face me and wiped her hands on her apron. “She paraded up and down the street in clothes that would fit her daughter. Tetas everywhere. No brasier. She came home from the bars when you were getting up to go to school.”

“I thought she worked nights.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re no idiota. Don’t act like one.”

I let out a sigh and then took another sip of coffee. It was quite possible my unresolved teenage crush had left me blind to who Lucy really was. I tried to recall specific things about her, but fell short.

She prepared another tamale. “Why do you ask about her? Are you lonely for a wife?”

“I’m not getting married, mother. I just…” I stood and walked to the sink. “I saw her the other day.”

As I rinsed my cup, she set the tamale aside and started on another.

“Don’t get mad and leave. I’m not done talking,” she snapped.

“I’m not leaving,” I said.

“Sit down,” she said over her shoulder. “You need to eat something before you go.”

“I’ve eaten. I ate early.”

“Eat again. You’re a big boy. You need to eat.”

“I need to get to work.”

“Tell me why you ask about the puta.”

I rolled my eyes and sat down. “I saw her. I was just asking.”

“You see people every day, and no questions,” she said, still focused on her tamale production. “Why you ask?”

“Her daughter was in trouble. She came to me looking for help. I just wondered what you remembered about her.”

“In trouble how?”

“Not really trouble. She was…” I paused, struggling with how to continue. Before I had a chance to structure what I was going to say, she asked again.

“In trouble how?”

“Her boyfriend was beating her,” I said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth.

She glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with me. “Did you fix it?”

I let out a sigh. “I did.”

She smiled and turned around. “You’re a good boy.”

“How old is Alexandra? Fifteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“It’s not possible,” she said.

“She was eleven when they moved. It’s been ten years.”

She looked at me. “Ten years? Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I was twenty-one.”

“So why you ask about the puta?” she asked. “She’s no good for you.”

“I was just asking. Making conversation, mother.”

“We make conversations about what we wish to speak of. Listen to your mother. She’s no good for you.”

She was right. I wanted her opinion of Alexandra, and whether or not she thought my interest in her would be awkward, disrespectful, or too lop-sided regarding age. Asking while she was in one of her moods could produce answers I didn’t want to hear.

I stood. “I was thinking about going by to check on Alexandra.”

She turned around and wiped her hands against her apron. She looked into my eyes, and while she did, her mouth curled into a sly grin. “You like the daughter?”

I leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m just checking on her. I’ve got to go.”

“Is she pretty?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

“She looks like her mother.”

She wrinkled her brow. “She looks like a whore?”

“She’s beautiful. She looks like the Virgin Mary,” I said sarcastically.

“Bring her for dinner,” she said. “But not the puta.”

I kissed her again. “I’m going to work.”

“Bring her for dinner.”

I shook my head and turned toward the door. “I’m going to work.”

“Everyone must eat. Bring her for dinner.”

“Goodbye mother.”

“You’re growing old,” she said. “You need to get married.”

Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. I had always told myself whenever I decided to marry, my devotions would be sincere, and I’d remain a one-woman man for the rest of my life.

For me to be tied down now – and limited to one woman – was laughable. My previous intentions with women had never been bad, but they certainly hadn’t been good, either. My thoughts about Alexandra, however, had been limited to curiosity.

At least that’s what I was trying to convince myself.