3rd Story in Thesis (1st draft)
In Between
Matthew had driven out of Puerto Vallarta late in the morning. He had gone North, past Bucerias, to where the road signs weren’t in English to help the tourists. After driving his rental car along a winding dirt road that wrapped itself around a mountain, he had found the ocean again. He stopped his car so that he didn’t drive off the edge of the road and down a cliff, and looked down upon a small village nestled in between the shore and the base of the surrounding mountains. There were only four streets in the village arranged like a tic-tac-toe board, along with a few barely visible paths that led up into the jungle above the village. The houses that had doors offered a small amount of white, green, or blue to the tanned town.
Matthew drove down the mountain anxious, hoping he had found a part of the real Mexico. Puerto Vallarta was filled with tourists. Young couples on their honeymoons, parents trying to hold their kids still long enough to cover them with sunscreen, old people sleeping in chairs by the pool, college kids on spring break who only cared about surfing and drinking. He was tired of that. He knew that Mexico wasn’t condos and volleyball, fake shark-tooth necklaces and cervécas from the bar. He hoped that this tic-tac-toe town was the real Mexico.
He drove into town, going slowly on the uneven dirt road. Parking in an empty lot with a few other cars, he saw an old mule with an old wagon tied to a post. Taking it as a good sign, he stepped out of the car and into the hot sun. He unbuttoned his shirt and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip. Making his way to the beach, he thought about letting the waves wash over his feet and the wind brush against his face. He could hear the waves crashing and the seagulls from the other side of the row of houses in front of him. He walked to the last building in the row, it was a small restaurant. He quickly glanced for anything written in English. Seeing nothing he could read, he smiled and started walking faster to the wind and the waves. He walked around the restaurant, taking his sandals off as soon as he got to the hot white sand, and continued down to the beach.
He heard it before he saw anything. American music. His shoulders dropped as he slowly trudged over the hill of sand before the beach leveled off, hoping to see an empty beach but now knowing it wasn’t going to happen. He looked over the top and saw what he feared. Surfboards and tan lines, blonde hair and blue eyes, Hawaiian shirts and a straw hats. He tried to drown out the sounds of his culture as he walked to the water, his eyes straight ahead.
It was his first time in the Pacific. He had wanted to wait for a more special occasion but had, at that point, grown frustrated and given up. He walked into an oncoming wave and tensed up. The frigid water of the Atlantic had been the only ocean waters he had known. In comparison, this was stepping into a warm bathtub. It was certainly warmer than the last time he had been in the ocean, which was months before. He welcomed the change.
A surfboard floated to him on a wave and bumped against his shin. He put his foot down and held it in place. Two young men, probably college kids, jogged towards him from deeper waters, lifting their knees high into the air as they stepped over the waves. They wore matching swimming trunks, matching bandanas, matching puka shell necklaces, and matching tan lines around their neck and above their elbows. They were probably brothers.
“Thanks for snagging my board, bro!” the one on the left yelled to Matthew. “That last one got wild.”
“Sure thing,” he said, letting Lefty pick up the board.
“Dude, you ate it hard,” Righty said to Lefty, giving him a shove. “That wave was pussy anyways, you fag.”
“Where’s your board?” Lefty asked Matthew.
“I don’t surf,” Matthew said, waiting for the two brothers to leave.
Lefty had a confused look on his face, as if Matthew’s response hadn’t been possible. After a few moments, he shook it off. “Aw man, you oughta pick it up,” he said, “Nothing like it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Matthew said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty dank,” Righty said, “Almost as dank those mad headies we just lit up.”
Matthew closed his eyes, dreading the annoyance of what he knew was coming next.
“You get high, man?” Lefty asked lowering his voice, though nobody was nearly close enough to hear them.
Matthew could see his savior in the distance ahead, growing as it approached. “Waves coming,” he said, nodding his head upward. “Big one, too.”
Lefty and Righty turned their heads back to the ocean. Seeing the waves, they ran out to meet them, quickly forgetting about Matthew and their invitation to smoke him up. As they splashed through the water yelling like children Matthew walked down the rest of the beach. He saw more of the same. College kids, covered in beads and bandanas, smoking bowls. Vapid fake-blonde girls with big sunglasses, lying on the beach tanning. Their boyfriends, muscular and too proud to put on sunscreen, though they needed it badly, tossing footballs or frisbees on the beach or leaning at an outside bar at the back of the beach, complaining because the bartenders and waiters don’t speak enough English for their liking. Matthew hated America now that he was out of it, but somehow it had followed him here. Even followed him to this tic-tac-toe village.
Matthew walked to the end of the beach and what appeared to be the end of the town. He came to a river that separated the village from the mountain. It was a small river, maybe twenty feet across, but fast-moving and deep. The river came down from the mountains that surrounded the mountains, the mountains that tried to hide the village, the mountains that didn’t do a good enough job.
Matthew walked back toward the center of the village, following what was left of an old fence that stood on his side of the river. The fence was made of trees, split down the middle and staked into the ground, that were mostly rotted and falling over. He walked through an alleyway and onto the red clay street, peering into open doorways, looking for a place without any tourists. He crossed a street, stopping for a legion of Mexican boys on old rusty bicycles who kicked up a red dust storm behind them, and sat down at a small round table on a wooden porch of a small restaurant. He was the only customer there.
There had not been a cloud in the sky for two days and Matthew loved the tan he had developed. He didn’t turn pink or orange or burnt beet-red like most of the gringos. The Cherokee in his blood turned his skin the color of brick or bark on a redwood. His tan and nearly black hair made him blend in with the natives here better than most. Sitting in the sun, Matthew wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
A waiter came out of the restaurant, blinking his eyes and holding his open hand over his brow to see against the blinding light outside. He looked to be about forty, barrel-chested and with thick limbs, and a mustache that took up most of the room on his face.
“Hola,” the waiter said, followed by a fast flow of Spanish that, to Matthew, might as well have been gibberish.
“No hablo español,” Matthew said.
“Aah,” the man said, “Un momento.” The waiter jumped back inside the restaurant and came back out with a worn menu that had been carefully handwritten and put it down on the table in front of Matthew.
“Limonada,” Matthew said, peering over the menu looking for any words he could recognize. “And… pollo, is that chicken?” He brought his hands to his shoulders and flapped his arms as if they were wings.
“Si, chick-hen!” the waiter said, laughing and mimicking the arm-flapping motions. “Si si, pollo es chick-hen.”
“Bueno,” Matthew said. He laughed with the waiter over the chicken motions. “Si, el pollo.” He slid the menu back to the waiter. The waiter took it and walked back inside, still chuckling quietly. Matthew sat, waiting for his food, and watched the locals move about the small town. The battalion of children bicyclists passed every few minutes, they must have doing laps. An old man whose arm was a stump at the elbow came begging for money. Matthew gave him fifty pesos and was rewarded with a firm handshake and a smile that was both grateful and proud. A teenage boy rode by on the wagon and old mule that Matthew had seen in the empty lot. The young Mexican steered the mule around dips and humps and in between deep potholes with an expertise beyond his years.
The waiter came, handed Matthew his limonada, and stepped back inside without saying a word. Taking a sip from his drink, it was the strongest lemonade Matthew had ever tasted. He set it down on the table and decided to let the melting ice cubes water it down.
Matthew thought about how, four hundred years ago, these people would have been considered Mayan or Aztec, and not just dirt-poor Mexicans. It was a shame. He could imagine the village as it may have looked hundreds of years ago, before the Conquistadors and the Pox, before the Musket and the Firewater.
A girl, who looked a few years younger than Matthew, stepped out from inside the restaurant. She was the most gorgeous Mexican girl he had ever seen while in the country. She had no makeup and didn’t need any. Her dark hair was held up in a bun, with loose strands falling down about her head. Her white skirt ended slightly below the knee and the dull green top she wore hung loosely on her thin frame. Her eyes were green. Matthew didn’t notice the food she was carrying until she set it down in front of him; a basket of flour tortillas and a bowl of guacamole.
“Gracias,” Matthew said, not even looking at the food.
“You are welcome,” the girl said, “Your meal will be soon ready.” She spoke slowly and carefully.
“You speak English,” he said.
She had turned to go back inside but stopped. “Yes, I know small English,” she said smiling.
“It’s very good,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, still smiling, and stepped back inside.
The tortillas and guacamole was different than what Matthew was used to. The chips weren’t salty, but not bland either, and the guacamole was somewhat spicy. He had eaten chips and guacamole hundreds of times before, but never like this. He relished the change. Best of all, the melted ice had perfected his limonada. Matthew hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and devoured the food as fast as he could; missing it once it was gone. The girl came back outside as Matthew was sweeping the inside of the bowl of guacamole with his finger to get every last bit. She covered her mouth with her hand to try and hide her laughter.
“Sorry,” Matthew said, “This is the first I’ve eaten today.”
“Oh, I hope food will end hunger.” She slid a plate with pieces of roasted chicken in front of him and dropped a pair of silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin beside the plate.
“Gracias,” he said as he she picked up the empty bowls.
“Would you want more?” she asked, holding up the bowls.
“Yes, more please. And another limonada, please,” he said.
The girl nodded and turned to step back inside.
“Wait.” She stopped and turned back to him. “What’s your name?” he asked.
She broke a smile again, this time letting her teeth show. “Adoncia,” she said, and stepped back inside the restaurant.
Matthew brought his attention back to his food, ignoring the fork and knife and picking the pieces of pollo up with his hand eating around the bones. It tasted simple, but delicious; sage, lemon, salt, and the chicken’s natural flavor. His glass was empty and his plate just held bare bones by the time Adoncia came out again, carrying a glass of limonada, a basket of tortillas, and a bowl of guacamole.
“Si, very hungry,” she said, placing more food in front of him. She stood for a moment, looking at him. “Is it good if I ask what is your name?”
“Yes Adoncia, it’s very good,” he said, “My name’s Matthew. Why don’t you sit down?” He pushed the chair next to him out with his foot.
“I cannot, I work,” she said, giggling.
“I’m sure the other waiter can handle it,” he said. “Besides, I’m the only customer here right now.”
“Alright,” she said, sitting down with her shoulders straight and her hands on her knees. “I can sit, Matt-hue.”
He slid the basket of tortillas a little closer to her. “Have some if you want,” he said. “My treat.”
“Treat?” she asked.
“Yeah, treat,” he said. “It means have all you want, since I’m buying.”
“Thank you,” she said. She took a single chip and ate it slowly, with her mouth shut the whole time. She wouldn’t take another.
“How old are you, Adoncia?” he asked, sipping his limonada.
“Seventeen years,” she said, straightening her skirt across her lap.
“Oh really? Well I’m twenty years,” he said smiling.
“Twenty?” she said, her eyes widening. She leaned forward and rested her hands on the table. “We are very close then.”
“Yes, that’s one way to put it,” he said, laughing. “You speak English very well, Adoncia. How did you learn it?”
“Oh, I have English dictionary, and books for speaking English, and I read the American newspapers that visitors forget here, and we have one American station on the television, and I practice speaking with the visitors who eat here,” she said. She was excited now and trying not to speak too fast. “I want to live in America very much. I do not enjoy life here.”
“Really? I love this place,” Matthew said. “The only thing I don’t like about here are all the Americans.”
“But Matt-hue, you are American, si?” she said, looking confused.
“Unfortunately,” he said. “But I think I would rather live here than in America, and just be Mexican.”
“We should change life,” she said. “You live in Mexico and I live in America.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said laughing, “But I have to go back. I would be leaving too much.”
“I would not,” she said, bowing her head. “You can take me with you.”
“No, you wouldn’t like it,” he said. “We have two feet of snow and everyday is freezing. Trust me, February is much better here.”
“I have never seen snow before,” she said. He lips were slightly pouting, but she was just as beautiful. “And I think I will like the cold.”
“And how will you get there?” he asked, teasing her.
“You will marry me, and we live in America. In cold and snow.”
“Oh I will, huh?” he laughed.
She reached across the table quickly taking his right hand in both of hers. Looking at her eyes, Matthew knew she meant what she had said. Every word of it.
“Please,” she begged, squeezing his hand.
Matthew stopped thinking. Shifting his chair towards Adoncia, he leaned close and kissed her forehead. He moved his face down over hers; quickly kissing her brow, then her eyelid, cheek, and chin. She pulled his hand close and their mouths met. They kissed quickly, pulling back and pushing forward, again and again. She wrapped her frail arms around him and buried her face in his collar.
“Gracias,” she whispered. Matthew felt a cool tear land on his chest and quickly evaporate.
“Adoncia!” roared a voice from the entranceway. The waiter stood, his eyes glaring. His nostrils flared and his fists were clenched.
“Padre!” Adoncia said, then shouted out a barrage of Spanish.
“Christ, he’s your dad?” Matthew said, pulling away.
The waiter stomped over to Matthew and shoved him hard. Matthew’s chair tipped over and he fell sprawling onto the floor of the wooden deck. The waiter then grabbed his daughter by the wrist and pulled her out of her seat and into the air. He dragged her inside the restaurant, both of them trying to shout over the other, while Matthew picked himself up off the floor. Lifting his chair up and sliding it back into place at the table, he heard a heavy hand slap a gentle face, followed by a gasp, and another slap. Matthew shut his eyes and took out his wallet. He took out all the money he was carrying-nearly eight hundred pesos-and tucked it under the basket of tortillas. It was the only real help he could give her.
He stepped off the deck and walked through the dusty red streets, got into his car and drove through the winding mountain road to his hotel in the city. He didn’t leave the city again that week.
Matthew had driven out of Puerto Vallarta late in the morning. He had gone North, past Bucerias, to where the road signs weren’t in English to help the tourists. After driving his rental car along a winding dirt road that wrapped itself around a mountain, he had found the ocean again. He stopped his car so that he didn’t drive off the edge of the road and down a cliff, and looked down upon a small village nestled in between the shore and the base of the surrounding mountains. There were only four streets in the village arranged like a tic-tac-toe board, along with a few barely visible paths that led up into the jungle above the village. The houses that had doors offered a small amount of white, green, or blue to the tanned town.
Matthew drove down the mountain anxious, hoping he had found a part of the real Mexico. Puerto Vallarta was filled with tourists. Young couples on their honeymoons, parents trying to hold their kids still long enough to cover them with sunscreen, old people sleeping in chairs by the pool, college kids on spring break who only cared about surfing and drinking. He was tired of that. He knew that Mexico wasn’t condos and volleyball, fake shark-tooth necklaces and cervécas from the bar. He hoped that this tic-tac-toe town was the real Mexico.
He drove into town, going slowly on the uneven dirt road. Parking in an empty lot with a few other cars, he saw an old mule with an old wagon tied to a post. Taking it as a good sign, he stepped out of the car and into the hot sun. He unbuttoned his shirt and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip. Making his way to the beach, he thought about letting the waves wash over his feet and the wind brush against his face. He could hear the waves crashing and the seagulls from the other side of the row of houses in front of him. He walked to the last building in the row, it was a small restaurant. He quickly glanced for anything written in English. Seeing nothing he could read, he smiled and started walking faster to the wind and the waves. He walked around the restaurant, taking his sandals off as soon as he got to the hot white sand, and continued down to the beach.
He heard it before he saw anything. American music. His shoulders dropped as he slowly trudged over the hill of sand before the beach leveled off, hoping to see an empty beach but now knowing it wasn’t going to happen. He looked over the top and saw what he feared. Surfboards and tan lines, blonde hair and blue eyes, Hawaiian shirts and a straw hats. He tried to drown out the sounds of his culture as he walked to the water, his eyes straight ahead.
It was his first time in the Pacific. He had wanted to wait for a more special occasion but had, at that point, grown frustrated and given up. He walked into an oncoming wave and tensed up. The frigid water of the Atlantic had been the only ocean waters he had known. In comparison, this was stepping into a warm bathtub. It was certainly warmer than the last time he had been in the ocean, which was months before. He welcomed the change.
A surfboard floated to him on a wave and bumped against his shin. He put his foot down and held it in place. Two young men, probably college kids, jogged towards him from deeper waters, lifting their knees high into the air as they stepped over the waves. They wore matching swimming trunks, matching bandanas, matching puka shell necklaces, and matching tan lines around their neck and above their elbows. They were probably brothers.
“Thanks for snagging my board, bro!” the one on the left yelled to Matthew. “That last one got wild.”
“Sure thing,” he said, letting Lefty pick up the board.
“Dude, you ate it hard,” Righty said to Lefty, giving him a shove. “That wave was pussy anyways, you fag.”
“Where’s your board?” Lefty asked Matthew.
“I don’t surf,” Matthew said, waiting for the two brothers to leave.
Lefty had a confused look on his face, as if Matthew’s response hadn’t been possible. After a few moments, he shook it off. “Aw man, you oughta pick it up,” he said, “Nothing like it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Matthew said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty dank,” Righty said, “Almost as dank those mad headies we just lit up.”
Matthew closed his eyes, dreading the annoyance of what he knew was coming next.
“You get high, man?” Lefty asked lowering his voice, though nobody was nearly close enough to hear them.
Matthew could see his savior in the distance ahead, growing as it approached. “Waves coming,” he said, nodding his head upward. “Big one, too.”
Lefty and Righty turned their heads back to the ocean. Seeing the waves, they ran out to meet them, quickly forgetting about Matthew and their invitation to smoke him up. As they splashed through the water yelling like children Matthew walked down the rest of the beach. He saw more of the same. College kids, covered in beads and bandanas, smoking bowls. Vapid fake-blonde girls with big sunglasses, lying on the beach tanning. Their boyfriends, muscular and too proud to put on sunscreen, though they needed it badly, tossing footballs or frisbees on the beach or leaning at an outside bar at the back of the beach, complaining because the bartenders and waiters don’t speak enough English for their liking. Matthew hated America now that he was out of it, but somehow it had followed him here. Even followed him to this tic-tac-toe village.
Matthew walked to the end of the beach and what appeared to be the end of the town. He came to a river that separated the village from the mountain. It was a small river, maybe twenty feet across, but fast-moving and deep. The river came down from the mountains that surrounded the mountains, the mountains that tried to hide the village, the mountains that didn’t do a good enough job.
Matthew walked back toward the center of the village, following what was left of an old fence that stood on his side of the river. The fence was made of trees, split down the middle and staked into the ground, that were mostly rotted and falling over. He walked through an alleyway and onto the red clay street, peering into open doorways, looking for a place without any tourists. He crossed a street, stopping for a legion of Mexican boys on old rusty bicycles who kicked up a red dust storm behind them, and sat down at a small round table on a wooden porch of a small restaurant. He was the only customer there.
There had not been a cloud in the sky for two days and Matthew loved the tan he had developed. He didn’t turn pink or orange or burnt beet-red like most of the gringos. The Cherokee in his blood turned his skin the color of brick or bark on a redwood. His tan and nearly black hair made him blend in with the natives here better than most. Sitting in the sun, Matthew wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
A waiter came out of the restaurant, blinking his eyes and holding his open hand over his brow to see against the blinding light outside. He looked to be about forty, barrel-chested and with thick limbs, and a mustache that took up most of the room on his face.
“Hola,” the waiter said, followed by a fast flow of Spanish that, to Matthew, might as well have been gibberish.
“No hablo español,” Matthew said.
“Aah,” the man said, “Un momento.” The waiter jumped back inside the restaurant and came back out with a worn menu that had been carefully handwritten and put it down on the table in front of Matthew.
“Limonada,” Matthew said, peering over the menu looking for any words he could recognize. “And… pollo, is that chicken?” He brought his hands to his shoulders and flapped his arms as if they were wings.
“Si, chick-hen!” the waiter said, laughing and mimicking the arm-flapping motions. “Si si, pollo es chick-hen.”
“Bueno,” Matthew said. He laughed with the waiter over the chicken motions. “Si, el pollo.” He slid the menu back to the waiter. The waiter took it and walked back inside, still chuckling quietly. Matthew sat, waiting for his food, and watched the locals move about the small town. The battalion of children bicyclists passed every few minutes, they must have doing laps. An old man whose arm was a stump at the elbow came begging for money. Matthew gave him fifty pesos and was rewarded with a firm handshake and a smile that was both grateful and proud. A teenage boy rode by on the wagon and old mule that Matthew had seen in the empty lot. The young Mexican steered the mule around dips and humps and in between deep potholes with an expertise beyond his years.
The waiter came, handed Matthew his limonada, and stepped back inside without saying a word. Taking a sip from his drink, it was the strongest lemonade Matthew had ever tasted. He set it down on the table and decided to let the melting ice cubes water it down.
Matthew thought about how, four hundred years ago, these people would have been considered Mayan or Aztec, and not just dirt-poor Mexicans. It was a shame. He could imagine the village as it may have looked hundreds of years ago, before the Conquistadors and the Pox, before the Musket and the Firewater.
A girl, who looked a few years younger than Matthew, stepped out from inside the restaurant. She was the most gorgeous Mexican girl he had ever seen while in the country. She had no makeup and didn’t need any. Her dark hair was held up in a bun, with loose strands falling down about her head. Her white skirt ended slightly below the knee and the dull green top she wore hung loosely on her thin frame. Her eyes were green. Matthew didn’t notice the food she was carrying until she set it down in front of him; a basket of flour tortillas and a bowl of guacamole.
“Gracias,” Matthew said, not even looking at the food.
“You are welcome,” the girl said, “Your meal will be soon ready.” She spoke slowly and carefully.
“You speak English,” he said.
She had turned to go back inside but stopped. “Yes, I know small English,” she said smiling.
“It’s very good,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, still smiling, and stepped back inside.
The tortillas and guacamole was different than what Matthew was used to. The chips weren’t salty, but not bland either, and the guacamole was somewhat spicy. He had eaten chips and guacamole hundreds of times before, but never like this. He relished the change. Best of all, the melted ice had perfected his limonada. Matthew hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and devoured the food as fast as he could; missing it once it was gone. The girl came back outside as Matthew was sweeping the inside of the bowl of guacamole with his finger to get every last bit. She covered her mouth with her hand to try and hide her laughter.
“Sorry,” Matthew said, “This is the first I’ve eaten today.”
“Oh, I hope food will end hunger.” She slid a plate with pieces of roasted chicken in front of him and dropped a pair of silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin beside the plate.
“Gracias,” he said as he she picked up the empty bowls.
“Would you want more?” she asked, holding up the bowls.
“Yes, more please. And another limonada, please,” he said.
The girl nodded and turned to step back inside.
“Wait.” She stopped and turned back to him. “What’s your name?” he asked.
She broke a smile again, this time letting her teeth show. “Adoncia,” she said, and stepped back inside the restaurant.
Matthew brought his attention back to his food, ignoring the fork and knife and picking the pieces of pollo up with his hand eating around the bones. It tasted simple, but delicious; sage, lemon, salt, and the chicken’s natural flavor. His glass was empty and his plate just held bare bones by the time Adoncia came out again, carrying a glass of limonada, a basket of tortillas, and a bowl of guacamole.
“Si, very hungry,” she said, placing more food in front of him. She stood for a moment, looking at him. “Is it good if I ask what is your name?”
“Yes Adoncia, it’s very good,” he said, “My name’s Matthew. Why don’t you sit down?” He pushed the chair next to him out with his foot.
“I cannot, I work,” she said, giggling.
“I’m sure the other waiter can handle it,” he said. “Besides, I’m the only customer here right now.”
“Alright,” she said, sitting down with her shoulders straight and her hands on her knees. “I can sit, Matt-hue.”
He slid the basket of tortillas a little closer to her. “Have some if you want,” he said. “My treat.”
“Treat?” she asked.
“Yeah, treat,” he said. “It means have all you want, since I’m buying.”
“Thank you,” she said. She took a single chip and ate it slowly, with her mouth shut the whole time. She wouldn’t take another.
“How old are you, Adoncia?” he asked, sipping his limonada.
“Seventeen years,” she said, straightening her skirt across her lap.
“Oh really? Well I’m twenty years,” he said smiling.
“Twenty?” she said, her eyes widening. She leaned forward and rested her hands on the table. “We are very close then.”
“Yes, that’s one way to put it,” he said, laughing. “You speak English very well, Adoncia. How did you learn it?”
“Oh, I have English dictionary, and books for speaking English, and I read the American newspapers that visitors forget here, and we have one American station on the television, and I practice speaking with the visitors who eat here,” she said. She was excited now and trying not to speak too fast. “I want to live in America very much. I do not enjoy life here.”
“Really? I love this place,” Matthew said. “The only thing I don’t like about here are all the Americans.”
“But Matt-hue, you are American, si?” she said, looking confused.
“Unfortunately,” he said. “But I think I would rather live here than in America, and just be Mexican.”
“We should change life,” she said. “You live in Mexico and I live in America.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said laughing, “But I have to go back. I would be leaving too much.”
“I would not,” she said, bowing her head. “You can take me with you.”
“No, you wouldn’t like it,” he said. “We have two feet of snow and everyday is freezing. Trust me, February is much better here.”
“I have never seen snow before,” she said. He lips were slightly pouting, but she was just as beautiful. “And I think I will like the cold.”
“And how will you get there?” he asked, teasing her.
“You will marry me, and we live in America. In cold and snow.”
“Oh I will, huh?” he laughed.
She reached across the table quickly taking his right hand in both of hers. Looking at her eyes, Matthew knew she meant what she had said. Every word of it.
“Please,” she begged, squeezing his hand.
Matthew stopped thinking. Shifting his chair towards Adoncia, he leaned close and kissed her forehead. He moved his face down over hers; quickly kissing her brow, then her eyelid, cheek, and chin. She pulled his hand close and their mouths met. They kissed quickly, pulling back and pushing forward, again and again. She wrapped her frail arms around him and buried her face in his collar.
“Gracias,” she whispered. Matthew felt a cool tear land on his chest and quickly evaporate.
“Adoncia!” roared a voice from the entranceway. The waiter stood, his eyes glaring. His nostrils flared and his fists were clenched.
“Padre!” Adoncia said, then shouted out a barrage of Spanish.
“Christ, he’s your dad?” Matthew said, pulling away.
The waiter stomped over to Matthew and shoved him hard. Matthew’s chair tipped over and he fell sprawling onto the floor of the wooden deck. The waiter then grabbed his daughter by the wrist and pulled her out of her seat and into the air. He dragged her inside the restaurant, both of them trying to shout over the other, while Matthew picked himself up off the floor. Lifting his chair up and sliding it back into place at the table, he heard a heavy hand slap a gentle face, followed by a gasp, and another slap. Matthew shut his eyes and took out his wallet. He took out all the money he was carrying-nearly eight hundred pesos-and tucked it under the basket of tortillas. It was the only real help he could give her.
He stepped off the deck and walked through the dusty red streets, got into his car and drove through the winding mountain road to his hotel in the city. He didn’t leave the city again that week.