Apá
In the evening, at her sitter’s house, Mari got to eat her favorite brand name Kraft macaroni and cheese dinner, the kind in the shape of her favorite cartoon. Her mom packed a lunch for her, but the off brand peanut butter and jelly on dry crusted bread could not compare. She sat in the kitchen on the high stool wearing her sun bleached purple striped summer dress, swinging her legs back and forth absent-mindedly. She watched her sitter drown the pot once full of pasta into a sudsy pool in the sink. Behind her simple cream apron she wore a black blouse littered with tiny white flowers, jeans so distressed by age their blackness was vague in comparison to the blouse, the zipper of her jeans near extinction as they were held up by a small key ring, and her tiny ashy feet were housed by dark tan huaraches threatening to come undone.
A shiver crept up Mari’s spine when she heard the roar of the garage door start. Boots were kicked off against the door and keys jangled the lock open. Everyone in the house either addressed him by “Don Florencio” or “Apá,” one being an address of respect, the other one of adoration. She did not want to address him at all. She stayed perfectly still, if not for the trembling fork in her hand that hovered above her bowl of cheesy pasta. As he drew near, a large swollen and calloused hand smudged with black gripped her shoulder. The fork clanked into the bowl, its sound rang into the ceiling. Que estas comiendo, mija? The answer was on her lips, but she could not emit sound. Okay pues, he said dismissively. He lingered in the kitchen to greet his wife in the floral shirt. His massive stature seemed to encapsulate her as he bent over for a kiss. Mari darted her eyes away, furrowing there affection in disapproval.
When it was safe to look again, she watched Don Florencio hobble into the dining room directly across from her. He hunched over a steaming bowl of pozole. You couldn’t see his face underneath the brim of his black cotton baseball cap with the words Hecho en Mexico emblazoned on the front, but his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his black and blue flannel, which was neatly buttoned down his front, rolled up to the elbow for his meal exposing his intensely tanned and leathery forearms, was in perfect view. She scoffed at his deep blue jeans with a brown Kirkland tag on the back, being held up with a gaudy buckle of white and teal jewels. His faintly yellow socks traversed back and forth, kneading the rug below. He looked up and Mari quickly looked down to stab at her cheesy pasta.
The door bell rang, and Don Florencio scraped his chair against the floor as he pushed away from the table. He greeted Mari’s mom at the door. Her face shown brightly with sweat, her collared shirt was slightly askew and her knees were dusted with white. Le dimos la que ella le gusta para comer, he said to her. Ay que te dije no le das esa cochinada caro. Mari heard them chuckle tenderly as they embraced with familiarity. In that moment, Mari looked upon her cheesy pasta with an intent focus and sudden clarity, a simultaneous feeling of shame and appreciation filling her. Her mom called for her, jolting Mari into a flurry of commotion, stuffing her precious but tattered coloring books and disheveled naked barbie dolls into her backpack. Say bye bye Apá, her mom told her. Looking into his delicate gray eyes, as if for the first time, Mari said, Bye bye Apá.
Translations:
Que estas comiendo, mija? What are you eating, sweetie?
Okay pues. Okay then.
Le dimos la que ella le gusta para comer. We gave her the one she likes to eat.
Ay que te dije no le das esa cochinada caro. Ugh I told you not to give her that expensive crap.