Page 70 of The Crush
“Only ten?” I ask, trying to keep my tone lightly teasing so that I don’t diminish her enthusiasm.
“Well, I have some recipes from my family and…” She sidesteps a group of bags on her way to the kitchen table where she places her hand gently on an open book. The aged and stained pages are bound together in a faded red cover, the recipes written in ink and in pencil. “I also have some from yours.”
I stare at the cookbook for a few long, memory-filled moments, the sudden familiar pressure in my chest growing as one in particular drifts to the surface.
I’d been small, sitting in my father’s chair as I flipped through the pages of a chapter book, and it was the laugh that had caughtmy attention. My mamá’s soft laugh flowing out of the kitchen along with music from the radio. I can’t even remember what song it was, the melody getting lost in the sound of my parents talking, but I can remember how they looked. So young then, several years younger even than I am now.
My dad had hugged her from behind as she stood at the sink, then gently shook her hands free of the soap bubbles, some still clinging to her arms as he spun her to face him. She had laughed again, that smile that would light up her whole face.
Then he had taken one step forward, my mamá one step back, and just like that, they were dancing. Moving perfectly in time with one another, right there in the middle of the kitchen. Effortless. Every spin, every dip, every step. As if they’d done it a thousand times. They probably had.
My eyes go back to Isabel, watching her watch me as I walk in and reach for her. Thread my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and tilt her head back so I can crush my mouth against hers. I can feel her smile as I kiss her, feel her wrap her arms around my waist, pull me to her tighter. And even though we’re standing still, I would swear we’re dancing, too.
Fifty-Four
Isabel
Gabe shows up again right around three o’clock, the path of marigold flowers I laid for Día de Muertos rustling in his wake as he walks in.
His timing conveniently aligns with when I am putting the posole on to simmer. Most of the other dishes for today are done, waiting to be added to the ofrenda, while the leftover ingredients are tucked away into the packed fridge next to the pork, chicken, and red chili sauce already prepped for tomorrow’s tamales.
“Smells good in here.” Gabe pops a piece of marinated chicken from Daniel’s cutting board in his mouth, not seeming to care that the chicken is right out of the oven and fully capable of burning him. He grins in approval. “Tastes good, too.”
“Does it?” I ask, immediately beaming from ear to ear. “I wasn’t sure it had turned out.”
Gabe nods encouragingly, and Daniel’s head swings from giving my brother a look of exasperation to me. “I told you it was good.Severaltimes.”
“Yeah, but you’re a bit, um…biased. Gabe would tell me if it was truly terrible.”
“I would,” Gabe agrees, stealing one more piece of chicken before Daniel warns him away. He moves to the table instead, drapingthe garment bag he brought with him over the chair next to Tadeo and giving the Ríos patriarch an affectionate pat on the back in greeting. “It’s definitely better than your birthday cake.”
“I wasseven,” I remind him, still a bit wounded that it had been declared inedible by the entire family, including Gabe. “The next one will be better.”
“We’ll see,” Gabe shoots back, examining the pumpkins on the table. “Your birthday is in a few weeks, isn’t it, Danny?”
“Nope,” Daniel replies quickly, going back to shredding chicken as Tadeo and I quickly correct, “Yes.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see how biased he really is then,” Gabe replies, patting the front pocket of his button-up and frowning when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Fortunately, he locates the lost object a moment later in the form of a thin black marker tucked behind his ear. “I can’t believe no one has carved these pumpkins yet after I risked my life along with all the other last-minute shoppers this morning,” he says, sounding aggrieved. “Can you hand me a sharp knife and a spoon, hermanita?”
No sooner is the question out of his mouth than he starts to sketch with his tongue sticking out over his bottom lip, Tadeo and I both grinning at the way he seems to barely register his asked-for tools appearing at his side.
“Think I’ll go start the evening rounds,” Tadeo says as he pushes up from the table. “Isa and Danny, join me when you can. AndGabriel.” The uncharacteristic use of my brother’s full first name makes him look up, eyebrows drawn together in confusion until Tadeo adds, “If the kids come by early, candy is on the top shelf of the pantry.”
“I’m on it,” Gabe says before returning to his work. “I’ll wait to put on my costume until you all get back. By the way, Danny, what did she get you to dress up as?”
Fifty-Five
Daniel
WhenSmokey and the Banditcame to theaters in May of 1977, I drove up to the Plaza Theatre in Laredo three times to see it. Handing over my small amount of pocket money to watch Burt Reynolds and Sally Field outsmart the sheriff’s department while they tried to smuggle beer from Texarkana to Atlanta.
Granted, a story about a bootlegger might be an odd choice of favorite film for a kid who grew up to become a DEA agent, but still, my favorite nevertheless. I always was disappointed when my old Ford truck didn’t turn into a Pontiac Trans Am on my twenty-minute drive back home no matter how fast I tried to go.
I remember that feeling so well now as I look at my reflection in my dresser mirror. Taking in my fresh shave (while leaving a mustache at Isabel’s request) and forced to acknowledge that she really had pulled this together with relative ease using my own clothes.
Myred button-up shirt, jeans, and boots. One of my dad’s hats and one of his particularly large and showy belt buckles, and the look was pretty much complete.
When had I even told Isabel that this movie was my favorite? All the way back on that ride to Austin? Had she ever even seen it?
