Page 43 of Catching Camila

Camila walked up to Mama and nodded to the house. “We should go inside. It’s not safe out here.”

“It’s not?” Mama looked confused. She flicked her wide eyes up and down the quiet street. “What wrong?”

Camila shook her head and walked toward the door. “I’ll tell you inside.”

The two entered the house and Camila bolted the door behind them. She stared at the flimsy lock that separated their trailer from the outside world. It wouldn’t stop a normal person, let alone someone that would shred their throats for fun. Then she remembered her bedroom window didn’t even lock. It had busted three years ago and they’d never bothered to fix it. Camila tucked the worry aside and turned toward Mama. As she did, her eyes trailed over their little dinette. A checkered tablecloth was draped on the table. It was set with matching clean plates and silverware. In the center was a white Pyrex dish curling with steam, a delicious aroma wafting from it.

“What’s this?” she asked, walking toward the table.

“Humitas,” Mama said proudly, peering over the casserole dish. “I haven’t made them in a while.” Her eyes lit up as she breathed in the smell of them.

Camila realized how hungry she was. She leaned over the dish and took a big whiff. “Mama, these look delicious.”

Mama drew back a chair for her. “Go ahead. They’re for you.”

Camila sat, picked out one of the cornhusk packages from the dish and dropped it on her plate. She unwrapped the husk to reveal the yellow corn center. She dug in, savoring the steaming mixture, the taste of mashed corn, both salty and sweet on her tongue. “Mama, this is awesome.”

Mama nodded, sitting opposite Camila. Her eyes were still too wide, her lipstick smeared, but Mama was smiling, eating hungrily with both hands. “So, your job, how it goes?”

Camila nodded, chewing. “Okay. It’s a job. Fer’s there.”

“And that guy?” Mama lifted her eyes coyly to Camila’s. “Does he work there?”

Camila shook her head, feeling the heat flare up her cheeks. “No, John doesn’t work there.”

“John?” Mama trilled the word. “He’s so handsome, mi amor. Where did you meet him?”

Camila gulped down a hunk of corn. “He was just hanging around the ice cream shop. I sort of bumped into him.”

Mama nodded, leaning forward. One black and gray curl bobbed in the middle of her forehead. “So, he is your boyfriend?”

Camila shifted her eyes. She had no idea how to answer that question. As she pondered, her eye lit on Mama’s pink tank top. It revealed far too much cleavage. “Mama, do you have to wear my shirts? You’ll stretch them out.”

“Camila, don’t change the subject.” Mama pushed an unruly curl out of her eyes. “Tell me about the guy. I need details.”

“The guy is just a guy. We just met. He’s very nice, but I don't think he knows what he wants right now.”

Mama leaned back, clearly disappointed, but she nodded her head. “Just like your father.”

Camila dropped her fork and leaned forward. “What about my father?” Maybe she could finally get to the bottom of this.

In the background a merengue beat had picked up on the tiny kitchen stereo. Mama ignored the question and, instead, flounced up from her chair and cranked the volume up. Then she bopped over to Camila, swaying her hips and clapping.

“Darling, come dance with me.” Mama’s hips swayed in her purple A-line skirt. Her feet shuffled lithely on the linoleum.

Camila shook her head. “Oh no. No merengue. You were going to tell me about my father?”

Mama shuffled over and tugged at Camila’s hands. “Yes, yes. Dance! Dance with me.” Mama swirled around the table as the Latin beat blasted from the stereo. The horns blared, the drums pounded. Mama pulled Camila from her chair.

“Mama, no.”

“Si,” Mama said, taking Camila’s hand and wrapping one arm around her back. She began to sway them back and forth.

For a few beats Camila resisted. This was ridiculous, the two of them dancing around their kitchen table, trying to dodge the piles of garbage on the floor. But the beat was in her blood. Her hips swayed. Her feet stepped. She felt a smile curl up her lips as Mama tried to dip her and nearly spilled her on the floor. Camila pressed her hand to her mouth and laughed. Really laughed.

This is how it used to be with Mama before everything fell apart. Camila remembered Mama taking her to fairs, of riding the tea cups until Mama turned green and vowed never to spin again. A memory flashed before Camila of the two of them dancing at a wedding. She could picture the frilly pink dress she wore. It twirled as Mama spun her around. And Mama had smiled and smiled.

Like she was smiling now.

Suddenly there was a rapping on their front door, loud and urgent.

They stopped and stared at the door. Camila ran over and snapped off the stereo. Mama froze.

“Open up,” a husky male voice said through the door. “It’s the police.

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