Aunt Coco was the youngest of five Garcia sisters and the only one who had moved away from LA. On Thanksgiving and Xmas each sister would get postcards from Coco in Miami, Coco in Havana, Coco in Rio, sadly signed, ‘I wish I was there.’
The sisters were glad she wasn’t. They’d all married Anglo serviceman (except Carlotta who married Samoan) and their men didn’t need Coco disrupting the holidays. Mom was the oldest of the Garcia sisters, the queen with the best laugh and teeth. In1974, she’d planned a Mother’s Day family reunion at our house and everyone showed up because we had a pool and liquor and carnitas.
It was a loud afternoon. I was in the garage, hanging with my pal cousins Jack and Mabs. We were all sixteen and we all had blue eyes and olive skin and we all felt we were the favorites in our families. Jack had brought hash oil for the Thai stick joints I’d stolen from the police chief’s son and Mabs had a quart bottle of a green drink called Absinthe. We were seeing things and wanted to see more. We didn’t expect a limo or the woman who emerged.
Who’s that, Jack said and I said I didn’t know.
Mabs laughed. You know who that is?
The woman waved to us and the garage across the street opened up and revealed Mr. Strom in his Bermudas and wife beater. He had his hand on his heart and his crew-cut head was cocked to one side like a gecko.
That’s Coco, Mabs said.
O my God, Jack said. She a hooker?
Mabs ran to her. Aunt Coco.
Coco gasped and slinked up the driveway in plastic stilettos, her hair of black rings bouncing as fast husky Spanish escaped her pink-stained mouth. She devoured Mabs with a hug while Jack and I schlepped up with freaky smiles and waited our turn. A draft of Pina Colada and fingernail polish drifted our way. I was embarrassed and aroused and weak in the knees.
Fucking A, man, Jack muttered. She’s related to us.
Coco released Mabs and straightened her sunglasses. She didn’t look like a Garcia sister or anyone I’d ever seen before. Jack lunged into her arms. Coco peppered his face with kisses and friendly slaps and pinches. She cried out about his build and cheekbones and the Diablo in his eyes. I felt runner up stupid standing there in swim trunks with no pockets to put my hands in.
Jack was sixteen in Mexican years, meaning he could fight, fuck and forget like a 25-year-old surfer and if it wasn’t for his mama Lupe, Jack would be driving an Impala and wearing a hair-net and saying, fuck being a lawyer. Lupe was the meanest of the Garcia sisters and the quietest and the only one who owned a purple convertible Cadillac. In Jack, she had invested in the future: that day when her big shot lawyer son would give a heart-gutting eulogy for Lupe Refugio Garcia, the quiet sister. And as long as Jack stayed true to Lupe’s plan, he could have anything and do everything worth doing when you’re a man in a boy’s world.
And what he wanted that afternoon at my house was Coco up against him, adulating and undulating and as their hug evolved, I realized I didn’t like my cousin. I’d cover his back in a brawl and pay his debt to his dealer but that didn’t mean I had to like the sonofabitch or stand in his shadow while he monopolized Aunt Coco. I weaseled in, putting my arm around Coco’s tiny waist and pressing my cheek against hers. Coco shifted, whispering in my ear, Miguelito, perrito, you boracho to?
I grunted, delirious, and then she was gone. Jack had yanked her to his side like a jealous dictator. Aunty, aunty, be careful. Miguelito bites and he hasn’t had his shots. He hooked her arm, and pulled her toward the garage, saying, and you need a shot to before the family sees you, right?
Mabs bumped me from behind and said, my God, look at that.
Coco’s enormous behind wagged wickedly in linen cutoff shorts. That’s obscene, Mabs said.
I know, I said, leaning back into her. And that’s your future. She elbowed me sharply in my ribs. Jack’s an asshole.
I know, I said, but he can’t help it.
Bullshit. Aunt Lupe has nothing to do with that kind of shit he just did to you.
You’re going to make me cry.
She shoved me and when I turned to face her I saw Mr. Strom running across the street with a Polaroid camera. In the ten years we’d been neighbors, he’d never said a word to me.
Hi, hey. He squinted at Mabs, shook my hand and lurched up on his tiptoes so he could get a look at Coco in the garage. Family reunion, huh?
Yeah, I said. Just family.
Yeah, he said. If more are coming just tell that driver he can back up that limo in my driveway. I don’t mind.
I’ll tell Coco, I said.
Coco, huh, he said in hoarse voice.
Yeah, Mabs chimed in. She’s a movie star.
Sweet sucking success, Mr. Strom uttered. When I saw her get out I knew she wasn’t from around here. He exhaled hard. Movie star, huh?
Brazilian one, I said and Mabs deepened the bullshit. Coco dated Che Guevara.
Yeah, I bet, Mr. Strom said, rising up on his tiptoes again. Any chance of me getting an autograph? He snapped off a picture and backed away, saying, tell Coco what I said about the limo and it was nice talking to you, Herbie.
Michael, I said.
He cut off the print and air-dried it with a scrunched up face. Yeah, okay. See you around.
Mabs took me by the arm. That’s why we live in Long Beach.
I laughed and it felt good laughing and being touched by Mabs. I loved her. Margarita Anna Boatman, my moody priestess who wore her hair in bangs and controlled her environment like a street waif. Mabs owned me and I wasn’t entirely ready to be owned by my cousin, though it was nice pretending.
She took my hand and we passed through the garage, noting Coco’s lipstick on the absinthe bottle. Through a door, we followed a trail of perfumed lighter fluid and encountered my 13-year-old cousins, Tommy and Flea, their faces stained with Coco’s pink lipstick.
Is she really related to us? Flea asked in a deep voice. He was already 200 pounds and starting center for Riverside High.
That’s Coco, I said and he repeated her name with his eyes closed. Cousin Tommy was less impressed. He asked for dope and I handed him a scratch of hash. Got any downers?
Yeah, I said, but you can’t have any. You might hurt yourself.
Tommy had long Indian black hair and the eyes of a speed freak. Hurt, hell, he said. You’ll die before me.
Mabs calmed him with a kiss on the cheek and told him to smoke the hash in the limo.
There’s a limo here? Flea asked.
Yeah, Mabs said. Tell the driver that Coco said it was okay.
The thirteen year olds grinned at each other and left and Mabs and I stepped out into the noise of Coco’s entrance. On the high end was a scratchy blaring 45 rpm record of La Bamba and down in the squealing vector were ten under ten cousins barking Marco Polo in the pool and somewhere in the middle was the gasp of every adult man and woman having seen a ghost and that ghost was Coco.
There were also grids of reaction and the first one I noticed were the tequila-twisting sisters in their white swimsuits, suddenly stopped dancing. Mom glared to her right where Pops and the brother-in-laws stood up from their card game with goatish grit on their faces. Pops was the first to run a comb through his hair and the first to move toward Coco.
Mabs elbowed me. Your dad’s in trouble. Look at your mother.
Mom had faded back to where Grandma was struggling to get out of a wrought iron rocker and hug her prodigal baby girl. Coco blew a kiss to Grandma and turned toward Grandpop in the pool, treading water with a toddler on his shoulders, his burnished fat face consumed by a smile. Coco clopped in her heels and stooped straight-legged to kiss her daddy on the lips. The stoop stopped Pops cold and cigarettes dropped from the lips of the brother-in-laws and the Garcia sisters cringed with disgust and jealousy and Mabs mumbled, she’s doing it on purpose.
Grandpop urged Coco to jump in but she begged off with kisses and promises to him and all the little tadpoles that she would be back. She straightened up, turned, waved to the brother-in-laws who yelled out Coco in unison. Then she turned toward her hyena-eyed sisters, bowed a little and walked with her arms out toward her mommy.
Is she everyone’s favorite? Mabs asked.
Looks like it, I said.
I always thought your mom was the queen of the regime.
So did I.
Mabs sighed. Look at Rene.
Rene was Mab’s mom. She had the prettiest face and the closest relationship with Jesus, so close, Mabs said, that her dad often had to force himself on his wife. Right then Aunt Rene looked like the savior was coming her way and Aunt Rene was the first sister to hug Coco. My Mom was the last.
Coco told everyone this was the happiest day of her life, being a Garcia again. She spoke in Spanish about the Garcia heart, gesturing to her poppy, a heart that beats two rhythms and both beats you can live by. She didn’t name the kind of music the Garcias’ lived by. Instead, she said, in English, how can ju tell a Garcia is a Garcia?
How? Everyone asked.
Ju can see the cactus growing out of his head.
Everyone laughed, except Mabs. Let’s go, she said, as her dad, Walter, a wiry high school history teacher with German blue eyes, interrupted Coco. What about us, he said, the Mexicans who are Mexicans by penetration.
No one laughed, except Coco.
Hold on, I said to Mabs. Let’s see what she says.
I mean it, damnit. Let’s fucking go. I did a double take and Mabs apologized. I’m sorry. Then she whispered. But he’s here.
He, who? I asked.
Cousin Squeegee.
He was standing inside the patio, five feet behind us, 20 pounds heavier than the last time I saw him at Uncle Frito’s funeral. His polyester island shirt had only one bottom button and he didn’t wear an undershirt and that smell I couldn’t place suddenly occurred to me, Hai Karate. He’d shaven his moustache, revealing thirsty lips he had pressed together as he took in Coco’s surly ‘chut up Walter or I won’t dance with ju.’
Cousin Squeegee was the only surviving male Garcia but I’d heard there were a handful of illegitimates living south of El Paso. He was Coco with cajones and all the sisters adored him. They sat on his lap, danced with him and laughed like he was the funniest man in the northern hemisphere. Even the brothers-in-law loved Squeegee.
Mabs growled her opinion. Fucking pervert. He tries one thing and I’ll kill him.
She stalked off to a bench at the back of the property where a statue of Guadalupe stood. I was about to run after her but a thick hand squeezed my neck.
Burrito, Squeegee said. I thought that was you. He kissed my cheek hard. Some fucking fun, huh? Coco in the flesh… Everyone paralyzed with not knowing what she’s going to do, huh?
He squeezed again. In twenty years she’ll be taking home ninos like you and, aye yi yi, those legs. Did ju know those legs once wrapped around JFK, huh? How many people you know can say they’re related to someone who fucked the president of the United States, huh?
I didn’t say anything.
He turned me around. Hey, you been snorting that horseshit?
No, I said.
Squeegee examined the lie on my face, looked over in the direction of Mabs. What’d she say I did, huh?
Again, I said nothing because I had nothing and even if I did, I wasn’t sure I could ever dislike cousin Squeegee. He was who I wanted to be, a man with no job, money, and confidence these things would continue forever.
Miguelito, it was nothing. I showed up at her birthday party. I was in the neighborhood and I called Rene and she said, come over, we’re having a party. So I came, with some wine, and I let her little friends have some snorts. I told some jokes and got them dancing and laughing and she got all hurt and ran inside and we all ignored her and laughed and danced. It was a good party.
That’s it? That’s what’s she’s mad about?
Ah, later, she caught me drinking out of the milk bottle and gave me some sass about manners and shit, so… I spanked her. It was her birthday, no? I guess I counted a little too loud and her friends came in and watched and cheered. He paused, remembering the scene with a squinty impatience. Ah, stuck up little princess takes her self too goddamn seriously. Next time I won’t be so friendly.
He hugged me. That’s it. I swear. Go ask her?
He bolted a few steps and shouted, Coco Garcia, is that you?
Everyone shouted back, Squeegee, and all the Garcia sisters ran to him. Mom was the first to get kissed and swung off her feet. Someone put on Louie Prima and the dancing started again.
I walked towards Mabs. She was sitting cross-legged in front of Guadalupe, frowning.
What did he say?
He said he was sorry, I said. He said it was mean to do that in front of your friends and he said he would have told you personally but you didn’t look like you wanted to hear an apology, ever.
He’s a liar and so are you.
I sat down next to her and rubbed her arm. It’s sick, she muttered.
I lit two cigarettes and handed her one. She puffed hard as Coco and Squeegee entertained the adults with dirty dancing. The brothers in laws took turns coupling with Coco while the Garcia sisters imitated her burlesque and yodeling with Squeegee.
We watched and smoked. I put my arm around her and she leaned into me and sighed. Look at Jack. What an asshole. He thinks he owns Coco.
Jack was sitting up on a table with a jealous look on his face. He had his shirt off and his hair was wet with sweat. His eyes were fixed on Coco but she didn’t notice him. She was too busy dancing and defining the meaning of Coco while working her way closer to Squeegee.
I don’t know why but I said it: You think Coco and Squeegee screwed…
Mabs stood up, disgusted. I don’t want to be Mexican anymore and if I were you, I’d wish for the same thing.
She walked over to Jack, slung an arm around him and babied him with words I couldn’t hear. He kissed her neck and I got up, trembling with jealousy. The sun felt closer, and I could taste a smoldering in my mouth and before I could say anything stupid again, I noticed Grandma smiling, and she never smiled. Grandpop stood behind her like a bloated boxer, his eyes swollen with tears while all the tadpoles pestered them for affection. I don’t remember the song playing but I remember the trumpets were driving the beat and Jack was patting Mabs’ ass and for a few harsh seconds, she stopped looking like the one I loved.
A scowl reddened her pretty face and the scowl, and the way her lips diced silent words, told me she was mocking the Garcias, cursing this fiesta, recruiting Jack to captain her war against creatures like Coco and Squeegee. I looked away, saw Pops scratch a freckled shoulder, his face dark with distrust as Mom pressed into Uncle Walter, her face dark with beauty and in front of them the creatures Coco and Squeegee glistened with perspiration and a tireless will to be the last ones dancing.
I looked back and Mabs was staring into my eyes and beckoning with her finger. Jack dared me with a smug poster boy sneer to join them but I couldn’t. They laughed and shook their heads and slipped out through the backyard gate. My allegiance to full-blooded Garcia-ness lasted only seconds. I ran to find them pulling away in Aunt Lupe’s purple caddy. Mabs was driving and Jack was beside her with his arm around her shoulder. Blaring from the am radio was `Takin Care of Business.’
Hey, Herbie.
Across the street and sitting in a beach chair was Mr. Strom. Any word from Coco about that autograph? I heard tires squealing and flinched. Mr. Strom laughed. Your friends Bonnie and Clyde told me to tell you that they’re going to run every stop sign from here to city hall. He drained his Pabst and pitched it into a pile of empties on the lawn. He belched, popped his sternum with a fist. Any chance of me getting a pass to your party?
I didn’t respond.
It’s Sunday for Christ sakes, Mr. Strom said, and some of us have to work tomorrow and I wouldn’t want to put out your party with a call to the cops or anything. I turned my back on Mr. Strom and heard him yell, come on, Herbie, what harm is there in having me in your backyard? Your Dad and I drive the same goddamn Ford and I don’t see…
I closed the back gate. La Bamba came on again and played over and over. I sat and watched the Garcias carry on past sunset. I waited for Jack and Mabs to return but they didn’t.
Around ten p.m., after the last carnita was eaten, the phone rang and a drunken Mr. Strom threatened the police on us if we didn’t pull the plug on the party. I didn’t say anything to anybody because as soon as I hung up, the phone rang again and the caller asked if there was a Lupe at the house. I said yes and the bland-voiced woman asked me if she could speak to her. I asked why and the female caller asked who I was and I said, I’m her nephew and her son, Jack, is my best friend. There was a hitch in her voice and I said, Is Jack in trouble? I’m sorry, the voice said, could you please get your aunt on the phone. Tell me, I pleaded. Is he okay?
There was silence. I was standing in the kitchen, looking out a window at the circle of chairs around the pool that was glowing in the dark. Everyone was watching Coco and Squeegee dance in the shallow end. I struggled to keep Mabs’ name out of my head, believing I could will her away from the bad feeling rotting in the eaves of my brain. But I couldn’t. Her name stained my tongue and stung my lips. Mabs.
I’m sorry, the voice said. But I have to talk to his mother. It’s important.
I hung up the phone, wiped my eyes, and walked upstairs to my room. I sat against the door and dry-chewed ten bitter pills. The phone rang again and this time I heard my mom call out her sister’s name. I heard them speaking Spanish and I heard a shriek and then a grief-birthing wail that made me gag.
I stuck my finger down my throat and brought up bile-smelling chunks of the worst day of my life. I prayed and I puked and I’ve buried every Garcia, full-blooded and half, over the next 15 years, everyone except Squeegee and Coco.
TONI MORRISON - Beloved
JON KRAKAUER - Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith
GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
JAMES ELLROY - L.A. Confidential
HENRY MILLER - The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus, Nexus, Plexus)
