by Debra Diaz
Rita La Chiva:
Party Time
When I grow up, I’m never acting like they act.
Like Mom and Dad. Like the way they were last
night.
It started when Tía Mercy and Tío Gilbert and
Tía Clara and Tío Vicente came over on Sunday to
visit. They sent Emily, Hector, Rubén and me to the
movies. By the time we got back from seeing It’s a
Mad, Mad, Mad World, Vicente Fernández’s voice
was roaring out of the stereo and Tío Gilbert had
already gone out to get more beer.
Emily lowered the stereo volume and went into
our room and locked the door, like she always does.
I turned on the TV and found Pillow Talk, one of my
favorite movies. Gloria was still at work, and Hector
and Ruben, knowing better than to stay, had
already walked home. So I stretched out on the
couch and enjoyed the movie.
A few minutes later Mom walked into the living
room.
"Who turned down the stereo?" she asked.
"I don’t know. Emily, I think," I answered, not
taking my eyes off of Doris Day.
"Damn her."
Mom turned up the stereo volume and walked
back into the kitchen.
"Rita, are you hungry?" she asked from the
kitchen.
"No, I had a hot dog at the movies."
"Did Emily eat?"
"I don’t know," I answered, irritated.
Mom came back into the living room and sat
down beside me. She smelled like beer and cigarettes.
"Rita, go to the dairy and get me a pack of cigarettes."
"Mom, no, I don’t want to, ask Dad. I’m watching
a movie, and besides, they won’t let me buy cigarettes."
"Okay, be like that," she said. She kissed me
and then clumsily walked out of the room.
I guess I fell asleep after that, because the next
thing I remember is Gloria waking me up and
telling me to go to bed. The voices of my parents and
aunts and uncles were loud. Gloria still had her
white nylon uniform on and smelled like Chinese
food. The sound of shattering glass exploded
through the air, and Gloria and I looked at each
other. She ran out to see what happened. My back
stiffened. Damn them. I pulled the red velvet couch
pillows over my ears and sank down into the couch.
I didn’t want to hear any of it. But Mom’s sobbing,
screeching voice cut through the cushions.
"¡Desgraciado, hijo de puta! You don’t care
about me, you don’t care about anyone but yourself."
I heard Dad laugh, uncomfortably.
"Cálmate, Carmen, it’s okay. You’ll wake up the
girls," Tío Vicente said soothingly.
"Just leave her alone, she’s not going to try anything,"
Dad half-joked.
"Cállate, Emilio," Tía Mercy warned. "She’s
really mad."
I heard another beer bottle breaking, followed
by scuffling. I walked into the hallway and saw
Mom run into the kitchen and pull open the silverware
drawer. She grabbed the largest and sharpest
knife.
"You say I’m not going to kill myself. Well, just
watch me. You treat me like shit. You don’t want me
around. Well, you don’t have to worry about me,
cabrón, mentiroso!"
Mom raised the knife above her wrist just as
Gloria grabbed her arms from behind. The blade cut
into Gloria’s hand.
Gloria screamed.
Dad grabbed Mom’s hand and the knife
dropped. Gloria fell to the ground crying, and Tía
Mercy started screaming at my Dad.
"My sister, my sister, you’re killing my sister!"
Tía Mercy punched Dad. Tío Vicente came in to
pull her away. Tía Clara watched all of this from the
doorway, shaking her head.
Dad took Mom, still screaming, into their bedroom.
Gloria walked, hunched over, to the sink. I
helped her rinse the blood off. A surprised Tío
Gilbert stepped into the kitchen with two six-packs
and took in the mess.
"Carmen’s crazy," he whispered.
"No, she just had too much to drink," said
Vicente. "We’ve all had too much to drink."
Dad came out of the bedroom.
"Gloria, are you okay?"
"Yeah, but it’s still bleeding a little."
Dad looked at the cut. "I don’t think you need
stitches."
I looked at Dad and then at Gloria. "Why do
you guys always do this!" I shouted. They all stared
at me like I was the crazy one. "This stuff always
happens," I shrieked. "You’re all idiots!"
I ran out of the kitchen and into the bedroom,
locking the door. I put my Aretha Franklin album
on as loud as I could. I listened for a few seconds,
breathing deeply, trying to catch my breath. It
didn’t work. I slid the window open, pushed out the
screen and pulled myself up and out. I had to get
out.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)