sausage soup that Gala had made for them. It was so good to have him here. “You still eat the same,” Gala laughed. “I guess I do, and now it shows,” Caitlin said. “Mejor, better. You were always so flaca. All you Americans wanted to be so skinny. It’s better to have these.” She lifted her breasts up and down, laughing. “How does he like you?” “Fine, I guess,” Caitlin said, not looking at Andreas, feeling more like a child than the five girls who looked on and laughed at her answer along with their mother. Caitlin’s name was called from the street. She got a wave of not wanting to be bothered. There had been so many times when she’d felt a prisoner in this house with people constantly yelling up at her in that way. Gala made a face when the calling kept on from below. Gladys went over and leaned on the banister looking out the window. “Yes she’s here,” she yelled down. “But she’s busy with my mother. She’s eating.” Rapid-fire Spanish came back, that Caitlin could no longer make out. “No, later. Now she’s with us. Go away.” Gladys waved the back of her hand through the air. When she turned around, she had a smile of arrogance on her face that said, we have the gringa all to ourselves. Caitlin panicked. What if it had been Rina calling? Rina used to call up to her that way. Gala didn’t like Rina. She had once gotten the idea that Jorge was having an affair with Rina. Nothing Caitlin could say convinced her to change her mind. Gala could be so stubborn at times. “Who was it?" Caitlin asked. “Nadie, nobody.” Gladys's thin face sneered. Caitlin didn’t want to insult Gala, but she didn’t want people saying she was snobby. She had worked too hard to get them to believe her, to believe that she wanted the best for the people who were the poorest, not just those like Gala who had a chance, whose husbands had jobs. Then she remembered. This was not her community anymore. She was not responsible. She was here to learn. Today she could watch it all from a distance. Later she could find Rina. T he y ate flan and drank cafe tinto. They talked some more about the Center. The room grew hotter as the afternoon sun moved in. The wind had died. It wouldn’t She didn't try to hold the tears back. She felt foolish, but she had no choice. She was in Gala's arms. Soft arms. Large soft breasts just below her own. Stiff straight black hair against her face. Gala smelled of roasted coffee beans and garlic and hair oil. be picking up again until sundown. The heat wrapped around Caitlin’s skin. She wondered how she’d tolerated such heat, day after day. After they’d finished their coffee, Gala began to let visitors into the apartment. No one stayed more than a few minutes. The novelty of her return had already worn off. They didn’t seem that interested in her. Everyone made the same remarks in the same affectless voices. “The ungrateful Nina, come back to us.” “So you like our country better. We told you you would.” “You’ve come to help us, Nina? Isn’t that so?” She saw the whining looks. The particular tilt of the head that turned simple questions into begging. And the trace of anger that flitted across eyes and mouths that was quickly covered with laughter or mock sadness. “Bad Nina, you brought no gifts from America for your friends.” Each time she answered. “I wanted my husband to see where I’d lived. To meet the people I loved.” She heard the same flatness in her own tones. She noticed now how very poor they were. Their clothes were patched over and over. Most of the children had no shoes. There wasn’t an adult who had all his or her teeth. As she stood there, answering by rote, she remembered once, when she’d lived in the barrio a year, some gringo tourists had come to the neighborhood. She had stood with Rina and a group of girls, laughing at the Americans. They had looked so silly in their travel dresses and bermuda shorts, taking pictures of the “ragamuffins.” JL hey were saying their goodbyes, when Doha Marta came upstairs to tell Caitlin that Rina Gomez was waiting for her outside. “She can’t come upstairs,” the old lady said, in a conspiratorial voice. Her narrow face looked its most severe. She moved her head and eyes in the direction of Gala. “I won’t have that puta in my house!" Gala said. “Permiso, Caitlita." Her soft mouth was tight, her chin raised at an angle. “But nothing ever happened between Jorge and. ...” “No! She put mal de o/o on us." Evil eye. She struck her finger against her cheekbone just beneath her eye. “Our only son died and we never had another. And anyway, she’s a communist.” “Gala, she’s not a communist.” “You’ll see. All her work with you in the Center was only for that.” “Gala.” Caitlin went to her and put her arms around her small soft shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s stop this.” Gala nodded against Caitlin’s breast. “You go down. I don’t mind if you see her," she sniffed. “But be careful she doesn’t put the evil eye on you.” Caitlin could feel her touch her cheekbone again. She squeezed Gala to her. She rocked her back and forth, and thought, no Gala, sweet Gala, I’ll be very careful. D o n a Marta accompanied Caitlin and Andreas down the dark stairs. Caitlin could smell the food cooking for dinner. “The Nina Rina almost died when you left.” Marta stopped on the landing. “From sorrow. She went to bed for a month. They say she cried for the whole month until the doctor gave her pills to dry the tears.” jR ina was outside leaning against the wall. She held her hand out to shake Caitlin’s but didn’t stand away from the wall. She kept her eyes down. Her straight black Indian hair was pulled away from her wide face with a yellow plastic headband. She could be any age. She never told how old she was, because she’d not married. “Bienvenido, Caitlin,” she said in her deep caustic voice. But when Caitlin hugged her, Rina didn’t let her body relax. She didn’t put her arms around Caitlin. Caitlin could smell the odor of poverty on her. Even though her dress was ironed and starched, and her hair perfectly coifed and she wore lipstick and eye makeup, she still had the smell on her. Rina pulled away from the embrace. Caitlin thought, how much the two of us have in common. How afraid we are to let a wrinkle show. “This is my husband, Andreas,” she said. Rina nodded. “Does he speak Spanish?” “He’s Aleman. He speaks German.” “That’s good,” Rina said. “Anything is better than an American.” Caitlin laughed to cover her hurt. “I can’t stay,” Rina said. “I only came to see if you’d really come back like they said. I have to go home. I was cooking dinner. If you want you can come tomorrow. I’ll be in the house.” She shook Caitlin’s hand and Andreas's too, and then turned and walked slowly up the stairs, toward where she lived high on the hill. Caitlin stood and watched her. She didn’t look back or wave, not even when she got to where the stairs ended along with the electricity and running water. There were crowds of people on the stairs at this hour, returning from work, going down to the store. The light was deepening to amber. “Buenas tardes, Nina," people said as they passed Caitlin on the steep climb.” “Buenas tardes," she answered. Andreas put his hand on the back of her neck. / “Oh, Andreas,” was all she could say. Writer Marnie Mueller lives in New York City. She was born and spent her early years at Tule Lake Japanese Internment Camp in California. Her fiction has appeared in Croton Review, Jewish Currents, Xanadu and Earth’s Daughters, among others. This is her first appearance in CSQ. Artist Fay Jones lives in Seattle. She is represented by Francine Seders Gallery. Clinton St. Quarterly 33
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