Chango's Fire by Ernesto Quinonez Read Free Book Online Page B

that the older she grows the deeper those nails are driven; by now, it’s hard to find their points.
    â€œI even asked that horrible man if he’d seen a cat, and no one has seen him.”
    â€œWell, maybe he’ll turn up,” I say, looking around as if the cat is going to walk from under the couch any minute. I liked having that cat around. I especially liked it when he would run around all over the apartment. My apartment has a huge hallway, and having Kaiser run around reminded me how big this place is. Made me love my house even more.
    â€œIs Pops up?”
    â€œNo, sleeping. That’s all that man does.”
    â€œIs there food?” I ask her. I just want a quick bite.
    â€œOnly
pegao
left,” Mom says.
    â€œPegao?”
I say, “why not?”
    I get a good, strong spoon and start scraping the burned rice left over at the bottom of the pot. The doorbell rings and Mom goes to answer it.
    â€œHi, I know it’s late—”
    â€œNo, it’s not that late,” Mom says to Helen. “Come in. Want some food?” Mom offers, though I wonder if Helen would
like pegao.
    â€œNo, I’ll …” she hesitates for a moment, “have coffee. If you have any?” I think she really didn’t want coffee, but judging from the expression on her face, something made her knock. Helen shyly walks in. When she walks inside, her shoes clank on the new wooden floor we placed in the living room. It was an expensive renovation, and I’m wondering, as her shoes sound like two-by-fours hit against each other, if she’ll ruin the floor. Because of Helen’s presence, my mother’s face becomes a lamp. She could care less about the floors. My mother pulls me back inside the kitchen and I let her.
    â€œMira,
” she whispers to me,
“quiero nietos con pelo bello.
“
    I introduce my mother to Helen, but they had seen each other before. Mom smiles like a ditz, because she is happy we have a white person in the house. So Mom leaves us alone in the kitchen right after she has set the coffee pot on the stove. She repeats her whispers to me that she wants grandkids with blond hair, as she leaves us alone.
    â€œI’m sorry about the stairs.” Helen’s blinking a lot. There’s a rim of smudged mascara under each eye.
    â€œIt’s cool,” I say.
    â€œCan I ask you a question?”
    â€œYeah.” I start eating as we sit at the table.
    â€œWhy are some people in this neighborhood so mean?”
    â€œLike what, you got robbed, is that it? Hey, I’m sorry.” I shrug. “It happens.”
    â€œNo,” she says, “I was at the fruit stand and this woman looks up and down at me, and when I smile and ask politely, ‘Yes?’ she says to me for no reason, ‘White bitch get out of Spanish Harlem.’” Helen hides her face in her hands, and her blond hair falls over them.
    â€œHey, it’s all right. Don’t cry, it’s all right.” I touch her hair to comfort her.
    When she uncovers her face, she isn’t crying. Not at all. I get a peek at her bra when I look down her blouse.
    â€œI’m angry,” she says. “I’m angry at myself, at that woman. At what I’m doing here.” She clears her dry throat. “Angry at what I’m doing to this place. What is it with me?”
    â€œWhere you from originally, Helen?” I ask her, just to talk about something else, because I understand what that woman meant. I know the origin of her distrust. It’s been hard for us in Spanish Harlem to negotiate a whole new series of relationships across lines of race and class even. We had lived among ourselves for decades, here in El Barrio, and not too many of us had to live with white people next door to us. And now, in the new millennium, the melting pot did melt, and it wasn’t just us who were clueless, Helen and her people were in the same boat.
    â€œI was