The Latin Deli: Prose and Poetry

An Early Mystery

An Early Mystery Six years old, I'm lingering over the candy counter. On the other side of the bodega my mother is interrogating the grocer about the freshness of the produce: the breadfruit, the yuccas, the plantains. She does not trust him, I can tell. I recognize the voice she uses from listening late at night when my father's late arrival makes her sound that way:like a radio picking up a faint signal, then losing it. Sometimes, he comes in to kiss me, while I pretend to sleep; but there are nights when I hear the door click shutagain. Though involved in my task of deciding over chocolate-covered coconut bars that I can make last, or the bubble gum wrapped in tiny English-language comic strips that he can translate for me later, I smell the woman approaching: familiar scent of gardenias, cinnamon, alcohol— my daddy's shirt and his breath when he leans over my bed. She staresat me as in a trance, kneels down to look into my eyes. 33 Embarrassed, I hang my head, notice a run racing up her stockinged knee toward her plump thigh like a little jet on a tan sky, until itvanishes under her tight black dress. Are you his littlegirl? Suddenly, Mother is between us, pulling me away before I can answer, or make my choice of sweets. I hear her walkingtoward the street, high heels firing back at us like cap guns. On the aisle where Mother and I stand holding hands, there is something in the air so strong— we could have followed it with closed eyes all the way home. 34 ...