Germain M. C.

“Somebody speak Spanish?” Mom said, wincing into kitchen rotary phone. I slinked away to our home’s single bedroom, but she snapped her fingers at me. 

“George,” she whispered-yelled. (Here. Here’s the account number. Ask them what this charge is for,) she commanded in Spanish. 

I took the call and fielded Mom’s questions to the electric company: 

“They say it’s an overdraft fee.” 

(Ask them why)

“Late payment. They’re asking if you’re paying automatically.”

(Yes.)

“They’re saying you have to talk to the bank.” 

Mom groaned. (Alright, thank them. Where are you going? Get your shoes on.) 

We loaded ourselves into the carcacha, a tiny maroon Impala with seven years of rust and an overturned odometer. Nevertheless, the inside remained dignified, fresh and vacuumed—besides the faded seat stains from the previous owner. Even Mom’s mix of Fabuloso soap and bleach couldn’t remove them. The bank was a ten minute drive, but Mom gripped the wheel the entire time as if she held the Impala together. 

I liked the bank. It was a fortress of cold against the Texas summer, a place of quiet order and efficiency. It reminded me of home, Mom handing out chores while she cooked or cleaned or cooked-cleaned.  

“Can we get food?” I asked on the way. 

(We have food at home.) 

The bank was closed on Sundays and always crowded on Saturdays, with people in their work clothes vying to deposit their checks before closing. There was a line for the tellers, but I passed the time noting all the professions—construction worker, nurse, disheveled drunk that’s probably a writer. Mom adjusted her shirt tucked into her jeans, and checked her immaculate nails. When our turn came, I stood on my tippy-toes so the teller could see me. 

“Hi, we’re here to check a payment,” I told the older woman. Her blonde hair-dye was fading at the roots. Her foundation ended abruptly at the neck, and her amber perfume attacked me. 

“Are you the account holder?” She didn’t meet my eyes, just worked on her computer. 

“No, ma’am. My mom is.”

She glanced at my mother—straight and strong holding her purse, meeting her gaze—and sighed. 

We exchanged information until she found the transaction we were debating:

“It was delayed.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know young man, but it’ll go through tomorrow. Anything else?”

“She says it’ll come through tomorrow.” 

(Is she sure? I don’t want the power to go out.) 

“Are you sure?” 

“I am, and if she still has doubts she can ask me herself.” 

“She’s sure.” 

My mother grabbed my shoulder. (Thank her.)

“Thank you.” 

“Does your mother know where we are?” the teller continued. 

“Pardon?” 

“We’re in Texas. Adults conduct business, not children. And we speak English. Next in line?” 

(What did she say?) 

“Nothing.” 

We left and load back into the carcacha. 

(What did she tell you? At the end.)

“Nothing.” 

(George Cavazos. Tell me.) 

“Why don’t you learn English? Why do I always have to do everything?” 

(Ah, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have packed an English book when we were running from your father. Or maybe you can take my shift at the refinery while I study.)

“I’m not always going to be here to help.”

(I wont’ always be here either, ingrate. You’re annoyed because you have to talk to keep the lights on? Try working a ten-hour shift and coming home to cook and clean after you and your brother.) 

The ten-minute ride home was long, made longer with an unexpected detour. Must be another errand, I thought.  

(She said something about me, didn’t she?) 

“No.” 

Mom gave me a light smack on the head, other hand gripping the steering wheel to hold the car together. 

(Yes she did. Stupid smart boy. I never imaged I’d have such a smart boy. My little translator. You’ll thank me one day for making you go back and forth.) 

“Where are we going?” 

(Hamburgers.) 

“Really? I thought we had food at home.”

“We can go home and eat sandwiches.”

“No! No.” I hugged her as much as the seatbelt would allow. 

When we arrived at the drive-through, I unclicked my seatbelt in anticipation of ordering for us. But Mom pushed me back. 

“Hello.” Her accent was—is—thick, but her voice was strong as if she was still speaking Spanish. “Can I have uh a number two uh, with—(how do you say ‘tocino’?)

“Bacon”

“Bacon. And no onion. No onion. And uh—(and you?)

“Number six!”

“And number six.” 

“Can I get fries too?” 

She kissed my head. (Yes, ingrate.)