Signal to Noise(88)

He poked his head out of the kitchen.

“For the weekend?” he asked, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. “I’m busy this weekend.”

“No, for good.”

“Aw, Meche... seriously?”

Meche nodded. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His smile wavered.

“That’s probably not a great idea.”

“Why not?”

“This place is very small.”

“You said you were trying to get a bigger place. And next year you’re moving to Puerto Vallarta, anyway. So it almost doesn’t matter at all.”

He placed the glasses and the soda on the coffee table. He went back to the kitchen and returned with the bowl of chips.

“Yes, but it’s a bit difficult right now with the current situation,” he said. “And the Puerto Vallarta thing is a little messy. I’ve sent my demo tape. I did. A couple of weeks ago. As soon as they play it they’re going to love my voice. But, of course, these things take time. The whole hiring process is so silly these days. Human resources department this and fill that form and... it’s best if you stay with your mom.”

Meche felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of bleach.

“You said I could go with you one day,” she said. “We’ll live in Puerto Vallarta and get nice tans all year long.”

“Things are a bit weird right now, Meche. But we will absolutely go to Puerto Vallarta and I’ll finish my book there. It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”

“Dad, I can’t stay with mom.”

“You can’t stay here either, sweetheart.”

Her father took out a cigarette and lit it, raising it to his lips.

“Did you steal money from mom?”

He smiled a jovial smile. “What?”

“Did you steal from her?”

“Stealing is an exaggeration.”

“Our savings,” Meche said, through gritted teeth. “Did you take them?”

Her father’s smile, which was always so big, folded and disappeared. He nodded and took a drag.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Awesome,” Meche said, standing up.

“Meche, you don’t get it—”

“No dad, you don’t get it.”

She put on her jacket and zipped it up in one quick motion.

“You’re a f*cking disgrace,” she said. “I can’t believe you’d steal from us.”

“Hey,” Vicente said, spitting the cigarette from his mouth. “Hey, you watch that mouth!”

“I’m not watching anything! You’re a lousy father.”

“Yeah, too bad,” he said with a sneer.

“Good thing I figured it out.”

“You don’t have to come back ’round here if you feel like that, Meche!”

Meche opened the door. She eyed the portable record player sitting on the floor and gave it a good kick. After all, it didn’t matter anymore. Very little did.

“Bye, dad.”





WHEN SHE CAME home, her mother was waiting for her in the kitchen, looking at her cup of coffee. Meche rested her hands on the chair and sighed. Her mother stared at Meche. Neither one spoke for what seemed an aeon.

“You think it’s so simple, don’t you,” her mother said finally, “Life. It’s very hard, Meche. I do what I can.”

“I know.”

“When you were a baby you cried a lot. Nothing could calm you down. You bawled and bawled. But when your dad put on a record and held you, you’d quiet down. It was like magic. I tried putting on records and holding you, but it wasn’t the music. You knew it was him. And you knew when it was me. I can’t be him.”

“I don’t want you to be him.”

Meche found a stray crumb and rolled it between her fingers.

“Mom, I just... I want to go away. I can’t stay here.”

“Where would you go?”

“Monterrey. With grandma. I’d help take care of her.”

“Your school?

“There are schools in Monterrey.”

Her mother shook her head and chuckled, resting her elbows on the table. “You want to get away from me so badly?”

“No,” Meche said. “But I do want to go somewhere else. This is not my place.”

“We all think that when we are fifteen.”

“It really isn’t. And I’ll phone. I’ll be here during vacation.”

“What kind of mother would I be if I send you to live with your aunt?”

“Mom,” Meche said extending her hand. “You know I love you. But I can’t live with you. You know that, don’t you?”

Her mother grabbed her hand and shook her head.





VICENTE VEGA LEANED down and picked up the portable record player, setting it on the counter. He opened it, pressed a button and saw the platter was not spinning. It could be fixed. He’d work on it in the morning. For now, he needed a drink. Vicente grabbed a glass and poured himself some whiskey. He was out of ice and it was warm and unpleasant, but he drank it and lit a cigarette.

He walked back to the living room and patted one of the boxes filled with records, opening it and pulling out the danzón of danzónes: Danzon 2 by Arturo Marquez.