She was born nine months later in the front passenger seat of the red Corvette, smack in the middle of a traffic-jammed bridge as the two were making their way to the hospital on the US side of the border. When he heard the child’s first scream, and he held her up to the heavens, streaked in blood, he saw directly behind her the plaque demarcating the division between Mexico and the United States. The dividing line hung directly over the center of her perfectly spherical head.
Carolina beamed through intermingled tears and beads of sweat as the newborn suckled at her breast. “This is Paloma,” Carolina cried. “This is the little girl you dreamt of that night in Houston.”
Cars and trucks honked impatiently, yearning for movement, but to Fulgencio the dissonant cacophony sounded like a choir of angels.
“Paloma Angélica,” he cooed, leaning over, stroking the infant’s tiny wet head and kissing Carolina on the cheek.
And with that, he began to sing tenderly, “Paloma Querida.” The song declared that since the day his beloved Paloma had come into his life, his heart had transformed into a dove’s nest. In song, he pledged his life and his love to her, a sentiment he knew Carolina shared wholeheartedly.
Por el dia en que llegaste a mi vida
(For the day you arrived in my life)
Paloma Querida
(Beloved Paloma)
Me puse a brindar.
(I began to toast.)
Me sentí superior a cualquiera
(I felt better than anyone)
Y un puño de estrellas
(And a fistful of stars)
Te quize bajar.
(I tried to bring down.)
Y al mirar que ninguna alcanzaba
(And seeing I could not reach)
Me dió tanta rabia
(I was so enraged)
Y me puse a llorar.
(I began to cry.)
Desde entonces yo siento quererte
(Since then I love you)
Con todas las fuerzas
(With all of the strength)
Que el alma me da.
(My soul gives me.)
Desde entonces Paloma Querida
(Since then, Beloved Paloma)
Mi pecho he cambiado por un palomar.
(My chest has become a dove’s nest.)
Yo no se lo que valga mi vida
(I don’t know what my life’s worth)
Pero yo te la vengo a entregar.
(But I give it to you.)
Yo no se si tu amor la reciba
(I don’t know if your love will accept)
Pero yo te la vengo a dejar.
(But I come to give it to you.)
The song still ringing in their ears, Fulgencio flashed back to his dream that night in Houston. Walking along the mesquite-lined path from their house to the ranch gate, he felt so safe and loved as Carolina held his hand. In unison their eyes landed on their little girl, skipping ahead. Her copper curls reflected the sunlight, and her eyes twinkled as she turned toward them singing, “I love you!” She heard their shared answer before it even fell from their lips. “We love you too, Paloma . . . We love you too.”
It had not been a dream related to the past, he realized. It had been a vision of the future.
Thirty-Six
She was packing her great-grandfather’s faded and cracked brown leather bag, the same one her father before her had carried to college. Next to it, on her sleek desk overlooking the Manhattan skyline, sat the ancient typewriter case with the black Remington inside. Her father had insisted that she take it to Harvard years earlier, despite the fact that there was a computer in every room. So she had dragged the machine to the Northeast to appease Fulgencio. Unlike her friends who communicated regularly with their parents via Skype, she had come to enjoy the quiet and introspective ritual of pulling out the antique typewriter on silent Sunday afternoons. Sitting in the black and gold armchair decorated with the school’s coat of arms, she would click away at the keys on a sheet of stationary pulled from a yellowing stack her father had retrieved from a shelf in his drugstore. Then, when she’d graduated with her master’s in architecture, she had lugged it to New York. It had always been a good conversation starter, remaining a fixture on her desks as she ascended from cubicle to corner office at one of the world’s most acclaimed design firms. Through those years building a career, she would smile as she shared her thoughts and musings on the events of her week with her parents. It was strange, for although they were older and farther away than most of her peers’ parents, she felt a tie much stronger than the ones she sensed between her friends and their elders. She would often thank them for bringing her up with such love, so close to their shared heart. And she appreciated them for always understanding and supporting her vision, even if it did seem quite outlandish for someone from a sleepy border town like La Frontera.
Paloma Angélica would always recall those early years warmly. At first, they had lived on El Dos de Copas, where her parents renovated and expanded the ranch house, preserving at its heart La Virgen’s relief and Fernando Cisneros’s card table.
How she had admired them. Her father seemed like a gentle giant, singing to her as he taught her how to ride horses, care for cattle, and be a nurturing steward of the land. And her mother was her hero, opening a small school on the ranch for children from the surrounding ranchlands, including those with special needs.
Fulgencio and Carolina also kept the drugstore open after marrying, mostly for sentimental reasons. He had owned it for so long, and it had kept him company through so many lonely years, that he could not bear to part with it. Besides, he would say, what would El Chotay do if he closed it down and the next tenant opened up a women’s clothing store! Would the old ghost be forced to hem dresses and fit wigs? And, how could he abandon his parade of misfits and loyalists? Both Carolina and Paloma Angélica agreed.
For Carolina, the drugstore was a warm and fuzzy reminder of her father’s own days as a pharmacist, of the times she had spent at the soda fountain in Mendelssohn’s Drugstore, her legs demurely crossed, twirling a straw in her fingers, feeling Fulgencio’s eyes drilling holes through her back.
And for Paloma Angélica, the pharmacy was a source of boundless human entertainment. She loved the wheezing of El Papabote LaMarque. The rhythmic white noise soothed her as if she were still a baby. And she thrilled at the very thought of playing jacks with El Chotay in the shadowy corners of the store. She delighted at posing trivia questions for El Primo Loco Gustavo to answer. And she savored the steaming cabrito con guacamole tacos from Old Eleodoro the Cabrito Man’s ever-present bag of foil-wrapped goodies.