Page 45 - WTPVolI Vol.#4

cute!” in there, but of course I didn’t understand the laughter, so I hid again, leaned against my papa’s legs and faced the stage. My papa squeezed my shoulder. He was laughing too, but when I looked at my mama she was not laughing; her eyes shone. Everyone fell hush again. One beat, then she began to play.
the pyramids and the current cost of broccoli. When the plates were cleared and all that was left were our mugs and a pot of bottomless coffee, Brenda cleared her throat. She reached out and grabbed my hands, just long enough for me to feel how cold they were. An unnatural coldness, beyond that of the over air- conditioned restaurant. Brenda pulled her hands back to herself before I could react.
Sweat ran down her face, chest and arms. Her shirt turned dark. The rest of the musicians followed her lead. So much heat came off them that I could feel it. Heat off their bodies, off the friction between strings and fingertips, vocal chords, wooden and hollow spac- es. The heat expanded until there was a crackling and the air sparked. Until the room became a giant bal- loon floating over the earth. Everyone was inside the balloon and inside was a party: fireworks, hot dogs, and funnel cake with powdered sugar melting. Lizards flashed their colorful underbellies, puppies danced on their hind legs, acrobats flew. My sister Sarai and papa spun out dancing. Bones knocked like drumsticks, hair trembled strong and wiry like guitar strings. The lightbulbs twisted and everybody’s limbs were loose.
“I’m sick.”
I felt it all within me and all without. My head bobbed, and with my hands I beat the beat on my knees and I beat and I beat until bop da da bop, like that, the song ended and three-year-old me began to cry even as the rest of the world erupted into wild applause, whistles, cheers and calls for another, another, another.
“The usual culprit of this modern day age. El cáncer.”
That was the last show, before Brenda left.
Brenda had always been the raging fire. Sweeping and fierce, hypnotizing and powerful. Now she was point- ing to her head like what was growing inside wasn’t that important. Not like beats or bars. Her body was an accessory. A t-shirt to wear for a while until it got worn too thin or had a rip too many. Patch it up if pos- sible, otherwise let it go. That’s how she pointed at her head, the old noggin.
“What do you play?” The man next to me motioned towards the case.
“Accordion.”
He nodded as if piecing together all the bits of infor- mation he had about accordions.
“Do you have insurance?”
“People are always looking for something different, so it’s good to have you here.”
This time Brenda laughed for real.
I didn’t tell him I wasn’t going to play after all. Instead I nodded and commented on his Ochoa jersey, which launched us into a benign conversation far and far away from anything related to music. What need did I have? No need did I have. ~
“You always were the practical one.”
I didn’t think Brenda would or could ever grow old, but there she sat with her shoulders slightly slumped and gray streaking her still wild and eccentric hair.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
We met at IHOP, my choice, although Brenda was the one who called. We small talked about Sarai down by
lowed it all, I breathed it all out through my nostrils
Then I saw it wasn’t just grey in Brenda’s hair. Her hands were veined. Her arms softer and her pupils had overtaken her irises as though they needed to be open wider to get enough light. Her voice was still strong, but there was a faint tremble in it.
“With what?”
Brenda tried to laugh.
“Where?”
I expected her to say liver, or lung, or breast, but Brenda pointed to the base of her head.
“The old noggin.”
My skin prickled with the old heat.
Brenda leaned back in the booth. She fished in her purse for cigarettes.
I heard the edge in my voice. There was so much I always wanted to tell Brenda she shouldn’t do. I swal-
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