“Placida” by Nic Kelman
--page 4
“That’s right,” her mother said again, “It’s true—now you see, that’s why I wanted
to take you out. It’s a lot more money a year so you and the others, they don’t need to
worry about me at all—I think I am going to move to a building downtown—an apartment
building there. It’s very nice—it has a doorman, and a swimming pool, and a garage.
There will be people there all the time to look after me, just like in the place you are
talking about, but I can stay here and keep working.”
And yet here we were, years later, visiting her in the same house—or trying to—
while she worked in the same job. I have reached the north end of Placida’s long block,
Calle Sahuaro, and walk West now, along the edge of a wide field of brown, dry earth to
the North that tries to be first a soccer pitch and then, beyond that, a baseball diamond.
There are no markers for either, just two faded goal frames with no nets set up some
distance apart and an outline of a quarter-circular wedge like a giant slice of dirt pie. On
the far side of this field is a low wall, and beyond that, tarmac parking lots channeled by
well-trimmed hedges to lap at the foundations of a collection of chain motels and
restaurants, including the one we went to that night. Rising above them, in the distance,
North of Baseline Road, I can just see the mall, a functional cathedral of consumerism.
There was no shade on Sahuaro, but for some reason, along here the sun seems even
more intense, as if it were a cold wind and the field to my left allowed it to gather
strength. I squint at the houses on my right. I may be passing people there in the shade
of their porches. I imagine old men in tanktops drinking something from plastic cups
with ice in them—I don’t know what, but it is most likely yellow—and fanning themselves
with disposable paper fans, but they are probably not there, probably not watching me
walk past, curious about me, vaguely amused at the sweat they can see soaking through
my linen shirt, at my dress shoes, at how obvious it is that I have been stranded, am a
castaway on their barren island.
I have heard some nice stories about Placida too, of course, I remember as I cross
Calle Azteca. The care with which she cooked for Letitia and her other children while
they were still at home—I have heard on many occasions and from many people how
good her tamales are or her arroz con pollo or even just how there is something about the
way she heats up a tortilla that makes it taste better than when Letitia tries to do it for
herself. Or the boxes she sends us occasionally which I have actually seen with my own
eyes, not just heard about, strangely-sized boxes from supermarkets that she has filled
with ends and odds she bought at a thrift store and thought we might like—a pair of
1930’s dress pants for me, a soapstone statue of a mermaid for Letitia with drillings that
intended it to be converted into a fountain. On the other hand, I have never actually seen
her cook and the items she ships to us for more than they cost show so little knowledge of
who we actually are, rather just the raw desire to give most often associated with guilt,
that I have to wonder if these stories have the value Letitia assigns them. They are not
even stories, I realize as I jog across Priest Drive at the precise point where it becomes
Avenida del Yaqui, they are just facts, details. They are effortless. But still. She did
work all those years after their father left to support them as best she could. She didn’t
have to do that even if I wonder why she did.
The bodega is set out alone in the middle of a dirt and concrete parking lot. It has
no hedges, no curbing with carefully trimmed grass borders, and only has windows on
one side. They are quite dirty, but I can still see the shelving behind them, against them,
loaded down with plastic bottles of detergent in different colors, each shelf bending down
towards the middle of the window. Above the window, running its entire length is the
requisite yellow sign with red writing in both English and Spanish, “Cold Beer • Sodas
• Tropical • Vegetables & Fruits • Meat • Candy • Cold Beer.” I can’t help wondering
what “Tropical” might be. At the corners of the building are two more “Cold Beer” signs
and scattered across its face are other signs, placed seemingly at random, “ATM,” “Beans
89¢,” “Lotto,” “Marlboro.” There is a neon “Budweiser” sign in the lower righthand
corner of the window, the crown glowing faintly through the dust and dirt and grime. I
stand next to a beat-up old ATM just outside the door while I use the pay phone. We
have no messages.
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