“Placida” by Nic Kelman
--page 5

         Inside, as I walk down the cramped aisles full of American and Mexican junkfood and packaged goods and cans and bottles, as I open the cooler after looking hard for the section that contains non-alcoholic drinks, I remember the last time I was at this bodega I was here to pick up a few last minute items for Thanksgiving dinner. This was three or four years ago and all the sisters and their families had come out here. The three sisters had been talking about doing a Thanksgiving all together since the most recent nephew had been born and they had been planning it for a year. We were all going to go out to New Mexico where the middle sister lived on a large ranch with her husband and their three children and we were all going to pay for Placida to fly the few hundred miles from Phoenix to Albuquerque. Then we would all have a place to stay, the kids would have plenty of room to play and the older ones could even ride a little, there would be dogs and fires and stars. But then a week before, long after we’d bought our tickets from New York and Letitia’s oldest sister had bought hers from Hong Kong, Placida announced that she had sprained her ankle and her doctor was telling her it was impossible for her to fly because she had to keep the leg elevated as much as possible. And so that was that. We all booked into different hotels scattered around Phoenix at ridiculous prices because it was a week before Thanksgiving and since the middle sister and her family weren’t going to buy plane tickets at that point but drive, we all decided to fly into Albuquerque anyway and drive down together since changing our tickets cost nearly as much as the tickets themselves. So Leti’s sister from Hong Kong and her husband and their two kids had to get off a 17 hour flight and into a mini-van with me and Letitia and drive 5 hours following her sister from Albuquerque in a different mini-van until we got to Phoenix and checked in to our various hotels and freshened up and regrouped and, at last, went around to Placida’s house where she met us all at the door on crutches but without her ankle bandaged. That was the day before Thanksgiving, so the next day was the day I was here, at this bodega, and the meal went fine and everyone seemed happy to be together even if an accident had caused everyone slightly more trouble to get together. But the day after that, in the afternoon, when we all went out to see the petroglyphs on Waterfall Trail leaving Placida at home for a few hours, I got a phonecall on the way there about a commercial of mine that was supposedly running a week early on a local station and my agent was wondering if I could check it out, so I dropped everyone off and turned around and drove back to Placida’s house, which was closer than our hotel, and parked a little way down the street. Since Placida had said she was going to lie down for a little while I didn’t want to disturb her, so, seeing the gate to the back was open, I just walked around to the yard and slipped into the house through the sliding doors. Except there was Placida walking into the living room from the kitchen holding a glass of root beer in one hand and a plate of turkey in the other. We looked at each other for a moment, our eyes meeting, and when I didn’t say anything she simply turned and walked back into the kitchen. I stood there, wondering if she might come back on her crutches or if there might be a crash or other staged noise from the kitchen, but there was nothing. Just the sound of one of the kitchen’s metal chairs being pulled out across the linoleum floor and then the sound of her knife and fork against her plate. I walked to the TV and watched the spot standing up and left the way I had come, out the back, as if retracing my steps might mean it had never happened and I wouldn’t have to talk about it. On the drive back out to the trail, I decided I would have to tell Leti about it after all, but would wait until we were alone that night, in bed, where it was always easier to discuss such things, so I said nothing as I drove her and some of the family back to Placida’s house. When we got there, she met us at the door without her crutches. “Look,” she said, limping in a small circle, looking at everyone but me, “no more crutches!” That night, in bed, after we fucked, I thought about how Leti had clapped a little and laughed and said, “Mami! That’s wonderful—maybe you can come to the movies with us tonight!” and I said nothing.
        I pay for the drinks and the snacks—some plantain chips, Leti’s favorite—and make my way back wondering if Placida has arrived yet, sorry to leave the store’s air conditioning behind me, feeling the sweat soaked into my shirt heat up and then fresh sweat come on.
        As I walk up to the house, I see Placida’s old brown Buick driving up the street, raising dust behind it. I look at Leti, still sitting a little bit in the shade and point down the street, the plastic bottlenecks in my hand, the drinks already warm. The Buick pulls up next to me as Leti comes down the path, the sweat on her legs flashing in the sun, her legs the only reflective surface anywhere, the film of dust dulling everything else, the windows, the sheet metal of the cars, their hubcaps. Placida gets out and says, “Hi Alex! Mija!” as if nothing were wrong and this is exactly what was supposed to have happened. She wears a red dress with white lace at the collar and cuffs and hem that I have never seen before and the silver in her hair has been freshly hidden beneath black dye. I smile uncertainly at Placida, knowing Leti will say something, knowing that this is the only person she can lose her temper with.

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