Free Girl in the Mirror by Mary Alice Monroe Page A

future—a risky move for a poor Mexican with three hungry children.
    When he’d saved enough money, Luis had moved his ragtag family to the suburbs and established a modest lawn maintenance company. He slaved in suburban yards from dawn till sundown seven days a week, like a huge bull in the harness. Luis hated the suburbs, but Marta had wanted the good “gringo” schools where the nuns would teach her children the same things as white children. Besides, what could he do? The suburbs was where the money was. The people liked his wit and strong back, and his business thrived. When the boys grew older they helped run the mowers and hedge clippers, working for a pittance.
    Though his father may have been cheap with a dollar, he was very generous with his knowledge. Like his precious nursery, he nurtured his boys, teaching Roberto and Miguel about the soil, stock and the family secrets for a vigorous plant. Every spare penny earned went back to the land. When at last he could begin a nursery, he sold only a few select plants, just the ones his customers were likely to buy. Then, slowly, with his twinkling eyes and infectious laughter, he teased his customers to “try something a little bit different, no?” Plant by plant, Luis built the reputation of the Mondragon nursery, and Michael knew it had to break the old man’s heart to see a lifetime of struggle strangled by heat, drought and competition. Looking at his face now, he saw how the drought had coursed new crevices in his father’s handsome face as well.
    “What would you have me do, Papa?” he asked simply.
    His father searched his face, then relaxed with a satisfied, proud grin. “Ah, Miguel. You are a true son to me. Sí ! I see so much of me in you.”
    Michael stepped back from the bear hug, rebelling against the comparison. He wasn’t like his father. Not at all. “Papa…”
    “You see, Marta?” Luis interrupted, tightening his possessive arm around Michael’s shoulders. The force of his will flowed through him. “I told you my son would help me. I have one good son.”
    Michael met his mother’s gaze over his father’s head.
    “No, Luis,” she replied somberly. “You have two good sons.”
     
    When the feast was prepared, the family gathered around the long, dark wood table while Marta served the family favorites with pride. Ceviche, roast leg of pork in adobe sauce, corn pudding and green rice. For dessert, Marta insisted on no less than four cakes with fresh strawberries and cream.
    “Sit down now, Marta,” bellowed Luis. “Enough! You run like a rabbit. It makes me tired just to watch. Sit! It is time to eat.”
    Clucking her tongue while scanning the table for any missing salt shakers, butter or salsa, Marta reluctantly took her seat beside Luis.
    While Luis led the family in prayer, Michael studied the faces collected at the table. His family reflected Mexico’s rich and diverse history. His father was still a virile, handsome man. Tall, with dark hair boldly streaked with gray and heavy, bushy brows. His mother, Marta, had skin as fair and glowing as the Madonna in the May holy card pictures she adored. Her brown and gray hair, rolled smoothly back into a bun, accentuated the delicate, patrician features that reflected her Spanish descent.
    His brother, Bobby, was the most like her. His hair was as blond as hers once was, his skin as light and his frame as delicate. His cocky smile carved deep dimples into a face already over-blessed with good looks. His sister, Rosa, was also fair. But to her lifelong dismay, she was tall and wide in the shoulders, like himself and their father, a large woman able to lift heavy machinery and do a man’s day of work. Luis had often complained bitterly to Marta that she had somehow gotten the genes between Bobby and Rosa mixed up.
    Michael grew up knowing that of all the family, his features were the most Indian-like. Unusually tall, like his father, his skin was the darkest, his hair the coarsest and