Free Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

dough. A thick cigar glows in one hand, and in the other he holds a crumpled newspaper.
    —What a silly you are, Private Lala! No need to cry because of a plate of mole . Come now, niña .
    —But the Grandmother said …
    —Never mind what she said. Do you think she’s the boss around here? Watch what I’m going to do. Oralia!
    —Sí, señor .
    —Give this to the neighbor’s dog. And if my wife asks, say the child ate it.
    —Sí, señor .
    —You see how easy that was?
    —But it’s a lie.
    —Not a lie! A healthy lie. Which sometimes we have to tell so that there won’t be trouble. There, there, stop crying. Would you like to watch television with me in my room? You would! Well, then first you have to stop crying. I can’t have you crying all over my room, that’s for sure! Put on your shoes. That’s a good girl.
    The Little Grandfather grunts as he walks like a Pekingese.
    —Don’t tell the others, because they’ll get jealous, but you’re my favorite, the Grandfather says, winking.
    —Really?
    —Truly. Eres mi cielo . You are my sky, the Little Grandfather says, showing off his English. —Did you know I used to live in Chicago once? A long time ago, before you were even born, when I was a young man I lived with my Uncle Old in Chicago. I bet you don’t know the capital of Illinois. What’s the capital of Illinois? What’s the capital of California? What’s the capital of Alaska? Don’t they teach you anything in school?
    —I don’t go to school yet.
    —That’s no excuse. Why, when I was your age I knew the names of all the states in the republic and their capitals, as well as the capitals of all … What are you looking at?
    —Abuelito, how did your hair get like fur?
    The Little Grandfather laughs like the letter “k,” exactly the way Father laughs.
    —It used to be like yours. For many years. Then, when I retired, it started growing white. I dyed it at first—I was very vain once. Then one day I just let it go, just like that, and it went from shoe-polish black towhite-white-white in a matter of days. Like the snowy peaks of the twin volcanoes Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl, he says, laughing. —Do you know the story of the twin volcanoes?… You don’t?!!!
    —Nobody tells me anything. They say I talk too much and can’t keep a secret. That’s why they say they can’t tell me things.
    —Is that right? Well, let me tell you. Izta and Popo, Izta and Popo, the Grandfather says, adjusting his cigar and looking up at the ceiling. —A Mexican love story. He clears his throat. He puts his cigar down and then picks it back up. He scratches his head.
    —Once, under the sky and on the earth there was a prince and a princess. The prince’s name was Popocatépetl. You can imagine how difficult it was for his mother to shout, “Popocatéptl, Popocatépetl.” So she called him Popo for short.
    There is a pause. The Grandfather stares at a spot on the rug. —Now, the princess’s name was Iztaccíhuatl and she was in love with this Prince Popo. But because the families of Izta and Popo hated each other, they had to keep their love a secret. But then something happened, I forget what, except I know he killed her. And then as he watched her die, he was so overcome with her beauty he knelt down and wept. And then they both turned into volcanoes. And there they are, the Grandfather says, raising the venetian blinds and pointing to the volcanoes in the distance. —See? One lying down, and one hunched over watching her. There. That’s how you know it’s true.
    —But if he loved her so much, Abuelito, why did he kill her?
    —Well, I don’t know. I don’t know. That’s a good question. I don’t know. I suppose that’s how Mexicans love, I suppose.
    —Abuelito, what’s in there?
    —Where?
    —In there. Inside that.
    —¿El ropero? Oh, lots of things. Lots. Would you like to see?
    The Grandfather walks over to the walnut-wood armoire, runs his hand along the top, and brings