Free Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros Page A

down a small key with a faded pink tassel at the end. This he turns twice and the tumblers give their familiar click, then the doors open with a sigh that smells of things old, like a shirt ironed till it’s brown.
    In one drawer the Little Grandfather shows me his cadet uniform, and in another a red bundle.
    —This handkerchief used to belong to my mother. During the revolutionshe made a promise to la Virgencita to keep me safe. They had to saw three ribs out of me. And here are the three ribs, he says, undoing the cloth and placing them in my hand.
    They’re as light as old wood and yellow like dog teeth.
    —Grandfather, is it true you lost them in a terrible battle?
    —Oh, yes! Terrible, terrible.
    —But don’t you miss your three ribs?
    —Well. Not very. He picks up an old sepia photo of himself. Seated on a cane bench, a young man with the surprised eyes of someone who knows nothing of the world. The person he is leaning on has been cut out of the picture. —You can get used to anything, I’ve learned, he adds, looking at the photograph and sighing. —Well, almost.
    —And what’s this? I say, tugging an embroidered pillowcase.
    —This? the Grandfather says, pulling out of the pillowcase a cloth of caramel, licorice, and vanilla stripes. —This was your grandmother’s rebozo when she was a girl. That’s the only recuerdo she has from those times, from when she was little. It’s a caramelo rebozo . That’s what they call them.
    —Why?
    —Well, I don’t know. I suppose because it looks like candy, don’t you think?
    I nod. And in that instant I can’t think of anything I want more than this cloth the golden color of burnt-milk candy.
    —Can I have it, Grandfather?
    —No, mi cielo . I’m afraid it’s not mine to give, but you can touch it. It’s very soft, like corn silk.
    But when I touch the caramelo rebozo a shriek rises from the courtyard, and I jump back as if the rebozo is made of fire.
    —¡¡¡Celayaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!
    It’s the Awful Grandmother yelling as if she’s cut off a finger. I leave the Grandfather and the caramelo rebozo , and run slamming doors behind me, jumping down stairs two at a time. When I get to the courtyard, I remember to answer the way the Grandmother instructed.
    —¿Mande usted? At your orders?
    —Ah, there she is. Celaya, sweetness, come here. Don’t be frightened, my child. Remember how she used to sing when she was just a baby? ¡Qué maravilla! She was the same as Shirley Temple. I-den-ti-cal, I swear to you. Still in diapers but there she was singing her heart out, remember?We should have put her on the Chocolate Express Show , but no, no one listens to me. Think of the money she could’ve brought home by now. Come, Celaya, dearest. Get up on this chair and let’s see if you can still sing like you used to. Let’s see. Ándale , sing for your granny. Watch.
    —I … don’t know.
    —What do you mean you don’t know?
    —I don’t know if I can remember. That was when I was little.
    —Nonsense! The body always remembers. Get up here!
    The relatives begin chanting, — Que cante la niña Lalita, que cante la niña Lalita .
    —Stand up straight, the Grandmother orders. —Throw your shoulders back, Celaya. Swallow. A big gulp of air. That’s it. Now, sing.
    —Pretty baby, pretty baby, tan tarrán-tara taran-ta, tara-ranta-ranta-rán …
    My voice tiny in the beginning, but then I puff up like a canary and sing as loud as I can.
    —PRETTY BABY OF MINE, OF MINE. PRETTY BABY OF … MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!
    A small silence.
    —No, the Grandmother announces matter-of-factly. —She can’t sing. Juchi, play that song I like, the one from my times, “Júrame.” Come on, don’t be bad, play it for me. Todos dicen que es mentira que te quiero …
    For the rest of the evening I hide upstairs and watch the party from the covered balcony where no one can watch me watching, my face pressed against the rails, the rails cool against my