Free Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros Page B

hot skin. Once I got my head stuck between the space between an “s” and a flower. They had to use the brown bar of laundry soap to set me free, and afterward my head hurt … from the iron bars and from the scolding. And my heart hurt from the brothers laughing, but I don’t like to think about that.
    The music and the spirals of cigarette smoke rising up like genies. The other kids already asleep wherever they fell. Draped on a chair. Or on a volcano of coats. Or under a table. Everywhere except in their beds. But no one notices.
    The bodies below moving and twirling like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. Tables and chairs pushed to the edges to make room for dancing. “Vereda tropical” playing from the hi-fi. Aunties in silk dresses so tight they seem to explode like orchids, aunties laughing with their big flower mouths, and the air sweet-sweet with their ladies’ perfume, andsweeter still the men’s cologne, the kind men wear here in Mexico, sweeter than flowers, like the sugary words whispered in the women’s ears —mi vida, mi cielo, muñeca, mi niña bonita .
    The men in their shark suits, gray with a little lightning bolt of blue, or olive with a gleam of gold when they move. A stiff white handkerchief in the pocket. The man’s hand leading a woman when they dance, just a little tug, just a little like when you yank a kite to remind it—Don’t go too far. And the woman’s hand nesting inside the man’s big heart-shaped hand, and his other hand on her big heart-shaped hips. A beautiful woman with black-black eyes and dark skin, who is our mother in her good fuchsia satin dress bought at the Three Sisters on Madison and Pulaski, and her matching fuchsia cut-glass earrings. Swish of stockings against the cream-colored nylon slip with its twin shells of lace on top and an accordion pleat at the hem, and one strap, always one, lazy and loose asking to be put back. My father with a curl of lavender cigarette smoke, his mouth hot next to my mother’s ear when he whispers, his mustache tickling, the roughness of his cheek, and my mother throwing her head back and laughing.
    I’m so sleepy, except I don’t want to go to bed, I might miss something. I lean my head against the balcony rails and shut my eyes, and jump when the guests start roaring. It’s only Uncle Fat-Face dancing with a broom as if it was a lady. Uncle likes to make everyone laugh. When I’ve had enough of the broom dance, I get up to look for the Grandfather. The dining room door is heavy, I have to pull it open with both hands.
    But when I step inside I don’t move.
    I scramble downstairs to tell everyone, only I don’t have the words for what I want to say. Not in English. Not in Spanish.
    —The wall has fallen, I keep saying in English.
    —What?
    —Upstairs. In the big dining room. The wall fell. Come and see.
    —What does this kid want? Go see your mother.
    —It’s that the wall has fallen.
    —Later, sweetie, not now, I’m busy.
    —The wall in the dining room, it came down like snow.
    —How this child loves to be a pest!
    —What is it, my queen? Tell me, my heaven.
    —La pared arriba, es que se cayó. Ven, Papá, ven .
    —You go, Zoila. You’re the mother.
    —¡Ay! Always, always I’m the mother when you can’t be bothered.All right, all right already. Quit pulling at me, Lala, you’re going to rip my dress.
    I tug Mother upstairs, but it’s like tugging a punching clown. She tips and wobbles and laughs. Finally, we make it all the way up the stairs.
    —Now, this better be good!… Holy Toledo!!!
    The dining room is powdered with a layer of white plaster like sugar. White plaster over everything, rug, tables, chairs, lamps. Big chunks of plaster here and there, too, like pieces of birthday cake.
    Mother shouts downstairs. —Everybody, quick! The ceiling’s fallen!
    ¡Se cayó el cielo raso! Father says.
    And then it is I learn the words for what I want to say. “Ceiling” and “cielo.” Cielo