Free Blue Like Elvis by Diane Moody

more,
right?
    “Oh,” she said,
clearly perplexed. “That’s fine. You can just come downstairs and join us when
you’re done.”
    I dragged another
pepper strip through the dressing, eager to change the subject. “Tell me how
you ended up in Memphis, of all places. You were born in San Juan, right?”
    “Born and raised.
I have two brothers and three sisters, all younger than me. They’re all still
there with Mama and Papa. My father has a sugar cane farm. He does very well.
At least by Puerto Rican standards, anyway. But when I was about to graduate
from high school, he told me he wanted me to come to the states to go to
college. He had ambitions for his children, particularly his girls.”
    “How did you know
which school to go to?”
    “We had some good
friends who were missionaries in San Juan. They were originally from
Mississippi and spoke so lovingly of it, I knew it’s where I wanted to go. In
fact, Aileen was an MC grad, so I never really considered going anywhere else.”
    “Mississippi
College. But it’s a girls’ school. I’m still having trouble visualizing you in
a girls’ school.”
    She laughed. “I
know! I don’t exactly fit the profile, do I? But it was really an easy
decision. Papa said I’d either go to a girls’ school or not at all. He had
ambitions for me, but he’s also very, very protective.”
    I tried to picture
this man, wondering what he was like. I’d seen a few photographs in Sandra’s
room, but hadn’t paid close attention. “Is he short like you? Your father?” I
asked.
    “Who says I’m
short?” she barked. “Back home, I’m not short. Papa, he is much taller than I
am. At least 5’5”. But every inch of it muscle and determination.”
    “That explains a
lot. And your mother?”
    Sandra’s smiled
widened. “Ah, mi madre. As wide as she is tall with a heart to match. Oh my
goodness, can she cook. Someday I should take you home with me. Just so you can
taste her tamales. She’s known for them. Famous. Oh, what I would give to have one
of those right now.”
    I tossed my napkin
on my plate. “How can you even think of food right now? I’m so full, I can
hardly breathe.”
    She forked another
green tomato. “That would be fun—you coming home with me sometime. We’ll have
to do that one of these days.”
    “I’d like that. I
really would,” I said, trying not to belch.
    “Ah, then you’d
get to meet Pedro . . .” she teased, her eyes waggling mischievously
as she chewed.
    “Pedro? Is he one
of your brothers?”
    She cackled again,
high and loud. “No! Pedro is my boy. My man. El amor de mi vida. ”
    “Your boyfriend?”
    She shook her
head, her dark curls bouncing wildly. “No, no, no. Pedro is not my boyfriend.
Pedro is my parrot.”
    Now it was my turn
to laugh. I’d been envisioning some dark, handsome young man, suitable for my
little friend here. “Your parrot ?”
    “Oh, he’s
gorgeous, my Pedro. He’s a Yellow Headed Amazon. Smart as a whip. Next time I
call home, I’ll let you talk to him.”
    “He talks ?”
    “Good heavens, he
talks more than I do. Never shuts up until we cover his cage at night.”
    “You mean he just
carries on conversations, like you or me?”
    She took a long
sip of her Tab. “Oh, you should hear him. He’ll ask about your day, ask you
what time it is, tell you how beautiful you are—I taught him that one, of
course.”
    You would have
thought she was talking about her firstborn child the way her face beamed with
pride. Then again, you’d rarely see her without a smile lighting up her face
and those dark lashes accenting eyes that rarely stopped dancing.
    “I’ll show you
pictures when we get back to the townhouse. He’s ridiculously handsome, but he
knows it too.”
    “Is it hard
teaching a parrot to talk?” I asked, pushing my plate aside.
    “Not at all. You
just start early, and never let an opportunity pass without talking to him.
Tell him what you’re doing, what you’re feeding him,