Free Tarnished Beauty by Cecilia Samartin

boyfriends always ate something before they left to fondle each other in the bed of the old rusted truck that was abandoned in the back field. Tía insisted on it.
    All at once, Jamilet felt the weariness return to her limbs. She sighed, and slowly walked back to the front steps of Carmen’s house, and waited there until evening announced itself as a steely gray dusk that was nothing like the black nights of her village. In this place the lights of the city effectively fought off the encroaching darkness, and the constant traffic stirred up the dust to create a perpetual haze. Even so, Jamilet could no longer help herself. She curled up, well hidden from the street by the wide post on the porch, placed her bundle underneath her head, and fell soundly asleep.
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    A strong hand on her shoulder moved her to and fro. “Wake up, you’re scaring the shit out of me.” The voice was both firm and familiar.
    Jamilet’s eyes flew open, and she found herself face-to-face with a woman who looked somewhat like the Tía Carmen she remembered. This woman had the same squat nose and broad face, the same coarse black hair that curled away from her forehead in little cowlicks all around. But she was much bigger than the Tía Carmen she remembered. This woman was easily three Tía Carmens in one.
    Jamilet sat up with a start and stared into dark eyes as sharp as razors.
    The woman switched to Spanish. “Are you my sister Lorena’s girl, Jamilet?” she asked, peering suspiciously at the short hair and boy’s pants.
    Jamilet felt her lips tremble with emotion. It was wonderful to be recognized in this strange place and to hear her mother’s name spoken as if she were still alive. She was filled with a wave of hope and nostalgia that left her momentarily dumb. She could only nod.
    â€œYou showed up a lot sooner than I thought you would,” she said as she jabbed her hand into her purse. She immediately produced keys that jangled like wind chimes. “Some get stuck for weeks trying to cross.”
    â€œI crossed the river alone,” Jamilet replied, finding her voice, but it was wimpy and girlish sounding, when she wanted to sound so confident and strong. She scampered up and gathered her belongings together before Carmen could unlock the screen door, and the two locks on the main door after that. This gave Jamilet a moment or two to appraise her aunt’s hairdo, as massive as it was intricate, like an elaborate fountain frozen around her face. At her other end were small fleshy feet tightly packed into leather shoes. And in between the two was an impressive girth, as big and round in front as it was in back.
    The door was finally opened and Jamilet followed her aunt into the dark house. A foul bittersweet odor wafted around them, the stale odor of filth left to its own devices. When the light was switched on, her suspicions were confirmed. The furniture was obscured by layers of clutter and trash that appeared to have fused together over time, like wax melting in the sun. If one looked carefully, it was possible to discern the approximate location of a tattered couch, and the television on cinder blocks set right in front of it. The coffee table in the center of the room was a bit easier to distinguish, and on its surface sat the recent residue of Carmen’s domestic life: empty beer cans, grease-stained paper plates, and a multitude of colorful wrappers, their contents long ago devoured.
    Carmen appraised the scene as if for the first time, and shrugged. “Excuse the mess,” she said, after which she tossed her purse on the couch and proceeded to the kitchen, which was in even worse condition than the living room. Jamilet couldn’t help but gape wide-eyed at the sink overflowing with dishes, the counters cluttered with opened boxes of every kind of ready-made food imaginable. Some of the boxes were chewed through, and small pieces were scattered about the floor and