Savages

“Tomorrow night,” Ben says. “Dress up.”

“I’ll have to go shopping,” O answers.

52

When O gets home, Eleanor is pulling out of the driveway again.

Seems like that chick is always pulling out of driveways.

When O goes into the house, Paqu sits her down in the living room for a

Serious Talk.

“Darling girl,” she says, “we need to have a serious talk.”

Which for O is like

Uh-oh.

“Are you breaking up with me?” she asks, sitting on the sofa cushion where Paqu has patted her hand to indicate that she should sit.

Paqu doesn’t get it. She leans closer to O, her eyes get all soft and misty, she takes a deep breath and says, “Darling, I need to tell you that Steve and I have decided to pursue our separate destinies.”

“Who’s Steve?”

Paqu takes O’s hand and squeezes it. “Now, this doesn’t mean that we don’t love you. We do—very much. This has nothing to do with you and … it is not … your … fault … you do understand that, don’t you?”

“Oh God, is he the pool guy?”

O likes the pool guy.

“And Steve is going to stay in town, you can see him anytime you want, this won’t change your relationship.”

“Are we talking about Six?”

Paqu blinks. “Steven—your stepfather?”

“If you say so.”

“We tried to make it work,” Paqu says, “but he was so unsupportive of my life coaching and Eleanor said that I shouldn’t be with a man who isn’t supportive of my goals.”

“Six is unsupportive of your life coach coaching you to leave him,” O says. “What an asshole.”

“He’s a very nice man, it’s just that—”

“Is this an L Word thing, Mom? Because Eleanor strikes me as a little—”

Dykey.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, O thinks. She and Ash have done some quasi-lesbo things under the influence of grass, X, and each other, but it really isn’t their permanent thing, just sort of an emergency measure like Popsicles when you really want ice cream but the store is closed and that’s all that’s in the freezer.

Or maybe it’s the other way around, metaphorically speaking.

She tries to imagine Paqu going down, strapping on a tool belt, or being femme to Eleanor’s butch, but the image is scoop-your-own-eyes-out-with-a-grapefruit-spoon creepy and twenty-thousand-hours-in-therapy-and- you’re-still-messed-up wrong so she gives it up.

As Paqu gently intones, “So Steve is moving out.”

“Can I have his room?”

53

Lado drives home listening to some radio talk-show host go on and on about a “wise Latina” and he thinks it’s pretty funny.

He knows what a “wise Latina” is: a “wise Latina” is a woman who knows to shut her mouth before she gets the back of the hand, too, that’s what a “wise Latina” is.

His wife is a wise Latina.

Lado and Delores have been married for coming on twenty-five years, so don’t tell him it don’t work. She keeps a nice home, she’s raised three beautiful, respectful kids, and she does her duty in the bedroom when requested and otherwise doesn’t make demands.

They have a nice home at the end of a cul-de-sac in Mission Viejo. A typical suburban California home in a typical suburb, and when they moved up from Mexico eight years ago Delores was delighted.

Good schools for the kids, parks, playgrounds, excellent Little League program in which their two sons are stars—Francisco is a pitcher, Junior is an outfielder with a strong bat—and their oldest, Angela, made cheerleader at the high school this year.

It’s a good life.

Lado pulls in to the driveway and turns off the radio.

Health care, who gives a shit about health care? You put money aside and you take care of yourself if you get sick. He had to set up a group insurance plan for his employees at the landscaping business and it pissed him off.

Delores is in the kitchen fixing dinner—

—wise Latina—

—when he comes in and sits down.

“Where are the kids?”

“Angela is at cheer practice,” Delores says, “the boys are at baseball.”

She’s still a guapa, Delores, even after three kids. Should be, he thinks, with the time she puts in at the gym. I should have invested in 24-Hour Fitness, got some of it back. Either that or she’s at the spa getting something worked on—her hair, her skin, her nails, something.

Sitting there yapping with her friends.

Bitching about their husbands.

He don’t spend enough time at home, he don’t spend enough time with the kids, he never takes me out anymore, he don’t help around the house …

Yeah, maybe he’s busy. Making money to pay for the house he don’t spend enough time in, paying for the cheerleader outfits, the baseball equipment, the English tutors, the cars, the pool cleaners, the gym, the spa …

She wipes the counter down in front of him.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Get me a beer.”

She reaches into the refrigerator

—new, three thousand dollars

grabs a bottle of Corona and sets it down—a little hard—on the counter.

“What, you unhappy again?” Lado asks.

“No.”

She sees a “therapist” once a week. More money that she resents him busting his ass for.

Says she’s depressed.

Lado gets up, steps behind her, and wraps his arms around her waist. “Maybe I should make you pregnant again.”

“Si, that’s what I need.”

She slips from his grasp, walks over to the oven, and takes out a casserole of enchiladas.

“Smells good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Kids home for dinner?”