“Anyway, give her a call. That’s the bakery’s number. And if you need anything, you know where I am. Berta comes home around one or two, I think.” She walked to the door, opened it, then paused, “And I’ll be home all morning, so . . . I’ll be watching the house.” She gave me a look of warning and then stepped out the door.
The silence that followed the click of the door was soothing. I glanced around the kitchen, bright with sunlight. Above the table was a clock in the shape of a sunflower. On either side hung figures of cows with large eyes. In fact, cows were everywhere. The salt and pepper shakers, the napkin holder, the dish towels that hung from the refrigerator. Little black and white cows smiled back at me throughout the room. I knew immediately that I would like Berta.
I sat down at the table and picked up the pad. ¡Alma, bienvenida! Welcome, in neat printing at the top, and then beneath that, Llámame, followed by a phone number. I glanced at the yellow phone and felt a twinge of nervousness. A bird cooed loudly outside. Glancing up, I noticed that above the sink, the window extended outward. Within it were three ceramic pots painted with sunflowers, each containing different herbs: basil, cilantro, and something unfamiliar. And all around these colorful pots were more little cows. One was standing on its hind legs, wearing a chef’s hat and holding a rolling pin. Another was lying flat on its back wearing a bikini and sunglasses, and another, wearing a pink bonnet, was pushing a baby carriage with a calf peering out. I grinned and reached for the phone.
“Betty’s Bakery,” a voice said in English after three rings. I hesitated. “Hello,” I said using the little bit of English that my father had taught us. “Please, Berta . . . Berta, please?” It occurred to me that I didn’t even know her last name.
The woman said something and set down the phone. I could hear voices in the background, then footsteps. “Hello?” a woman’s voice.
I responded in Spanish. “Is this Berta?”
“Sí. ¿Es Alma? You made it all right? You are there?” Her Spanish put me at ease.
“Yes, I am here in your happy kitchen . . . with the cows.”
She laughed. “Listen, I am going to try and get out early, maybe by noon or so, but in the meantime, make yourself at home. There’s food in the refrigerator—anything, eat anything. And you can settle into the bedroom on the left, at the end of the hall.” She paused, “Let’s see . . . anything else? How was your trip?”
“Fine, no problems. The students were very kind.”
“¡Muy bien! Well, if you have any questions, just call. But I should get home in an hour or two. So, eat, take a shower, sleep if you are tired. Okay?”
My eyes welled up with gratitude. “Muchas gracias. You are so kind.”
She was silent, then a quick, “Got to go. See you soon.”
I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Everything in the kitchen was dazzling and clean—sparkling sink, gleaming stove top and oven. I stood and ran my fingers along the beige tile counter. I curved around the kitchen table to another small doorway that led back to the room with the dining table, sofa, and swivel chair. And the photographs!
The photos were mostly of Diego. On the wall was a collage of baby pictures: asleep in a crib, on Santa’s lap, surrounded by gifts beneath a Christmas tree, and in the arms of a young woman with a beaming smile, perhaps Berta? On a glass shelf mounted along one wall was a row of silver frames: a young boy in a baseball uniform, a gangly teenager beside a red car, a handsome young man in a tuxedo standing beside a girl in a long blue gown, and finally, a graduation photo in cap and gown. I could see a bit of my father in these later pictures, in Diego’s high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and dark eyes.
But it was as I turned that my heart stopped. Along the top of the oak piece that held the TV was a large photo of my father taken a year or two before he disappeared, for he looked exactly as I remembered him. He was standing proudly beside his son who towered above him by at least 12 centimeters, maybe more. Papá’s eyes were soft, his chin lifted slightly, his smile full and warm. He was clearly happy to be there. I had never thought of that. That coming here was not just work, but a chance to see his American son. I gently touched the face smiling back at me. “Where are you?” I whispered.
Beside this photo were three others. One was perhaps of Berta’s parents, an older couple—the woman seated, the man standing proudly beside her, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Then in a ceramic frame with sunflowers painted all around it, a pretty young woman with a twinkle in her eye grinned at the camera as if she’d just had a good laugh. I wondered if this was Berta, or perhaps, Berta’s sister: Diego’s mother, my father’s first wife. On the other side of my father’s picture was the third framed in black: a young man in a military uniform staring solemnly off to the side as if contemplating where he was headed. A brother perhaps?
I reached for my bag of belongings and walked down the hall: a small bathroom to the left, a bedroom to the right. I stopped and glanced in—Diego’s room I guessed, with baseball posters, trophies on the dresser, and a blue plaid comforter on a large
