Room for Dessert

By Thomas Maya

“No politics,” Lucia said.

Roberto flicked on the blinker, slowed the car down for the right-side turn into the parking lot and said, “Sure.” The rain had just started and the roads were slick, and he had become a slow, careful driver since his father’s accident. It was Roberto and Lucia’s first Friday out since the trip to Medellín, where they’d gone to visit with her family.  

“I mean it.” She put her hand on his upper thigh and squeezed through his jeans. “Promise me,” she said squeezing harder. “I don’t want another argument between you two.”

Inside the steakhouse they found Olga and Jaime seated at a booth, and they said their hellos in Spanish as they sat down across from them. 

Jaime said, “We ordered a Bloomin’ Onion to get us started.”

Roberto nodded and smiled before saying, “Lucia says we shouldn’t talk politics.”

“Roberto, por favor,” she said and pinched his thigh.

“I agree,” Olga said. “I’m sick of hearing about it twenty-four seven, on the news, on Facebook, from Jaime all day long.”

Jaime shook his head and laughed. “Jamás! I don’t talk politics all day long,” he said.  “Besides, what are we supposed to talk about, huh, what we did at work today, the weather?”

“How’s Mom?” Roberto asked. “You call her this week?”

Roberto and Jaime’s mother had returned to her birthplace of Ensenada after their father’s wreck–heavy rains, slippery curves, the old man’s all-too-familiar reckless driving. Jaime had spoken with her a few days before; he told them that she sounded lonely. “We’re thinking of visiting in June. You two should come, we’ll make it an extended double date. Maybe take a quick drive down to Baja?”

“Yeah, we better get on that before the wall gets built.”

“Roberto!” Lucia said.

“It’s okay, Lucia, somos adultos. And besides”–Jaime waved his carpenter’s hands across the table as if showing off a piece of just-finished woodwork–“this is how you find common ground. ¿Sí o no, hermanito? By discussing things, not avoiding them.”

“You know we’re Mexican, right?” Roberto said.

“Mexican-American,” Jaime corrected. “And legal to boot.”

Roberto smirked and looked away from his older brother as their waiter approached. He was a tall, redheaded man in his forties who wore a textbook-sized apron across his crotch and a red shirt covered with decorative pins. He placed a platter in the center of the table as if it were a bouquet and said hello to the new patrons. Steam rose from the oniony blossom, accompanied by a pungent smell, as the waiter pulled out a notepad and asked if everyone was ready to order.

“I can be ready if I go last,” Roberto said, opening his menu for the first time.

Jaime went first and ordered the ribeye rare. Olga asked a question about a seafood medley, and, as the waiter answered, Roberto eyed the many pins tacked to his red shirt. Along with his nametag, there were colorful koala bears, hopping kangaroos, and numerous boomerangs all celebrating the man’s sales and employment history at the steakhouse. There was also an American flag pinned to the flap of his shirt pocket–it hung upside down right where one would put their hand when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Jaime mentioned the flag after the waiter’s departure.

“I noticed,” Roberto said. “You think it was on purpose?”

“Why the hell would anyone do that on purpose?” Jaime asked.

“No politics boys.” Olga grabbed a wedge of onion. “Tell us about your trip,” she added, tilting her head and smiling large to make obvious her collusion with Lucia.

Roberto, ignoring her, said, “It’s a distress signal, Jaime. An SOS, something like Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, our president’s a nut job, things in DC are going to shit.”

“Mayday my ass, it’s–”

“Stop it,” Olga said. “I’m going to Mayday both your asses out of this booth if you don’t. Tell me,” she said looking right into Roberto’s eyes, “about your trip.”

“Right, our trip. It was…it was good. Lucia took me to Cartagena this time, which was very pretty, but very hot–we were sweating buckets the whole time.”

Lucia glanced over at Roberto and said, “Actually, we do have some big news, right Roberto?” He nodded and gave her an okay to go on with a forward nudge of his chin. “We’re moving to Medellín.”

“Thinking about moving,” Roberto clarified.

“Qué va, really?” Olga said. 

“Absolutely,” Lucia said. “Especially if Roberto’s job hunt pans out.”

“Seriously?” Jaime said. When he pressed his brother for more details, Roberto explained how he had interviewed at a few schools during their trip, and that the posting he most wanted, teaching English literature at a Jesuit high school, looked promising. He would be revamping their honors English course, getting to decide what books needed to be added to the course’s reading list.

“But you have a great job here,” Jaime said.

“We don’t want to stick around for this.” He flashed his hands across the table mimicking his brother, and they all knew what ‘this’ meant. “And besides,” he turned to consult Lucia with a can-we-tell-them-yet glance. She nodded, and he went on to say, “We’re going to need lots of babysitters, what with the–”

“Ay, felicitaciones,” Olga said, standing abruptly to be able to hug Lucia from across the table.

“No mames! You’re having a kid?” Jaime shook his head as he said this.

“Yup,” Roberto responded, chuckling. “Lucia’s in her first trimester.”

“But you got us. We could help babysit.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Roberto said. “It’s just–”

“I want to be close to family,” Lucia said to Jaime. “I want our child to get to know his grandparents, his aunts and uncles, his cousins, too.”

“Family, huh? What about Mom? Hell, what about getting to know us?”

“You guys can come visit, so can Mom, and we’ll visit her too, of course, once the baby’s born.”

“What about the wall?” Jaime said.

Roberto laughed. “Flying between Colombia and Mexico means we won’t have to worry about any walls. Or bans on immigrants. Or whatever else nuestro gran presidente decides to do.”

“It’s a bad idea if you ask me.”

“Well, Jaime, nobody’s asking you,” Lucia responded.       

Jaime turned to her and said, “Te crees muy muy,” as the waiter returned with drinks. He leaned across the table and placed sodas and beers on coasters that read EAT RESPONSIBLY: SAVE ROOM FOR DESSERT. They waited for him to leave before saying anything else.

“Maybe we should talk about something else now,” Olga said.

“Yeah, like what?” Jaime asked.

“The weather?”

“Rainy and miserable, just like when Dad died,” Jaime said.

“Work then,” Olga said. “What’s everyone up to at work?”

“Clocking in, clocking out, getting paid, just not nearly enough to survive.”

“Geez Louise! Can we say sourpuss?”

“Sourpuss,” Jaime shot back, and they all chuckled uncomfortably.

“How about dessert?” Lucia suggested, holding up her coaster.

“Dessert sounds amazing,” Olga said.

Jaime was quick to respond, saying, “But we haven’t even eaten yet.”

“Well,” Roberto said with a dismal smile, “there is always room for politics.”

Nobody answered as Jaime reached across the table to grab a piece of fried onion.

Nobody answered as he put the bite into his mouth and, mouth closed, chewed the way his mother had taught them both to chew—near silent, polite, invisible—then swallowed, chuckling to himself. An hour later, when they went home in opposite directions, he was chuckling still.

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Thomas Maya is a Colombian-American writer from New York. His fiction was recently recognized as a finalist for Passages North‘s 2020 Waasnode Prize, and he is at work on a first novel.