Finally, after a sleepless night in a motel outside of Shiprock, she is home, but she sits rooted, her hands still gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. Her armpits are damp, her sundress wrinkled, her gut hollow. The engine ticks.
Near the steps, partially screened by her rosebushes （which do not appear to have been watered in her absence）， another palm-sized piece of stucco has dropped off the cinderblock. The morning sun glazes the picture window with a wobbling reflection of pi?on and piled white clouds and sky—and there is Yolanda herself, a blur in her red convertible—obscuring what awaits her inside: demands and expectations and drama that she is not ready to contend with, but that will, nonetheless, be dropped squarely into her lap.
Soon, she thinks melodramatically, her reflection won’t be here, won’t be anywhere on this earth.
Now, bursting out the front door, stomach huge, wet hair combed and dripping spots into her T-shirt, is Angel. “Gramma!”
Yolanda arranges her face into a smile, steps out of the car to meet her granddaughter’s vigorous embrace. “Look at you! How are you feeling?”
“Look at you! Look at your hair!” Angel cries, laughing. “Where were you?” Then Angel bursts into tears, and Yolanda is home.
“ANYWAYS, I DON’T GET IT,” says Angel, her tone belligerent. She leans over the breakfast bar. “My thing is, it’s stupid, hurting yourself like that.” When Yolanda doesn’t respond, Angel pops her eyes at her. “Well?”
Yolanda’s never seen Angel like this. Usually she’s sweet-tempered and ebullient, always kissing Yolanda’s cheek and reaching for her hand. But for the last hour, the girl’s been trailing her, full of indignation over Amadeo, certain of Yolanda’s agreement.
Yolanda shakes her head, tired. “I don’t know, mi hijita.” She doesn’t have it in her, she really doesn’t. Her head is killing her, and she’s too tired even to be stunned by the news Angel has reported, that her son went and got himself nailed up there. Amadeo himself is at Easter Mass, another surprise. “I didn’t think he’d . . . go so extreme.” She’s impressed, actually, and thinks if he can apply that kind of determination to a job—any job—he might be okay.
“He thinks he’s so tough. He’s just showing off.”
“It’s an old tradition, honey,” says Yolanda. “A sacred thing.”
“Maybe for other people,” Angel says. “He’s showing off.”
Yolanda hasn’t even unloaded the car, and already here she is, with her head in the fridge. What was she thinking, after twelve hours of driving, arranging Easter dinner? Frozen meat they have, a five-pound bag of wrinkled potatoes. On the counter, a head of garlic has sprouted green scapes that arc toward the window. Sticky spills on the linoleum, the trash overflowing to the point that it no longer fits under the sink. The brown living room carpet is littered with gum wrappers and mysterious threads. Every surface is covered with abandoned soda and—she sighs—beer cans.
Once, just once, Yolanda would like to have a perfectly clean house, every dish and glass washed and dried and waiting in the cupboard. It will never happen.
Yolanda shakes out a new trash bag and starts clearing the refrigerator: slimy bags of greens, sour milk, liquefied tomatoes. She throws out whole Tupperwares, too, because she can’t bear to face their appalling contents, remnants of meals she herself cooked for Amadeo weeks ago. There aren’t any fresh vegetables at all.
“Why wasn’t your cell on, Gramma? I tried calling you a thousand times.”
“Bad reception in Nevada.” Please, she thinks, please just leave me be. Yolanda feels for the girl. The procession is startling, especially the first time. She presses the heel of her hand into her forehead. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s an important part of who we are, and it keeps the men out of trouble.”