UNA POSADA PARA MONA, Part I of IV
Dear Friends, Family, and Fellow Readers:
For some, this is a re-read, for others a new story. Posted in 4 parts, one, each week leading up to Christmas day, here is Part I. Feel free to share.
With Holiday Blessings, I share with you my short story...
UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
PART I
Mona stepped off the bus, readjusted her backpack and blew out her breath. The doors clanged shut, shouts and laughter sneaking out the windows as the gears began their slow grind up the hill. A boy yelled "Gringa" and threw a can of Coke. Hitting the sidewalk, it exploded behind her. Mona didn't turn around.
Being the only white girl in an all Hispanic neighborhood, school, hell for that matter, city, wasn't easy. Especially at fifteen, when the only thing whiter than your skin was your hair, you still can't speak Spanish, your parents are divorced, and oh by the way, your Dad is dying.
Not that anyone at school knew about the divorce or her father's illness. They only moved in six days ago. Unpacked boxes filled the sunroom and bedrooms. Bubble wrap and paper covered the floors. Mona made a joke about the cool new carpet and her Mom lost it.
"Maybe if you did more than stare at that stupid phone, you wouldn't find that so funny," her Mom yelled, throwing an empty box in her direction.
They were trying to move on. That's what her Mom said. That's what the divorce lawyer said, bright red lipstick making her perpetual sneer some halloween-ish version of a smile, all bright and shiny in her chartreuse suit and matching pumps. That's what everyone said. Move on. But Mona didn't understand. How can you move on when you're still hanging on?
It was only three short blocks from the bus stop to their new home, their new, old home. The sold sign still on the front lawn, The Real Realtor grinning like a madman more suited to selling street drugs than real estate. Mona pulled the sign out as she walked by, tossing it in the ever growing pile of trash at the end of their driveway. No more free advertising, Mr. Creepy Ponytail, now go wash your hair, she thought.
It was a decent neighborhood, but well worn at the edges. What was once neat and tidy gardens were now gnarly and sparse, dried up and neglected. Cars, a few years older than reliable, filled the driveways and a few front lawns.
Mona's house was a strange version of a Spanish ranch/California bungalow. The front looked adobe, with sandstone painted arches and a flat roof. But the rear was brick and siding, a sloping tile roof. The sunroom took up most of the back yard, leaving just enough space to pass between the house and the stockyard fence surrounding the backyard. Mr. Creepy Ponytail said the husband died before he finished converting it to a true adobe house. Mona wasn't sure. The house looked more like it was coming apart, than together, like one day it would split in half and lie open to the sky like some too big version of a dollhouse. They'd have to crawl out to get out.
Putting the key in the backdoor, Mona pushed with her hip. The door gave and she could hear her mom on the phone. Heavy footsteps paced the kitchen, coming to a sudden stop. Mona halted, placing her backpack just inside the door.
"Not again, Tom. Don't do this to her."
Her Mom was crying. Trying to hold it in, Mona could hear her heavy breath, the feeling of failure and disappointment.
"Yeah, well whose fault is that Tom? You're still her father, her only Father. Think about it, new home, new school, no friends. She needs you."
The pacing began again and Mona quietly slipped out the back door. Any day is a nice day for a walk in San Diego. That's what her father said, kissing her goodbye, holding her a little too long before they left. Taking a right at the pile of trash, Mona headed into town. A skip and a jump from downtown, the advertisement had read. The bright sunshine of late afternoon was beating down in earnest, willfully throwing all its warmth, like some last ditch effort before their section of the world turned a cold shoulder for the night. First signs of Christmas were out, a poinsettia here, a string of colored lights there. It was December 1st and hot as hell. Mona thought about Colorado and the mountains, the feeling of numb toes and cold noses. She wasn't sure about Christmas and San Diego. What about sleigh rides and snowmen? Of course, Jesus was born in the desert. But, her version of the holidays were far from religious. When Mona asked why they didn't go to church, her mother said count your blessings. We don't need religion. I have enough guilt.
There was an old church at the top of the hill, Saint María Guadalupe García Zavala. A short and stout Mexican woman stood on the front steps, a broom in her hand. She stopped and smiled at Mona. A wide and friendly smile, a few teeth missing, long grey hair pulled back neatly into a bun, she waved and greeted, "Hola, Señorita. Buenos Días."
Mona gave a little wave back. She looked up at the steeple, the sun blinding. Looking back for the woman, she was gone, the front door ajar, dirt and dust flying out in clouds on the front steps.
Something about these people, Mona thought. Busy. Always so busy. And so many of them. Hers was the only home with two people. Their neighbor next door, Juan De Vala, De Salva, De Castille or De something or other had at least ten different people in his home. Cousins, aunts, children, parents. Fighting and laughing, busy, busy. It was a little overwhelming, but they looked happy. Happy to fight, happy to laugh. Mona thought about her mother. She was never happy.
Mona walked a few blocks past the church and the hill dropped suddenly, revealing a wide and expansive parking lot filled with booths, signs, things, dogs, crying babies, and people. So many people. Freddie's Flea Market in bright red and yellow letters. Mona stopped and stared. Running her hands through her hair she pulled it back into a pony tail. Tucking it under her baseball cap, Colorado Rockies, a parting gift from her Dad, the convenience store tag still attached, she squared her shoulders and walked in.
All wonders of things were for sale. No prices, just ask. Mona watched and listened. Start lower than you wish, refuse the counter, look disgusted, walk away, and then wait, "Señorita, un momento," and you have your find. That day Mona found two coffee mugs, I Love You Dad and Happy Birthday. Holding her paper bag against her chest, Mona walked home in the fading sunset. Colored lights began to glow, a gold star on a front door, Feliz Navidad written in fake snow across a big window. Adults on the front steps, smoking, red glow from their cigarette fading in and out, children, barefoot and crazy with evening energy ran around chasing each other, calling out in a flurry of Spanish.
Her backpack was still inside the door. A note on the counter scribbled dinner instructions. Called to work last minute, night shift. Change in plans this weekend, Dad is sorry. Mona opened her bag and took out the mugs. Washed and dried, she placed the mugs on the empty dresser in her room. Turning the I Love Dad mug to hide the chip on the rim and the Happy Birthday mug, to show a little Hispanic girl, long dark ponytails, dark eyes, a big smile, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, Mona threw herself on her bed. There has to be something I can do, she thought, but what?
(Part II will be posted next week)
For some, this is a re-read, for others a new story. Posted in 4 parts, one, each week leading up to Christmas day, here is Part I. Feel free to share.
With Holiday Blessings, I share with you my short story...
UNA POSADA PARA MONA
Copyright©2015 by Rebecca Moll, All Rights Reserved
PART I
Mona stepped off the bus, readjusted her backpack and blew out her breath. The doors clanged shut, shouts and laughter sneaking out the windows as the gears began their slow grind up the hill. A boy yelled "Gringa" and threw a can of Coke. Hitting the sidewalk, it exploded behind her. Mona didn't turn around.
Being the only white girl in an all Hispanic neighborhood, school, hell for that matter, city, wasn't easy. Especially at fifteen, when the only thing whiter than your skin was your hair, you still can't speak Spanish, your parents are divorced, and oh by the way, your Dad is dying.
Not that anyone at school knew about the divorce or her father's illness. They only moved in six days ago. Unpacked boxes filled the sunroom and bedrooms. Bubble wrap and paper covered the floors. Mona made a joke about the cool new carpet and her Mom lost it.
"Maybe if you did more than stare at that stupid phone, you wouldn't find that so funny," her Mom yelled, throwing an empty box in her direction.
They were trying to move on. That's what her Mom said. That's what the divorce lawyer said, bright red lipstick making her perpetual sneer some halloween-ish version of a smile, all bright and shiny in her chartreuse suit and matching pumps. That's what everyone said. Move on. But Mona didn't understand. How can you move on when you're still hanging on?
It was only three short blocks from the bus stop to their new home, their new, old home. The sold sign still on the front lawn, The Real Realtor grinning like a madman more suited to selling street drugs than real estate. Mona pulled the sign out as she walked by, tossing it in the ever growing pile of trash at the end of their driveway. No more free advertising, Mr. Creepy Ponytail, now go wash your hair, she thought.
It was a decent neighborhood, but well worn at the edges. What was once neat and tidy gardens were now gnarly and sparse, dried up and neglected. Cars, a few years older than reliable, filled the driveways and a few front lawns.
Mona's house was a strange version of a Spanish ranch/California bungalow. The front looked adobe, with sandstone painted arches and a flat roof. But the rear was brick and siding, a sloping tile roof. The sunroom took up most of the back yard, leaving just enough space to pass between the house and the stockyard fence surrounding the backyard. Mr. Creepy Ponytail said the husband died before he finished converting it to a true adobe house. Mona wasn't sure. The house looked more like it was coming apart, than together, like one day it would split in half and lie open to the sky like some too big version of a dollhouse. They'd have to crawl out to get out.
Putting the key in the backdoor, Mona pushed with her hip. The door gave and she could hear her mom on the phone. Heavy footsteps paced the kitchen, coming to a sudden stop. Mona halted, placing her backpack just inside the door.
"Not again, Tom. Don't do this to her."
Her Mom was crying. Trying to hold it in, Mona could hear her heavy breath, the feeling of failure and disappointment.
"Yeah, well whose fault is that Tom? You're still her father, her only Father. Think about it, new home, new school, no friends. She needs you."
The pacing began again and Mona quietly slipped out the back door. Any day is a nice day for a walk in San Diego. That's what her father said, kissing her goodbye, holding her a little too long before they left. Taking a right at the pile of trash, Mona headed into town. A skip and a jump from downtown, the advertisement had read. The bright sunshine of late afternoon was beating down in earnest, willfully throwing all its warmth, like some last ditch effort before their section of the world turned a cold shoulder for the night. First signs of Christmas were out, a poinsettia here, a string of colored lights there. It was December 1st and hot as hell. Mona thought about Colorado and the mountains, the feeling of numb toes and cold noses. She wasn't sure about Christmas and San Diego. What about sleigh rides and snowmen? Of course, Jesus was born in the desert. But, her version of the holidays were far from religious. When Mona asked why they didn't go to church, her mother said count your blessings. We don't need religion. I have enough guilt.
There was an old church at the top of the hill, Saint María Guadalupe García Zavala. A short and stout Mexican woman stood on the front steps, a broom in her hand. She stopped and smiled at Mona. A wide and friendly smile, a few teeth missing, long grey hair pulled back neatly into a bun, she waved and greeted, "Hola, Señorita. Buenos Días."
Mona gave a little wave back. She looked up at the steeple, the sun blinding. Looking back for the woman, she was gone, the front door ajar, dirt and dust flying out in clouds on the front steps.
Something about these people, Mona thought. Busy. Always so busy. And so many of them. Hers was the only home with two people. Their neighbor next door, Juan De Vala, De Salva, De Castille or De something or other had at least ten different people in his home. Cousins, aunts, children, parents. Fighting and laughing, busy, busy. It was a little overwhelming, but they looked happy. Happy to fight, happy to laugh. Mona thought about her mother. She was never happy.
Mona walked a few blocks past the church and the hill dropped suddenly, revealing a wide and expansive parking lot filled with booths, signs, things, dogs, crying babies, and people. So many people. Freddie's Flea Market in bright red and yellow letters. Mona stopped and stared. Running her hands through her hair she pulled it back into a pony tail. Tucking it under her baseball cap, Colorado Rockies, a parting gift from her Dad, the convenience store tag still attached, she squared her shoulders and walked in.
All wonders of things were for sale. No prices, just ask. Mona watched and listened. Start lower than you wish, refuse the counter, look disgusted, walk away, and then wait, "Señorita, un momento," and you have your find. That day Mona found two coffee mugs, I Love You Dad and Happy Birthday. Holding her paper bag against her chest, Mona walked home in the fading sunset. Colored lights began to glow, a gold star on a front door, Feliz Navidad written in fake snow across a big window. Adults on the front steps, smoking, red glow from their cigarette fading in and out, children, barefoot and crazy with evening energy ran around chasing each other, calling out in a flurry of Spanish.
Her backpack was still inside the door. A note on the counter scribbled dinner instructions. Called to work last minute, night shift. Change in plans this weekend, Dad is sorry. Mona opened her bag and took out the mugs. Washed and dried, she placed the mugs on the empty dresser in her room. Turning the I Love Dad mug to hide the chip on the rim and the Happy Birthday mug, to show a little Hispanic girl, long dark ponytails, dark eyes, a big smile, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, Mona threw herself on her bed. There has to be something I can do, she thought, but what?
(Part II will be posted next week)
No comments have been added yet.
