A Fork in the Memory by Jude Anderson & Iris Flores-Iglesias

A Fork in the Memory

fiction by Jude Anderson & Iris Flores-Iglesias

I find a fork, which is insignificant except that it reminds me of being somewhere else. I'm back in El Valle. I'm back, back, back with Estrella and Violeta and everyone I think I've ever loved before I knew what love was. Here is how that looks: When I am five, I sit in the back corner of Tia Consuela's restaurant with her, sharing a plate of cheesecake. This just means she eats it and gives the rest to me and Violeta when she's full. We sit where everyone can see us and no one can touch us. I spend my afternoons here with Violeta, and we take turns climbing the plastic chairs and coloring in the loose pages torn from a notebook we found in the kitchen. Today Violeta is sick, so she sleeps in the back room between fifty-pound sacks of flour and carton boxes of vegetables. I wanted her with me but Mami said she would be more comfortable in the back. I still think she would be more comfortable with me but I can’t argue. I am only five and grown-ups don’t really listen to me yet. I am waiting to be six like Violeta. Because sometimes Mami listens to what she wants and says yes. So maybe I just have to be six to ask for the things I want and then I will get them. (I do not learn how to ask for the things I want at six, sixteen, or even now. I am afraid I will not get them, even if I ask with a handful of please's.) Tio Gustavo is the cook; he has been for my whole life. He whistles along to the radio and his voice floats out to the dining hall. Sometimes he teaches me the words, so I know some of them. The metal doors are propped open with large stones and every once in a while someone walking past pops their head in. They always say hi, and Mami lets me wave to them, and then they smile a little brighter. I like that I can do that. I hope I can always do that. (I can't. I know this now. Still.) Tia Consuela pushes her fork into the cheesecake. It makes little indents, four prongs across the top of it. I stare at it so long my eyes get blurry. I blink and watch her push the fork into her mouth.

(I am thinking of watching something go blurry—of the way trying too hard makes it impossible to see anything.) “Here, finish it.” Tia Consuela pushes the plate towards me. I hold the fork steady and split it in half. The pieces are uneven. I save the big piece for Violeta and eat the smaller one. The men at the counter laugh. Mami walks out holding a tray of beers and doesn’t spill a single drop. Each glass drops to the table with a soft clink. I watch as the liquid sloshes but doesn’t go overboard. Everyone likes Mami because she’s young and wears red lipstick. Her brown skin is soft and you know that without even touching her. Tia Consuela says you can see it from a mile away but I don’t understand how anyone can see things so far away, especially skin. (I understand, now, what she meant. I did not know then that people spoke like that: with exaggerations and metaphors.) She is twenty-five, and people hold her shoulders and gasp when they see sixyear old Violeta with me standing behind her. They always ask if we belong to Matéo, and Mami’s face turns the same color as her lips. She never answers. I never ask who Matéo is, but I want to. I want to know who else I could belong to. But some things, like Papanito tells me, are better left unsaid. Like when he hides extra candies in his sleeve for us, or when he lets me hold his cigar and pretend to puff from it, or where Papi could be. (The fork reminds me of this moment. Sitting with Tia Consuela, watching men watch Mami. Listening to Tio Gustavo through the kitchen. Not asking questions. Not really belonging to anyone besides Mami and Violeta.)

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