“Mother Shipton . . . she’s been paying for groceries, Mami, but her social security only goes so far . . .”
“If you have no money to feed your children, you must work. You have no choice.”
“Mami, Bert’s looking for work . . .”
“He quit his last job, Benita.”
“He said they fired him for no reason . . .”
“He quit, Benita. The people gave him that job as a favor to your father, so he asked them why Bert left. He left because they expected him to work, actually do things. Bert prefers not to work. If he will not work, you must.”
“But, the babies, and Mother Shipton . . .”
“I will care for the babies daytimes. Soon they can go to nursery school, and you must also pay for that. Bert’s mother is Bert’s concern, and her own. She is not an invalid, Bennie.”
“I’m not qualified for anything . . .”
“You are a woman.Hombres son duro, pero mujeres son durable. I have found you a job.”
After that, Benita had been so busy she had never had time to think, except about one thing.
“The mistake you made must stop with you,” said Mami. “Your children must go to school! To college.”
That was the start of the secret bank account. That was the start of Mami’s little lectures to Carlos and Angelica. By the time Angelica was five, she was saying, “When I go to college, Mama.”
Bert had a different idea. He played with Angelica and called her his cutie-pie, but since the time Carlos first grabbed a crayon and made marks on the bedroom wall, Bert decided that when Carlos graduated from high school, the two of them would start a gallery. Bert talked about it all the time, as though it were real. Carlos would bring his scribbles home from school for Bert to critique. Bert would put on his pontifical voice and explain art techniques. The two of them would huddle over the table while Angelica, Benita, and Mother Shipton fixed meals or washed dishes. Bert was an artist. Carlos would be an artist.
Before long he was saying, “Granny says I will be a great artist, Mama.” Benita didn’t contradict him or his granny. So long as he expected to succeed, she would help him. It was something to think about, to plan for, to work for.
Bert kept the idea alive, hugging his son. “ ‘That’s my boy, we’re gonna show ‘em, huh, Carlos, when we open the gallery.”
Carlos agreeing, “Right, Dad. When we open it.”
The years were all the same, with only the sizes of their needs changing: extra large instead of medium for Carlos, size twelve instead of eight for Angelica, an old wreck of a car instead of a bike for Carlos, a computer instead of a TV for Angelica. Mother Shipton died when Carlos was eight,- Bert inherited the house. The years accumulated in Benita’s routine of buying books, supervising homework, making Carlos do better than he cared to, helping Angelica do as well as she wanted to. The years accumulated with the drinking bouts happening oftener, then very often, then every day or two. Benita couldn’t figure out where he got the money! He never had any money for groceries or the gas payment. When the children were little, Benita had occasionally fled with them to the shelter when things got violent. When Carlos was as big as his father and at no risk of his father’s temper, Benita and Angelica found a refuge in Benita’s office, after the store was closed, sleeping on the floor on a spread sleeping bag, with no one knowing where they were.
Then, suddenly Carlos was out of school (low C average) and neither Bert’s plans nor Benita’s turned out to have been sure things. Carlos approached his father about the gallery idea.
“Well, we’ll need a few thou, Carlos. Got to get together a few thou first. For rent, you know. Rent and making contacts with artists, all that.”
“Where are we going to get that?” Carlos demanded. Carlos might not have done well in school, but he could add two and two.