Western Avenue and Other Fictions by Fred Arroyo

Author:Fred Arroyo [Arroyo, Fred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780816599776
Publisher: University of Arizona Press

We walked down the frozen aisle, our arms clasped together as if we were marching in a parade, Ernest's left hand guiding the grocery cart. We had gathered for the soncocho a green and red pepper, a bunch of cilantro, a garlic clove, a sweet onion, a half pound of potatoes, two cans of tomato sauce, and a bottle of red wine vinegar. We had also picked up a bunch of bananas, and a pound of rice. I let go of Ernest's arm and bent over the freezer case.

Why don't you fix a pizza one night while your mom's gone?

Sounds good, Magdalene. Tonight soncocho, but maybe the next night you can come over for pizza, he said.

I put the pizza in the cart. Ernest grabbed a half gallon of milk from the dairy case, a quart of orange juice. He held up a package of shredded cheese.

For our pizza, he said and shook the cheese.

At the end of the frozen aisle, just before we turned for the registers, there was a three-tiered shelf of day-old baked goods marked down 50 percent. There were boxes of powdered donuts, cellophane-wrapped brownies, a bag of chocolate chip cookies, some whole, some crumbling. My eyes became full with the wide and flat birthday cake; it had curvy yellow flowers all over the top, daffodils in a field of thick white cream frosting, and then circled in black, on the edge of the daffodils, a baseball, its threads a bright red. Happy 9th Birthday, John! was written in green cursive, and on each side of the salutation was a blue fish and an orange bird. I don't know for how long I stood at that never-picked-up cake, and why my mouth seemed to fill with the soft and sweet frosting. Ernest touched my elbow.

Magda, Magda.

I looked at him, felt myself blushing.

He raised his hand and tucked his mother's flower back into my hair, his fingers grazing my ear.

That cake will go good with vanilla ice cream, don't you think?

Yes, I said, and turned back to get the ice cream.

When Ernest placed the cake in the bottom of the cart, I didn't worry that he might be spending some of his father's last money on a cake they didn't need. It felt right. I felt a small moment of richness and perfection as I placed the ice cream next to the cake.

We both took a side of the cart's handle and pushed it to the open cashier. Next to the register, Ernest grabbed a package of hard butterscotch candies and placed them on the belt.

We found our fathers sitting on milk crates, drinking quarts of beer vaguely disguised in paper bags, next to a paper machine. They both had their ties off, my stepfather wearing Changó's sunglasses. He laughed listening to Changó's story. Ernest stepped forward and gave Changó his change. We walked back to the truck, lifted the sacks into the bed, and then Ernest helped me up.

We got milk, ice cream, frozen pizza, I said.

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