8. Pomelo #4
First, he stopped excursions to her friends’ houses.
Then, as the months went by and she remained unable to do anything but sing—and the saddest of songs, at that—he decided there was no point in sending her to school, instead employing a private tutor to try to coach Pilar’s speech back and, at the very least, keep her well-read.
Indeed, the only time that the girl left the house was for choir practice with the school—that she at least could be able to use this gift for God, the sisters had pleaded with the man.
Truthfully, they felt sorry for her, and he felt their pity and resented that it implied he was not enough.
The guilt (their terrible, judging gazes) proved too much, and he relented.
And so, three times a week his driver took Pilar to choir practice and, other than that, for many years, she did not leave the glass house.
The tree never bore an edible fruit again, and now, in the mornings, he did not cross the courtyard to get to breakfast, but went through the house instead.
Grapefruits now came regularly with the delivery of mangos and pears and pomegranates and, as Pilar grew, she would, as her mother once did, make her father’s juice as she sang melancholy songs.
His waist thickened, his hair thinned, and his teeth were replaced with an equally perfect pair, but he was self-conscious where once he was confident.
His thirst, unquenchable without the fruit from his grapefruit tree, had led him to seek satisfaction in darker corners of his city, causing him to spend more and more time away from home.
Alma and the tutor were his daughter’s sole companions.
This may have been for the best, as no vice could fill him as the fruits of his grapefruit tree once did.
His frustration grew, his anger at the very sight of the tree vexed him in a way that made him cross with everyone who came into his path.
And it was in this mood that Alma entered the dining room one morning to say that two of the Sisters from the school were there to see him.
“Uninvited?” he asked as he cut into his breakfast, his juice glass there, untouched.
“They said it was urgent. They wanted to catch you before you left for work.”
He nodded reluctantly and motioned for Alma to take his plate away.
A few moments later, two nuns from the school his daughter didn’t even really attend anymore were before him.
He vaguely remembered them from when his wife disappeared.
The tall one he remembered as Sister Beatrice.
She was larger than him and broad, but had a face that could have been pretty had she chosen another occupation.
The other, Sister Dorcas, was small with a face that looked like an armadillo.
“Senor,” Sister Dorcas said, “we’re so sorry to bother you unannounced.”
“We tried to make an appointment at your office,” Sister Beatrice said, looking down on him. “But no one has returned our calls.”
He vaguely remembered now ignoring their messages, assuming they were calling to ask for more donations to this thing or that.
His heart, and ego, had been shattered by Marlen’s disappearance, but one thing that had gone with it—largely—was the presence of the church.
Minus Pilar’s singing in the choir, he was now free to mainly ignore its existence.
“Apologies, Hermanas,” he said now, “but what could be so urgent?”
“Well, it’s come to our attention that Pilar’s fifteenth birthday is approaching,” Sister Beatrice began.
“And?” the man asked.
“And,” Sister Dorcas picked up, “there’ve been no plans begun with the church for her quinceanera. And we are running out of time.”
The man let out a sigh of recognition. He did not want to have this quinceanera at all.
Not the church ceremony, not the party. But just as the Sisters recognized his daughter’s impending milestone, he knew so too would the wives of his colleagues—all of whom paid far too much attention to his daughters’ welfare than he felt was appropriate.
He hated being the subject of gossip and knew ignoring the birthday would be fodder for it among the families of his social class, who had only just ceased whispering behind his back about Marlen.
“We understand that normally this would be something her mother would—”
“I can handle this just fine!” he said defensively.
In the river of canards that flowed through this town, the nuns, he found, were always the source.
He decided to use this opportunity for an out.
“I just… I thought perhaps I should spare the girl. What friends does she have to invite? She’s been a mute for seven years for God’s sake! ”
“Senor!” Sister Dorcas chastised.
“Pilar is no mute!” Beatrice exclaimed with near-personal injury. “She has the voice of an angel—”
“If you like sad songs,” the man interjected.
“She sings the songs of God at church—”
“Same thing, no?” he said, chuckling at his own joke. The Sisters were not amused.
“Despite her difficulties,” Sister Dorcas said firmly, “your daughter is quite popular with the other students in the choir. I’m sure you’d have no shortage of guests.
Unless… well, unless finances are the issue?
” And with this, her beady black eyes darted around the dining room of the glass house to the courtyard behind the man, to the custom ceilings, to the artwork.
“Fine,” the man said, resigned. “We will have a quince.”
“Wonderful!” Sister Beatrice said with a broad smile. “And since we’re here, we might as well get the deposit for the ceremony.”
For six months, Pilar got a taste of what she could not wait to fully savor: a life!
Preparations for her quinceanera insisted that she be out of the house.
To select invitations, to choose flowers, to go shopping for her gown, for Alma’s gown (which she convinced her father to buy), to practice for the religious ceremony, to practice her waltzing, and, naturally, to practice the songs she would sing: at the ceremony, and again at the reception.
And, of course, the best part, to practice her entrance and dance with her quinceanera court: the fourteen friends and relations who would be her damas y chambelanes on the special day of her fifteenth birthday.
Oh, they were miserable dancers, all of them.
Chela couldn’t step without stomping on Rodrigo’s toes.
José needed to be led. Carmen had no sense of rhythm at all.
Rather than be upset, Pilar was delighted, because her ragtag crew meant more time out of the house.
More time required to practice—because with all these friends and family and associates at the house watching, she knew her father needed it all—them all, her—to be perfect.
And getting to perfection also meant more time with Dagoberto.
Dagoberto, whose tenor was the perfect complement to her soprano in the chorus the girls Catholic school and boys Catholic school had formed together.
Dagoberto, who had shoved his tongue down her throat (to her delight) in the moments between when practice ended early and Apá’s driver showed up to retrieve her.
Dagoberto, who would be going to a music program in New York that summer, to which she sent an audition recording and was accepted and knew she would never be able to attend.
Also, even when at the house, things were different in these months.
Afternoon after afternoon, Pilar would gaze out of the wall of glass, down the sloped hill the edifice sat atop of, onto the long and winding drive that led to the thoroughfare below.
Normally, minus her father’s car and the occasional delivery, days could go by without any movement on this road.
Lately, however, on any given day there were minor traffic jams. The hustle and the bustle of the party planner’s visits.
(A foppish man Pilar selected from the bunch she was presented with largely because she was amused by how he got under her father’s skin; his mere arrival signaling to her father that more money was about to be spent.) The florists made several visits, and of course the caterer.
Then as the day itself drew closer, the house was a hive of activity—the band, the people bringing the lights, the tables and chairs, the gardeners to trim back the lush greens of the courtyard.
Pilar could not sleep. Not with anxiety (if anything, she was excited for her moment in the spotlight), but awake with the buzz of life.
Of receiving the attention of so many people.
Of eavesdropping on all the workers talking about their lives or their bosses or her father as they did their part to put this party together. Of the… joy.
When the party was over—after she had danced with her father and Dagoberto and the rest of her court under the twinkle of fairy lights, after she had sung “Madre Abandonada” and everyone had a slice from the grand tiered cake, and after the band had ended their second encore and her father was sleepy from too much tequila with his cousins and colleagues—Pilar stayed up.
First milling in the courtyard as dirty plates were put onto racks, soiled linens were dropped into laundry bags, tables folded back and thrown onto trucks.
All that had just been magic, in what felt like moments, was disassembled before her eyes.