Ch 6 – Rico
E ven before Rico knocked, the door to his mother’s house flew open.
“Mi amor!” Sarita Torres wrapped Rico in a hug that, for a moment, smothered all his fears and insecurities. Amazing the power of a mother’s hug.
Rico put his arms around the small, round woman. “Hola, Mamá,” he said as she gave him a huge kiss on each cheek.
A hug from his mother was well worth a return trip to Yucca Hills on the same day. He’d had to return to the station, of course, to drop off the news van and pick up his own car. He’d worked with the graphics team to cut, edit, and finish the kitten adoption fair story. Sure, the story was a turd, but that turd was polished and ready for the 6:00 p.m. broadcast.
And now Rico had the weekend to spend at his mother’s house, as promised.
“Que guapo!” his mother sighed as she finally released him from her eager grip. Over his mother’s shoulder, Rico noticed his older sister leaning against the open doorway. Elena stuck a finger in her throat and pretended to vomit.
“Venga,” his mother said. “La cena está lista.”
Dinner? Yes, please. Everyone in Yucca Hills was under the impression that Valentina’s Cantina was the best Mexican food in town. They were sadly misinformed. The best Mexican food in town, possibly in the entire state, was right here under the roof of a tiny, cramped house tucked into the east corner of Yucca Hills.
Elena grudgingly moved from the doorway so Rico could enter the house as their mother bustled through the living room and into the kitchen. When the siblings embraced, Elena’s hug was quick and perfunctory.
“The prodigal son returns,” she said.
“It’s not my fault I’m her favorite.” Rico gave a humble little shrug. When his mother had found herself pregnant at age 42, she’d considered the circumstance a full-blown miracle. Rico had been her little blessing ever since.
“She’s always had a soft spot for lost causes,” Elena teased back.
Speaking of lost causes . . . His sister wore her black, curly hair in a low ponytail. Her clothes were the usual combo of casual and bland. Elena had always been more interested in textbooks than makeup and school dances. That trend, sadly, had continued into her adulthood. Rico had tried to help, suggesting she switch out her glasses for contacts, for starters, but Elena couldn’t be bothered. Who had time for contacts or even a brush when the world needed so much saving?
Elena moved to assist their mother in the kitchen, but Rico paused in the living room. Everything about his childhood home felt achingly familiar. His mother never changed a thing, as if she could stop the march of time by refusing to acknowledge it. The same crucifixes and portraits of Jesus hung on the wall, while his father’s worn recliner sat in the corner, unused for almost a decade.
Without meaning to, Rico’s eyes wandered to the large family portrait on the wall above the television. Rico hated that picture. It curled his spine, punctured his spleen, made his hands involuntarily tighten into fists.
At some point when he’d been a pipsqueak in elementary school and Elena an angular teenager, their mother had dragged the family into one of those kitschy department store photo studios. In the resulting picture, the family of four huddled together in front of a fake autumn background. Elena was already taller than her mother, slim and pretty in her awkwardly worn blouse and skirt. Rico could barely look at himself. He’d been so small and skinny, his eyes like large moons tucked in his face. Thank God for puberty, twice daily protein shakes, and a dedicated weight training routine.
As always, his gaze wandered to his father. Standing next to his diminutive wife, Ramon Torres did not smile. It’s possible the man didn’t know how. Deep lines dug into his father’s tanned face, and the hand resting on his wife’s shoulder was tough as leather from a decade of working in fields up and down California.
In all of Rico’s memories, his father always looked the same. Worn. Tired. Stern. Only his hair ever changed, growing a little grayer each year until he’d died, far too young, of a heart attack while picking avocados in the Central Valley on a triple-digit heat day.
Rico met his father’s eyes. Even from the 2D image, he could feel the judgment in them.
What would you think of me now, Padre? Rico thought.
He knew the answer. While his mother had always cherished her youngest son, Ramon had offered only scorn. Rico could never work hard enough for his father. He wasn’t humble or faithful enough. Worst of all, he didn’t appreciate his roots. He didn’t speak Spanish in the house. He tried to dress like the gringos at school. He was ashamed of where he came from, of what it took to keep food on their table .
Rico looked away from the photo as his heart constricted. It wasn’t true, of course. He’d never been ashamed of his family. Not really. But on career day at school when the other kids showed off parents who were dentists, business owners, and nurses, Rico had always made excuses for not bringing in his parents. After all, what kid wanted to admit that his father had left school at 16 to work? That his father couldn’t speak or read English and spent half a year away from his family working in fields of other men?
Rico knew his father had worked hard, had done what it took to support the family. It was honest work, but hardly boast-worthy. So, yeah, he’d kept quiet about his family and tried to fit in. Was that such a crime, Papá? he asked the man in the picture.
Rico sighed. Boxing with the ghost of his father only left him feeling like he’d punched a concrete wall a dozen times. He should look away from the picture and move into the kitchen where his mother’s amazing food waited.
Rico’s legs didn’t move. The awful ritual wasn’t complete. As hard as it was to face his father, facing Arturo was even worse. But Rico looked. He always looked.
In the family portrait, Arturo floated awkwardly just over Rico’s shoulder, his face and body grainy. The yellowed tape that adhered him to the family picture curled at the edges. Arturo’s body cut off at the hips and he held the handlebars of the small motorbike he’d been standing behind in the original photo.
Why had his mother forced Arturo so awkwardly, so grotesquely, into the portrait? Why not just frame the original picture and hang it next to the larger one?
Rico wanted nothing more than to tear Arturo out of the picture, give his brother a little dignity after all these years, but, as always, he only shook his head and finally looked away .
“Está lista,” his mother called from the kitchen.
Rico released a deep, cleansing breath, as he moved to the kitchen and took his seat at the scarred wooden table pressed up against the wall.
“Thanks for your help,” Elena muttered as she set down the plates.
“Mom doesn’t want me to help,” Rico told her, sitting back in his chair. “She’s very traditional.”
“Just because she doesn’t ask doesn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate you giving at least a microscopic damn,” Elena replied as she dropped his fork onto his plate with a clang.
Soon, the small table was crowded with simmering crocks and dishes loaded with black beans, grated cheese, warm tortillas, mounds of rice, and glistening chunks of carne asada. The scent of it all was divine. Rico’s mother showed her love through food, and she had a whole lot of both to give.
Now, the small woman bowed her head and grasped the hands of her children. Automatically, Rico reached across the table and Elena did the same, clasping hands. Oddly, this is where Rico most felt the loss of his father. Elena’s hand was delicate and soft, so different from the large, calloused hand he’d held during a million prayers spoken over the dinner table as a child.
Their mother offered an enthusiastic prayer of thanks for the food before them and the blessing of their togetherness.
“Thank you, Lord, for bringing us all together again under this humble roof,” she finished in Spanish. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Rico and Elena intoned. Even if Rico wasn’t much of a believer himself, he appreciated the warm familiarity of prayer and the strength his mother took from her faith. Without Jesus, his mother may have buckled under the many tragedies and hardships life had loaded onto her small shoulders. Instead, she carried it all with a stoic strength he admired beyond words.
He began to fill his plate.
“You know it breaks her heart when you don’t eat her food,” Elena spoke in English.
“I am eating her food. I love her food.” Rico pointed to the generous portions of beans, meat, and avocado he’d added to his plate. “Mom knows I’m avoiding carbs.”
“Ricardo, my love,” his mother said in Spanish, “how is your work?”
Rico filled his water glass, setting the pitcher down just far enough away that Elena had to reach across the table to grab it.
“Work is great,” he replied. “I’ve been breaking some really big stories. Lots of people are noticing.” Best not to mention his recent demotion to fuzzy, happy story hell. That was temporary, after all. Surely Diane hadn’t been serious about his three-month banishment. After a week she’d give in and put him back on the investigative desk.
“I’m actually working on this HUGE story right now,” he continued after swallowing a forkful of beans and avocado. “I can’t tell you too much, but you know how they’ve been closing down the beaches for years due to sewage leaks? Well, those leaks might not be an accident.”
As in, definitely not an accident. One of San Diego’s greatest natural treasures was being poisoned for all the usual reasons—greed, corruption, selfishness. And he was going to make sure the assholes getting rich by literally dumping shit in the ocean would see their day in the spotlight.
“This story is probably going to net me an anchor chair,” he added. “Likely an afternoon slot at first, but I’ll work my way to prime time.”
His mother smiled and nodded .
“She doesn’t understand what you’re saying, you dolt,” Elena told him before biting into the massive, gooey burrito she’d assembled. Had she added an extra layer of cheese just to spite him, or did she truly hate her arteries that much?
“Speak Spanish . . . unless you’re too scared,” she taunted.
“I’m not scared,” Rico shot back. True, he wasn’t scared . . . just ever so slightly apprehensive. Fine. If he was being completely honest with himself, his Spanish was garbage. Probably because he’d refused to speak it at home growing up. At the time, it’d felt like a valiant rebellion against his father . . .for some reason.
“I’m helping Mom practice her English,” Rico said stubbornly.
“God, you’re such a narcissistic prick.”
“And your macro balance is abominable.” Rico gestured to the cheese-filled monstrosity on his sister’s plate.
“Hijos,” their mother said softly, the single word quieting their bickering. She turned to Rico and spoke in Spanish. “You look so great on the TV. I watch every broadcast.”
He beamed. “Thanks, Mamá. That means a lot.” When she looked down at her food, he stuck his tongue out at Elena.
“The immigrant camps on the other side of the border are getting even worse,” Elena said. “How about you cover that, Wonder Boy?”
This again? Though why was he surprised? God forbid Elena allow a single family dinner to go by without tanking the mood with all the heartbreaking tales of the undocumented.
“They can get in on refugee status,” he told his sister.
“Bullshit.” Elena pointed her fork at him. “These people are fleeing gang violence. Droughts. Unstable governments. Wrenching poverty. But the US turns a blind eye, letting them rot in camps on the border. No one gets refugee status. ”
“Then the green card lottery.” Rico’s neck started to ache. Probably a result of having a sister who wouldn’t get off his back for one single minute. Was there a chiropractic cure for holier-than-thou family members?
Elena groaned in exasperation. “The green card lottery, seriously? The chances of getting chosen through the lottery are minuscule. What is everyone else supposed to do?”
“Call you, of course.” Rico gave his sister a tight smile.
“Fuck off,” Elena growled. “You know we can’t even keep up with the cases we have.”
In another world, make that another universe, Rico could have been proud of his older sister for putting herself through college, getting her paralegal certificate, then snubbing her nose at any decent-earning career path to work for a nonprofit that specialized in helping low-income individuals navigate the byzantine US immigration system.
He wanted to be proud of Elena, but it was a little hard to rah-rah her life’s mission when she was busy trying to bludgeon him over the head with it. Or when she implied, with all the subtly of a T. rex in a china shop, that he wasn’t doing enough to help.
“You should be covering these stories,” Elena said, running through all the old hits like an aging ’90s boy band. “You have a platform, Rico. You could make a difference.”
“Not my thing,” he snapped. As in, no way was he going to typecast himself as the brown guy who only covered brown people stories. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself shackled to the border hosting a weekly five-minute Immigration in Review segment.
“You don’t care, because you have nothing to worry about,” Elena muttered, dropping the remaining half of the beluga-sized burrito on her plate .
Yup. Right on schedule. The righteous guilt trip. Rico wasn’t feeling too hungry anymore, either. He struggled to keep his voice even. “It’s not my fault I was born here.”
“No, it’s not.” His sister’s tone was poison. “But you sure as hell don’t seem to appreciate your privilege.”
Rico dropped his fork with a clatter. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Yeah, it sucked that his sister had to renew her DACA registration every two years just so she could live and work legally in the country. Yes, it sucked that she lived in constant fear that the next anti-immigration administration could eliminate DACA, her career, and her livelihood. That a pen stroke could turn her into a criminal, forced to live in the shadows of the only country she’d ever known. Elena spoke flawless English. She had a college degree. She spent her life helping those in need. And none of it would matter.
It sucked, sucked, sucked! But what could he possibly do about it?
A soft, warm hand covered his. Rico looked into his mother’s face. If anyone knew about living a life in the shadows, it was her. During the week, she watched a few young kids at the house. Their parents paid under the table and were happy not to ask too many questions in exchange for discount-rate childcare. Yet, his mom never complained. Instead, she found joy and beauty in the simple things, like going to church every Sunday, cooking, and talking to her family back in Mexico over Zoom.
Sensing the tension in the air if not fully understanding the conversation between her children, Sarita patted Rico’s hand and skillfully changed the subject.
“Is there a special woman in your life?” she asked in Spanish.
Out of the pot and into the frying pan. “Lo siento, pero no,” he replied .
No way was Rico about to admit just how utterly he’d struck out with the beautiful Jacklyn this morning. That fail had been a serious nut punch to his ego, courtesy of the nefarious Butterscotch. Even hours later, he still had trouble shaking the vision of Jacklyn from his brain. Maybe because he could have sworn he’d seen a glint of desire in her eyes before she’d shrunk away from his touch. She’d said she was fine, but it didn’t take his journalistic instincts to sniff out that lie. She’d been afraid.
Afraid of what?
The overwhelming need to protect her he’d felt in that moment had stunned him. The lizard part of his brain had wanted to tear off his shirt, grab his microphone, and start swinging it like a club.
“How can such a handsome, successful, wonderful man like you be single?” his mother moaned.
“Oh, I know.” Elena raised her hand. “Pick me. Pick me.”
“If anyone needs to get laid, it’s you,” Rico shot back. “I bet Mom wouldn’t even care that you’re bi anymore if you’d bring someone home.”
The daggers in his sister’s stare could sever limbs. “You’re such an entitled piece of shit.”
“And you wouldn’t know a bottle of decent conditioner if it bit you in the ass.”
The doorbell rang.
“Gracias a Dios,” their mother whispered under her breath as Elena combed her fingers self-consciously through her curly ponytail.
“I’ll get it.” Rico jumped up from his chair. He’d volunteer for a naked trek through the Artic to get away from this dinner table.
After giving his sister the sign of the evil eye over their mother’s head, Rico strode across the living room and pulled open the front door. He cranked his head to meet the eyes of the hulking figure in the doorway.
“Here.” Hue Cairn shoved a Power Rangers lunchbox into Rico’s hands. Disturbingly, the lunchbox sported several holes.
“Nope.” Rico pushed the lunchbox back at his friend.
“Come on, man,” Hue whined, throwing up his hands. The orange-haired giant wore his normal outfit of paint-splattered T-shirt, ancient jeans, and battered Marines ball cap. “One of my tenants cut out in the middle of the night and left half their shit behind.”
Hue owned and managed several condos in Yucca Hills and seemed to never run out of complaints about his tenants.
“Give it to Theo.” The box shook in Rico’s hands. “You two are best buds.”
Theo, winery owner and one of the few honest-to-God decent people on the planet, had always been the anchor of their little trio.
“Theo’s still not over his last dog,” Hue pointed out. “And my friend Sully’s got this prissy cat he’s obsessed with.”
Rico feigned surprise. “You managed to make another friend besides Theo?”
“Fuck off.”
“Take this back.” Rico pressed the lunchbox into Hue’s wide chest, but the bastard kept his hands raised like he was surrendering his soul to Jesus.
“You owe me,” Hue said.
“Like hell I do.”
“Senior year. Well, you were a sophomore, but anyway, Hector Chavez was pulling your underwear over your head. I punched him in the solar plexus,” Hue proclaimed. “Practically saved your life.”
Rico took a step back and gritted his teeth. “First, my underwear was not over my head. And second, Hector Chavez had slapped your girlfriend’s ass, so you were going to punch him in the solar plexus anyway.”
“Oh yeah.” Hue crossed his freckled arms over his chest as he considered this new information. “But I told him to stop kicking the shit out of you, and he never bothered you again.”
“That’s ’cause he graduated,” Rico answered bitterly.
“God knows how,” Hue mused. “I think the teachers just wanted to get rid of him.”
Heat rose up the back of Rico’s neck. Hector had been just one of the kids who’d made his life a living hell in school. They’d mocked him for everything, from his old clothes to the accent he’d quickly learned to squelch and even his fastidious grooming habits. As if having great hair was a criminal offense.
Rico knew he hadn’t helped things with his penchant for slinging insults and sarcasm at his bullies. But what other weapons did he have back in those days? He’d been small, weak, brown, and poor. The perfect target.
“How the hell did you know I was here anyway?” he asked Hue, desperate to change the subject.
“Hue!” Sarita called, nudging Rico out of the way as she reached the door.
“Hola, mi amor,” Hue responded in clumsy Spanish.
Rico watched, dumbfounded, as his mother pulled the huge man into an embrace. Hue grinned at him over Sarita’s shoulder.
“Dinner, yes?” his mother said to Hue. “Come, eat. Yes?”
“Well…” The asshole rubbed his belly. “Don’t mind if I do. Smells great. Delicioso.”
“Since when does my mother invite you to dinner?” Rico asked, flummoxed .
“Since I fixed her roof last year and a leaking sink two months ago,” Hue responded. “Your mother loooooves me. Probably more than you. Can’t say that I blame her.”
He shouldered Rico out of the way as he strutted into the house.
“Venga,” Sarita said, grabbing Hue’s hand and tugging him through the living room. “I make you lots of food. You big man. Very hungry, yes?”
“Well, I have been hitting the gym recently,” Hue acknowledged as their voices faded.
Rico found himself standing alone in front of the open doorway. The Power Rangers lunchbox rattled in his hands. With trepidation, he flipped open the lid. A small, brown-and-white creature gazed up at him with beady black eyes.
“Is this a fucking rat?” Rico called into the empty living room.