Being Esther (9 page)

Esther looks up, smiles at him, and with an air of disbelief says, “How nice. You want to take our picture?”

“No!” Ceely cries. Then contritely, she says, “No,
gracias,
” as she stalks off, pulling Esther with her.

Undeterred, the man cries out, “Real cheap!”

“
Cuanto
?” Esther calls back, as she breaks away from Ceely.

“Cheaper than K-Mart!”

“How much?” Esther holds a hand to her ear as she approaches the man, pretending she hadn't heard. By then, she is making full eye contact, as she prepares to strike a deal with the photographer.

Ceely, meanwhile, is approached by a young girl selling brilliantly colored plastic sticks that bloom from a straw basket like a bouquet of meadow flowers. The girl's creamy skin is the
color of café con leche. A pink headband holds her silky black hair in place. Tiny gold earrings glint from her delicate lobes. Somebody has fussed over her. “The same somebody,” Ceely later tells Esther, “who sent her into the streets to peddle plastic backscratchers.” By the time Ceely plucks a red stick from the basket, the photographer is guiding Esther onto an inverted plastic milk crate and hoisting her onto a burro.

The poor beast is dressed in a sun-bleached serape, velvet sombrero, and embroidered blinders. Despite the heat, or perhaps because of it, he stands uncomplaining, head bowed, as if hoping not to draw attention to the shame of being dressed like a caricature of a tarted-up beast of burden.

Meanwhile, his master is holding out a velvet sombrero to Esther, gesturing for her to put it on, but she shakes her head and points to her own floppy-brimmed straw hat. It is a playful hat, and together with her white linen slacks and blue striped silk blouse, Esther conveys an easy sense of style. “Hop up!” she calls to Ceely, who is standing in the distance examining her new purchase.

Ceely protests, but Esther insists, and before she knows it the man is gently pushing her up beside her mother. Then he skitters to his camera, an ancient Polaroid mounted on a tripod and covered with a black cloth, giving it the air of a far more elaborate piece of equipment. He sticks his head under the cloth, then pops back out, fingers pressed to the corners of his mouth, pantomiming a smile. After ducking back under, he directs the women with an upheld hand and a high-pitched, syncopated whistle. “Okay!” he cries, and clicks the shutter.

As they head down the street, Esther tells Ceely she's always wanted to do that.

Bemused, Ceely says, “Have your picture taken on the back of a burro?”

“Hmmm,” Esther says, dreamily.

Again, they are consulting the map, for Esther is determined to find Calle de Obregon. “Maybe we should ask someone,” she is saying to Ceely, when another man approaches, this one bearing a tray of wristwatches.

“Oh, here we go again,” Ceely mutters, as she tries moving her mother along.

But Esther digs in her heels. Something about the way the tray hangs from the man's neck reminds her of the long-legged girls who once moved among the tables in nightclubs, selling cigarettes and mints. Quickly seizing on Esther's hesitation, the man plucks a silver watch from his tray and holds it up till it catches the sun and glints like gaudy fishing lure.

“
No gracias,
” Ceely says, as she tugs at her mother's elbow. “
No gracias.
” But Esther refuses to budge.

Esther, who speaks pidgin Spanish, Spanglish, a Spanish without verbs, is nevertheless fluent in the art of the deal. She frowns and shakes her head each time the man selects a watch from his battered tray. At last she nods at a watch that looks very much like all the ones she's rejected. The man, beaming, motions for her to try it on. After great confusion over the cane, which she finally crooks over her right arm, he gently fastens the silver band around her left wrist. The two of them trade polite smiles as she holds out her arm and admires the timepiece.

Gingerly, with the help of her cane, Esther makes her way back toward Ceely, who is waiting at the end of the block. “Seiko!” she cries, waving her wrist in the air.

“Fake-o,” Ceely snorts, as Esther sidles up to her.

Esther gives her daughter a baleful look. “Ten dollars. Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” Ceely agrees.

T
hey are walking past the duty-free shop on the Arizona side of the border when Esther says, “Let's go in.”

Ceely balks and Esther, tapping her new watch, indicates they have plenty of time.

Over the years, Esther has purchased, in airport duty-free shops, Belgian chocolates, French perfumes, cloying after-dinner liqueurs. Once, at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, she purchased a strand of Japanese freshwater pearls. Always, upon exiting the plane, smiling flight attendants presented these purchases as if they were gifts.

Now on the American side of the border, Esther purchases a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and a tube of red lipstick, but instead of being greeted by a perky flight attendant she is stopped at the door by a short, round woman dressed, not unlike a park ranger, in olive drab. Holding up her hand, the officious woman orders Esther to stop, then points to a cluster of people all clutching plastic bags similar to the one Esther is holding. “Over there,” she commands. “Stand over there.”

“I don't understand,” Esther says.

“What don't you understand?”

“Why you want me over there.”

“You want duty free?” Then she explains that Esther must reenter Mexico, go through customs, and declare her purchases. “Then you can keep whatever is in that bag.”

“But we have a bus to catch.” Esther motions vaguely in the direction of the McDonald's.

The woman shrugs. “Not until you go through customs.”

“But the driver.” Esther's voice trails off as she points her cane to indicate where he might be. “He won't wait.”

The woman, whose job it is to shepherd customers to the border where she can be sure they cross back into Mexico, in some bizarre circumvention of international law, gives Esther a withering look and again points to the group.

“Look what you've gotten us into,” Ceely hisses as she pulls her mother aside.

In a voice intended to carry, Esther says, “She won't listen to reason.” Glaring at the woman, she tells Ceely, “Nobody said anything about returning to Mexico. It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“You didn't think you'd get duty free for nothing?”

“You sound like my father,” Esther frowns. “No lunch is for free, Esther. How many times did I hear that?”

“Well, Poppy had a point.”

A point? What was the point? That Esther wasn't good enough, deserving enough of life's little perks? It occurs to her now, as she clutches the bag, that she's gone through life saying no thank you to second helpings, and denying herself all the trimmings. Others got the drumstick, the cherry on the sundae, while Esther politely held back, lest she be accused of trying to get something for nothing.

Vexed, Esther says, “Please, Ceely. Don't start with me.”

“I shouldn't start? You're the one who got us into this. Now we're going to miss the bus.” With a nod toward the woman, Ceely says. “You realize, she hates us.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“She does. You can tell,” Ceely insists. “She thinks we're greedy Americans. Stupid gringos.”

“How do you know what she thinks?”

“Besides, how many bargains do you need?” Ceely rattles a bag full of purchases Esther made after lunch: Prozac, Ambien, Lipitor, Retin-A, Trusopt, Valium. She complains that Esther had tricked her into going on a drug run. “You told me you wanted to see the desert.”

“I do. I did. We did,” Esther insists. “What do you think we drove through on the bus?”

Ceely gives her mother a baleful look and Esther lectures her daughter on the perfidies of the drug companies. “Big Pharma,” she says. “Big Pharma keeps prices so high that people cut their prescriptions in half or go without food to pay for their drugs. Big Pharma lies about clinical trials, suppressing questionable results.”

“You're beginning to sound like a talk radio nut,” Ceely says.

“And the government's in on it,” Esther says, with finality.

“But you don't even take these,” Ceely says.

“Some are for gifts.”

“Gifts?” Ceely moans.

“Look!” Esther cries. “Look who's here.”

“Please don't change the subject,” Ceely whines.

“The couple.” Esther points with her cane. “From the bus.” Leaning closer, she whispers, “The ones with the water bottles. Over there, by the Swiss Army knives. Wouldn't you know it.” She waves her cane again. “Hello,” she calls from across the aisle.

They smile and wave back.

“I would have figured you have plenty of those already,” Esther cries out.

“Christmas presents.” The man beams.

“What a great idea. But remember not to take them on the
plane. My daughter had one confiscated at security,” Esther says, nodding toward Ceely. “They called it contraband. Contraband! Can you believe it? She looks like a terrorist, don't you agree?”

“Ma,” Ceely tugs at Esther's sleeve. “You're shouting.”

“Oh, what difference does it make?” Esther pulls away.

Then it's Ceely's turn to point and exclaim. “Look! They're leaving.”

The woman masquerading as a park ranger is addressing the group.

“Then get going.” Esther takes the drugs from Ceely, trading them for the bag with the lipstick and the scotch. Gently, she pushes her daughter toward the group.

Ceely looks confused. “What do you expect me to do with these?”

“You'll go.”

“Where?”

“With the woman.”

“The coyote?” Ceely snorts. “She isn't sneaking me across the border. These are yours.” She tries pushing the bag back into Esther's hands, but Esther resists. “You're making a scene,” she hisses.

“I'm not going.” Ceely sounds petulant, like the three-year-old who'd stomped her foot whenever she didn't get her way.

“Get going,” Esther says, nudging Ceely gently toward the group.

“But we'll miss the bus,” Ceely cries.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Again Esther taps her watch. “We have plenty of time.”

“But you don't even drink,” Ceely argues, holding up the bottle of scotch.

“I like to have something on hand. You never know who will stop by. Maybe Mrs. Singh. Or that nice neighbor upstairs.
Mr. Volz. Now do your old mother a favor,” Esther says, again pushing Ceely toward the departing group.

Ceely is disappearing across the store when Esther cries, “Wait!”

Ceely turns and stops, a look of concern crossing her face. “What? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Esther says. She scurries as fast as she can to her daughter's side and kisses her on the cheek, the way she had on Ceely's very first day of school. Then she pats her arm and says, “Get going, or you'll be late.”

At dinner, over margaritas, the two women recount their day. Esther holds out her arm, admiring the watch, and Ceely agrees that it's a good imitation. Then Esther says, “I almost forgot! The picture.” She pulls it out of her handbag and sets it on the table between them.

“Look at me,” Ceely says. “I'm so stiff. Why can't I ever take a good picture?” She pauses, searching her mother's eyes for the truth. “Or maybe it's my true visage?”

“Nobody looks good on a donkey,” Esther insists. “Look at me. I'm not even facing the camera.”

It's true. Esther, who has always been a substantial presence, full-figured when women were admired for being zaftig, as Marty called her, appears shrunken in the photo, like a garment tossed in the wash on the wrong cycle. She's looking away, off into the distance, as if something has caught her by surprise. Later, Ceely will study the picture, show it to Lorraine and wonder if she'd missed some early warning sign. “I don't know what it is,” she will tell Lorraine.