At Spyder's door mat with the image of the Virgin Guadalupe, I hear the Spanish accents of a telenovela on the other side. The plywood door wobbles within its frame when I knock it, then I turn to our Civic in the distance and spot Izzy's clump of hair through the window. Love that ladybug.
The front door unbolts and a voice says, “Hola, Kayda.” I rotate to see Abuela's sunken face under the baby-blue shower cap she always wears. She looks like a wax statue under a heat lamp, every feature sagged and spent. “Ven, ven,” she says opening for me, then she says, “Ah, ah, botas, botas,” and directs my boots to the mat. I blush and wipe my heels, smearing mud over Mother Mary's golden rays. “Okay, ven, ven.”
In her living room, she hugs my waist then leans back to cup my face. I'm not even six feet but still a foot taller than she is. To embrace my cheeks, her hands have to reach so high that the sleeves of her pink bathrobe slide down her cadaver arms and bunch at her shoulders. She asks, “¿Cómo estás?”
“Bien, bien, Abuela. Need to talk to Spyder.” She's not actually related to me, but because she's Spyder's grandmother, she's mine, too. She's everybody's.
“Lo siento, César not here,” she replies. There's also a reason she calls Spyder by his real name, but calls me, Roach, Tick, and Pillar by what she christened us. “Others outside,” she says motioning to the backyard, “with poor chickens. Pobre chickens. Maybe Tick know where César is.” She notices me mull my lip, so she asks, “Okay?”
“Just distracted. And you?”
“Like mierda,” she says then flicks her head toward the television, which shows a cowboy scolding a weeping woman.
“Esteban k**ed Antonio, her lover.”
“Sounds like Antonio deserved to die.”
“No, Kayda. Antonio more handsome. He shoulded k**ed Esteban. If I Antonio, I k** Esteban first and steal his wife.” She grins and shuffles toward her couch, but hoisting her pointer toward the ceiling to emphasize, says, “k** Esteban first.”