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Coconut cake in hand, Sam appreciated the unseasonably cold January air while she crab-walked through the maze of cars and SUVs and strode through the unlocked front door.
“Mami!” Sam shouted over the deafening salsa music before locking the door behind her. “La puerta!”
The small house was packed floor-to-ceiling with every tchotchke and figurine ever fabricated. Not a single drab colored miniature child or decorative ceramic box existed that her mother didn’t collect.
In the kitchen, her mother, aunt, and two of three uncles were packed into the small space and getting more in each other’s way than helping. Shaking off the chill that had crept into her hands, Sam welcomed the heat from the kitchen for once.
“Mami, the door,” she repeated over the noise and set the cake down on the only square of counter space not covered in a platter either full or waiting for food.
“Ay, mija,” her mother waved her off while pouring the contents of an enormous pot of white rice onto one of the platters. “I don’t need A-D-T when I have G-O-D.” She laughed, full cheeks red from the kitchen’s heat and her amusement with herself.
“I think Jesus has more important things to do than watch your house for burglars.” She kissed her cheek and started for her Tio Mandy. “Why don’t you help the celestial forces out and lock the door, huh?”
“Respect your elders,” her mom shot back with a smile. “When you’re seventy, you can do whatever the hell you want.”
“I’m seventy-two, Nilda,” her aunt pushed back before kissing Sam on the cheek. “And I told you to never leave that door unlocked. The streets are crazy these days. What if someone breaks in here and holds you hostage?”
“What are they going to take, Angela?” Her mother shrugged, not even pretending to consider changing her habits.
“I told her, too,” Uncle Mandy agreed while setting down a punchbowl-sized container of black beans. “Does she listen to me? No. El noticiero last night was talking about?—“
“She doesn’t listen to anyone.” Sam pulled her uncle into a hug, stopping him from sharing whatever harrowing story he’d heard on the eleven o’clock news. “Where’s Ty?” She strained to look through the sliding glass door where she expected her uncle’s husband to be with the gang roasting the pork outside.
“He had to take his mother to his great-step-nephew’s birthday party.” He wiped his bald head with a handkerchief.
“What the heck is a great-step-nephew?” her mother asked to tease her brother-in-law.
“It’s a bounce house and a balloon-animal-making clown and no booze,” her Uncle Tito interrupted before giving Sam a squeeze.
Of Sam’s three gay uncles, Tito was her favorite. The baby of her father’s siblings, the sixty-year-old unexpected surprise for her late grandparents was the closest thing to a sibling Sam had. Tito had been the one to take her to her first gay bar. Been the one she could always talk to about dating and girls and navigating her identity.
“Your Tio Fabian is outside frying your favorite.” Her mother’s smile was broad and vibrant.
Sam held her breath.
“Frituritas de bacalao,” she added, confirming Sam’s fear.
“Great,” Sam said through the bile rising in her throat.
Many ills could be cured by the deep fryer. Salted codfish was not one of them. But she’d made the mistake of praising them after too many mojitos thirty years ago, and now Tio Mandy fried them for her with pride emanating from his body.
Picking a sliced and salted cucumber — the only fresh vegetable her parents would be serving for dinner — Sam put off the mouthful of salted fish and delayed going outside to greet the rest of the family.
Instead of going out the backdoor, she meandered to the TV room. Her parents were the last people on the planet who still had an entire bedroom dedicated to an enormous tube TV the size of a VW Beetle.
Packed in the small room, around two massive brown leather recliners and the entertainment relic, were curios standing shoulder-to-shoulder like they were waiting for the nightly news with interest. Inside the glass encased cabinets were hundreds of framed pictures and scattered memorabilia.
Sam walked toward a piece of furniture that was more trophy case than anything else. Her mother framed and hung everything. Every school picture. Every medal and ribbon she’d collected while on the swim and track teams.
She smiled at the framed newspaper clipping. The story commemorated her having taken a girl to the senior prom. Her Catholic school had tried to stop her from doing it, but after having parsed through the school’s rules and policies, Sam successfully argued that there was no rule against same-gender dates. In fact, they’d been encouraged for decades to do so — even if the impulse had been for girls to go with friends and cut down on pesky teen pregnancy. Maybe they’d been better off if they’d taught something other than abstinence to a bunch of hormonal teens.
Sam had won her fight and her parents had supported her every step of the way. Her mother had even made an impassioned speech about how Jesus would have loved all the gays. Over thirty years later, she’d dropped the the, and learned the entire representation alphabet. Plus always included for good measure. Sam was sure that even if she didn’t have three gay uncles, her parents would have been supportive of her identity. They’d opened their homes to all of her gay friends who didn’t have the same kind of acceptance. They’d always treated her friends like part of the family.
Despite knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing what she’d find. Knowing what she wouldn’t find. Sam crossed the room to the monument dedicated to wedding photos and birth announcements for all the kids. To make up for the fact that her uncles hadn’t had children, her Tia Angela had six. And each of her cousins had a few kids of their own. A motley crew of love and chaos.
Sam stared at the empty spot on the glass shelf, chest aching. The lightest collection of dust had settled on the place where her wedding photo once stood. It had been a commitment ceremony then. When they promised each other forever, they’d never have imagined actual marriage would be possible in Florida. Not when being together was still a crime in some parts of the country.
Yanking the chain out from under her shirt, Sam closed her fist around the two gold bands. The ones that hadn’t been worn in eight years. That they’d taken off weeks before their right to marry would be recognized across the country.
