Page 2 of Blue Sky

Tomatillos

Istood in my mama’s kitchen, peeling back the husks of the ripe tomatillos my neighbor had gifted to me. Even though I lived only miles away from the Mexican border, fresh produce was expensive, and purchasing my beloved tart, green fruit was definitely a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Not when there was a constant, gnawing ache in my belly. Not when my little sister Ana María cried every morning because she wanted more food, but I had none to give her. Not when my other sister, Mónica, would often eat her only meal of the day at school because she had free lunch. Not when I had to feed a family of four on fifty dollars a week.

If only I had a job.

But my employment status wasn’t from the lack of effort. No, not at all. I had literally applied to every job in the border town of El Centro, California, which had just recently been anointed “the worst place to live in America” by some huge national website. With the highest unemployment rate in the country at twenty-seven and a half percent, my prospects were bleak. I lay awake most nights, terror gripping my body, shivering despite the sweltering desert heat, trapped in the hell that was my life, dreaming of an escape route.

In reality, I doubted that I would ever be able to leave my hometown. Instead, I would probably end up being buried here, but these days, even that wasn’t a certainty. El Centro’s cemetery recently went into foreclosure.

I clutched the tomatillos in my hands, rinsed them under the cool water, cut out their stems, and tossed them in a pan to roast. This spicy sauce would coat the chicken enchiladas I had just made from scratch. Along with a pot of cumin-spiced pinto beans and a batch of arroz rojo, we would be blessed with a rare, hearty dinner. Over the years, I had learned how to make delicious meals out of scraps. These enchiladas, along with oatmeal for breakfast and tortillas for lunch, would have to last my family for a week.

Ana María walked into the kitchen and clutched on my apron. “Where’s Mama?”

At six years old, Ana María was a precocious little girl with amber-colored eyes and long brown hair that I made sure to braid every day, since Mama was usually too hungover to move, and that was if she even came home from her one of her frequent benders. Ana María was too young to learn the truth about our lives, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to protect her forever.

“Baby, she’s out working.” And that was true, in a way. But Mama didn’t have a real job, either. Her version of “working” was flirting with men at the local bars and offering them favors for a bit of cash.

“I am not a prostitute,” Mama would swear up and down. “I just love men.”

I didn’t even try to argue with her any more. The fact that Mama had three children with three different dads, none of whom she married, let her decisions speak for herself. Not that there was anything wrong with a woman enjoying a healthy sex life. But she lavished attention on these countless men while she neglected her children, which was deplorable.

At least I didn’t know who my father was, so I could sometimes close my eyes and pretend that he was a good man. Maybe he didn’t even know that I had existed, and that if he found out that he had a daughter, he would rush to me and take me away from my mom.

If only Mama would tell me his name, I would be able to figure it out.

But my fantasy dad was the only good man in my life. Mónica’s father was a deadbeat and a womanizer who cheated on Mama all the time before she kicked his sorry ass out. And Ana María’s father was a hot-tempered alcoholic who would beat Mama until she could cry no more. The only other man around was my uncle, who also waged a losing battle with the bottle.

But growing up around these jerks, none of whom stuck around, told me all I needed to know about men.

Men were trouble. Untrustworthy. Only after one thing. At twenty years old, I was proud to say that I had never been distracted by a man, even though my soft curves and plump lips often made me a target for their leers. Sure, I had messed around with boys in high school, and had even lost my virginity to a good friend of mine who had wanted to date me, but I told him that I was not looking for a relationship. I vowed that I would never let any man get in the way of my dreams of leaving this town, and this life, behind.

But Mama had never known another way of living. She was only eighteen when she had become pregnant with me. Did Mama once have dreams of her own? Mama used to tell me, “El sueño es alimento de los pobres.”

Dreams are the food of the poor.

Mama’s future had blown away with the dust in this desert town. But my dreams were still real. Sometimes I closed my eyes and practiced creative visualization, something I had read about in a book. I pictured myself running a successful restaurant, living in a cute apartment, even owning a car. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fathom a scenario where I would get an opportunity to change my life.

I just need a break.

I sat Ana María down in front of a coloring book and turned my attention back to the salsa. I sliced half a white onion while blinking back the tears that were not only from vapors but also from my despair, then pulled myself together and crushed two garlic cloves, chopped fifteen sprigs of cilantro, and halved and de-stemmed a serrano pepper.

My tomatillos were now ready, and when I removed them from the oven, their smoky scent filled up the tiny kitchen. I chopped the tomatillos and grabbed the molcajete to grind the salsa when my other sister, Mónica, burst into the room.

“Paloma, Paloma!” Mónica shrieked.

“What?” At fourteen, Mónica was definitely the rebel of the family, and already boy crazy. I worried that Mónica would end up just like our mother. To make certain that she didn’t, I’d forced her to go on birth control this year. If only I could take custody of my sisters and get out of this town.

“Omg! Look at this!” She thrust a copy of the Imperial Press in my face.

“Ay, Mónica.” I did not have time to read some gut-wrenching story in the newspaper. Just last week one of my high school classmates had been murdered in her apartment, which was only one street over from ours. The cops suspected drug traffickers, but it didn’t matter. Another reminder that the only way out of this town was in a body bag.

“It’s your dream job!”

Dream job? My dream was any job—I’d clean toilets, I’d mop floors, no job was below me. But with no car and nothing but a high school education, my prospects were bleak. And we needed the money now even more desperately than ever. The little help my mom received from the government went to food, and the rest was often squandered by her on alcohol. I choked back a sob. I didn’t know how much longer we could all survive like this.

I grabbed the paper cautiously, refusing to get my hopes up again.