The Barbarian Nurseries A Novel - By Hector Tobar Page 0,61

Señora Purísima, no. The baby was not in the pool, nor in the desert garden, nor anywhere else within the confines of 107 Paseo Linda Bonita, because Maureen had taken the baby with her, of course. Araceli could see that the baby was with la señora Maureen. There was no need to panic.

Back in the living room, Araceli tried to regain her breath and her sense of composure. She stood at the empty section of tiled floor where the coffee table had once stood and tried to sort out what exactly was happening in this household.

After the last of the lunch dishes had been put away, at about the time Araceli had removed the ground turkey from the freezer to begin to defrost for dinner, she began contemplating calling Maureen on her cell phone. This presented a small problem of etiquette. For all her feistiness and independence of spirit, Araceli was still a slave to certain customs and habits, and her undeniably inferior social standing prevented Araceli from immediately picking up the phone and demanding of her jefa: Where are you and when are you coming back? That wasn’t Araceli’s place; she had to come up with a pretext for calling, something related to her professional duties, such as they were. The better part of an hour passed, with Araceli distractedly wiping off counters and tabletops and sweeping floors that were already as spotless and shimmering as they were ever going to be, before she thought of something plausible to say: she would simply ask Maureen if the children would eat Spanish rice for dinner. This would be an exceedingly thin and probably somewhat transparent reason for calling, although la señora had mentioned before the onset of summer something about forcing the boys to broaden their palates and working a few vegetables into their diet of processed meats and cheeses. Araceli would now suggest that Latin American staple, asking if she should throw in some peas and carrots. She moved to the refrigerator and the list of “emergency phone numbers” located there, a typed list Maureen had prepared on Scott’s computer more than a year earlier, in one of her last acts of domesticity before she went into labor with Samantha. The list had been made for Araceli and for Guadalupe, neither of whom found the need to consult it, and it had not been updated since.

Maureen, cell was at the top of the list and Araceli quickly punched the numbers into the kitchen phone, anticipating her boss’s voice on the other end and the calming effect it would have not just on Araceli, but also on the children once Araceli could provide information about their mother’s whereabouts and expected hour of return. It was 2:29 p.m., according to the oven clock, and the boys were now ensconced in front of the television set, aware that they had done so without permission for the simple reason that their mother wasn’t around to be asked. Araceli listened with her ear on the receiver and began to worry after the fourth ring, surprised and a bit angry at the sixth and seventh rings. The ringing stopped and the voice mail message began. “Hi, you’ve reached Maureen Thompson …”

Araceli found herself answering, “Señora,” until she realized it was a recorded voice. She tried again with the same result. Something strange is going on, Araceli decided, looking at the clock again. 2:34 p.m. For the first time, Araceli wondered if Maureen would be home by the time el señor Scott arrived home from work at 5:45, and Araceli pessimistically concluded that the answer was no. She leaves me with her two boys all day without telling me. ¡Qué barbaridad! Up to now, her boss had been the epitome of responsibility and what Mexicans call empeño, the putting of effort and thought into one’s actions. Maureen was precisely the kind of person hundreds of thousands of Mexicans came to the United States hoping to work for, a smart and civilized employer who never needed to be reminded it was payday, and who with her daily conduct taught you some of the small secrets of North American success, such as the monthly calendar of events posted on the refrigerator and in the boys’ bedroom. June 2: School is out. June 22: Keenan’s day! August 17: Ob-gyn. August 24: Brandon’s day! September 5: School begins! © Planning, organization, compartmentalization. Respect and awareness for the advance of the clock, the ritual and efficient squeezing of events and chores