They Didn’t Take Me in Handcuffs

I punched an old lady and I’m not proud.

I don’t think I’m a violent person.

                “Well, Ms. Garcia, Mrs. White’s family is willing to drop the charges. Her daughter, Nora, just came in.”

                I did this sort of serious, wide-eyed thing and tried to look apologetic.

                “Provided of course, you enroll in a therapy program to deal with your anger problems. And they’ll be looking elsewhere for Elder Care.”

                “Anger problems?” That had never been attributed to me before.

                “Yes, you see, they don’t want what happened to their relative to happen to another person’s say… grandmother. It’s really for the best.”

                “Mm…” I tried to sound thoughtful and agreeable.

                “Here are a few people we carry the cards of, you can see which takes your insurance. You’re free to go whenever, I believe Nora brought your car.”

                He left a Xeroxed page of business cards on his desk and escaped his office. I figured it his polite way of telling me he didn’t want to be in an enclosed space with me.

                I went to my car, smiling at the appropriate places on my way out.

                Playing over the events in my head, I still had trouble seeing where I was in the wrong… except  the act of physical violence against an 83 year old woman named Rose White.

                The car took a few tries to start, but it got there in the end. Some overly sweet-angry Taylor Swift wailed from my speakers, so I bobbed my head in approval—when there wasn't a way to change the radio station, a person learned to like a lot of things.

                When I got home, my kid sister sat in the living room; she was painting her arm with some brown goop—henna, I assumed from the smell. And I strongly doubted, as dumb as she was, she would smear shit on her arm.

                “Ay, mija.” My mom walked out of the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron. She was really the only one in the family with any of what Mrs. White would call “Mexican-ness.” My father was possibly Latino, but it didn't really matter, his family had lived in America for generations.

                “Ma… Could we just not talk about it?” I said as she embraced me tightly.

                “Could you try not to slap little old ladies? No? Then no comment from you.” She backed away, shaking her head. “The day one of mine would end up in jail, if your Nan was here now…” She made the sign of the cross.

                “I’m not going to jail, just therapy.” I walked into the kitchen, and returned to the living room with a coke.

                “Why did you hit Mrs. White?”  My sister asked, not looking up from the design she was painting on the back of her hand.

                “Let’s just say, Em, that she said some rude things and I lost my temper.”

                “Never hit people Emelina. It’s bad,” Ma said as she went to check on her casserole.

                “Duh. I’m not stupid.”

                “I have my suspicions,” I muttered.

                “Amalia!” Ma barked.

                “What’d she say?” Em insisted.

                “Your sister was being a brat.” Ma called from the kitchen.

                “No, Mrs. White.”

                “Nothing polite.” I opened my coke, taking a gulp.

                Ma bustled back in, wiping her hands on her apron, again, smoothing it as she dried them. “Are you sure you can’t just go to jail? It’s cheaper.”

                “Ma!”

                “Just saying.”  She sighed as she fell onto the couch. “What’s that?” She peered at Em’s hand.

                “It’s a paisley. It’s supposed to represent fertility.”

                “Ay Dios Mio.  Why does a girl of twelve need to worry about fertility, eh?”

                “It’s pretty, Ma.” Emelina held it out for inspection.

                “Next thing you know, you’ll end up like Amalia, here, beating defenseless old ladies for sport.”

                I was saved from responding by the sound of my dad’s pickup groaning down our street and into our driveway. Loud male voices laughed and talked jovially as they walked up to the front door.

                “Wait, really?” My father hooted, barely containing his laughter.

                “Yep; said she stole a ring, so she smacked her right across the face.” The storyteller was Juan, my brother.

                “Our Amalia?”

                “Can you believe it?”

                The front door banged open as my brother and father laughed their way in. They saw me sitting on the couch, glaring, and they abruptly stopped, trying to look serious.

                We all hung in silence for a second or two, but then it was too much for my brother, Juan, he burst out laughing again, clutching his sides. Followed by my father, then Ma, then Emelina.

                My father wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, “Did you actually get carted off by the police? Handcuffs and all?”

                “No, thank you very much, I went quietly. No handcuffs. And the family told them to let me go right as soon as they got there.”

 “Do you mind if I tell it with the handcuffs?”

                “Probably can’t stop you.”

                “Great. Now whose hungry? I want to take us out in honor of Amalia’s criminal record!” He loosened his tie as he walked to his bedroom.

                “I have a casserole in the oven,” Ma shouted at him.

                “Perfect!  Your casseroles are better cold.”         

                “I went to all this trouble to make you a delicious meal, especially since I worked hard all day, and you ruin it with the snap of your fingers!”

                As their faux-argument continued—everyone knew Father would win—Juan sat down on the couch.

                “She deserved it,” Juan said with conviction.

                “Maybe. I shouldn't have hit her though.”

                “Eh. No one hits anyone anymore, and she wasn't hospitalized or anything. It’s fine.”

                “She probably didn't know what she was saying. She’s pretty senile.” I didn't really want to admit she wasn't all together—it made my act even less excusable.

                “Crazy or not, she was rude.”

                “Oh stop.” He was determined to make me feel better and I was determined not to let it work.

                “She called you a… what now?”

                Em was watching us closely.

                “I’ll tell you later.”

*             *             *

                Summer is my favorite season, it is the only time when the entire family will sit out on the deck together, staring at the sky, even though the Bay Area smog hides the stars. That night in particular, my mom went in first, since she had to wake up early for work. Em was yawning widely, so Juan carried her in to her room. She was just pretending to be asleep, but I didn't blame her. I remembered doing the same thing so father would carry me from the car. I don’t really know why I did it, or why she did it.

                “So therapy, huh?” Father took a sip from his wine glass.

                “I thought we got past this?”

                “There are worse things.” He shrugged in his usual manner.

                “I’m sure.”

                “You know, some families in our neighborhood are excited about their first-generation college students, but we got something better… “

                “They didn't even put me in a cell.”

                “I know, I know. I tease.”

                “I didn't steal a ring.”

                “No one ever thought it, you know. You never struck us as the sticky-fingered type. Unless you lie real well.”

                “It was the daughter.”

                “Oh?”

                “Her muumuus— Mrs. White’s—had just finished drying so I went into her bedroom and there was Nora taking one of those ugly old ruby rings out the jewelry box. She told me that ‘I need not worry, mother won’t miss this,’ I did my best impression of Nora’s overly-proper tone—the one she only took on when she spoke to me.

                He chuckled, “Obviously Mrs. White didn't believe you.”

                “I never actually tried to tell her. She just called me a ‘filthy wetback harlot.’”

                “So you punched her.”

                “Yep. And then she ran, in her lilac bathrobe, out into the garden shed, wailing about the wicked Mexican who beat her.”

                “Ah. So it was the neighbors that called the cops.”

                “Yeeeeep.” Sighing, I looked up into the orangey-purple comforter of smog.

                “Have you picked a shrink yet?”

                “I was thinking family therapy would be most beneficial for someone in my state. Really get to the core of those issues.”

                “Your mama will be thrilled.”

                “I figured.”

                “Ay mija.”