In their bedroom later that night, she told her sister, Marta, about the boy’s dry lips and darting tongue. Dismayed, she asked, “Is that what kissing is always like?”
Marta laughed. “Bad kissers are bad in all kinds of ways.”
Lore wondered if bad kissers could be trained. She wondered if, perhaps, she was the bad kisser. The idea mortified her. So, at sixteen, Lore made up her mind: she would kiss as many boys as possible in order to identify the anatomy of a kiss. She knew, of course, what girls who kissed a lot of boys were called, but she couldn’t concern herself with such things. This was in the name of science.
But before she could begin her research, she met Fabian on that fated double date with her friend Jenny. Fabian became Lore’s second kiss, a tooth-to-tooth fumble during The Graduate. At first, disappointment washed over her. Then self-doubt—she was the common denominator. Then they laughed and Fabian leaned in again, and she could tell this was different. He kissed her slowly at first, then touched her tongue gently with his, as if asking permission. When she opened her lips, his kiss was languorous and smooth. Fabian always tilted his head to the left, so she learned to kiss with hers tilted to the left as well. This was the only kiss she knew, and it hadn’t changed over the years, except to become less frequent, more intentional. Now, if Fabian’s lips opened beneath hers, it was because he wanted sex, and if she reciprocated, inviting his tongue into her mouth, he assumed he would get it. Otherwise, he kissed her chastely, hellos and goodbyes and glancing affection no more intimate than the accidental graze of a stranger’s elbow on the street.
We’re too young for this, Lore finds herself thinking. But after sixteen years together—nearly half her life—what can she reasonably expect? She often wonders what other people’s marriages are like behind closed doors. But marriage is a temple that protects its own secrets.
Still, despite her old, adolescent curiosity, she’s never strayed. She’s always considered herself lucky, meeting the love of her life before the world had a chance to harden them against each other. And it’s not as if she’s never had the opportunity. Lore is no Cindy Crawford, but she knows she could have had any number of men in DF hotel bars. She’s never even considered it. She loves her husband. She loves her sons. She would never compromise her life with them.
And yet—here she is. With thoughts of Andres crowding the periphery of her mind as she makes pancakes and checks pre-algebra homework and folds load after load of laundry—válgame Dios, the pinche laundry, materializing like dark magic on the floor by the washer, as close as anyone can get to the chore itself—and takes the boys to basketball and track and makes small talk with stay-at-home moms, who still, though none of their kids are home during the day, judge her for working, even in this economy, and of course she has to actually work, and then it’s dinner, something easy because Lore hates cooking, and cleaning the kitchen, because it’s always been a point of pride with Fabian’s mother that Fabian’s father never had to lift a finger around the house and now this is Lore’s burden to bear, and she has to listen, really listen, when Fabian tells her about the store’s abysmal sales, and brainstorm ways to get customers through the doors, which Fabian will automatically reject because people aren’t buying, and then finally, finally the cuates are showered and asleep and she’s in bed, and now she’s grateful Fabian is too distracted and upset for sex because it means she can close her eyes and conjure Andres, who is, of course, all too real.
Rivera Iron Works is a thousand-foot showroom attached to an aluminum-sided warehouse off McPherson Road, a street that barely existed when Lore and Fabian were growing up; go much farther north and the city is still all monte. Fabian was proud to open in this newer part of Laredo. It was symbolic, a way of telling the city that Rivera Iron Works would grow with it. He hand-forged the ironwork for the showroom’s double doors, each scroll curling into a gold leaf—growth, Fabian had said, new life—protecting the frosted glass behind them.
At the ribbon cutting, Lore had stood at his right shoulder, the midday sun beating down as Fabian addressed the Chamber and their first customers. “Thank you,” Fabian had said, “for inviting us into your homes.” She’d looked up at him, touched by his earnestness, right as the LMT photographer took the picture. She likes that it’s this moment they captured—his pride in the store, her pride in him.
On this Saturday morning in October, there are only four cars in the lot. Fabian has let two other employees go since laying off Juan in August. Now it’s Fabian, one fabricator, one saleswoman, and the bookkeeper. A skeleton crew, he calls them, for ghost customers.
Inside, the showroom smells like metal and cinnamon potpourri. At the counter, Olga, the saleswoman, hurries to close the morning paper.
“Morning,” she says to Lore, then grins at the cuates. “Let me guess. ?Quieren paletas?” She’s already pulling two chile-covered mango lollipops from her drawer, and Lore’s mouth waters as the cuates thank Olga.
“Can we go to the warehouse now?” Gabriel asks Lore, ripping the plastic wrapping off his paleta. He steps on the edge of his skateboard, flipping it up toward his hand. The cuates love riding their skateboards down the ramps. When they were younger, Lore worried they’d get too close to the fabricators, drawn to the orange sparks flying off the metal, but they’ve learned to keep an awed distance—besides, the work is small these days.
“Go for it,” Lore says. “But no skateboarding with sticks in your mouths. I’ll call you when it’s time to go.”
This used to be their Saturday ritual, Lore and the cuates picking up Fabian for lunch at Shakey’s Pizza, plates piled high with pepperoni pizza, fried chicken, spaghetti from the lunch buffet. The cuates would hover over arcade games. Lore and Fabian would relax with cold Coors while old Charlie Chaplin movies played on the back TV. They haven’t done it in months, but the fridge is empty and Lore thought it’d be a nice surprise for Fabian.
Normally, there’s music playing, Top 40 on repeat. Today there’s nothing to disguise the lack of customers as Lore threads her way through the existing inventory of doors, handrails, fireplace screens, and home accessories to Fabian’s office, where he squints at his IBM monitor. He prefers working on paper, but Lore insisted that computers are the way of the future.
“Hey, boss,” she says lightly, dropping onto one of the folding chairs opposite Fabian’s desk. She used to tell him his office needed a woman’s touch: it was all cheap wood paneling and haphazardly stapled blue carpet. But even when times were good, he hadn’t wanted to spend money on himself.
Fabian rubs his bloodshot eyes. “When will it end?”
Lore feels a flicker of alarm. “You’re not . . . going to have to let anyone else go, are you?” she asks, low. Olga has four kids and a disabled husband.
“Not if I can avoid it. Especially this time of year.”
Lore nods, exhales. “Hey, I was thinking—maybe it’s time to hire an ad company. I know it’s an expense, but we need visibility right now.”
Fabian is gaping at Lore as if she’s suggested a trip to Europe: I hear Paris is lovely this time of year! “Lore, what the hell is the point of ‘visibility’ when the people who are seeing you can’t afford to buy anything?”
Lore bristles. “The point is, maybe you could reach the people who can afford to buy.”
“And who are those people? Seriously, who are they? I want to know.”
Lore grits her teeth. The idea she had of them earlier, laughing over a beer at one of the long communal tables at Shakey’s, fizzles.
Fabian sighs. “Sorry. Look. I actually do have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.” He grabs a printout and begins tearing off the perforated edge, a clearly unnecessary task to avoid meeting her gaze.