LA MORENITA, Chapter 25

While N took no days off from work, the days immediately following the wedding felt like a honeymoon. For three weeks afterwards, he turned down all overtime and came directly home, while M had dinner waiting for him. Just before dinner, they would sit together in the living room, listening to Hank Williams, Marty Robbins, or some other country artist from N’s record collection. Occasionally, M would put on the only record she owned, which had Ranchera music on it.
After three weeks, N confessed to M that he didn’t like Ranchera music. M said this confused her, since Ranchera style music was a mix of traditional Mexican music and German polkas. N told her he couldn’t stand German polkas either.
On the Monday marking the start of their fourth week together, M and N had their first quarrel. N came home from work to a house filled with Mexican polkas. “Turn that shit off!” he demanded.
“I will not turn it off!” she snapped. “You turn it off.”
He obliged her.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I already told you I don’t like that shit.”
“Something happened at work?” she asked.
He glared at her.
“Want to talk about it?” she said.
He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
The next night after work he bounded up the steps and through the front door. There, he found her sitting in front of the radio, listening to an unfamiliar kind of music. “What is that crap?” he asked.
“Give it a chance,” she said playfully. “If you do, I’m sure you’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” he replied. “If it’s not country music, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s cumbia,” she declared. She got up and started dancing. “Hear that beat?” she said. “That’s supposed to be the rhythm made by the chains of African slaves as they dragged along the ground.”
N switched off the radio. He took both of her hands in his and sat on a foot stool. As he sat, he pushed her back into an easy chair. “Look,” he said. “I want you to understand something. I don’t want to hear any Mexican music. Or any African music either. And I don’t want you listening to it, either. If you have to listen to some music, play one of my albums.”
The next afternoon when N came home from work, M had Hank Williams cranked up to the highest level the record player would allow. N could hear Hank crooning his long gone, lonesome blues even before he got out of his car. He got out, slammed the door, ran up the steps, and bolted into the living room. Immediately, he went to the stereo and adjusted the volume to a
more moderate level.
M entered the living room. “What’s the problem?” she asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“I like it fine,” he said. “It was just too loud. What’s for supper?”
“I made some good old American grits,” she said.
He smiled. “Grits, huh? What else?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Just a big old bowl of hot, greasy grits.”
He frowned. “You can’t make a meal out of just grits.”
She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Why not? At least they’re not Mexican.”
He stood there in his dirty work clothes, staring back at her.
“Now, be a good boy and get changed for supper,” she said. “If you clean up real nice, I might make you some ham and eggs to go with those grits.”
She laughed.
He didn’t.