Empanadas

By Tess Almendarez Lojacono


ell, she was here.  Modesta tapped her polished nails on the steering wheel.  There was nothing to be gained by waiting.  With a deep breath she unfolded herself from the car, straightened her blouse and reached in to lift the warm plate of empanadas from the back seat.  He’d always loved her empanadas.  Was she crazy to be doing this? Perhaps she’d lost her mind.

Modesta was not used to being nervous. Exactly four times on her way over (a distance of only 8.2 miles), men had slammed on their brakes, inched along, in some cases nearly colliding with one another as they gawked at the Spanish beauty in the red Jag.  Modesta was used to this; indeed, she almost didn't notice it anymore.  She knew she’d notice though, when they stopped looking.  She twitched her shoulders sharply and rang the bell.

  The moment took hours.  She nearly fled back to the car, but suddenly here was Claudio, nodding--smiling as though he’d been expecting her.    
      
“Modesta! Lovely. What is it?”

“Empanadas!” she answered gaily.  She waved the fragrant dish under his nose.   
       
  “Oh, my!”  Claudio stepped aside to let her enter.   “Come in.  Come in.” 

“Thank you.”  She brushed against him as she strutted to the kitchen.  With a quick glance around, Modesta forced her mind to be still, to refrain from making any judgments.  “Claudio, I hope I’m not intruding?”  She saw a prescription bottle with Adela’s name on the windowsill above the sink, a note in her handwriting by the phone. Modesta shivered.          

“No, no.  I was just going to get a paper to read with my lunch.  Mercedes is at school, of course.”

“Oh, that’s right!  Silly me. We’ll just keep some of these wrapped for her.  She can have them for supper or maybe take them in her lunch tomorrow?  I hate for Mercedes to miss out, she just loves empanadas--”         
 
“Mo.” He was the only one she didn’t mind using that name.  It brought back nights of hamburger dinners and guitar bubble bath serenades--like a secret between them of a bittersweet past.  Her eyes filled, but still she busied herself finding plates and forks.  Claudio took her by the shoulders, firmly.  “Mo.  Stop.”  Rigid in his grip, she turned to face him.

 “It’s just that--I only--.”  Modesta cleared her throat.          

Suddenly his arms went round her.  She was taller than he, but only slightly.  She curled into him and squeezed her eyes tight.  “Mo,” he whispered. “It’s all right. It’s all right.  I know.”

 And he did.  He knew that she still loved him.  He knew she loved him when he married her sister, Adela.  He felt it on the day she announced she’d wedded Paul.  He could see it in her eyes when Mercedes was christened.  (His wife could have chosen Trini or even Maria Elena for godmother, but she must have Modesta!)  And although his capacity was dulled, he knew her love surrounded him again at Adela’s funeral.           

“Look around you, Mo, “ he whispered.  She opened her eyes, took in the yellowing linoleum floor, dime store cafe’ curtains, the Formica table with its battered vinyl chairs.  “You only love your dream of me—not the man I am.”  She moved as though to protest, but he stopped her with a gentle pressure.  Claudio smoothed Modesta’s very smooth hair, straightened her very straight collar.  He was just beginning to understand what his wife had always claimed, that God knew best.   “Empanadas?  My favorite!”

They sat.  Modesta watched Claudio devour his lunch.  The smooth muscles of his jaw tensed, relaxed, tensed again.  Hypnotized, she murmured, “Tell me something, Claudio, why are empanadas your favorite?”          

“Oh, the surprise I guess.”  He took another bite and motioned with his fork for her to do the same.

“Surprise?”          

“You never know what’s inside!  Not unless you bite right in. Empanadas take commitment.  A mouthful will tell.”

“That’s what you do, Claudio! You bite right in.”         

  He nodded, smiled.  “I commit.”