The Chaperon
“What’s the matter with Renaldo?” I asked his mother.
Friday night after English class I had stopped to chat a few minutes with her.
Renaldo was wearing neatly pressed pants, a new shirt, and shined shoes. His hair lay in combed waves, and the fragrance of aftershave lotion floated across the room. But he sat in dejection on the edge of the bed.
“Renaldo has a problem,” his mother answered my question. “He wants to visit Anita but he can’t find a chaperon to go with him.”
“Does he need a chaperon when Anita’s mother is at home?”
“Oh yes! She’s very strict. She follows the custom that he must bring a chaperon. I can’t go because I have to make supper for my husband. Renaldo asked his godmother but she has to go for groceries.”
I looked again at Renaldo in his despair. He was staring at me.
“Luisa,” he said, “you can be the chaperon.”
“I just came here to chat with your mother,” I protested, “and I wouldn’t know how to be a chaperon. I’ve never been . . .”
Renaldo moved to a cracked wall mirror. He whisked a small black comb out of his hip pocket and combed his already perfectly-groomed hair.
“Let’s go!” said Renaldo.
“Gloria,” Renaldo’s mother called to his sister outside the door. “Are you ready?”
“Ready,” said Gloria.
“Gloria will be the chaperon,” I said.
“No, Luisa, you don’t understand,” the mother patiently explained. “Gloria is too young.”
My mind pictured all the couples I had seen during my long-awaited trip to Mexico. Ken and I had gone to Guadalajara for spring vacation, and I had seen the Mexican young people at they walked to the movies, the boy with his arm firmly around the girl, and trailing a few feet behind, a younger sister. The chaperon.
“In Mexico the younger sister is oftentimes the chaperon,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” said Renaldo’s mother. “In Mexico the traditions are being lost. The parents are too permissive. We use the old customs.”
“Let’s go,” said Renaldo.
“Gloria will go with you,” explained her mother. “It would not be descent for you to ride alone in the pickup truck with Renaldo.”
“Please tell Juanita and Helena that I’ll be gone for awhile,” I said. June and Helen were visiting with Grandma Gomez.
Renaldo hurried out to the truck. I trailed reluctantly behind, and Gloria followed me. There was no doubt that I was to be the chaperon, and I had only a faint idea of how to take care of my responsibilities.
In the truck, Renaldo hummed a few bars of “Las Mananitas” as we sped down the dirt road. Gloria’s dark eyes shone with happiness, and she smoothed her long, dark hair with one hand. I glanced sideways at her well- rounded figure and thought she didn’t look so young. I wondered if it was my duty to keep watch over her, too.
“Too long by the road,” shouted Renaldo over the noise of the engine. He turned the steering wheel sharply and we drove across a field, bumping over ruts.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I know the way with my eyes closed.”
Three fields later we came upon another dirt road which led into a small migrant camp, a handful of huts clustered under the protection of ancient oak trees.
We ground to a quick halt, and Renaldo jumped out. Gloria and I followed him as he sauntered to a near doorway.
“The chaperon is Luisa,” Renaldo presented me to Anita’s mother.
Anita came from the kitchen. Her long hair had a slight curl in the ends and it fell over her shoulders and spilled onto her flowered dress.
Graciously Anita’s mother welcomed me. She placed a freshly-starched, white doily on a clean bench and offered me this place of honor. As I sat down, Renaldo and Anita went out the door. I watched them walk across a clearing and disappear into a field of corn. The corn stalks were high above their heads.
I turned in desperation to the girl’s mother, but she was in the kitchen reminding another daughter to bring coffee.
“See you after awhile,” said Gloria.
“Wait!” I said, but it was too late. She was gone around the corner of the shack.
Anita’s mother sat on the edge of the bed, and we made polite conversation.
“Do you have a large family?” I asked my usual opening question. The answer was lengthy.
A girl entered with coffee . . . hot, strong, thickly sweet, and light brown with hot milk. With it I had pan dulce, a large sweet roll, covered with bright pink frosting.
I glanced out the door while I sipped the coffee. The conversation continued on various subjects. “Has the work been good?” “The weather is very warm.” “English is a hard language to learn.”
The starched doily felt sharp on the backs of my legs under my thin, summer dress.
Where was Gloria? I peered out the door, but I saw no one that I knew.
Where was Renaldo? The corn stalks were silent and unmoving. Evening darkness softened the shapes of the trees, and I heard the song of a cricket.
The doors of the privies opened and closed. The sound of footsteps on the hard, bare ground led to other shacks. Tired workers were going to bed.
A sudden, slight breeze brought the smell of flowering weeds that were starting to cool after a hot day.
Anita’s mother spoke quietly, “Anita will marry Renaldo after the potato harvest.”
The corn stalks parted and two figures appeared in the semi-darkness. Hand in hand Renaldo and Anita walked slowly to the door of the cabin.
Gloria came with a laughing girlfriend. I breathed more easily.
“Shall we go,” said Renaldo.
As we drove across the fields, Renaldo hummed a few bars of “Besame Mucho.”
“I invite you to my wedding, Luisa,” he said. “It will be in Texas at Christmas when all the friends and relatives return from the north.”
“And after Christmas, no chaperons,” I said.
“No chaperons,” said Renaldo.
* * *
Copyright 2012, Rolf Erickson