Michael’s black jacket, crisp white shirt and knitted silk tie. Bobby had always been the sharp dresser and used to chide Michael pitilessly while growing up. “Armani, huh? Where are the worn jeans, the mismatched socks, and God…remember the leather jacket?”
“Of course,” he replied with a wistful smile. “Wish I still had it.”
When he was young he’d always worn a shirt, even in the summer, so his already dark skin wouldn’t darken more. He could still remember how hot and sweaty he got working in the yards, covered up, while watching pale-skinned boys run and play in cool T-shirts. He’d saved every penny he earned, not buying a candy or seeing a movie, in order to buy himself that leather jacket, and it had become a second skin.
“Man, I loved that jacket.”
“Maybe, but that one’s not too shabby. Los gringos in Chicago finally taught you how to dress?”
Michael smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. Truth was, clothes didn’t matter to him in the least. As long as it was well cut and black, he was satisfied. What mattered to him was how pale and thin his brother looked. Bobby’s clothes hung from him as limply as from a wire hanger.
“You feeling all right, big brother?” Michael leaned over and asked, concern in his lowered voice.
A shadow flickered in Bobby’s eyes, then, as quickly, disappeared. “The flu,” he replied with a casual smile. His gaze darted to his mother. “It’s been going around.”
“Sí, it is terrible,” Marta exclaimed. “Everybody is getting it. One of those terrible new bugs. From China.” She crossed herself. “Be careful, Miguel, you don’t get it, too.”
“Ha!” Bobby barked out a laugh.
Luis glared at him, his spoon halted before his tightly closed lips. Bobby’s smile quickly vanished and he seemed to withdraw inwardly.
After the four cakes were served and the coffee was poured, the family gathered around the tree, as they did every Christmas Eve, to hand out a few special “parent-child” gifts.
“Bobby, you are eldest. You be Santa’s helper,” ordered Luis.
“Glad to, Papa,” Bobby replied with enthusiasm.
Michael watched with affection as his elder brother donned a red Santa’s cap and let loose a hearty round of “ho-ho-ho’s” before handing out the gifts. Although he made a pitifully thin Santa, Bobby was not above playing up the part for the sake of his niece and nephew. The children squealed with delight.
“Enough! Don’t be a fool, horsing around,” Luis barked.
Bobby’s shoulders drew back, but he smiled urbanely. “God bless us, everyone. Even you, old Scrooge.”
Luis grumbled as he shifted in his seat.
Bobby pressed on with enthusiasm, shaking the children’s gifts and making them guess. Everyone, save Luis, laughed and clapped as the children unwrapped their treasures. Instead, he sat with a bemused expression, watching as a king would his subjects.
Later, when the children were playing with their toys, the adults cast surreptitious glances at the remaining few packages under the tree. Just as when they were children, they wondered what gifts their parents had selected for them this year.
An awed hush fell in the room when Bobby opened his wrapping to find their great-uncle’s pocket watch nestled inside, the same revered uncle who’d left Luis the prime California land. Rosa and Manuel were equally surprised and delighted with the set of china that had been in Marta’s family for generations. Eyes were wide. These were not the usual token gifts: a camera, perhaps a new sweater. Tonight their parents had passed on the few family treasures they possessed. Now all eyes turned to Michael. Bobby searched under the tree but there was nothing left.
“Poor Tío Miguel didn’t get a gift,” said Maria Elena, wrapping a small, thin arm around his shoulders in consolation.
“I guess I was a bad boy,” he quipped, giving Maria Elena a hug.
At that Luis rose with great ceremony and walked before the fireplace. From the mantel he took an envelope, and after a dramatic pause, he delivered it to Michael with an expression of enormous pride.
Michael searched his father’s face for some clue, then quickly darted to the faces of Bobby, Rosa and Manuel. Their expressions were curious…guarded. Apparently no one knew what the envelope contained.
With a nod of gratitude he took the envelope from his father’s hands, opened it and read the legal documents enclosed. The color drained from his face.
“This is a promissory note.”
“I am a man of my word. I ask you to come to California to help and you came. He came!” Luis exclaimed to the others, turning his head to meet their gazes. “He has proved himself a son and now he will prove himself a Mondragon. He will rebuild the family honor in this valley. Michael will draw the designs, we will start again, as a family. I know this and it brings my old heart great joy to see.”
He moved closer, placing his hand upon the shoulder of his seated son with as much pride and dignity as any king would place a sword upon the shoulder of his champion knight. “I promise to you the land, the business, everything! In you I place the future of the Mondragon name.”
The burden of the honor was heavy on Michael’s shoulders. Unwelcome, unspoken promises were tied up with this promissory note: A promise of loyalty, of continuance. A promise to marry, to settle on the land, to produce an heir. Looking into his father’s eyes, he saw Luis’s determination to collect each promise.
“Father, how can you do this?” cried Rosa. She was the first to break the stunned silence and her bitterness rang clear. “Manuel and I, we’ve slaved for you all these years. Years that Miguel was away. We always understood…”
“Understood what, querida?” asked Luis, his voice strained in warning. Slowly he turned toward his only daughter. “You will always be part of the business. But your name is not Mondragon. Your son’s name is not Mondragon. This is what is understood.”
Rosa flushed as bright as a poinsettia, and she cast a furious glance at her husband. “Speak up, Manuel. Why must you always sit there like a beaten dog and let me fight your battles?”
Manuel flushed and his jaw set, forcing his lips into a tight line. Without a word, he rose and hurried from the room.
“What about you, Roberto?” she charged, turning to face her elder brother.
Bobby raised his glass to his lips with a shrug. “It’s Papa’s land to do with what he wants. And—” he paused, taking a sip “—Papa wants to give it to Michael.”
“You are the eldest son! It should be yours!”
Michael saw pain flash in Bobby’s eyes, but it quickly was doused with wine. “I paint murals, Rosa. What would I do with a landscape business?”
“Enough, all of you,” Michael said, standing in the middle of the tightening circle, unaware that he’d just sounded exactly like Luis. He silenced Rosa with a sharp glance, then turned to his father. Looking him in the eye, he handed back the papers. “Papa, this is a great honor.”
