La Tigresa

Red beans and rice. I stir them together in the good wooden bowl that has no cracks and set them down on the floor between my Andre's dirty knees.

It is 1975, and he is nearly three now, tres anos, my boy. I laugh as I watch his little fingers lift a bean just so, in the way that my Andre eats, and he counts the rice that clings to it. "Uno, dos, mamasita." He always counts to please his mama before he puts it into his mouth. He closes his pale lips around the red bean and it is gone.

El Zapato is at the door, his presence beckons me. So I kiss Andre. "Be a good boy for Tia Marisol, nino. Make Mama proud." Andre holds up another bean. "Uno, dos, tres," he counts. His hair is nearly grown into his eyes already. I want to stay and laugh with my boy, but no one makes El Zapato wait. I follow him. I must work today.

It is simple, really. El Zapato hands me the carrier for the cocaine. It is a smaller one this time than last, maybe only thirty pounds. Last time, I had to sit for five hours because of flight delays and the carrier weighed almost fifty pounds. That made me nervous because I was afraid bored people would ask me questions. Five hours is a long time to wait for a one hour flight. I moved around a lot, changing seats and stepping into the bano de mujer, remembering the moving video cameras. But it is still simple work, and I can someday pay to take Andre to Florida where I was lucky enough to be born. We will live near the ocean and my job will be sewing again and he will grow up tall and strong with big shoulders and straight teeth, not like his father El Zapato, but some of his other children have straight teeth so I dream this for Andre, and all the prettiest muchachas will cry for him. Do you hear my dream, my Andre? Such plans mamasita has for you, querido.

I wrap my manton around my back and drape the end forward over my shoulder, and the fringes fall over the carrier, hiding almost the whole thing. This is a very new carrier and today I will not have to use the strong orange oil.

I leave the airport counter with my ticket and passport and I see Sylvia again. She wears a nametag and works in Security with the metal detector. At first it made me nervous, always seeing the same face, and I said so to El Zapato. But nothing new has ever happened, and I am comfortable with her now. I think she is American and she has two grandsons. Of course I have never spoken to her but she keeps a picture at her work station. I would like to speak with her if I didn't have this job.

I go through the metal detector like I always do. The man in front of me is swearing loudly because he is being asked to empty his pockets again before Sylvia. She is just doing her job. It will always surprise me how ill-mannered some people are. I seat myself close to the gate. The top of the carrier is hidden under my manton, pressed against my breast, and the bottom rests openly across my lap. I am nervous, and I hum to myself as people walk past. No one looks at me, and I relax. I fold my arms across the carrier and hum louder, rocking.

I board the plane. I sit in the back near the excusado. Sometimes people look at me and I have to go in there. I get belly cramps. Today the loud angry man moves into my row and the only seat is next to me. He sits. I am nervous already but then he gives the carrier a sideways glance