flashquake Nonfiction

HUSBANDS FIRST
by Mary Frances

I walked through the outdoor market. I listened to the strange voices. Laughing, grubby-faced, thin boys were throwing a ball to each other. Cars were honking and swerving through the dirty, narrow street.

Waiting for Mayna, my mother-in-law, in Juarez, Mexico, was scary. I didn't understand Spanish, had only a few coins, and didn't know one street from another.

At the shop counter, I fingered the silver chains and jewelry. Intricately woven seashell chandeliers hung swaying in the breeze. The swarthy, overweight shopkeeper looked at me expectantly. I could just read in his gleaming eyes, "American tourists have money, they buy what they want."

If that's what he thought, he was wrong. This American was penniless, married to a Mexican who assumed wives wanted nothing more than to take care of their husbands and make babies. I felt helpless being married to Roberto. I felt deserted waiting for his mother in a foreign country. I pictured Mayna's home. The crowded living room with the sofa backed up to the fireplace and the mantle crowded with pictures and knick-knacks. I imagined her walking across the bold red and blue flowered carpet that covered the floor. I looked at my watch. 3:00 o'clock. This is the time Papa Bill comes home from work. She feeds him as soon as he walks in the door.

Was that keeping Mayna? Did she forget about me? How would I get home? An hour later, through welling tears, I saw her '55 Chevrolet come toward me.

"What took you so long, Mayna?" I blurted as I opened the car door.

"Papa Bill came home. I cooked his supper."

"You made me wait an hour and a half." Perhaps she didn't understand.

"Husbands come first. I told you that."

I got in. She moved the car into traffic and turned the corner, joining the pandemonium of honking drivers.

I finally understood.

Copyright 2003 by Mary Frances

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