Dulce de Frutabomba
by Yousi Mazpule

Across the block-wide parking lot I see her, rocking the babies, feeding them, sometimes just standing by the window looking out onto the street wondering, perhaps, what happened to her dreams, what happened to high school, and college, and I wonder if she ever planned out her life, if she knew that the twins would change all those dreams.

I scurry across with a bottle of homemade dulce de frutabomba in my hands because I think if I hurry in, I can hurry out.

“Yo, wazz up,” she welcomes me half way up the fourteen steps into the apartment, two-month old baby straddling her hip, “I’m gonna need another one of them letters for them people, they ax for so much shit! And they ain’t even givin me no money, jest foostamps!”

I nod, continue walking up. The old lady resting on the couch with the other twin on her chest smiles, rolls her eyes pleading forgiveness that back in the summer she asked me as a favor to put the young girl and the twins under my address so it wouldn’t affect her own food stamp collection. Having been my son’s first babysitter, I was compelled to perform this neighborly duty for her, and agreed to write the letter.

I kiss the old lady’s forehead, run an index up the infant’s spine as he sleeps and I make my offering to her, conscience-smitten that I do not bring cream cheese with it.

“I didn’t have any quesito crema,” I say.

“It’s okay mija--” the old lady starts as the girl interrupts.
“Hey, we got that yellow cheese the government gives me for them babies.”

The old lady raised four children, eleven grandchildren, five great grand children. Now the twins, so late in life for her, are not as pleasantly surprising as the rest of her great grand kids.

During the summer one morning, over café con leche y tostadas she confessed how tired she is even though her body is still jaunty. How this girl has no idea how to cook or clean, doesn’t go to school, plays some maquinita on the TV all day while she is the one that attends to the twins most of the time, how if she had been born in her country, she would be a better homemaker.

“Maybe she would be a jinetera now,” I said.

“Not all the girls in my country are prostitutes, but all the girls in this country act like boys, they talk like boys, they play with boy toys,” she said.

I laughed at her determination that it is a “country thing” and not an “age thing.” For me it’s a cultural thing, a generational thing, and a necessity thing. Seventeen year old Cuban girls are not on their Playstations 2 all day with crying babies by their sides because there are plenty of tourists who know to use condoms, willing to pay for steak and chicken, jeans and shoes, even the occasional cheap jewel.

The old lady and I know that frutabomba does not taste the same with yellow block government cheese as with cream cheese. She sends the girl for queso crema. The girl, happy to be out of the house, dumps the baby in the crib and rushes out. I start making Cuban coffee, and the baby in the crib begins to cry.

“Hurry!” the old lady whispers pointing to her chest, “before this one wakes up.”

I rush to the crib, pick up the baby, rush back to the kitchen, take the coffee maker off the gas, and as I pour the coffee in the tiny cups the old lady says, “you know how to be a good wife, a good mother, you can cook and you can make coffee,” as if the chores define all the good in me. I sit on the wooden rocker we call el sillón, baby in one hand, espresso cup in the other.

“She was born in this country, speaks perfect English, ay dios mio,” she laments, sitting up with the sleeping baby on her bosom. “If only I had come to this country younger I wouldn’t have thrown away my life like she does. I would’ve studied something, worked at a place where I had to wear panty hose all the time and sit looking pretty in front of a desk.”

I shudder at the thought of daily hose on my legs, getting varicose veins from sitting in an office with heels on all day. The baby sleeps peacefully in my arm as I rock back and forth slowly so I can sip my coffee.

“Is she going to get her GED at least?” I ask, knowing I’m going to have to explain what the GED is.

“What is that, everyone keeps talking to her about that.”

“It’s the equivalent of a high school diploma, but all you have to do is take a test.”

“I doubt it,” she says. “She doesn’t have the brains for anything. I don’t understand how my grandson fell for her.”

“They’re very young,” I say. “The twins were clearly a mistake.”

“A mistake I’m paying for at 79.”

“When are they moving out?” I ask, wondering if they’ll ever move out at all. During the girl’s pregnancy they talked about moving out before the babies were born. But then she was put on bed rest for two months to prevent the twins from premature birth.

“I don’t know. He told me maybe after they get their income tax money.”

“That could be another four months,” I say.

“I know, another four months of this and maybe I’ll be dead.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I tell her. “There’s plenty of viejita here for a while.”

“I don’t know, mija. All these disgustos are causing my stomach to act up. The doctor has warned me I can’t get upset but how can I not when I have to live with this mess in my own house?”

She spreads out her arms to show the disheveled state of her home. There are piles of tiny clothes on the couch, the twins’ car seats rest on a corner under the counter by the stairs, the two play pens, side by side, have diapers, wipes, tubes of Desitin. The two swings, placed directly in front of the TV, are the centerpieces of the living room, plus, in one of the corners of the tiny apartment, two luggage sets sit patiently waiting to be transported elsewhere.

“It’s not that bad, Pilar. Remember when your granddaughter had her first baby and she stayed here for a couple of months?”

“Yes, but my granddaughter was clean and she took care of her own baby. And she never played with that damn machine.”

“She’s also ten years older, Pilar.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” she says. “When I was seventeen, Maria was already a year old, but I kept my house immaculate, made sure Emilio had a warm plate of food when he came home from work, and kept myself busy throughout the day with the house chores. This girl sleeps until so late in the morning, sometimes I have to wake her up at noon to help me feed the boys.”

“Make her take the twins into her room at night so you can sleep in the mornings.”

“Old people can’t sleep late mornings. Plus who’s going to give them their first feed of the day if we’re both sleeping?”

“She has to wake up when they cry.”

“She can sleep through their wails. I don’t understand how her motherly instincts don’t work sometimes.”

I glance up at the rooster clock above the stove. In less than an hour, I have to pick up my four year old who just started Pre-K part time.

“Do you ever forget to feed Kaiet?” She asks, taking the last sip of her coffee.

“Of course not. He never wants to eat but I don’t forget when he has to.”

“Babies always want to eat. Most of the time, because she doesn’t fill up their bottles with cereal, they’re hungry in less than two hours.”

“They’re only two months old. Has the doctor said they could have cereal yet?”

“She hasn’t taken them to the doctor, but I gave my kids cereal in their milk when they were a month old. And by the time they were six months, they were beautiful with thick rolls on their legs.”

I’m of a generation that understands that obesity is a health problem. She believes the fatter the baby, the healthier they are. I also understand that at 79, there’s not much science I can explain that would make her change her mind.

“What do you mean she hasn’t taken them to the doctor? New babies should be seen at least once a month during the first three months.”

This I’m not sure is the standard, but my mother was at my door two hours before Kaiet’s first visit to the pediatrician within days of his birth. And every month after that until he was 90 days old; then it was every three months.

“They don’t need no doctor. I take care of them well enough. I didn’t take my kids to the doctor until they were a year old.”

“But those were different times, and you lived in the country, in Cuba, with no easy access to a hospital. These babies need to see a doctor.”

“They’re healthy babies but not because their mama cares,” she says, as she takes my cup in one hand that still holds hers, the other hand holding the infant’s back, and slowly makes her way to the kitchen sink.

I cradle the baby now with both arms. He is smaller than most babies at two months, but most twins are. I read this information somewhere in the twenty or so books I read about pregnancies when I myself was. I recall some details about twin birth and how it is much more difficult for the mother to deal with. Mothers of twins are more likely to have postpartum depression because they feel overwhelmed with all the work twins involve. The father plays a big role.

“Is he still not helping out at all?” I ask her.

“He does what he can. He’s only nineteen, works two jobs to support her and the babies.”

I think he should’ve been more responsible when it came to having sex with a young girl. With him being nineteen and her only sixteen, she could’ve charged him with rape of a minor. But I know the old lady is going to side with her grandson. She is a woman to whom the men of her house could do little wrong, I learned this by the many conversations with her about her grandson.

I look down at the little bundle in my arms. He is warm and snuggly and as he sleeps, a slight smile curls his lips. I kiss his forehead, check his tiny fingers, his toes. The old woman comes back from the kitchen, puts her sleeping twin down in the playpen, holds out her arms to me so I can give her mine. Reluctantly, I give him to her. She carefully deposits the baby in the other playpen.

Just then the phone rings, and she rushes to pick it up before it wakes up the twins.

Huh? What? You got the wrong number!” she says hanging up, smiling. “Her friends call here all the time and since I can’t understand what they say, I hang up on them.”

I smile knowing the old woman gets a kick out of this. “Why don’t you just tell her not to give out this number?”

“Neither of them listen to me. I’ve told her already that I am not her personal operator, but I still get all these phone calls.”

“Are they at least paying for the phone bill?”

“They don’t pay for anything but whatever the babies need. They sometimes don’t even have money for that, and I end up giving them a few dollars to buy diapers or formula.”

“I don’t understand why; he works and they don’t have many bills to pay.”

“Because she’s no good at anything. She can’t manage their money and he’s just a boy. She’s lucky he’s stuck by her all this time.”

I think, she’s lucky that he’s stuck by her? He’s lucky he didn’t go to jail! But I don’t dare say this because the old woman would not take it as a joke.

“You know even if they weren’t together, he’d have to pay child support for those two babies.”

“Yes, I know that. But with what he makes, she would have to get a job, then she would know what responsibilities are.”

“She knows already. She has two kids.”

“No she doesn’t. Maria and I do everything for those two boys. She doesn’t even wash their clothes.”

“But that’s not her fault. If you do everything for her and the kids, of course she’s never going to learn to be responsible.”

“I know,” she says, “but what do we do now? Just let her neglect them like she’s used to doing? Those boys will be in a hospital in no time if we do that.”

The screeching at the door lets us know she’s back. The old lady runs to the top of the stairs, holds out one hand waiting for the girl to climb the fourteen steps.

“I need my change,” Pilar tells her. The girl, flushed and out of breath, reaches into her pocket jiggling with change. The hand resurfaces holding a bunch of coins.

“What happened to the ten dollars? Cream cheese is not ten dollars!” The old woman smirks.

“No, but I bought milk, eggs, juice and bread.”

“Why didn’t you use your food stamps for that?”

“I didn’t take my card with me.”

“You should always buy that stuff with your stamps, this way you save money.”

The girl nods, deposits the bags on the kitchen counter, and continues into her room. I look at the twins sound asleep in their playpens, and wonder whether their mother really does not care at all like the old lady describes. The old lady empties the bags, places the contents into the pantry, and comes back to check on the twins.

“You see what I mean?” she says, the pitch in her voice now significantly reduced. “She didn’t even check on them.”

“She knows they’re in good hands, and she was only gone a few minutes.” I say unsure as to why I feel the need to excuse the young girl’s behavior. But I do so without further thought. “Plus, they’re sleeping, Pilar.”

“If I ever left my kids with anyone, I can count the times with my left hand fingers. And never when they were this little,” she declares in a low conspiratorial tone, careful the girl doesn’t hear it. I look up at the rooster clock again. She takes the cream cheese, inspects the label.

“Ay ay ay,” she says, “I’ve told her a million times not to buy this type of cream cheese.”

“We can still have the frutabomba with it,” I say.

“No, it’s not the same. This cream cheese is too creamy. I can’t cut it up into little chunks with the frutabomba.”

“It’s still queso crema, it’ll taste the same.”

“But it won’t feel the same in my mouth. I don’t like it. She’s going to have to go change it.”

The consistency of the cream cheese is of no consequence to the taste of the syrupy dessert. In fact, the creamier the cheese, the more it will dissolve the chunky fruit. But I know Pilar, at 79, is so set in her ways that suggesting she tries the cream cheese just this once will not sit right with her. The door to the girl’s room opens but no one comes out.

“Oye,” the old woman says, “make sure you clean the bathroom after you shower.”

"Okay,” the young girl responds stepping into the hall to quickly make her way into the bathroom.

“If I don’t remind her to at least clean that bathroom, I end up having to do it. And even when I do, she sometimes forgets.”

“You make her clean the bathroom every time she showers?”

“Of course! You can’t leave the bathroom with all that crust.”

“But every time she uses it is a bit extreme, no?”

“She doesn’t really listen to me. She’ll clean it today and won’t clean it again for another two weeks. She’s not like you that you care about the cleanliness of your home.”

I don’t clean my bathroom that often. As a matter of fact, we have a cleaning lady that comes in twice a month; she scrubs the bathrooms, wipes the floor, polishes the furniture, dusts the ceilings fans. I keep the house somewhat organized because with a four year old, if you don’t stay on top of things you can find yourself living completely surrounded by toys, play dough, and crayons. I feel the urge to confess that I am not as clean and organized as she believes me to be, but I decide against it knowing my confession will not change her opinion about the girl.

“I have to go soon,” I say, eager to have some frutabomba so I can go pick up my son. “I can’t wait for her to go back to get the right cream cheese, Pilar. It would take too long and I’ll be late to pick Kaiet up.”

“Okay,” she says, “let’s just have it with this cream cheese.”

She starts to scoop out spoonfuls of the cheese to deposit on top of the chunks of fruit. I take a seat on the counter, watch her as she serves the dessert, puts the plastic container in the fridge. The first chunk of frutabomba you put in your mouth is always the sweetest. Then, as it melts in your mouth, you can pummel the remaining strands of the fruit by pushing it up with your tongue against the roof of your mouth. I always take the first bite without cream cheese to enjoy the sugary high without the contrast of the salty cheese.

“I see you don’t like the cream cheese either, huh?”

I signal agreement while chewing the fruit. “I prefer the chunks, too,” I say preparing another spoonful, this time with cream cheese. “But this is fine.”

“I want you to know I’m eating it like this because you have to go and I wanted to taste the frutabomba while you are here so I could tell you if you did it right.”

I put a big spoonful in my mouth to avoid having to tell her the truth, which is that I didn’t make the dessert, my father-in-law did.

“Umm…” she says after the first bite, “I wish my grandson would find a girl like you that can cook like this.”

I smile, ashamed that I don’t let her know the truth. The bathroom door opens and the girl, wrapped in a beige towel, comes out.

“There’s no hot water,” she declares. “I’ve been waiting for it all this time.”

“No hot water?” Pilar asks. “I just did the dishes and there was hot water. Did you turn on the correct faucet?”

The girl looks at me confused, then back at the old woman. “There’s only one faucet. What do you mean the correct one?”

“I mean did you turn it to where the H is?”

“Yes, I did,” the girl replies, “I’ve been living here for nine months!” She turns to go back into her room.

“And on top of it all, she has a nasty attitude all the time,” the old woman says, calmly taking another bite of the dessert.

I want to say something in the girl’s defense, but I put another spoonful in my mouth, instead knowing that whatever I say won’t make a difference in the way the old woman treats her. I feel a certain responsibility to make her understand that my generation and that of her grandson, a decade younger, don't like the older folks’ condescending tones when it comes to making decisions about our children. This is a situation I’ve had to deal with since my son was born four years ago and my own mother decided this was her second opportunity at raising a child. But a long conversation about that now would only make me late, and I am sure she won’t appreciate it. Plus, lying to the state about the girl’s address, I think, is more than I should be involved with in this family matter. So I get my plate and move with it to the sofa directly across from the twins’ playpens.

The twins, quietly awake now, stare blissfully at the star-studded mobile their playpens share. I put another spoonful of frutabomba and cream cheese in my mouth while Pilar comes over to sit next to me. She chews her dessert quietly while staring at the twins; like me, enthralled by their happy smiles.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com

Yousi Mazpule is a professor of business communication skills at FIU. She has been published in local magazines including Genration N and Coral Gables Living. She is finishing an MFA in Creative Writing at FIU and lives in Miami with her husband and son.