Roxane Socarras

Nochebuena

Excerpt

Zadie was hovering over Nico in the front yard as he tugged at the weeds sprouting from the cracks in the sidewalk. She was berating him with an educational overview of animal abuse (PETA!) and a dissertation on the psychological effects that death can have on a child (FREUD!). Nico nodded his head patiently after every statement, every reference, as if Zadie’s points were entirely valid.

She didn’t want the children to go to La Finca to pick out a pig for Nochebuena. Zadie kept reminding him that Camila was only eight and Luca was twelve, as if he had forgotten their ages. The thought of anyone, let alone a child, visiting a slaughterhouse had always been a strange concept to her. But Nico was a winner—a gold-medalist of the disagreement Olympics—and Zadie despised the fact that she could never defeat him.

O

Nico wiped the sweat building below his hairline with the back of his hand as he unlocked his knees to face Zadie. He thought it was sort of cute how her rogue strands of hair poked out here and there from the top of her messy bun; the way her knuckles pressed into her waist, cinching her baggy stonewash-denim overalls. His wife was the kind of woman who looked as if her morning routine was an effortless task. Anything she wore, even those unflattering overalls, looked damn good on her. 

Nochebuena was a tradition that Nico neglected after he married Zadie. His younger brother, Javi, had married a Cuban woman, unlike him, and she was a phenomenal cook, unlike Zadie. You could always count on Clarita to make the juiciest lechón, flavorful frijoles negros, garlic-drenched yucca con mojito, and charred sweet plantains. Zadie, well, Nico knew the only dish she could prepare was fish, any type of fish, but simply fish. So Javi became the declarative host for Nochebuena until Nico decided, this year, it was his time. 

“Why are you making this such a thing, Z? I was a lot younger than the kids when my dad took me to the farm. They’re just going to look at them, pick one out, and that’s it.” 

“Yeah, the kids are going to pick out a living pig that they will see roasting in our backyard tomorrow night. You don’t think that is fucked up?”

“No Zadie, I don’t think it’s fucked up. I think it’s survival.”

“Survival?” Zadie scoffed. “Are we Neanderthals now?”

Nico removed his gardening gloves and smacked them together before he tucked them into his back pocket. “So, what if I take the kids to some organic farm, eh? Where they grow fruits, vegetables, all that shit. And I have them pluck out a head of lettuce from the dirt? What—is that murder?”

Zadie released her knuckles from her waist and pointed at him. “You know it’s not the same, Nico. That’s bullshit.”

Nico knew it wasn’t the same, but he didn’t say it. It would make it much harder to win.

Before Javi was born, Nico and his papa would drive to La Finca the day before Christmas Eve. At La Finca, Nico would have the honor of picking out the pig they would have for dinner the following evening. He relished in the moment of silence at the table. His grandmother told him this gesture meant the food was delicious. Perfecto, they would say. Then his mama would tell everyone, it’s all because Nico picked it out. He was so proud, as if he had slaughtered the pig, marinated it for twenty-four hours, and cooked it for eight, all by himself. He wanted to share that feeling with Camila and Luca. He wanted them to feel like they were needed, loved, special.

“I don’t know why this is so difficult for you to understand.”

“I don’t understand because what—because I’m a gringa?” Zadie said. 

“Hey, stop. You know I don’t mean it like that.”

Zadie shook her head. “I just don’t see why they need to go, Nico.”   

Nico ran his fingers over his eyebrows, a gesture that suggested he was torn between pleasing his wife and doing what he wanted. “Why don’t you come with us? You could use a break—maybe another break later?” Nico attempted a wink, which was more reminiscent of a twitch.

O

Zadie wanted to press her hands against Nico’s beard and kiss him. Perhaps that would distract him, help change his mind, but his lips expressed solemnity—an upside-down smile, not necessarily a frown, but something that lies somewhere in-between.

Sometimes she enjoyed these arguments with Nico. They made her feel like she was part of a world that was worth living in. A world that is both dark and light, beautiful and tumultuous. Love is sublime. 

“Please, Zadie. I promise you they won’t see anything that will scar them for life, OK?”

“Alright, Nico,” Zadie resigned. “But I am staying in the car.”

O

It was an overcast afternoon with a warm breeze that rustled through the palm trees, creating an orchestra of whooshing sounds that reverberated in the backseat. Nico turned on the long road that led to La Finca and maneuvered the Prius along the dense mixture of dirt and pebbles. Zadie caught Nico staring at her breasts, bouncing freely under a white button-down blouse.

“Why does that sign say China?” Camila asked, pointing to a utility pole a few feet ahead of them. 

Zadie looked up from her screen and saw the white poster nailed to the pole advertising CAJA CHINAS 4 SALE in bold, measured handwriting. 

“It’s Spanish for ‘Chinese Box.’ That’s what we use to roast the pig,” Nico said. He dragged his fingers across the GPS screen and narrowed his eyes on the red dot that marked their destination. 

“But I thought we were Cuban-American?”

Nico laughed. Zadie waited for Nico to explain, but when he didn’t she used the background knowledge she had accumulated in the years she had been married to him. “The name doesn’t have anything to do with the country. In Cuban culture, the word ‘chino’ or ‘china’ is slang for something mysterious or clever.” 

“But I don’t understand. How can a box be clever?” Camila asked.

Zadie paused to think of an answer. Sometimes Camila asked things that seemed, on the surface, so simple, but Zadie often struggled to find words that could account for an explanation she’d understand. “Well, it’s a pretty cool invention. It’s like a microwave, but instead of using electromagnetic radiation, the food is cooked with charcoal.”

“What’s electromagagtic radiation?” Camila asked, knowing very well that she could say “electromagnetic,” aware of her cuteness factor.

Nico interjected, “It could also mean something exotic.” 

Zadie, still slightly irritated from losing their argument earlier that morning, released her breath through her nose then shook off Nico’s one-upper. “Your abuela used to call your dad chino when he was your age, Luca.”

“Why?” Luca asked.

“Because he was a little rebel. Just like you, chino,” Zadie said, jokingly.

“Please don’t call me that,” Luca said. His voice exuded irritation and the rise of prepubescent hormones. 

The dirt transitioned to grass as the car passed the gates at the entrance of La Finca. Nico maneuvered the car off to the right, pulling into a makeshift parking lot across from a single-story farmhouse painted in varying tones of blue and green. Two tall palms flanked the house, with bromeliads and ferns attached to them like overweight leeches. A larger tree poked out from behind the house, bound by long vines, and draped in Spanish moss. Everything else was a mix of dirt and enclosed patches of grass, spread out around the six sheds peppered across the property. The wind grew and wafted through the trees, releasing a sweet aroma of grapefruit and guava that entered the car through Luca’s parted window.

About the Author

Roxane Socarras is a fiction writer from Miami, FL. Her stories explore the sublime facets of technology, relationship dynamics, and cultural location/dislocation. She is currently working on an antinovel that captures a liminal metaverse driven by consumerism.