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  Praise for Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties

  “Lemus is a truly talented storyteller. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  “A spry debut from a writer who’s got the skills.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An edgy, exuberant debut novel. The sex is fun, rollicking, and a little dangerous; the characters are young and guardedly optimistic … this is an intriguing novel sure to attract readers searching for something urban, lively, and a bit different.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A warm tale of ‘princess dyke’ life in L.A., Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties is a well-crafted and very refreshing debut novel, a welcome contribution to Chicana letters from the new generation.”

  —Ana Castillo

  “Lemus’ debut, a gen-X coming-of-age story, has a breezy tone that keeps the pages turning. Engagingly told … this tale will charm and earn this first-time author a following.”

  —Booklist

  “Lemus’ language shifts as fluidly as her heroine’s gender. Think Anaïs Nin translated by James Ellroy … Her sentences at their best are so condensed, so packed and hot, they’re on the verge of exploding … Bursting at the seams with pizzazz and invention, Lemus shows enormous promise.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Lemus’ dynamic language and pacing … offer deep insights into familia and cultura without an ounce of heavy-handedness.”

  —Latina Magazine

  “Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties is both outrageous and glorious … It’s a wild ride that’s worth every damn cent you spent for the ticket!”

  —Helena Maria Viramontes

  “An edgy and risky debut that leaps over clichés and lands in the center of the modern-day intricacies of a new generation … Felicia Luna Lemus will indeed be declared a trail-blazing writer.”

  —El Paso Times

  “Lemus’ writing on love is intoxicating.”

  —Ruminator Review

  “Toward the end of the story, Nana, one of the wisest characters of Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties, exclaims: ‘Dear Mother of God. Is that a boy or a girl?’ Paraphrasing Nana, I dare to ask: Dear Mother of God. Is that a novel or a challenge? Nimble and well-written, this is also a book of transgressions, and a breath of fresh air.”

  —Mayra Montero

  “Stripper friends, valium-popping moms, lovable Chicana grandmas, and fuckable best friends … this novel reads quickly with its tight prose, rich imagery, and emotion-dappled scenarios … [It] unfurls gritty-hipster-queer-lust stories ready to be devoured.”

  —Flaunt Magazine

  “First-time novelist Felicia Luna Lemus is fiercely intelligent …”

  —The Advocate

  “A distinctive and original narrative voice … Trace Elements of Random Tea Parties captures the messy, pinball reality of a young, urban dyke princess, struggling to carve out a place in the world.”

  —Lambda Book Report

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2007 Felicia Luna Lemus

  ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-21-7

  eISBN-13: 978-1-617750-53-3

  ISBN-10: 1-933354-21-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006936533

  All rights reserved

  First printing

  Front cover photograph, Nahui Olin, 1924, by Edward Weston; Collection Center for Creative Photography ©1981 Arizona Board of Regents.

  Akashic Books

  PO Box 1456

  New York, NY 10009

  [email protected]

  www.akashicbooks.com

  For T

  PROLOGUE

  5 March 2003. Ash Wednesday.

  New York City.

  All things considered, the flight home was uneventful. I watched a dumb romantic comedy, and I ate soggy broccoli and a dinner roll from the crummy free meal when it came around. After the trays were cleared, I stood in line and brushed my teeth in one of the tiny metal bathrooms. My left arm swollen and throbbing in its plaster cast, I took some aspirin. Eventually, I crashed for a few hours and tried my damnedest to prepare for a time-pressed dash out of the airport.

  Finally, three in the morning, careful of my broken arm and the scabbed skin on my chest, I hopped a locked gate and walked across Tompkins Square Park to the Temperance Fountain.

  The Temperance Fountain—a Victorian stone structure of humble elegance, distant cousin to the crumbling WPA fountain my father courted my mother at before they totally hated each other. The Temperance Fountain—also not so entirely unlike like the Mexico City fountain where my father’s mother sat when she broke Nahui Olin’s heart. Family cycle come full circle, there I was, a man of thirty, standing at a fountain, taking my turn.

  The wind picked up, and I smelled pine. No forests anywhere nearby, only patches of dead landscaping and dirty ice all around, the woodsy olfactory effect was merely a pleasant by-product of the Christmas trees Municipal Services collected all January and crushed into mulch. I reminded myself that the smell, crisp and refreshing as it may have seemed, was still one of decomposition. A sharp gust of cold air cut through my clothes. Chills shivering up my spine, I breathed into my hands for warmth and continued waiting.

  I’d wait all night if that’s what it took. Damn, I’d wait for the rest of my life if I had to. And why not? I had only nothing and everything to lose.

  My father would have understood.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  1 March 1995. Ash Wednesday.

  Los Angeles.

  The doctors tell me I’m dying. Let’s go for a nice lunch,” he said.

  What a fucking crappy way to wake up. Still in bed, I pressed the phone closer against my ear. “Dad?”

  “I’m at the V.A. in Westwood,” he said. “Main entrance.”

  And, before I could answer, protest, or even just ask a question—like Where have you been for the past fifteen years?—he hung up. My father, Francisco Cruz: the ultimate drama queen. Eventually, he would even die on Father’s Day. At sunrise. With me at his side. Seriously. He was such a theatrical bastard. This being the case, it came as little surprise when, although we’d been estranged since I was a kid, he called out of the blue to announce both his impending death and his desire for a lunch date.r />
  As if the fates would have allowed it any other way, I had the day off from my crap job stocking bins at Aron’s Records. So, after I hung up the phone, I pushed myself out of bed and got ready to meet my dad. The prospect of seeing my father must have left me looking scared or just simply like shit because one of my roommates stopped me as I was about to walk out of the apartment.

  “Frank, everything okay?” Jen asked.

  And this may not seem like much, but it was. That’s not to say Jen was some sort of bitch who didn’t care, it’s just that she and her boyfriend, Ted, ususally minded their own business. Really, they were perfect roommates. Both referred to themselves as “preppy punk,” like it was their way of trying to impress me, like they were so transgressive and cool, but honestly they were pretty square. Comfortingly predictable, sweet, and dull, Jen and Ted were grad students at UCLA, older than me and way more mellow. We all liked each other enough, none of us flaked on our bills, we cleaned up our own messes, but, like I said, it wasn’t typical that I’d get in their space or that they’d get in mine. So anyway, given Jen’s sudden concern, I figure I must have looked like a total wreck when I was leaving to meet my father.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I replied and continued out the door. “Thanks, though.”

  Jen didn’t seem convinced. There was no reason she should have been. She stood in the doorway of our Echo Park apartment and watched as I crossed the street, like she thought I might pass out or throw myself in traffic. I got in my rusty tin can little car, forced a smile, and waved to her as I drove away.

  Forty minutes of crosstown side roads hell later, I pulled my car up to the hospital’s main entrance red zone. A man sat on the concrete slab bench near the automatic sliding glass doors. My father. I hadn’t seen him since I was eight, but I would have known him anywhere.

  In fact, my father and I looked exactly alike. Rather, we shared nearly identical features. But whereas I was dressed in post-teen skater slop, he was dressed to the nines. Fedora cocked on his pomade sleek head, his brown wool three-piece suit slightly wrinkled from a night spent in the hospital, but no worse for the wear, he looked like a Hitchcock flick leading man. Polished wingtip shoes, pocket square, cashmere dress socks—this was the way he had always dressed.

  Case in point:

  When I was in kindergarten, there’d been a big weekend carnival at school. It was the most awesome event of the year. There were tons of rides and booths. My favorite booth was the one where kids threw ping-pong balls into fishbowls, and if a kid got enough balls in, the carnies would give them a little plastic bag filled with water and a goldfish. I didn’t win a fish, but I did get the consolation prize—a fish-shaped cutout made of red plastic paper like a spotlight gel. You were supposed to hold the plastic-paper fish in the palm of your hand, and depending on how its tail and head curled, it predicted your fortune. There were instructions on decoding the curls printed on the little white and red envelope the fish came in. My fish’s sides kept curling up. I don’t remember what that meant. Really, the curling was just a matter of body heat affecting the onionskin-thin plastic, but to me it was pure magic.

  Anyway, the carnival had been on one of my dad’s weekends. And that event marked the first time I realized my dad was unlike everyone else’s dads. All the other fathers were dressed in totally casual outfits—jeans and trainers, some with turtlenecks and denim jackets, others with V-neck sweaters over T-shirts. Almost all of them had shaggy hair and sideburns. They simply looked cool. When we got home from the carnival, I asked my dad why he didn’t wear comfortable clothes like theirs, why he went to the barber shop every week and shaved twice a day.

  “Don’t ever let anyone call you a lazy wetback,” he said.

  I had no idea how that was an answer to my question. I tried asking my magic fish, but upon closer inspection, its envelope claimed it could tell me only if I was in love, lucky, or tired.

  Fifteen years later, I’d been dealt enough jabs—including one incident in junior high when a group of kids threw handfuls of pennies at me, called me a “beaner queer whore,” and were only reprimanded by the lunch supervisor to Sit down and eat—that I’d come to understand my father’s reasons for wanting to present a polished front. His attire and grooming was passive resistance of a most dignified form.

  And so, there he sat on the concrete hospital bench, his manicured hands primly folded on his knees, back straight, clean-shaven face tilting side to side slightly as he listened to the sounds around him. As I approached, his body turned static. I stood directly in front of him. And still he didn’t stand. He only adjusted his glasses—as if there was a chance in hell this might help him recognize me any better.

  His glasses:

  Opaque dark brown lenses framed by bulky rectangular solid side panels, an expensive version of the throwaway pairs ophthalmologists give patients after dilation, a more serious version of those many an old man put over the top of regular glasses to filter out all the sun’s light—my father was wearing what as a kid I’d so bluntly referred to as his blindman glasses.

  “Dad?”

  “Francisca, baby girl.”

  I cringed. But didn’t say anything.

  He rose to greet me, facing slightly right of where I stood.

  “Ready to go?” he asked, like he had come to pick me up.

  I put my hand on his left elbow and, after a briefly awkward moment, led him to the car.

  “Where should we eat?” he asked, as if this was a casual little lunch date we had every week.

  “Wherever.”

  “Canter’s?”

  “Sure.”

  I drove east on Sunset and then onto Santa Monica Boulevard. We’d made it all the way to Fairfax and were heading south before I got up the nerve to ask what was going on.

  “Let’s talk while we eat,” he said.

  Fine. A supposedly dying man should be granted such requests, right?

  We arrived at Canter’s. I parked in the side lot, took a ticket from the attendant, and led my father into the restaurant. A comforting stink of sugar cookies, pastrami, and pickle juice greeted us, so did one of Canter’s many venomspitting charm-haggard waitresses. My father and I sat at a table for two in the main dining room, under the stained glass false ceiling that looked like a canopy of giant autumnal trees. Why the New England forest motif in a Los Angeles Jewish deli? Don’t know, but the resulting effect was simultaneously unsettling and perfect.

  The second we sat down I did what I always did when I got to Canter’s. I picked up the telephone. Like every other booth, ours came outfitted with an old-fashioned black telephone mounted on the mottled glass that divided the booth into its own little cubicle. You could make local calls for free from your table. I wasn’t actually going to call anyone, but the gimmick was too good not to be acknowledged each visit. So I picked up the phone. But there was no dial tone. I clicked the receiver hook. Nothing. The line was dead. My dad must have heard me futzing.

  He said: “Your mother didn’t say much when I called to get your number. How is she?”

  “Don’t know, really.”

  “That bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  I couldn’t see behind his glasses, but I was pretty certain two heavy-lidded eyes precisely the same shape as mine went sad in response. My father took off his fedora and placed it on the table next to the napkin dispenser. With hands as big and bony and slightly freckled as mine, he smoothed his hair into place and sighed.

  It was such an uncanny thing to sit across from a person I resembled so exactly, but with whom I’d spent so little of my life. That said, I knew it hadn’t been my father’s fault we were near strangers. The custody battle that ensued after my mother left him had been extremely messy, to say the least. By the time I was eight, my mother had done all she could—and she did a lot—to end my relationship with my dad. Still, there was no doubt about it, I was his kid.

  “Son,” our waitress interrupted our silence, “you ready to
order?”

  Not that my father could see it, but his little girl had become a young man. Starting in junior high, I’d wound Ace bandages tight around my chest to flatten my thankfully negligible breasts. Hoping for the healing benefits of a cold compress, I’d initially stored the bandages in the freezer overnight. Over time, I’d acquired less chilling and more sophisticated means for smoothing things out. And by the time I sat across from my dad at Canter’s, I’d mastered counterbalancing most physical evidence of ever having been born a girl.

  The careful staging our waitress unknowingly tested with her impatient stare: a baggy long-sleeved black T-shirt over a tight Hanes undershirt over a wife-beater over an extrasmall binder; boxer shorts peeking out from under low-slung oversized black Dickies cinched with an Army surplus canvas belt; a bulky dark gray hoody sweatshirt, hood down. I pulled the visor of my baseball cap further over my face, shuffled my skater-sneaker clumsy feet, and cleared my throat to deepen my voice for a response.

  “Son?” she repeated.

  “I’ll just have a coffee,” my father answered before I could, oblivious to the way I looked, flattered by what he’d taken to be a waitress’s flirtation directed at him. He was totally clueless. But still, I’d passed in front of my father. I ordered a celery soda to mark the occasion. What other options were there? Sweet fizz celebration was the best I could do.

  “So, Dad, can we talk now?”

  I watched as my father responded by retrieving a black Sharpie from his jacket pocket. He took several napkins from our table’s dispenser, unfolded the white squares, and spread them out on the table in front of him. As we waited for our food, he mapped out a diagram of what he was leaving me in death:

  His blindness.

  I would inherit my father’s ticking time-bomb vision.

  I’d always known my father had been dealt a particularly bad set of eyes, but now he told me the specifics of his deteriorating eyesight. By the time he was seven he’d needed Cokebottle glasses. As a teenager, he’d required a magnifying glass to read the Bible as his mother insisted he do each Sunday morning …