“I’m telling you. I’m just as white as you are.”
“No, you don’t look even a little bit Mex. Those Mexican women, they all got big hips and bum legs and breasts up under their chin and yellow skin and hair that looks like it had bacon fat on it. You don’t look like that. You’re small, and got nice white skin, and your hair is soft and curly, even if it is black. Only thing you’ve got that’s Mex is your teeth. They all got white teeth, you’ve got to hand that to them.”
“My name was Smith before I was married. That don’t sound much like a Mex, does it?”
“Not much.”
“What’s more, I don’t even come from around here. I come from Iowa.”
“Smith, hey. What’s your first name?”
“Cora. You can call me that, if you want to.”
I knew for certain, then, what I had just taken a chance on when I went in there. It wasn’t those enchiladas that she had to cook, and it wasn’t having black hair. It was being married to that Greek that made her feel she wasn’t white, and she was even afraid I would begin calling her Mrs. Papadakis.
“Cora. Sure. And how about calling me Frank?”
She came over and began helping me with the wind wing. She was so close I could smell her. I shot it right close to her ear, almost in a whisper. “How come you married this Greek, anyway?”