The Biggest Shoes to Fill

Maritza had quite the reputation around the taco truck, Tacos Andrés, that she frequented after work. It was hard not to, when her work uniform consisted of a brilliant pink pigtail wig, a multicolored tulle tutu, bright red nose, pink cheeks and eyelids, sparkling shirt, and a smile that lasted for hours as she beamed and twirled amidst children. As a clown, she had the opportunity to make many children (and their parents) smile and laugh at her silliness. Her bag was full of prizes and tricks, little blooming feather flowers and magic foam rabbits she could crush in the palm of her hand. Her stage name was Bonboncita, a title that reflected her clown’s sweet nature and short stature. Maritza loved her job. She loved getting tacos from Andres in her costume as much as she loved seeing the kids watch her with wide eyes as she flitted, sometimes donning fairy wings, through their yards or driveways. 

That afternoon, she had worked at a small gathering, a party for a girl turning five years old. The theme was Dora the Explorer, and so Bonboncita’s jokes centered around the antics of Boots and the Map. The birthday girl, Jenny, marveled as Bonboncita danced to the Dora theme song and sang along in a silly, high pitched voice. At the end of the party, Jenny took her hand and led Bonboncita to the living room, where she was introduced to Jenny’s father. The man had been focused on watching his game, but lit up when Jenny entered the room. 

“Papi,” Jenny exclaimed, “This is the best party ever!” 

Her father beamed at Bonboncita, but Maritza felt her real heart grow warm. He stood up and stuck out a big hand. “Hola, Señorita Bonboncita! Thank you for making this the best party ever,” he winked, “And I am sure you will be a welcome guest at all the ones to come next!” 

“Gracias, amigo,” Bonboncita said, and handed him a flower. “What a good dad you are to Jenny.” 

“Yes, anything for mi princesa.” 

Maritza warmly waved goodbye to the pair as she packed her bag and left, wondering what her life would look like if she still had a man like Jenny’s father in her life. She left the home and walked up the street a little ways to Tacos Andres, where she chatted with Andres himself for a while and left with two tacos tucked into her bag, wrapped in warm foil between a jar of shimmering blush and a can containing a spring worm. 

Maritza ate her humble taco as she waited for the bus to pick her up. Bits and pieces of the ground beef stumbled out and she gathered them back into her mouth, too hungry to let anything go to waste. The sound of cars whistling past added to her long-lived headache, and all she wanted was to get home and rest. When the bus came, she grabbed her purse and climbed up the familiar, worn metal steps. She dropped her coins into the box and waved hello to the driver, an elderly man called Hank who always politely greeted all passengers on his bus. Maritza traveled to the middle of the bus and found an empty seat beside a young man holding his squiggling baby daughter in his arms. The baby bubbled and the father laughed, cooing and rubbing noses with her. Maritza smiled to herself and took another bite of her taco. She leaned her head back on the bus seat and closed her eyes, listening to the family beside her enjoy each other’s company while she contemplated going home to her own daughter, Milena. 

The bus lurched to a stop and Maritza got off, waving goodbye to the young father as well as Hank. She was careful not to step on the long skirt of her dress, as it had just rained and the potholes of their street were never filled by the city, instead left to fill and create troublesome and deep puddles. Martiza’s bag swung gently against her leg as she walked, and she hummed to herself as she neared the front door. Milena was already home from school when Maritza stepped into the kitchen. She sat at the table, writing in her blue notebook. 

“Hi, mami,” Milena said, not glancing up from her work. 

Maritza set her bag down. “Hola, mija. How was school?”

“Good. How was your taco?” 

“Very good. Here,” she pulled another, warmer taco out of her bag, “I brought this one for you. He gave it to me for free like always when I said it was for you, my little daughter.” 

“You didn’t tell him your little daughter is almost eighteen, about to graduate high school?” 

Maritza shrugged. “Why would I? What he doesn’t know, that won’t hurt him.” 

“Silly.” Milena went back to writing. 

“What are you writing about?” 

Milena put her pencil down. “Oh, it’s for an application. For scholarships.” 

“Ah, yes. For college! How exciting.” Maritza smiled. “I will start on dinner, then, while you keep working.” 

“Do you want any help?”

Maritza went to the small refrigerator and plucked some vegetables and meat from the drawer. “No, nena, that’s okay. I got this.” She set her ingredients down on the counter and soon the two women joined each other in a steady rhythm, with mother chopping and daughter writing. 

The next morning, as Milena ran out to the driveway to her boyfriend’s car to ride to school, Maritza sat on the edge of her bed and held the frame of her late husband, Manuel. She ran a soft hand along the edge of the frame, taking in the man she had loved for so long and still did, in the moments she caught Milena’s familiar smile or glittering eyes. Her daughter was so smart, and Maritza was so proud. She kissed Manuel’s picture and set him back on the table. “Buenos dias, mi amor,” she whispered, “Have a good rest.” 

She’d been booked at a church festival that day, something she always enjoyed because there were so many children eager to win her games while still being overall respectful and less likely to cheat. For this festival, Bonboncita would wear striped purple leggings and a giant clay brooch of a bumblebee. Martiza scrunched her nose as she applied the bright makeup, careful not to get tickled and jolt. It had taken her a while to get used to the brisk bristles of the brush, so heavy and different from most women’s makeup tools, but as more jobs filled her days, Maritza began to get ready with ease. 

She started working as Bonboncita after her husband passed away four years ago, when Milena was only thirteen, of an aggressive throat cancer. Manuel’s income as a manager at the local hardware store plus Maritza’s crafting business kept them afloat, but without Manuel around it became evident that she would have to leave the work table soon and find a new way to get food home for Milena. 

She worked for a while at her cousin Riana’s flower shop, running errands and occasionally arranging bouquets for anniversaries and quinces. One day, Maritza was sent to deliver a very brilliant bouquet to someone in the hospital. She walked into the patient’s room to find dozens of balloon animals and three people dressed in full clown attire all sniffling together.

 Sadly, their clown friend had been practicing unicycling in his driveway when a stray UPS truck ensured his last laugh by veering off the road and smashing him into his own garage door. The visiting clowns told this story to Maritza as she lay the bouquet of flowers down on his bedside table, their tears marring the colorful makeup on their cheeks and noses. Maritza learned that their company was now in need of a new clown and waited patiently for their applications to go up. She showed up at the interview with her first costume, which was a simple red tutu and an oversized orange shirt, and a bucket full of whatever gags she could find at the local joke shop. It wasn’t much of a competition, really, considering the other candidate showed up a bit too funny, obviously drunk and incapable of operating a bike horn, much less the responsibility of children’s entertainment. 

Since then, Maritza had found her niche in being Bonboncita. She was a diligent worker and her fellow clowns appreciated her presence in their company, though they respected that she had a daughter and therefore was limited in traveling. Through their grace and her consistent efforts, they had worked out a system that got her booked, paid, and well-fed. She didn’t need more than that, but she often felt guilty that she couldn’t do more for Milena. 

Milena did take after her father. She was taller than Maritza, with the same easy and clever essence as Manuel. She drifted through school and made plenty of friends, but Maritza always wondered where she could be if she could provide more for the girl. When she was younger, there had been a science camp that the school was sending six children to. Milena had begged Maritza to sign the forms, but she couldn’t. She was too worried about the cost, though she told Milena it was because she worried for her safety being away for a week during the summer. Maritza was sure her daughter would have been chosen, though, for she was a brilliant and curious girl whom teachers adored and classmates admired. This was why Maritza was careful to stay out of her way while she filled out her scholarship applications. She knew Milena had realized, long ago, that her mom wouldn’t be able to pay for her college. 

“Milenaaa,” Maritza called to her as she walked into the kitchen, home from the church festival with a taco in hand, “Sabes que? Andres, today, he told me-” She paused at the table. Milena was not sitting in her usual seat. Maritza saw her blue notebook flipped open to show the essay Milena had been working so hard on. Maritza set her bag down and crept towards the notebook, unable to quash her impending intrigue. “Let me see, mija, what you have been writing all these hours.” She leaned over the notebook and began to read. 

My mom is a clown. Before you think I am being disrespectful, let me explain. My mom works as a party clown every day to provide for me. She takes the city bus and walks to her venues, never without her bag of tricks. She wears bright colors and funny wigs in order to make people smile. She taught me that staying true to yourself can be the best gift of all, and that laughter really is the best medicine. After my dad died when I was younger, I thought I would never laugh again. Then I went to see my mom’s clown troupe perform at my school’s pep rally and I saw how everyone, even the most burly football player, burst into chuckles when they saw my tiny mom barreling across the gymnasium floor, hoisting her huge foam toothbrush over her head. It made me smile. My mom makes everyone smile, from the little kids she reigns over at parties to the taco man, Andres, who always gives her an extra taco for me. I hope to make my mom proud by getting into a good college and earning many scholarships like this one. I want to give other people a reason to smile too, as a doctor who will work her best to give them good news. For mi mami, for mi papi, and for me, Milena Camarillo Flores. 

There were a few more sentences, but Maritza’s eyes were already full of tears. She always tried to wipe off her makeup before crying, but at that moment she let the wet streaks create rainbow rivers against her skin. 

A few minutes later, Milena found her mother at the kitchen table and took the notebook into her hands.

“Hola, ma,” she greeted her. 

“Oh, Milena, I didn’t see you come in,” Maritza sniffled.

Milena held the notebook out. “Mami, did you read my essay?”

Maritza nodded, “Lo siento, amorcita, I just wanted to see what you’ve been working so hard on.” 

“That’s… that’s okay.” Milena sat down. “What did you think, though? Was it any good?”

“You wrote about me. I never knew-”

“I love you, mami. You knew that, at least.” 

“Yes, but this is so different. You mean it? You smile again because of me?” 

Milena put her notebook down and took her mother’s hand. “Of course. You light a room like no one I know, even out of your costume. People love you.” 

“I guess I didn’t realize,” Maritza said. “Oh,” she realized, “Your taco!” She handed her daughter the taco she’d brought home. 

“And you always take care of me no matter what,” Milena smiled. 

Maritza sheepishly wiped her tears. “I thought you would be embarrassed of me. My accent, my job, our house. I wouldn’t have blamed you.” 

“No, ma, I am so proud.” Milena shook her head, “I couldn’t be embarrassed of you. We both have a great calling to help those around us, and I have you to thank for that.” She tore out the sheet of paper from her notebook. “I want you to have this.” 

“Mija, your scholarships-” 

Milena grinned, “Yes, but I already have this typed up and sent. I stayed later at school to get it all done.” She pushed the essay into her mom’s hands. “It’s for you.” 

Maritza groaned. “Ay, you are going to make me cry again! Pobre Bonboncita, she is seeing more tears than she deserves.” 

Milena laughed and Maritza squeezed her hand before saying, “I will keep this.” She folded it into a tiny square and pressed it into her palm, like the small foam rabbits she kept in her bag. 

“I have something for you too.” Maritza said, holding her new treasure tightly. “I was going to wait till your birthday, but I see your father would like you to read it now.”

Milena racked her mind for what it could be while her mother retreated to the bedroom and came back with an envelope. “This is from him. He wrote it a week before he passed, when the doctors said he wouldn’t have a long time.” Maritza handed her daughter the letter. “I put it away in my drawer because I hoped he would be here to tell you in person, even if I knew better than to hope for it.”

“What did he write?” Milena asked. 

“I can’t say it. Just read.” Maritza looked down at Milena’s essay, still folded up in her hand. “Let me put this away and change into something more comfortable. How funny it must be to discuss such things with your mami dressed as a clown!” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Milena admitted. 

“Good, mija, because that’s the way it is, no?” 

“Yes.” Milena said. She waited until her mother left, and then unsealed the envelope, mindful of the fact that her father had touched the same paper when he was still alive. Milena had plenty of memories with Manuel, and missed him terribly, but she had grown so much in four years that she often felt he was a dream of the past. What could he have to tell her now that she was almost all grown up? 

My Milena, 

I can’t say it, the letter started, so I guess I’d better write this down.