Carmen remembered herself. Remembered Jeanette, remembered her guests. She ran, the animal growling as she slammed shut the sliding glass door just as a key turned the lock of the front one, ran past the pool and around the corner, grabbing her shoes with one swift motion, crouching at the edge of the house, peering to her right, heart thumping thumping thumping, making sure the car’s inhabitants were inside, nobody there waiting to find her. She could not believe herself. Carmen as a cartoon, a Looney Tune, predator circling one side, she the outsmarting prey. Duck season, rabbit season. She nearly laughed. She nearly laughed as she ran in her stockings across the street. They would never know. They would never know.

Of course, she’d gather herself before she walked back into her own home. Bending to see herself in the side mirror of her car, she’d smooth her hair as best she could. She’d take off the jacket with the sweat stains blooming and stay in her silk sleeveless blouse, even though she hated her flabby upper arms and thought it imprudent for a woman over fifty to bare legs past the knee or arms above the elbow. She’d consider calling the cops once again, she’d even quickly search Miami animal control and report exotic animals on her phone, before deciding to keep the secret. She’d keep the secret as she walked into her own home with an excuse about needing to move her car as Jeanette eyed her strangely. She’d keep the secret each time she waved to her frumpy neighbor from her own threshold. She’d keep the secret when she drove Jeanette to detox again, Mario sweaty and red beside her. She’d keep the secret even when, five years later, the panther would escape its cage and maul its owner, the woman who spoke too much, leading to five skin grafts and a face Carmen would never look at again and a newspaper article in which neighbors expressed shock—they’d had no idea!—and the woman would be quoted: “It could have been worse. I’m just grateful to be alive, my God, it could have been worse.”

7

PRIVILEGIO

Ana, Irapuato, 2018

Mexico morphed her language. A chele became a güero, a guineo transformed into a plátano. Her Spanish grew stronger than her English again but her accent began to change. Trying to Mexicanize a stubborn tongue to fit in. Hearing the derogatory comments. Gente de afuera taking over the city, bringing crime, taking jobs, pinches cerotes, call the Migra, send them home. Some Mexicans kind, welcoming. Not all. Easier to try to blend in, easier to try on a new camouflage (also painful). Also confusing. Her mother promised every year they’d go back, they just needed to save a little more money. A lot more money. Maybe they’d never go back?