Dominicana, page 10
Cari, my life, my heart. God, I miss you, or maybe it’s better to say with the distance I’m remembering you, all of you, the way your lips curl up into a question mark, always suspicious that I am up to no good. Your eyes so brilliant, always glassy and curious. God, the smell of your skin, how soft it is. The way your naked body feels next to mine. The way the light falls on our bed in the morning. And how do you always, I mean always, wake up so beautiful?
I love you. I love you,
Your Juancho
Through the peephole I watch Marisela in the hallway looking at herself in a compact mirror. A perfect face: cat eyes, a pointy nose, pink-lined lips. Her straight hair is well behaved, ends flipped in a big curl. When I open the door I get the full layout: coat, bag, and boots all the color of emeralds. Standing a head taller than me, she’s an ad for the happiest woman alive.
Marisela kisses me hello on both cheeks.
So, you’re Anita, the wife of Juan?
I nod, an idiot with a wide-open mouth, plain and built like a young boy. I’m the girl who doesn’t know anyone. I am now Anita, or just A, a big responsibility for Juan, not capable of having my own friends, my own life.
Cat got your tongue, Anita? Marisela invites herself in.
Her thin-lined eyebrows lift as she examines me, then the apartment. The pillows have been fluffed, and I wiped the dust off the large mirror above the sofa. The sun pours into the room through the dust-free windows. The apartment looks plain with her in it.
Do you want coffee? I ask, then kick myself. Never ask, just serve, Mamá would say.
It smells great in here. Is it lunch?
It’s actually Juan’s dinner, I say too quickly. I prepared it early because he stops home in between jobs. But please, sit. There’s enough for both of us.
She nods and I take her coat. No need to tell her that for lunch I usually eat a can of Chef Boyardee. That it’s soft and mushy, as if made for someone without teeth.
Marisela is my first female guest since my arrival to New York. So I set the table for two, using the nicer plates. Even her velvety voice belongs on a radio. I hum while I heat the corn oil to fry the last plátano in the fridge. Thank Santa Altagracia for my great judgment to have made pigeon peas with rice and stewed shredded beef today. I don’t always make a full meal.
You’re a doll, she says. You remind me of my sister. With the money Juan loaned me, I bought her a flight to New York. As soon as she gets here she’ll get a job but also study. Ignorance is the worst thing in the world, especially for a woman. Don’t you think?
I want to go to school too, I say.
You should go for those free English classes at the rectory, right down on 165th Street, next to the church’s entrance. So you can get your GED. Everybody needs at least a GED.
A GED?
What are you, eighteen? Nineteen? Marisela asks.
Fifteen.
Oh? She looks at me as if for the first time then studies her nails, long and manicured.
I was fifteen, fifteen years ago. Imagine that. And you’re already married. Are your people happy for you?
Yes. They’re happy.
I was one of the first to get here in ’61. I would cry, asking my husband to send me back home, but what life do we have there? It’s not easy for us in this city. The only reason anyone calls me from home is for money. My hands are destroyed from cleaning after people. Look how dry they are. Do you have some cream?
She waves her hands at me. From the look of Marisela’s palms, filled with dark lines, Teresa would say she’s a woman who has lived many lives, a person to learn from.
I’m embarrassed to tell her I don’t have cream. Every time I try to buy lotion, Juan hurries me, so I rub cooking oil on my skin. Marisela smiles as if she knows.
Oh, get it later, when we’re done having lunch.
Does cleaning houses pay you well?
Better than working at a factory. I’m the best housekeeper you’ll ever meet. I clean offices at night, downtown. That’s not bad. The hard work is during the day, but it pays twice as much. I work for two ladies. One lady has two babies, so her house is a mess. And you can tell she don’t lift a finger when I’m not there because when I arrive, food is glued to the plates. The refrigerator’s a disaster, especially after the weekend. And the gringas always complain. Maria, please don’t forget to clean under the sofa and beds. Or, remember to wash all the windows, it’s been a while.
I laugh when Marisela imitates her bosses by lifting her pinkie and scrunching her nose.
And it drives me crazy when they have guests over and they sit to drink their tea and watch me work—or worse, when they stand behind me to see if I’m working right. If they have all that time to watch over me, why don’t they do the cleaning themselves?
I laugh so much my stomach hurts.
Maria—because they call me that, no matter how many times I have to say Ma-ri-se-la—do you mind preparing me some coffee? I always like it better when you do it. And ay, Anita, these women act as if they’re the first to have a baby. They carry them as if holding a bowl full of water, with such fear they’ll drop them. They fall apart over the smallest thing.
I bend over the sink and almost piss my panties in laughter. What kind of a woman doesn’t know how to hold a baby?
Maria, the baby won’t stop crying. Maria, please take her, take her!
Marisela stands and extends her arms out to me, holding out one of my nice plates as if it’s a stinky baby.
Ay ay ay, these gringas don’t have to work, they don’t have to clean their own houses, and when the babies cry they don’t even know how to make them stop. One of the ladies wants me full-time. But she’s the crazier one and I can only go there in manageable doses. If they only knew what my life is like. I’ve two little girls living in Puerto Plata with my mother. It’s been two years without me being able to visit. If only I had a rich man who took care of me so I can stay home and watch my girls.
Marisela pauses to take a sip of water before launching back into her tirade.
Maria, did you let the coffee burn? Maria, next time, pour the water over the tea bag, it’s the way it’s done. Maria, remember to … Ay, girl, I bite my tongue because if I could I’d say, Go do something with yourself. Or give me the day off so I can do something.
The plátanos are ready. I serve Marisela a nice helping of rice and peas. I can’t stop looking at her, at Juanita, at Betty, at Teresa, all of us, giggling and gossiping at the kitchen table.
I can’t wait to start working, I say.
No. No. Don’t be the same as those gringas who don’t know how good they have it. You’ll have double the work, working both outside and at home. And the cold out there? It kills me just to walk to the train station.
Marisela rubs her arms and shakes her face, anticipating the chill.
Ay, Anita, I spend my days watching that clock. Ay, how I love to be home.
I imagine how much nicer Marisela’s house must be than ours, which is so drab and sparse. Juan doesn’t want to spend on extras like curtains, bedspreads, and tablecloths. I bet hers is filled with portraits in gold frames. Chandeliers. Canopied beds. Crystal bowls. Doilies everywhere.
Ay, my house is a real sanctuary. One day you’ll visit and see how lovely it is. A woman is defined by her home.
I try to hide my excitement over the invitation. It’ll be so great to have a friend to visit.
Marisela savors the stewed beef, while I take small small bites to make sure there’s enough for Juan. I pray she doesn’t ask for seconds.
You’re divine! What a gift you are. If I cooked as good as this, my husband would throw me a parade.
She laughs and I laugh too.
She eats everything off her plate, then looks at her watch.
I have to go. My shift tonight starts in two hours. Just enough time to change, prepare dinner for later, and get to work.
She pulls a bright pink nail polish out of her bag.
Here, a little something.
I grab it, delighted. The same color Marisela wears.
I watch her fingers button her coat then pull from her coat pocket a black knitted hat with emerald trim. She adjusts it so it covers part of her face.
Don’t go! I want to say as we hug and my nose skims the length of her neck. Her floral perfume stays on me.
I keep the door open until Marisela is inside the elevator. She sticks her head out and yells: I only have to make it to the train! Wish me luck!
Moments after I shut the door, she rings again.
Sorry, Anita, it’s me again!
When I open the door, she places the twenty-five dollars she owes Juan in my palm, folds my hand into a fist.
Mamá doesn’t believe women can be friends. But Marisela is different. And I’m a city girl now.
I try on some of my dressier clothes so when Marisela invites me over I’m ready. I own one pair of used heels from a neighbor whose daughter recently passed away. See if anything fits, Juan had said, and although the clothes are not special-looking, they do fit.
From Juan’s closet, I also try on one of his bright white shirts. The hem skims my knees. His clothes smell of damp wool and Caridad’s perfume: Rose? Lily? Vanilla? I look at myself in one mirror, then in another. The apartment’s full of mirrors glued to closet doors.
I blow a kiss to myself, bending over like that photo of Marilyn Monroe. I expose my shoulder and shake my hips. I let the shirt fall to the floor and imagine Gabriel looking at my naked breasts. They’re much bigger since I arrived.
I swim inside Juan’s suit jacket. From a pocket, I pull out one of his handkerchiefs and pretend to sneeze as loud as Juan, whose full-body sneeze shakes the glasses off the shelves.
You can tell a lot by a man’s sneeze. Ha, ha, ha.
I fall to the sofa, feet in the air.
Ana, go get me a drink! Hurry! Where’s my dinner? What’s taking you so long? Ana! Ana! Ana!
Oh, Juan, get your own stupid drink! I say to the hat on the table, then laugh.
I cross my legs like a movie star smoking an air cigarette, like my mother sitting on the ledge of Carmela’s house. When she inhales, she lights up, her eyes, her smile, and I see the woman who once had to fend off many suitors—before marrying, before having children, before struggling to keep our farm, our family together.
I blow out a plume of nothing. My hands twirl in the air, imitating the flamenco dancers on the midday TV variety show.
I put my hands inside his suit pockets. Men need so many pockets to keep their things! Inside: a folded receipt for the raceway Juan works at. Unfolded: a phone number, a print of her lips in faded red.
The breath hasn’t called in a while. Maybe she hasn’t forgiven Juan yet?
Cari. Caridad. I mouth the names and swallow them. My stomach flutters. I copy the number in my notebook. I fold the receipt, make sure the front door is locked. In the bathroom—the only room I find privacy—I sit on the toilet to look at the numbers carefully, at the way she writes Cari, Juan’s pet name for her. The edges of the paper are worn, the handwriting loose and big.
I try to imagine her face, her hair, her lips, the size of her body. Tall with melon-size breasts? Long hair with tsunami waves flowing down her back?
Caridad. Caridad. Caridad. I roll her name around on my tongue.
Maybe Caridad is lonely too. But at least she’s truly loved by Juan. Why didn’t I run away with you, Gabriel, with your soft eyes and pillow lips? My thighs tremble with a sudden and urgent desire to travel back in time, jump back in that pool, and have his hands on the small of my back while I float. That day, under the sun, was fully ours. Gabriel and I had all the keys to all the padlocks. Don’t tell anyone, he said about the secret house. Don’t tell anyone, Teresa said every time she snuck off.
Ana X, the holder of secrets.
Now I can call her and breathe into her ear.
Caridad and Juan finally make up. I find the clues, in his clothes, on receipts, and in his contradictions. I piece together how Juan sees Caridad between jobs and crawls into bed with her after work. How he sometimes falls asleep accidentally, unbeknownst to her children, who sleep in the other room. When she finally starts calling again, I listen in on their conversations from the phone in the kitchen, him locked in the bedroom, and at the phone by the bed.
Why me, Caridad?
What do you mean?
From a hundred guys standing in the cold looking for a job you chose me.
You seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask too many questions.
Am I your first guy from the line?
Does it matter? You hardly ever sing anymore. I love when you sing.
What is there to sing about?
Ay Juancho, why don’t you look at me anymore?
Juan won’t look, not while her body is spread open. Arms above her head, palms up. Juan turns away the photo on the nightstand of Caridad’s husband, who is in Vietnam and writes letters to say, Wait for me. Tell my children I love them.
Does your wife know about me? Caridad asks Juan.
Are you crazy?
Do you still love me?
Juan keeps saying his chest hurts but it’s because he keeps holding his breath.
Because I want to tell her everything, the next time Marisela comes over, I blurt out, as soon as I open the door, I’m pregnant.
What happiness, she says, breezing through the door, throwing her coat on my arm, handing me a frosty pink lipstick from inside her purse all in one move. She spins me around and says,
Welcome, Anita, to the club of mothers. Only we know what it’s like to carry another human being. At first it’s the size of a pea, then a grape, an apple, an avocado, then it’s as big as a papaya. To think something so big comes out of something so small. When I had my first one, ugh, I thought it would kill me, but I pushed and pushed, ready to die for the baby that I already loved like I’ve never loved anything else before. It’s extraordinary to stand on the edge of life and death. You’ll see. You’ll see.
Let’s see, I say with a quiet laugh, let’s see.
I haven’t thought about the reality of childbirth. The largeness of it, the smallness of me. The inevitable pain.
You’re so lucky, she says, caressing my cheek. Your baby will be born American. We should celebrate.
Marisela turns on the radio and searches for a station with merengue. She grabs my hand and swishes her hips to the beat, leads me to the left and to the right.
Move that ass, shake those hips! she sings. Show me where you come from!
I try to undo my hips, loosen them. Marisela’s hand drops to catch mine; then she gently pushes me away to turn me around and around and then my back to her, both of us facing the mirror on the wall.
Look at that face, she tells my reflection. Those big eyes of yours, so wise. They know more than you’ll admit, even to yourself. That bone structure and fine Greek goddess nose.
If we were horses Marisela would stay close to me for eleven months until the baby was born. All the horses on our farm have female companions.
Just remember, Marisela says, women decide everything. My husband didn’t want my sister to come but she’s already on her way. And we’ll open a salon. Not too big, something manageable. And people will come from all over the city, because nobody knows how to blow out hair like us Dominicanas. Who knows, maybe your sister can come to New York and work for me. Wouldn’t that be divine? And you can bring us lunch. We’ll pay you, of course.
It’ll be nice to make my own money.
I notice the clock, 2:10. Marisela will have to leave in a few minutes to go to work.
Don’t worry. Next time I visit, I’ll trim your hair. The ocean would kill for such waves. A good haircut will help them cascade. Even the ocean needs a shore.
She points at herself. Do you think all this comes easily?
Marisela? Can I ask you a favor?
Yes, anything. We’re comadres.
Don’t tell Juan about the baby. I want to surprise him.
Ay sister, dear sister. Your secret is safe with me.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Even after a few cups of coffee, my body went heavy and my bones cold. The TV’s all stripes. No more programming for the day.
Juan bursts into the apartment and turns on the overhead lights. I spring into sitting position.
Coño! Cabrones! Idiotas! he mumbles. Kicks a chair in his way.
What is it now? Did something happen at the raceway, where he’s sometimes so busy he isn’t given his fifteen-minute breaks, or allowed to go to the bathroom, where he can rest his feet to smoke a cigarette? Did he get into another fight with César, who hardly comes around anymore? Or is it Caridad?
He plows his way into the kitchen.
I realize I haven’t cleared the plastic plate I leave out for the pigeons. What if he sees the rice wasted on the pigeons? What if Marisela or César told him about the baby?
I follow him.
Go, sit down, I say. Let me heat the food.
Under the brighter kitchen light, I can tell he’s been drinking. Nose and cheeks flushed. Eyes droopy, which makes him seem sad. He picks up the pot lid and with his fingers scoops out a clump of white rice and stuffs it into his mouth.
I’m not hungry, he says.
Out on the fire escape the plate reflects moonlight and I shift to block it from his view. The cool draft from the slightly open window chills my back.
It’s freezing in here!
When I don’t move quick enough to shut the window, Juan nudges me aside. He pauses, then opens it, grabs the plate, and throws it on the floor. Rice scatters across the tiles in the kitchen and the wooden floors toward the living room.
Are you feeding the pigeons again?
No, I …
Don’t lie to me!
No, I say. I mean yes.
I run to the living room where I ball up on the floor and turn my body toward a wall to protect my belly the way I’ve seen protestors do at the marches on TV.
