Dominicana, page 11
What the fuck is wrong with you? Juan says, almost to himself. You think I’m some kind of monster?
We’re having a baby, I’m ready to scream. But when I turn my head to look at him, he stands there and stares at me in disbelief. My hands block my face, my body trembles. Grains of rice poke into my legs and my arms.
Juan goes into the bedroom. I get off the floor, clean the mess, put away the food. Pigeon Teresa, the one with pink and green wings, pecks at my window, startling me.
Shoo. I whisper. What are you doing here so late?
You should’ve gone to the beach with us, Ana. You should’ve run away when you had the chance.
She taps, taps, taps. Inflates her body and lifts her wings. Fly, Ana, fly.
I extend my arms and stand on my tippy toes and stick my neck out.
When I can’t zip up my dress, Juan says, Let’s go to El Basement.
Really? I say with excitement. El Basement?
El Basement is run by Giselle and Gino. It’s where Marisela says she buys a lot of her name-brand clothes.
Hurry, or I’ll change my mind. Then Juan holds up a finger. You can only buy one dress. Nothing more. You hear me?
Juan has a way to suck the air out of a tire.
We walk down to the building’s back alley, then enter a side door and continue through a narrow corridor, past freshly painted bricks. I hold my breath, afraid of getting nauseous from the stink of the garbage collected behind the large metal doors—rotting food, dead rats, drying paint. I duck to keep from getting hit by the bare lightbulbs illuminating the windowless hallway.
We pass a few more doors before reaching one with a doorbell. Gino answers, waves us in, and I see Giselle with orange dyed hair, organizing boxes.
In front of them Juan says, Ana, you can get anything you want.
Look, Gino, a man after a woman’s heart.
Oh, I just want one dress, I say, though I already want everything I see on the wall-to-wall racks.
Giselle sizes me up, arches an eyebrow, and goes back to unpacking a box that has recently fallen out of a truck.
But Juan keeps up the show. Ana, he says, you can have anything you want. He smacks a kiss on my forehead as if sending me off to the races.
I look through the racks, which are packed with clothing, covered in transparent plastic. Store tags dangle on the sleeves. I listen to Juan and Gino as they talk about prospective Dominican president Joaquin Balaguer.
He may just be able to bring order back to the country.
Better a devil we know.
But what about this guy Caamaño supposedly in cahoots with Fidel?
My knees knock with anticipation. How silky the sweaters! And the crosshatched threads on the suit jackets, the soft fur on the coat collars! I keep my hands clasped in restraint.
Why don’t I show you some of my favorite pieces, Giselle says, when she sees me gazing at a bag studded with emerald sequins.
Please do, I say. It doesn’t hurt to look.
I even have shoes to go with that bag, she says, ready to have some fun.
Juan taps his feet while I move on to carefully finger the piles of button-down sweaters in different colors on the tables. Then Giselle convinces me to try numerous dresses, with matching coats. Then I hunt for my size on the shoeboxes haphazardly stacked from floor to ceiling.
Pajarita, I have to go to work, Juan says with a forced smile.
One more minute.
Look how he spoils you, Giselle says.
Oh, yes, Juan’s quite special, I say, and smile back at him.
I slip in and out of clothes behind a striped bedsheet that hangs off a cord in a corner. All the dresses are too big around the shoulders and tug my belly and hips. The pregnancy has become harder and harder to hide.
I finally choose a navy-blue dress, A-line, midthigh length.
Try on this matching coat, says Giselle and then shows me a pair of one-inch patent leather heels with large clasps. The cotton coat turns out to be two fingers longer than the dress. The shoes are a little big but perfect for when my feet swell. The blue-and-beige-plaid matching bag has a patent-leather buckle. I look at myself in the long mirror propped against the shoebox pile.
Wow, a real model! Giselle yells out to Juan.
How happy Mamá would be to see the woman in the reflection. Made and composed.
Juan nods. Can we leave now?
Demand. Demand. Demand.
So without a beat I nod back at Juan and say, Yes, I want all of it.
Juan waits until we are outside away from earshot of Gino and Giselle. He grabs my wrist. I drop the bag of purchases.
I told you, one dress! One dress! Do you think I’m made of money?
I don’t flinch. I stare into him.
I dare you, I say, knowing he’s too proud to do anything to me where everyone can see.
Wait until I get home later. You’ll regret that smart mouth.
A little food poisoning never killed anyone.
So I climb onto the fire escape, sit on the steps, and wait for my pigeons. I grab Betty because she’s always picking on Juanita. Clamp her with both hands. Duck back into the apartment. She coos in protest. The wooden board is on the kitchen table. On the stove, the pot of hot water. The bucket in the sink. It’s okay, I tell her, calming her, looking her in the eye, and then I chop her head off. A clean slice. Her body quivers, then involuntarily spasms. I tie her feet with string and hang her from the faucet. While she bleeds out I work on the seasonings. Inside a bowl, I mash together a handful of cilantro, the juice of a lime, two cloves of garlic, some spices.
After, I scald her and pluck the feathers as if plucking the hair out of Juan’s head. The naked pigeon on the wooden board waits to be marinated. The pigeon smell overwhelms. Just like home.
I chop her into six pieces and wash her in cold water. Rub the pigeon pieces into it. Toss in a small chopped onion and half a green pepper, placing the bowl inside a large plastic bag to seal everything in.
Meanwhile I heat the pot on the stove, add corn oil, a dash of sugar for color. When the sugar caramelizes I add the pigeon. Let it simmer over low heat and turn on the radio. Los Panchos are playing. I wipe the sink and double-bag the pigeon’s head, guts, and feathers and throw them out in the incinerator in the hallway. When the meat is browned I stir in the rice and four cups of water. Add salt to taste. Let’s see who will pay, Juan? Once the water evaporates, I cover the pot to simmer over low heat.
While the food cooks I take a long hot shower to get rid of the smell. By the time Juan walks in, an inviting aroma fills the apartment. He pauses at the door, eyes glued to the table I set with the special silverware and glasses he took from the raceway.
I serve him the rice and pigeon and a pile of fried plátanos. I pour cold beer in a glass.
This looks good, he says, and winks at me.
He seems famished after a long day at work. He arrived early, so he didn’t go to Caridad’s. Maybe he’s not so angry about the dress.
Maybe I overreacted.
Wait, I say, and grab the dish before he can take a bite. He grabs it back, but the plate falls to the floor.
Now look what you’ve done! Those hands of yours. Sometimes you are a real chicken head, Ana.
But really fuck you, Juan.
Don’t worry, I say. There’s plenty fucking more.
I clean up the floor and serve him a hefty new plate.
He eats and eats.
Poor Pigeon Betty, what diseases did you carry?
It’s delicious, Juan says.
You think so?
I’m beaming. It’s the first compliment he has given me for my cooking in a long time. I serve him some water, and he looks at me. Really looks at me. My belly bulges through my clothes. My breasts are bigger.
I’ll make you an appointment for a doctor, he says.
Yes, okay.
That’s when I know he understands.
Juan survives the pigeon dinner without even a stomachache. He makes my doctor’s appointment for April 15.
I wear my new dress.
Remember to say you’re nineteen, like in your paperwork, not fifteen.
I don’t tell Juan I’ve been to the hospital before. He waits outside for me.
The doctor tells me to take my top off and put a gown on.
I’ve never met a woman doctor before.
Her glasses slide to her nose tip. Her silver hair is cut short like a man’s. The doctor’s warm hand pats my arm gently. She leaves the room so I can undress.
Save for a poster of a family on the wall, signed by one Norman Rockwell, the room is a bright white. There’s a sink, some glass containers filled with wooden sticks and cotton balls. I don’t know whether to take off my bra, my shoes, so I take everything off and put on the gown, keeping my socks on.
I wait on the padded table. My belly, although small, it pushes out. Is the baby stretching? Is it a boy or a girl? Will the exam hurt?
The doctor knocks on the door, then enters before I can answer. She places her hand on my chest, tells me to lie down. She notes some bruises on my arm and neck from so many weeks ago—but they take forever to heal. She briefly looks me in the eye, and I look back as blankly as I can. She takes my temperature. My blood pressure. She places the cold stethoscope on my belly and listens.
Cwanto anyo too teeayness? Her voice echoes in the room.
Fif … I mean nineteen.
She presses all around my belly.
Looky good, she says cheerfully. Looky really bweno.
She shows me a laminated drawing from her desk of a baby inside of the uterus.
The doctor points to the paper and says, Kawbesa, and then points to her own head. She outlines the baby’s head with her fingers on my belly. She takes my fingers and shows me how the head is near my pubic bone. I feel something hard and round.
She motions for me to get dressed and says, Bweno.
The doctor leaves. I sit there alone wishing more than ever Teresa could be here with me. Or Marisela, the only person I can call a friend. Or even Mamá, even if she may drive me crazy with her chatter. Oh, she’ll be so happy when she finds out!
The doctor returns, this time with another woman, who carries a leather bag filled with files.
Hello, Señora Ruiz, the nurse says in crisp Spanish.
Ruiz-Canción, I correct her.
She sits beside me, extends her arm and holds both of my hands.
Your baby looks great, Señora Ruiz-Canción.
What a relief to finally understand, I say with a sigh.
And your family? Are they here with you?
No, they’re in Dominican Republic. But soon maybe they come or I go. My husband says it’s not easy to travel. You know, money. Papers.
Is your husband here?
Yes, he’s outside, waiting.
Is everything okay at home?
Why were they asking so many questions?
Should I be worried about the baby? I ask the Spanish-speaking nurse but look at the doctor.
We just want to make sure that your home is safe for the baby.
The nurse hands me some glossy papers but I catch her sneaking glances at my neck and arms.
Here’s some information, Señora Ruiz-Canción. Places you can go if you need help or have trouble.
I look down at one of the papers. A photograph of a woman with a busted lip and a black eye filled with panic.
No trouble! I say, then check my tone. No trouble.
I hand back the brochures and when she doesn’t take it I stuff them in my purse.
Thank you, I say and smile back at the woman, ready to continue the exam.
I’ll never be the woman in the photo. Juan isn’t as terrible as that. He has loose hands when he gets angry. That’s all. I hold my belly with both hands. They won’t take my baby away from me.
The doctor turns to the nurse, who translates.
You should make an appointment to return in one month so we can follow your progress.
Thank you, I say, very much.
The doctor hands me the same bottle of vitamins the last one gave me. She calls it a sample, to get me started. I am almost done with the other bottle, which I hid from Juan under the sink. Now I can take them out in the open.
And here’s some iron, the doctor says. She rattles the bottle like a maraca and the nurse informs me that I’m underweight. It’s not unusual for pregnant women to become anemic.
So you must make sure to eat well, the nurse explains. Eat spinach, yams, red meat.
But I throw everything up.
It’ll pass, the nurse says with compassion.
I don’t want to let go of her hands, though she probably can’t be trusted.
I stuff the vitamin and iron bottles inside my purse, which I hope they notice matches the coat and shoes. They need to see that my husband does take care of me.
Outside, I wish they could also see how Juan is already on his feet eagerly waiting for his wife. I feel oddly relieved when I see him. He’s all that I can rely on at the moment.
So you have our baby in there? He sings and grabs my hand. Although he’s late to work, there’s a brand-new tenderness in his touch.
Doctor says everything’s good.
Good.
He escorts me quickly across the street to our building. Inside the apartment, he picks me up off the floor and embraces me.
I’m so happy that we’re going to really really be a family.
He pats my cheeks and says good-bye. And I feel even more relief when he leaves. From the window, I watch him walk toward the train station on Broadway. Will anything change between us now? I open the window in the kitchen to let in fresh air and spread rice on the plastic plate for the pigeons.
Sweet little birds.
Marisela has work for me to do. She comes by early, right after Juan has left for work. She carries two bags full of small ceramic dolls, thin ribbons, glue, and lace.
What’s all this? I take one of the bags and place it on the sofa.
Marisela tears off her coat, revealing her outfit: fitted wool pants, a bright-colored sweater, and big furry boots. Her hair, in a French twist. She isn’t wearing her usual face, but even without all the makeup she looks beautiful. I take a look at myself, my hair is still marked from sleep because I haven’t been expecting anyone.
Listen carefully, comadre. You’ll have to get this all done in three hours. I’ll be back here to eat lunch and then take them with me. You’ll get five cents apiece. They’re souvenirs for a friend’s wedding. There should be two hundred pieces in here. I told her I knew of a girl who could do it fast and for cheap.
Me?
Of course, you. Will you do it?
I finger the sample to follow: Edwin Martinez and Andrea Thome forever 04/10/1965.
Be careful with the glue—it’s stronger than it looks and can peel your skin off. Make sure their names are facing out on the ribbons and that you don’t cover the faces of the dolls. And the lace, you see how it folds on the back like a butterfly wing?
Before I can think of a question to ask, Marisela plants a wet kiss on my cheek and wraps herself again in her thick wool coat. She waves good-bye then closes the door behind her.
The phone rings.
I rush to it, always hoping for someone to call me from back home.
It’s Juan. He wants to come home for lunch. Out of all days. His voice, a fist knocking on my door. He hardly ever comes home in the daytime, but now with the baby he keeps checking up on me.
Oh, you don’t have to go through all that trouble. I mean, there’s always food here waiting for you, I say, trying to sound indifferent. I glance at the bags filled with souvenirs on the sofa, wondering if Marisela will be able to pick everything up before Juan even arrives.
You miss me? he asks.
Um, the house feels … quiet without you here.
It’s the absolute truth. When Juan is home he talks as if I’m deaf. He sucks his teeth and smacks his lips when he eats. On good days, he sings.
As soon as I hang up, I start on the souvenirs: five cents apiece, two hundred pieces—that’s ten dollars to feed my Dominicana! I move the coffee table against the wall and organize all the pieces on the floor. I study a ceramic doll, smaller than my pinkie nail. It’s of a bride and groom to be glued on a ribbon. In the sample, the glue is untraceable. I try to do the same. At first, I can’t keep the glue off my fingers, but once I establish a system I work fast and make few mistakes.
The phone rings again. I rush to it. The damn breath again. She waits for me to say hello, to pause, and then she hangs up. She’s called twice this morning. Between Juan wanting to return home for lunch and her calls, I figure they’ve fought. Maybe he told her about the baby.
I finish all two hundred souvenirs with more than enough time left over. I line them up on the kitchen table. I have them face the door so as to greet Marisela when she enters. I rush to prepare enough lunch for everyone.
When Marisela arrives she still is plain-faced, no makeup, as if we’re not just friends but close friends, like sisters who see each other for what we are.
Marisela fingers the souvenirs and places them in the bags. She hands me the ten dollars as promised.
Doesn’t it feel good to make your own money, Ana?
Well, it’s good to be able to help my family back home. They always need. Do I have to tell Juan about the money? I say to change the subject.
What you do with it is your business.
Marisela eats everything on her plate. I want to offer her seconds, but there won’t be enough for Juan. I want to share so many things with her, but Mamá—even if she’s far away, all her warnings against friendships keep me from truly allowing myself to speak freely with Marisela. And yet she is doing more than anyone else has ever done for me, even when my house is plain, even when to her I must look like some naïve child. She’s here, eating with me. Being with me. Helping me make money. It’s impossible for me not to love her.
Marisela leans over and grabs both of my hands the same way the nurse at the hospital did. I don’t know where to look, so I look at my nails, short from biting them.
