Dominicana, page 14
Ramón’s wife’s brother’s cousin’s sister, who is a housekeeper at the Palace, has been feeding Ramón firsthand accounts of what is happening on the ground. She’s the one who makes the military generals’ beds and scrubs their toilets. What housekeeper doesn’t keep an archive of her boss’s invaluable trash? Ramón mentions documents dating back since 1963 that prove the United States has been meddling in the Dominican Republic’s affairs, stashed underneath mattresses just in case a poor devil needs a favor.
Just like they went into Vietnam, says Ramón, the Americans are now in Dominican Republic. Punto y basta.
Even if Donald Reid Cabral was not elected by the people, he rules the military. He may not be a dictator like Trujillo, but he too would not think twice before having us all at best kneel on rice. So Ramón bets his money on Cabral.
There’s no way any Dominican leader will win without America’s guns.
Juan Bosch won once, he will win again, César says.
That’s because he had Kennedy’s ear, says Juan. But look where Kennedy is now. Dead. Dreaming is good to do when you’re sleeping. But as long as we’re awake, nobody wants to go hungry.
Juan sits at the living room table on a wobbly chair.
We have to talk, pajarita, he says.
His tone brings a chill to the back of my neck. He only calls me little bird when he has bad news. I don’t want to hear what might be wrong now. For the first time in three months, I haven’t woken with nausea. My pregnancy has finally settled in my body, my hair thick and my skin clear, tight and luminescent as a hard-boiled egg.
Let me make you some coffee, I say, and spring from the chair. Is there any whiskey left in the bottle? I better serve it as well.
No, Ana, sit. He clamps his hand around my wrist.
Marisela! He must’ve seen her. I look at my freshly painted pink toenails, waiting for the bomb to stop ticking.
Juan, it’ll only take me a few minutes to get the coffee.
In that time I can make a run for it to the door. And my purse? Dominicana is on the windowsill but without a dollar to speak of. My shoes are in the closet in the bedroom. I will have to run away barefoot.
Pajarita, he says, I have to leave you.
You’re leaving me? I say, feeling a mix of joy and fear.
Just to Santo Domingo. Relax. I’ll be gone for a few weeks, maybe a month, hopefully not more. You know how things are there, everything takes longer than it should.
Under his steady gaze I take a deep breath to contain my excitement.
Don’t worry. I tried to fix it so I didn’t have to travel. But if I don’t go, everything we worked for will be lost. Pan Am has started flights again from Puerto Rico. I’m already on a waitlist to travel from New York so I’m the first to go.
But I don’t understand, I say, and mean it.
Given the opportunity to flex his role in world affairs Juan launches into a lecture. I’m more than happy to listen this time, knowing I’ll soon be left alone to do as I please, with no one to wait for or to look after.
See the Americans have occupied Santo Domingo, siding with the military to prevent another Cuba where Juan’s land would have been taken and redistributed to the people. It was Juan’s idea—his idea, not Ramón’s!—to invest in the land to open a restaurant next to La Reyna, the motel for politicians and rich boys doing their business in secret. Before the Ruiz brothers laid the slab of cement, the plot of land had been overgrown with fruit trees and weeds. Now it’s a restaurant with a limited menu but a full bar. But one day, he says, one day the waitresses will wear uniforms and Juan will install a jukebox.
César promised me he’ll watch over you, Juan says, now standing and walking in circles.
Whatever needs to be done, I say with the sigh of a bad actress. Inside, I’m screaming. Yes! César! I can start the English classes, and go on long walks, and César will take me dancing. For sure, I will also be able to track down Marisela. She couldn’t have broken her promise unless she had to.
Juan circles the coffee table, goes on and on and on about Dominican politics, how he knows a few people with enough influence who may still be able to protect his assets. Without the title he could lose the land. Mamá and Papá don’t have a title either. Who could remember when Mamá’s family began squatting there?
And whatever happened to the coffee you offered me? Juan asks.
I head to the kitchen to my new life. Already I’m off checking in on my neighbor downstairs, helping her cross the street and doing her errands. I’m off to Woolworth’s just a few blocks away, browsing each and every item on the shelf, intoxicated by the smell of pancakes and syrup. Adios, Juan, I’m off to see a movie with César and later to try the hot dogs sold by the man below my window.
Black and sweet, just the way you like it, I say, handing Juan coffee.
After traveling the world I sit and listen to Juan still talking about papers and money, papers and money, and how much we stand to lose.
Before Juan leaves for the airport he shows me how to close and open the door and how to lock the windows.
Remember to carry your keys inside your fist. Do not talk to strangers, and don’t open the door for anyone unless I’ve called you. Do you understand? You must be smart and careful.
My eyes wander to his two suitcases. I spent last night and this morning carefully stuffing them with gifts, used clothing for the family, letters for everyone, and all the favors for Juan’s friends to take to their family members. I’m too overjoyed to listen.
Go for the eyes. Juan lifts his fist with the keys between his fingers and fake-punches me in the eye.
Yes, yes, don’t worry, I say without flinching—and smile the way I used to when my brothers play-fought with me.
Maybe all this time Juan has been truly afraid for me. Not too long ago a twelve-year-old girl stabbed an elderly woman on the subway. And then there was that fourteen-year-old boy who stabbed a man in the chest for a nickel. Every other day there is a story of a rape, a robbery, a purse snatched. But Juan is more than afraid. He feels like any misstep on his part can make the cops take him away. You’d think Trujillo is still alive, his spies reaching as far as New York City. So many people disappeared after just looking at El Jefe the wrong way. But how does the secret police work in America? What does the American President Johnson do when his people misbehave?
Juan kneels on one knee to kiss my belly. His forced jolly tone scares me, but I try to keep the lightness in the air. He almost looks as handsome as Ricky Ricardo in his suit.
Ay, Juan, you act as if you’re never coming back. I’ll take care of everything.
I surprise myself and hug him for the Ana Loves Juan show.
No. No. It’s my job to worry, Ana.
A laugh track fills my head.
Now look, Lucy, we’re not going to go over all this again. You cannot be in the show.
Give me one good reason.
You have no talent.
Give me another good reason.
Juan kisses me on the top of my head.
When we hear Hector’s car honking downstairs, Juan picks up his bulging suitcases.
Once he’s out the door, I rush over to the window and wait. Soon I watch as Hector and Juan share a cigarette by the car. Then Hector opens the trunk and places his luggage inside. They enter the car. It drives to the corner. It stops at the red light. And finally, finally, finally, the light turns green.
PART IV
The moment Juan is gone, the drone of the refrigerator amplifies and the wailing sirens outside pierce through the apartment. Soon night will fall. The storefront gates will come down; the streetlights will come on. I turn on the radio and the television. I turn on all the lamps too. I prepare dinner.
César’s supposed to come straight after work. Not meander as he usually does, often spending the night with one of his girls. César works in a dress factory downtown, in the 30s, where he says the fabrics cram the store windows and trucks block traffic. He works with Jews who pay on time in cash and don’t talk bullshit the way we Dominicans talk. After work, he often gets caught at a bar with some woman who feeds him.
But not like me, I think while stirring the rice. I’ll feed you so good you’ll run home to keep me company every day.
I rub my belly, because the baby especially knows how good I cook. Ay my baby, my conspirator, my compañera, my everything.
Juan left the fridge and cupboards full, so I have lots to choose from. He insisted I stock up on Chef Boyardee because it never goes bad, but the smell makes me sick, the mushiness sicker. I pull two slices of kingfish from the fridge, a can of coconut water, and dried coconut still in its bark shell. Juan complained that the coconut was expensive, but I crave it, and even the stupidest men know you can’t deny a pregnant woman.
I grate the white meat onto the cutting board. The darker it becomes outside, the more I check for César walking down Broadway toward me. I peel then chop a green plátano into thick wedges, fry them, and place them on a paper towel. All of César’s favorites. I set the table in the living room. Take a shower.
Where’s César already? I wait to eat until we can sit together, but he’s taking so long. The last person to sit at the table with me was Marisela. I ache thinking of her. At least Juan never said anything about the missing money.
Just like a man, that César. I stand over the stove and turn the rice over, then let it sit a little longer over the flame so the bottom hardens to a concón. All along, my ears stay tuned to the telenovela Corona de Lágrimas that is playing in the other room.
I love you … I hate you … Come here.
Trumpets on the radio blare over the dialogue.
Crown of Tears—the telenovela title alone gets me to think of the crown of curls on César’s head. I worry about him wandering Harlem by himself after work. Juan has fought him on this. Harlem is hot, and trouble will find him there. Harlem is where César got the crazy idea to let his hair grow and pick it out into a puff. But César says he feels at home in Harlem, where the women don’t clutch their purses or cross the street when he walks by them. No one stops him at the door when he walks into a bar. And then there are the white girls, who go to the Harlem bars to dance, to drink, to shoot up, to have sex, and stumble out into their taxi with empty wallets. Yes, he likes those girls who have a desperation about them, who want to be forgotten. Who’re not thinking about the future. Speak to me in Spanish, they beg him. Please, pretty please.
Stupid man. César’s probably eating food from the streets when I made him a feast with so much love and care.
I close my eyes—the heat from the stove, the competing sounds, the smell of sauce, the hot corn oil, the fish, and suddenly Yohnny sneaks up behind me, digs his hands in my ribs. Ana! Mamá calls out for me. Lenny pulls at my skirt and asks me to join him in some game he invented. Juanita, Betty, and Teresa giggle over some boy. They never did include me in those conversations. Ana’s too little to know such things. Look at her now, playing at woman with that belly, cooking for her brother-in-law who doesn’t even bother to show up.
Ana-na-na, I hear Mamá and the radio and the television all call my name.
I poke a fork into the fish and eat it from the pan.
* * *
When César finally arrives to eat dinner, all the food is cold. Three hours late! He’s looking at me funny. He smells of wet wool and old sweat.
It wasn’t work or the bar that delayed César. It was the airport. He went last minute with Hector to drop off Juan.
What’s going on in here? He turns off the overhead lights, the television, and lowers the radio.
I was cooking?
Surprised the neighbors haven’t complained, he says.
It’s just so quiet when no one’s here.
I take a deep breath of relief. At least he’s home.
What took you so long? I ask and make a fuss relighting the stove. César sits at the table, sighs, and wipes his face with the tablecloth.
Juan gave me some trouble.
What do you mean?
When we got to the terminal, after I carried his heavy-ass luggage to the check-in for him, he accused me of stealing his money. So I tell him, You’re crazier than a dollar watch. But he keeps asking, why I’d steal his money, yelling it in front of everyone.
César has at least a few drinks in him. I fight the urge to pick the lint from the factory, caught all over his hair, and comb his thick eyebrows.
Instead, I say, Why don’t you eat? I made coconut fish. I’ll finish frying the plátanos.
Ana, he says, looking dead at me, did you take Juan’s money?
My mouth drops. Ah, so now you’re accusing me of being some kind of vividora?
You said it, Ana, not me.
His face turns hard, angry, protective of Juan.
He looks at my belly and puckers his lips to one side of his face. Then he walks around me like some cop, his hands clasped behind his back. I focus on serving the food.
I bet it was Antonio, I tell him calmly. He’s locked himself in our bedroom to try on suits. It could’ve been any of the men that come and go doing business with Juan.
César shakes an index finger at me and says, Juan wouldn’t think twice to chop off Antonio’s hand so you be careful who you point fingers at.
Really? I say and give him my Lucy Ricardo face. Would my husband do that?
César lets my question hang in the air. He sits back down and savors the fish. Then he laughs. Why you scared? You in some kind of trouble?
Really, César. Why would I need to take Juan’s money? He gives me everything I need.
Instead of stealing Juan’s money you should be selling your cooking. Damn, this fish is good.
Just eat and leave me alone.
I head to the kitchen to hide my face.
I’m serious, though, you would make good money selling food to the guys at work. They’d kill for a home-cooked meal.
Who knows. Maybe one day.
Isn’t that why you married Juan? Why you came here? You don’t have to pretend you don’t care about money around me.
He’s poking with his words. Poking and poking. I snatch the dish from him.
Hey, I’m not finished.
Why are you being so mean to me?
He takes back the dish and eats the last of it.
He gets up and drums a salsa beat and sings with the song on the radio, Esa mujer fue mala …
He rolls onto the sofa, covers his face with a pillow, his bare feet hanging off the edge. A black leather cord with a peace sign dangling from his neck.
You can’t just go to sleep after insulting me, I say, clearing the plates. Offer to wash the dishes, at least.
Ha! César says under his pillow. You play the dead fly, Ana, but, unlike Juan, I see you, loud and clear.
Mamá says all animals have to defend themselves. Goats stamp and charge their attackers, fish swim away for cover, but flies play dead.
Juan calls me every few days, usually in the morning.
Everything’s fine, Juan.
Do you miss me?
Of course I do.
From a distance, those words slip out of my mouth as easily as saying hello, good-bye, please, and thank you in both Spanish and English.
Have you seen Mamá yet?
I’m not here on vacation, you know.
Mamá will soon see I didn’t put any money in the letters. All the money I saved went to Marisela’s debt.
I’ll head to the campo next week, Juan says when I don’t answer.
Make sure to give Mamá everything I sent them.
I try to sound authoritative, but my voice is small even on the phone.
The list is long. A box of pancake mix for Lenny. Yohnny’s cornflakes. Underwear for both boys. Cans of Chef Boyardee. Deodorants, toothpaste, bars of American-smelling soap for my parents. And the letters telling Mamá and Papá that I’m well. That everything’s going as planned. That even with the baby I’ll study and become a professional. I tell them I’m saving money to bring them to New York. First Mamá and Yohnny, so they can work. Then Lenny, who’ll study and learn English as he’s still young enough. And oh, how happy I am. How everything worked out for the best, thanks to Mamá’s judgment. How great the weather is. Not a drop of rain or snow! I tell Yohnny not to waste his time messing with politics and to stay out of trouble and to focus on preparing for New York. Don’t let Mamá hoard everything, I tell Teresa. You know how she is. And though Teresa can’t admit that El Guardia has a bad temper I tell her she should read the brochure I included in the envelope that the doctor gave me about how to protect oneself from danger. Point at your assailant. Show your teeth. Yell no repeatedly. In America everyone is expected to fight like a goat. I kept the brochure with the maps and sent her the other. It’s in English, but there are two photographs. One of the women in the photographs looks like Teresa: dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, full lips. And hey, is it true what Juan says, that people are killing each other for no good reason? That Americans are throwing a lot of fire at Dominican Republic just like Vietnam? Is it really just a fight about whether to turn mansions into schools or make the beaches public? Speaking of beaches, how is Gabriel? Send him my hello. And Juanita and Betty, I sent them perfume samples.
I forget I’m on the phone with Juan until he asks, And César? Is he taking care of you?
Yes, he is fine, I say, glad that, as far as I can tell, Juan is not suspicious of me at all.
There’s a price to pay when messing with the pretty flowers. This Mamá says after Lenny gets stung and hops on one foot in pain.
When a bee stings she pops her own heart. Did you know this Lenny? At least you’re alive to tell the story, Mamá laughs while Lenny cries.
That’s not true, Teresa says. It’s only when the bee tries to escape that its ass rips off and it dies.
