Dominicana, page 15
Do they know they’re going to die? I ask.
Ay, Ana, haven’t you figured it out already? All girls have to make sacrifices for the good of the colony. They sting to protect their sisters and brothers. And they will do anything to protect the queen. Every colony needs a queen. That’s why they feed her all that jelly, so she gets big and fat and lays all the eggs.
Mamá rocks on her chair rubbing her stomach while we all sit on the grass by her feet.
César is the type to trap with honey and not with vinegar. So he pretends all is good with us. His thick, overgrown curls are wrapped by a halo of smoke, a cigarette dangling from his lips. And when he stretches his arms above his head, hipbones sticking out, I have to fight myself from sticking my hand in his armpit so I can hold his smell of cloves. His bedroom eyes linger on me after dinner. The bigger my belly grows, the shorter my skirts have become. I throw the dishtowel at him and serve him coffee.
Let’s go to a movie, he says.
Across the street?
No. This Boricua I know works security at Radio City. Where the rich go.
So you’re not mad at me?
Should I be? Put on a dress and fix up your face.
César puts on a shirt, dyed in streaks of blue and yellow.
My girlfriend designs this fabric.
Always a girlfriend.
Of course. She takes a plain color, twists it, and dyes it into another color and then another color. She got the idea while traveling in India. What do you think? Cool, no?
With that shirt he looks like one of those guys who protests on the streets and holds signs against the war. All this spring, President Johnson has been bombing Vietnam as if his ego was hurt when they killed some Americans. Now thousands and thousands are being sent to die. I just hope no Dominican is stupid enough to kill an American.
César combs his hair out into a big puffball. I adjust the beaded choker, admiring his skin, taut and smooth. He looks ridiculous but so unique. What would Marisela think of César’s colorful outfit? Futuristic! she might say. Individual! She’d be impressed that César works in fashion and dates the gringas who model the dresses in the showroom. Who he says eat sugar packets for lunch, and live on cigarettes and coffee.
I feel plain, fat, and boring.
Wait, César! I run off to outline my eyes with thick black eyeliner and add another layer of mascara. I pull my hair away from my face with a bright pink scarf. I strike a pose like Twiggy. What do you think now?
Diablo. If Juan saw you, he’d throw us to the lions.
There is an Us. It’s undeniable. An us that can’t exist when Juan is around.
César links his arm around mine and I don’t let go, not for one minute. Not on the subway platform, where we wait and watch the pigeons fly from one side of the platform to the other, where the roar of the train makes me cover only one of my ears. Even inside the subway car, where the fluorescent lights make my hands look yellow, I hold on to him.
* * *
At Radio City Music Hall the marquee lights above us flash the words Sound of Music across his face. The smell of roasted peanuts from the vendor fills the air. As people wait to enter the theater the protestors across the street cry out ’Nam! ’Nam! ’Nam! and Dom. Rep.! Dom. Rep.!
Is it always like this out here?
But César can’t hear me as he pumps his fists and joins the chanting—Dom. Rep.! Dom. Rep.! In his excitement he pulls us away from the theater and toward the crowd. I lose my grip on his arm and gasp as a taxi driver honks for him to move out of the way. The crowd of protestors swells into traffic, and the nearby police extend their arms, building a human wall to push them back.
For a minute I lose César.
César! César!
I feel him yank me backward, back onto the sidewalk, then through the line of people to the theater and around the corner until we reach the side door.
Employees only, he says, out of breath, and puts his fingers to his lips. He knocks and waits.
I feel in over my head. I want to tell him I want to go back home.
The door opens.
Boricua! César grabs the guy’s hand and pulls him into a half-hug. The guy wears thick beads, bright sandals, one long braid. Both look like they come from another planet.
Peace, my brother, the guy tells César. Enjoy the show.
I hold my belly with one arm and César with the other as he moves us through a dark hallway. We peek into the main entrance, where a large chandelier hovers over us, sparkling. The hours it must take to keep it free of dust. And the large auditorium, with tall arches, and shimmering gold curtains. We make it to the front row, where the seats are covered in burgundy velvet that matches with the rug. Everything matches! Even in the audience I see somber-colored suit jackets and monochromatic dresses, with matching bags and shoes.
What if we get caught without tickets? I say, now embarrassed by César’s strange shirt and big hair.
You worry too much. The movie’s about to start, he says, and looks around as if he’s expecting to see someone he knows.
Radio City Music Hall is cold. Our theater in San Pedro de Macorís is an oven. The movies shown are almost always in black and white. Nothing shiny in the theater except the candy wrappers given out to the children by the owner, who’s known us all our lives. Here in Radio City Music Hall no one smiles at me. No one talks. Lenny, with his ashy elbows, isn’t on my lap. Yohnny isn’t telling me stupid jokes. Teresa isn’t curling the ends of my hair. No one throws popcorn at the screen.
The camera sweeps across iridescent grass, snow-capped mountains, and blue-blue vast skies. So much color! Such a big screen! My eyes are too used to our black-and-white TV screen, smaller than a cereal box. But now I am Maria and I live in a big house with all that land. And when Maria sings, my eyes well up. I’ve finally fallen in love? I’m finally free?
* * *
We exit the Theater. The protestors are gone, the city suddenly quiet and deserted. César grabs my arm.
Let’s walk to the next train station, he says, and lights a cigarette.
The streets downtown are brighter than they are in Washington Heights. He skillfully weaves from block to block, avoiding the XXX signs and the men on corners dressed like birds.
You enjoyed the movie?
Yes, and spending time with you.
As soon as I say it, I regret it. But what else is Maria supposed to say?
We walk in silence. I try to remember streets and the building numbers: 53rd and 55th, Sixth Avenue, and this different Broadway. Every few blocks another limb, each neighborhood with its secrets. This is the city, big and complicated. How easy it is to lose oneself. I hold on to César until we arrive home.
He throws himself on the sofa in the living room. He covers his body with his coat and salutes me: Until tomorrow, beautiful raccoon.
I only understand once I’m in front of the bathroom mirror that my eyeliner has bled under my eyes.
I lie in bed, restless. I stay on my side, though Juan is far away. I rub my belly thinking of Marisela, Juan, and my family. Of César, who is in the other room. I wonder how Maria would solve a problem like mine.
With Juan gone I attend the free ESL lessons at the rectory next to the church. I squeeze into a heavy wool skirt that covers my knees—too warm for the weather, but it still fits. I lock the door behind me, go to the elevator, then return to my apartment door to make sure it’s locked. The rectory is only two blocks away, but knowing no one will be waiting for me makes me feel vulnerable. What if immigration grabs me and takes me away like they did the sister of Giselle from El Basement, who went to the police after some guy stole her pocketbook, and somehow they understood she didn’t have papers. Off she went.
On second thought, I should’ve left César a note in the apartment, but the elevator arrives and I don’t want to be late to the 10 a.m. lesson.
I walk with my keys in my hand, to punch someone in the eye if they accost me. I know to introduce myself to the teacher—in English. Alo. Elooo. I’m no longer the child my mother shipped. I’m about to become a mother. There’s no reason to be afraid. People walk the city streets every day and survive. I just need to mind my own business and when I see trouble walk the other way.
I secure the floral scarf around my head that I found under the sink, redolent with what is surely Caridad’s perfume. It’s all over the scarf.
Bob, the building porter who sweeps the front entrance, points to the sky and makes the gesture of opening an umbrella. No, I won’t turn back even if the sky threatens rain. The air thickens with the humidity, and a strong wind pushes me across the street, away from the church. Is this a sign to turn back? People smile at me, nodding hello when I walk past them, the way city people only do with children and the elderly.
I grip the keys in my hand.
Today the concrete sidewalk feels harder under my feet. So much cement! Back home cement means progress. In New York City, it’s the trees and grass that make it feel rich.
The rectory smells of frankincense and bread baking. I’m the first to arrive. Images of the Virgin Mary, lit candles, and Jesus cover the dark wood panels. Folding metal chairs surround a conference table. On the table, a stack of magazines, scissors, and glue. The large blackboard hasn’t been eaten away by salt or stained with past lessons. It looks brand-new.
Excuse me, can I help you?
I whip my head around and step back when I find a woman covered from head to toe in a black habit towering over me. My belly flutters.
Inglis? I point to the sign.
The nun’s skin glows and her eyes brighten.
Welcome! Yes, here we learn English. You’re early, but take a seat.
Bafroom? I ask. The baby, the size of a small banana, is heavy on my bladder—when I need to go, I need to go!
The nun points down the long, narrow hall. The walls are paneled with dark and shiny wooden cabinets. Stacks of Bibles and other books bound in leather fill the shelves. At the end of the hall, light filters through a stained-glass window and lands onto a table off the kitchen piled with transparent bags filled with wafers. Jesus’s body! I pick one bag up and press it against my nose. When I hear the nun coming down the hall I shove the bag into my purse. I fumble to open the door, slip in, and lock myself inside.
She’s waiting for me when I exit the bathroom. Her tendrils of hair look like cooked spaghetti. Even without any makeup, she’s pretty. Though I planned to put the bag of wafers back I follow her to the main room. What if the priest already blessed the wafers? If nuns have direct communication with God, what if Jesus whispers into the nun’s ear that I’m carrying him inside my purse?
At the table, we find six other students. I search for Marisela’s sister among the strange faces. No one fits her description. The nun hands everyone a piece of blank white paper. She tapes a piece of paper on the board and writes: My name is Marta Lucía.
She points at herself and asks, What is your name?
I write: My name is Ana.
A woman with wild red hair and a hairy lip lifts her sign and shows it to Sister Lucía.
Very good, says Sister Lucía.
When asked something in Spanish, she responds only in English. I’m lost, so I watch the other students and follow them. An older lady speaks in yet another language I don’t understand. No one else speaks Spanish except for Sister Lucía. How confusing.
She walks by my chair and bumps my purse off the back.
It’s okay, Ana.
Sister Lucía picks up the purse and carries it away with her.
But Miss …
I’m ready to drop to my knees and confess. But everyone’s too busy trying to understand Sister Lucía, who speaks too fast, to see my panic.
Please, I mumble to the nun, to Jesus, my feet stuck to the floor, my eyes on the brink of tears.
I watch her hang the purse on a hook beside some jackets and other things. I watch her make sure the rectory door is locked, reassuring me my purse is safe. I watch her return to the table.
Thank you, God, I say as Sister Lucía places a blank sheet of paper and a marker in front of me. She tapes her own paper on the board and on it she writes: I was born in Chile.
Where were you born? she asks the class, takes one of the magazines, cuts out a photograph of a house, and glues it to her paper. She asks everyone to do the same and we grab magazines as if there are fewer magazines than people.
I love horses, so I cut out a horse. Unlike Marisela, mares take care of their pregnant friends. There are few apples in D.R. so I cut out apples. Only at Christmas would I be allowed one bite, except for the year Yohnny stole it and hid it under the bed, where a mouse ate it. Then no one ate apples.
For when the heat doesn’t work in the apartment, I cut out a fireplace. And because a fortune-teller told me I will have a long life and two children, I cut out two, a girl and a boy, both blond with big blue eyes, wearing matching clothes, beautiful and rich.
Sister Lucía tapes my paper on the board beside her own and the others.
I was born in Greece.
I born in China.
I was born in Russia.
She repeats everyone’s sentences then asks us to repeat after her, Born.
Boln …
Bon …
Bone.
Born! Born!
When she reads my sentence aloud, Sister Lucía says, I was born, and writes Dominican Republic over my República Dominicana.
Do-mi-ni-can Re-pu-blic, she says.
I repeat.
Very good, Ana, very good! Sister Lucía claps her hands.
My name is Marta Lucía. I was born in Chile. And you, Ana?
She points to me.
My name is Ana. I bon in Dominican Republic.
No, Ana, say, My name is Ana. I was born in Dominican Republic.
I repeat.
Very, very good, Ana. You can now say you speak English.
Sister Lucía gives me a big hug after class. When she hands over the purse to me, she accidentally drops it.
No! I dash for it and yank it from her.
It’s heavier than it looks, she says.
I play the crazy goat and say, Thank you, Sister Lucía.
I walk as fast as I can, afraid to look back and turn into salt. The purse weighs heavier than the lipstick, mirror, and wallet. Though my feet are heavy like bricks, I fly down the street.
Miss, miss! I hear a man yell behind me.
I turn, gripping the keys in my hand.
A young black man is waving Caridad’s scarf. He’s dressed in one of those tailored suits I often admired standing before the Audubon on Sunday afternoons. I press my purse against my body, thinking about all the things Juan has told me. I walk as fast as I can, the baby pushing against a rib, and no one is there to save me. I trip. The man rushes to my side, grabs my arm, and when I look up, all I see is floral fabric.
Miss, you okay?
Juan! I scream and put my arm in front of my face and curl my body around my stomach and my bag.
The man comes closer.
Me nem is Ana, I say again and again. I bon in Dominicana República.
He chuckles. I admire his bright teeth. My fear evaporates and I feel silly. I allow his hand to help pull me up.
Tenk you.
You’re welcome, miss, says the man, walking away and shaking his head.
I place the scarf around my neck, mouthing, You welcome, over and over in my head. I cross the street and enter the building. Bob the porter holds the door for me, and I say, Tenk you, and he says, You’re welcome. I go into the elevator and say, You welcome, and then I finally lock the apartment door behind me.
I sit on the sofa. The apartment grows dark as large black clouds hover over the city. From my purse, I pull out the bag of unleavened bread. I place Jesus in my mouth and let him melt on my tongue. I eat one piece after another. Maybe he can protect me from the inside; maybe now he can’t ignore me like he did the day I asked him to bring back Marisela. I eat him until I’m full. I lie back on the sofa and breathe softly because I don’t want to throw him up.
Jesus, bless my baby.
In order to learn English, Sister Lucía says I need to practice every day. Every morning, I walk César downstairs on his way to work and borrow a newspaper delivered to the lobby. So it’s not stealing. I give myself the job of collecting all the bubble gum wrappers, cigarette butts, and other litter my neighbors and their visitors leave behind.
You’re going to put the porter out of a job, César says.
Bob comes between 4 p.m. and 10 p.m., six days a week, I say, picking up a paper coffee cup from the elevator floor, and there’s still trash. It’s our building too. Who knows, maybe if I take care of the building it will one day take care of me.
I also take books people leave on the table by the mail, even if they’re in English. One day I will read them: To Kill a Mockingbird, Anne Frank, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
I study some graffiti on the elevator wall written in pencil: Victor & Emily inside of a heart. Should I leave it or wash it off? I don’t mind helping gray-haired Bob, whose eyes have a film over them. He makes me feel safe, always opening and closing the door for everyone, guarding the building.
Upstairs, I sit with the newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee.
Why is English so hard? I ask my Dominicana, who watches faceless from the windowsill. I place a dictionary nearby and start my lessons. Education is the key to becoming independent and making something of myself. I glance over the newspaper, looking for familiar words. Dominican Republic splattered all over it like confetti. Our little country makes the news a lot.
A José Xavier Castillo dies. Shot in the head. Playing. Where is José from? No clues. Just that he’s dead.
The rain comes down harder, as if it’s mad at those who dare to walk in it. Colorful umbrellas dot Broadway.
Army shoots Oscar Alida Pérez, seventeen years old. Poison GI.
Poison? I look the word up. GI. Accused of poisoning. I look up accused.
