Dominicana, page 19
No, he says, I have a surprise for you.
* * *
We take the subway all the way down to Coney Island. The ride to Brooklyn takes over an hour. Fortunately without incident. The news makes it seem as if taking the subway is putting one’s life at risk. The villains are often teenagers, same age as me. They’re desperate to be heard. The ride’s so long, I fall asleep on César’s shoulder. Once we exit at the Stillwell station, César carries the mesh beach bag and leads me toward the boardwalk, past the game stands, the jugglers, the clusters of people dressed like peacocks and roosters. Past the ticket booth, the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone.
Wow! I count the rides. Maybe twenty, maybe more.
Close your mouth or you’ll eat a fly.
How far is it?
Don’t worry.
He pulls me through the crowds. Our sticky arms bump and catch with each other. The boardwalk, thick with people: roller-skating, dancing, kissing. I make out the words on the store signs—Hubba Hubba, Nathan’s, Carolina’s. The song of the ice-cream truck parked nearby.
Why can’t we sit here? Or there? I say, as César takes his time weighing our options along the shore.
You so lazy, he says.
I’m pregnant.
Oh, I thought you ate a watermelon for breakfast.
After our day at the World’s Fair, I really can’t trust him when he says, It’ll only be just a few blocks or right over there. It could mean an hour of walking. The boardwalk has no end, and all the beach looks the same to me. Miles of golden sand, not a palm tree in sight. Bright umbrellas and seagulls dot the shores of Coney Island. Nothing like Los Guayacanes, where dwarfed palms serve as refuge from the sun, and fried fish and sweet potato vendors flirt for business.
Let’s find a spot already, I beg César.
César finally takes the nearest steps down to the beach. From the boardwalk it looks packed. But once we get closer to the shore—climb over the sunbathers, the loud hairy men littering the beach with cigarettes, the tilted umbrellas—I see there is plenty of room for us, especially close to the edge of the water. We sit down, butts digging into sand, feet outstretched so when the waves roll in, our toes kiss the water. The breeze combs through my hair. I admire the tight long muscles on César’s thighs and giggle over his chicken calves, lighter compared to his face and arms. Our arms touch. I lean in toward him like that day with Gabriel, then move away, tucking my body into a closed fist.
You come here often? I ask.
Who has the time?
The beaches in New York aren’t bad, I say. I am still surprised they are even here.
This beach can kiss the ass of our beaches back home.
Well, any port in a storm. It’s nice here. Quiet. Dominicans can be so loud. Look at all these people minding their own business, enjoying themselves. Juan only talks about work and making more money. But these people are not doing that. This is the part of New York no one talks about.
So what are you saying, Ana?
That it’s nice to see everyone just relax for once. Don’t you think?
César ignores me; he’s too busy checking out all the women around us. I suddenly feel so overdressed. I lean back. Roll up my shirt to expose my belly. My belly button pokes out. The water ebbs and flows. I dig my feet into the hot sand, and sigh.
The sunsets must be beautiful here.
Too bad we can’t wait around for them, says César, sighing too. Once the sun is gone, the guns come out.
It can’t be that bad.
Wanna swim?
He’s already standing, pulling off his shirt, exposing his broad back and slim waist. The sharp tan lines around his neck and arms.
I don’t have a suit, remember?
He doesn’t insist like Gabriel had. My breasts are now twice as large. Finally I have something for Gabriel to see.
Watch this! César strips to tight dark shorts and runs into the water, his legs, muscular like a horse’s. He dives into a tall wave, disappears, and emerges with long tight curls flapping heavy over his face.
It’s freezing! he yells, then runs over to me and shakes his body above me.
Stop it, you wet dog!
Barking hysterically, he digs his hands into the sand to rub my legs and arms with it.
You’re impossible!
César stops to take a swig of water from the bag, spreads out his towel, and lies back with his hands behind his neck. His underarm hair is clumped into small bushes. I smell the saltwater on him. I want to lick him.
I spread my own towel beneath me to not get sand in my hair, lay back, close my eyes, dig my feet deeper in the sand, allow my hands to rest at my sides, palms open to the sky. The sun bathes me. Sweat beads trickle on my neck, between my breasts. I listen to the seagulls and waves, the din of the amusement park, the faint screaming of people on rides. I wait for the waves to touch my toes and the breeze to brush my skin, to cool me off, making the heat bearable. My eyes heavier, my arms and legs of lead, my breath steady. I no longer care where I am. I am home, happy.
When I open my eyes an hour later, César is staring at me. His dark curls, shooting in all different directions. His eyes squinting with delight.
Surprise! he says, holding two hot dogs and two Nathan’s cups filled with fries, all neatly arranged on a cardboard carrier.
Nathan’s, the best Coney Island has to offer.
Every day, I watch the hot-dog man serve a line full of hospital workers. In the winter, clouds escape from his cart and land on my tongue.
The hot dog peeks out from the bread. The taut skin deliciously snaps when I bite into it. The salty juiciness of it, combined with the bread and ketchup. The crispy fries crinkle like an accordion.
It’s so good! I say.
His eyes linger on me, happiness on his face. César enjoys my joy. To think that Juan told him to watch over me as if it were a punishment or a chore.
Soon after, seagulls hover near us. A sudden wave soaks our towels. We jump, saving the last of our fries.
Time to go, César says to the seagulls, to me. He wrings out the wet towels and throws them into our bag. We hurry toward the amusement park. The way people scream from the roller coaster makes it seem like it has the capacity to kill and revive a person all at once.
Let’s do the Cyclone, I say.
Why not the Wonder Wheel? Safer for the baby.
We can handle it … pretty please, César?
He looks concerned, but I make the Lucy face, pouty lips and big eyes.
Okay, okay. Let’s do it!
I’ve survived many a hurricane that tore the rooftops from our kitchen and bedrooms and yanked trees from their roots. Still, I’m terrified of the Cyclone. I don’t trust those interlocking pieces of wood. The speed of the carts zipping up and then down makes me lose sense of my legs. My brothers would’ve been the first in line. How much they may never see; how lucky I am to be in such a place.
César purchases the tickets. I make a note to give him some money later. We punch our tickets and stand on line. We pick a cart. Though I grab the bar, I hold César’s hand as the train slowly climbs.
The first dip takes me by surprise. It isn’t so bad. The rickety wooden coaster trembles like the wooden floors in our apartment. The stops and starts, the short drops, the weightlessness of the cart makes the inside between my legs come alive. The wind hits my face. As the cart slowly climbs the last part of the ride, I see the shore, the people like pebbles and among them me and my brothers. We’re all together, running after the cane trucks that pass by our house. My brothers squeal and scream. And there’s Yohnny running and running, turning back to see how far back we all are. Then the train drops, and César holds on to my shoulders. Our hearts jump in our throats. Together, we scream until the train abruptly stops, pushing brain against scalp. Ana! I hear Yohnny in my ear. Ana! Then a deep silence falls on us. We hold on to each other, hands woven. A smile is plastered on César’s face.
You okay? he asks.
My eyes well up.
Something happened to Yohnny, is the first thing that comes out of Mamá’s mouth. He’d gone into the mess of Santo Domingo.
But what was he doing in La Capital?
I don’t know.
Why did you let him go there?
For the first time in a very long time I hear Mamá cry. It unhinges me.
* * *
I want to open the door and find myself in Los Guayacanes with them. They need me.
Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
I am emptied.
* * *
Hours later, husband calls.
I’m sorry, pajarita. I just can’t imagine. I have brothers. I fear for them too. Is César there with you?
He’s working, says wife.
I told your mother don’t let Yohnny come into the city. But she insisted. So I said, Tell him to avoid the center at all cost, to come directly to me because I’m on the periphery of all the mess. If you only knew the mess, Ana. One day we think it’s almost over. And it starts again. The streets are filled with kids carrying guns. The power outages go on for days. Everything’s being rationed: candles, food, cigarettes. The gasoline! We’re blocked. No one’s sure for how long. And who can sleep? I hear the gunfire right outside my door. I warned her. Tell Yohnny to stay home. But she said trouble only finds those looking for it. I mean what the hell was he doing near the Palace? He got caught in a wave of protestors against the U.S. army and it happened fast. He was just standing there. They say his arms were up when a Dominican guard shot him right in the back. The bullet went right through his chest.
Wife aches. Sister aches. But husband keeps talking.
Oh pajarita, don’t cry. I’m counting the days for this shit to end so I can return home to you.
Husband’s voice drops on you. It begs for a warm loving response. But wife is empty.
I steal a newspaper from the lobby downstairs. I spread the pages on the table and search for any mention of Dominican Republic, of Yohnny. Finally, I see Dominican and circle it with a pencil.
July 6, 1965—Porfirio Rubirosa, former Dominican diplomat, international sportsman and playboy, crashed his powerful Ferrari 250 GT into a chestnut tree at 8 a.m. yesterday in Paris. He was alone in the car. The 56-year-old died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. He was within sight of two of his favorite Paris spots, the race course and the polo club. He was an airplane pilot, a tennis player, a seeker of sunken treasure, and was tagged as the Romeo of the Caribbean, having married, in the span of a decade, five of the wealthiest and most beautiful women in the world.
No mention of Yohnny. No mention of the war. As far as the newspapers are concerned, the war is over, the country secure. For whom? For what? A few months ago when President Johnson announced the American troops landing in Dominican Republic it was big news. But now nobody seems to care. The Americans have left it in the hands of the Trujillistas. Because they’re the old puppets? Because they’re rich. Because they have a military. And still, people die. Buildings are destroyed. But of course the world only cares about Rubirosa.
* * *
When César arrives that night, I’m wearing all black, down to a scarf over my hair. I sit in the dark, without music, without TV, looking out the window, thinking of what I could’ve done to save Yohnny. I’d drunk three shots of rum. My head pounds, my eyes glazed. Numb body, heavy feet and arms.
Hermana, no dinner?
He turns on a lamp.
I lay my head on the table. How good the cool wooden table feels against my ear.
What happened? César pulls a chair to sit near me.
They killed Yohnny.
What? Who? He stands up again.
The alcohol swirls inside my head. If I could, I would curl up on César’s lap, tuck my feet between his thighs, my head in his neck. Instead, I stand and press my head on his chest and listen to the thump there. My tears soak his shirtsleeve.
Have you eaten anything? he says. Want something to drink? I’ll make dinner for us, he says.
He extends my legs on the sofa, placing a pillow under my knees. He turns on the radio. The Beatles will be playing live at Shea Stadium in August.
While he cooks, I take a nap.
César sets the table. He ladles lentil soup into two bowls. Beside them he places slices of avocado and bread.
I’m not hungry, I say.
You have a baby to think of.
He was only sixteen years old. Sixteen!
The lentil soup may need salt.
There really was no one like him.
Stop putting the avocado in the fridge. They turn brown.
And stop acting like bad things don’t happen, César!
I throw him the newspaper.
Nobody cares about us, what’s happening to our country, about Yohnny. All these words, wasted on stupidities like Rubirosa!
Because this paper is for white people, Ana.
César searches for a piece of blank paper on the shelves and picks up a pen from the table.
Here, write something for Yohnny.
I’m not good at writing.
So use that Rubirosa article as a guide.
I study the blank page on the table. I press the point of the pen on the page and draw a line.
Say it as if Yohnny can hear you. Write it so you hear yourself. Go on.
July 6, 1965.
Santo Domingo: Yohnny Canción died in a cross fire near the Parque de Independencia.
Keep going.
Yohnny, a hardworking young man who helped his family in every way possible.
Be specific, Ana. Tell me how he was helpful.
Yohnny was the first to volunteer in the mornings when his father called on him to work on the farm. He stood up to any man who harassed his sisters. He was resourceful. Even Americans knew him as a man who could get things. He had a soft heart for pretty girls and was tagged as the Romeo of Los Guayacanes, easy to love. And he could run faster than anyone. He dreamed of coming to America one day to ride the trains, to visit the Empire State Building, to play baseball with Manny Mota and Felipe Alue. Yohnny died immediately without any suffering. Thousands attended his funeral. His cherry-wood casket was buried in the President’s burial ground in the capital of Santo Domingo, among other great men who died with honor. His casket is covered in white roses and the guests were all fed passion fruit, his favorite. Just hours before his death, the president himself was about to grant him a visa and ten thousand dollars to start a new life in the United States.
You’re quite the storyteller.
Reality is too depressing. Yohnny never liked school. He never listened. He always did what he wanted to do. I’m sure he walked himself right into that bullet, not thinking. He was big-hearted, though, and so much fun. You would’ve gotten along well.
Now write mine.
I don’t want to think about you dying. Not now.
Oh, c’mon. Write it as if I’m ninety years old and died and you found my obit in the paper. What do you see for me, in this very long life I’ll live?
When César’s ninety, I’ll be eighty-five, and we’ll be living in Los Guayacanes together, spending our mornings drinking hot chocolate and eating toasted bread, watching the sunrise, rocking back and forth on our chairs and talking about the animals that misbehave. We will remember all the people we outlived. By then, Juan will be dead.
I write:
July 1, 2033. César Ruiz died in his sleep after drinking a morir soñando. He had been warned the mix of orange juice, milk, and sugar was for the youth, but he drank it anyway. César was born in the small town of Tenares in Dominican Republic and in 1963 arrived in New York City with three of his brothers. He went from ordinary factory worker to fashion designer, inspired by the great Chanel who had also launched a career from humble beginnings. He traveled the world in his rocket jet and opened the first bodega on the moon. In 2013, when he turned sixty and was ready to retire, he gave all his wealth to the poor children in Los Guayacanes and lived in the original house of the great Ana Canción, who later joined him in an effort to start schools and hospitals for the needy.
César watches me write every word.
You see all that greatness in me?
Why not? Why can’t you fly to the moon? Or be a great designer? Why do we have to settle for just this life? I say, surprised at myself and my own ambition. We have to do it all because Yohnny can’t. We have to make the best of life for him.
And you, what will yours sound like?
Ana will live a long life. Raise a successful daughter. She’ll be happy.
So I keep busy. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, English classes. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I go to the downtown to sell lunch to the men at César’s factory. I plan a lunch menu for each week. On Mondays, pastelitos, thirty with chicken, thirty with beef. On Wednesdays, pasteles. On Fridays, lunch surprise: sometimes empanadas de yucca, other times quipes.
I prepare and package the foods so the men are able to eat while standing, like horses, like Americans eat hot dogs or burgers. To inspire customer loyalty, I make food that reminds them of home.
At night, I marinate the meat and chop most of the vegetables. The following day, I wrap the food into small presents in Cut-Rite sandwich bags or aluminum foil. I organize them in my basket, lined with checkered fabric César took from the same factory where the men work.
I cook as if my cooking will breathe life into Yohnny again. I cook for him and him only—grating the onions so that he won’t taste them in the filling, pulling out the cloves of garlic so he won’t complain about bad breath. Even César notices how my food has become more inspired. What’s your secret ingredient? he asks.
Every day, I place my earnings in an envelope in my drawer, no longer needing to hide my money inside Dominicana. With it, I still plan to bring my family closer to me, to where they will be safe and where Lenny can go to school, to where they won’t have to worry about having enough food to eat.
