Dominicana, page 2
I’m happy.
You know what I mean. He looks at me as if waiting for a smile, or a squeal or a clap of joy. Everyone’s always telling me to smile, even when there’s nothing to smile about. Smile, Ana! You’re a pretty, young girl! You haven’t seen the worst of life yet! So sometimes I smile so that people will leave me alone. But this time no smile comes.
Papá has already drunk two beers, and with the hot sun it might as well be four. His eyes dip at the edges, and his free hand rubs on his knee, which is sore from working long days watching over our animals and land.
Are you happy? I ask him. His tanned leathery face is like looking at the sea at night.
Juan disappears for months at a time to stand on line to get work at the New Yorker Hotel.
The wind slaps his face. His thin blood gels, his bones ache, and just when he thinks he’ll die from the cold air filling his lungs, he begins to count the number of days he’ll stay in New York: one hundred eighty. It’s enough workdays to pay for his trip and save some money to take back with him. He counted twenty-eight years because it was his age. Nine, his birthday. Four, the number of Ruiz brothers, two of whom are on their way to New York to work alongside him, and one who had tried to bear the winters but returned back home. Juan counts the men on the line. One, two, ten, fifteen. He’s the sixteenth on line. His stomach growls from not having dinner. The piece of bread he stole from Frank’s fridge only opened his appetite. The men all stare at the side door of the hotel. He wants to return to his room and huddle near the heater.
The guy in front of him says, Tuck in your pants. Keeps the heat in.
But Juan doesn’t want to look like a punk.
Finally the door opens and a woman runs out wearing a furry black hat. A real movie star. Bright red lipstick on pale skin. She walks up and down the line as she looks at her list. She picks her men and waves the rest away.
That’s all for today.
Juan grabs her arm to get her attention.
Get off of me.
I’m sorry, but I need work.
Try us tomorrow. Everyone needs work.
As handsome as me?
This is the Ruiz charm. They all have a light in their eyes, not eagerness but an indisputable certainty.
Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.
She disappears into the building. Juan sits by the door to wait. A man walks over and offers him a cigarette.
She ain’t coming back for you. Don’t be a pendejo.
All the other men have left. He had been told this was a sure thing.
* * *
Juan buys a coffee from the back of a van. He grabs the cup with both hands to warm them up and sips it slow. His heart speeds up each time someone opens the side door. It’s the garbage. It’s someone leaving work. It’s a person flicking a cigarette butt outside. What’s the time, he asks some kid. He decides he’ll wait for only an hour. He counts the seconds. The minutes. He counts too fast. He slows down. Loses count because his fingers are numb. The door opens. The woman runs out. She doesn’t see him.
Excuse me, he yells after her.
Are you crazy? It’s below zero today. You should go home.
I need work.
I told you, I have nothing.
You told me to wait.
She looks around, searching for a way to flee Juan’s desperate eyes.
I’ll work for free today. You’ll see how good I am. And then tomorrow you’ll choose me for sure.
The woman sighs. Go inside and ask for José. He’ll give you stuff to do. I can’t pay you for today, but you can eat lunch with the others.
Thank you. Juan’s face lights up, and he grabs her hand to kiss it. You’re an angel, he says, and runs in through the side door, escaping the cold.
When Juan doesn’t visit for a long while, Mamá makes me write him letters. Tell him how hot it’s been. Unbearable. How you long to see the snow. How handsome he looks in a suit and that your favorite color is green to remind him about your eyes. They’re unusual. Maybe it’ll inspire him to bring you a gift. Tell him how well you’re doing in school. How you love numbers so much, you dream of them while you sleep.
In this way Juan and I are the same. I too count the steps to school, how many times the teacher repeats herself. Even the impossible things I count, like the stars in the sky, the limoncillos on our tree.
Tell him how much you enjoy to cook. Be specific. Don’t just say food, say pescado con coco, so he knows you’re the kind of woman who’s not afraid to debone a fish or grate coconut.
What kind of woman is afraid to grate coconut? I ask, but Mamá keeps talking.
Invite him to visit during the day so you can cook him a proper meal at a proper time. Say how much you would enjoy feeding him. That you miss him and would like to see him again.
But that’s not true, I say.
Oh, who cares what’s true. Look, what is the truth? Letters are a lasso, words on a page that we fling out, hoping, hoping.
What about what I want?
What do you want, Ana?
I don’t know.
If Teresa was a duck she would’ve saved herself from El Guardia, Mamá says. Now she’s stuck with bad seed. Her life is basically ruined. Ruined! Ducks can reject unwanted sperm, only allowing in the sperm they want. They choose the best duck to make their babies, not just any grubby, ill-looking duck. And they sleep with one eye open unless they have some other duck on guard. Learn from the ducks, Mamá says.
Ramón says he delivers all my letters, but Juan doesn’t write back. He’s preoccupied with work, and all that is New York.
Listen to this one, Juan says to the guy standing on line in front of him.
Anything to get my mind off the cold.
Two friends see each other and one says, Don’t know what to do with my grandfather. He bites his nails all the time. Then the other says, I had the same problem with my old man, but I fixed it.
How? You tied his hands?
No, I hid his teeth.
A cluster of men burst out laughing. So hard they don’t notice that the lady dressed in black with her furry hat is pointing at them.
Maybe you’re all having too much fun to work, she says.
It’s the first time Juan sees her smile. Even if she treats him like every other guy on that line, Juan tells Ramón she has a thing for him.
A Puerto Rican chick who works management likes an off-the-boat spic like you? Keep dreaming, my brother.
You’ll see, says Juan, determined to prove it. He’s bought a red scarf for fifty cents on the street that really makes him stand out among all the other men who wear grays and browns.
When she sees him she does a double take.
Hey you, how’s your English? she asks Juan.
Bedy good.
We need a doorman today. Someone called in sick.
He notices her wedding band.
Seguro que yo speako English, he says, chasing after her.
If you mess up, you’ll never work here again.
Sí, señora.
Don’t call me that. You make me sound like an old woman.
I’m sorry, señora. I mean señorita.
Ask for José. He’ll give you a uniform and tell you what to do.
Gracias, señora. You’re very beautiful, señora.
You’re totally crazy, she says, and laughs with him.
And your name? Juan finally asks.
Caridad. Caridad de la Luz.
From that day on Caridad picks Juan from the line, for various positions. He trains to set tables in a formal way: forks for each of the courses, placed to the left, and knives to the right, bread and butter plates above the forks. He learns the difference between white and red wineglasses. How to fold napkins to look like birds. One day he hopes his restaurant in Dominican Republic will be as fine.
He enjoys bussing tables over the monotony of washing dishes in the kitchen, but working the door even more, because the tips are good and he’s working alone. Even if by the end of the day his jaw hurts from smiling and his feet ache from standing, Juan would rather be busy, because when he stops he gets lonely and sad and misses Santo Domingo and all the girls back home who never turn him down. The women in New York are complicated. Women like Caridad are complicated. Many are married, waiting for their husbands who are on active duty, ready to fight some war. These women want to be taken out, to talk and talk.
Ramón reminds Juan that he’s in New York to work, not to get into women trouble. He tells Juan he needs a quiet girl like me, from a good family.
So with a nudge from Ramón, Juan mails me a money order for five dollars, for my needs, he says, and a necklace with a green stone, because of my eyes.
His note is very to the point: Ana, please wait for me.
Papá says even one drop of water could fill a bucket if you wait around long enough. Between Mamá’s letters, the free beers, and yearly visits, Juan Ruiz finally asks properly for my hand in marriage. I am fifteen. Juan is thirty-two.
He shows up, during the daytime, with Ramón. Sober, or as sober as I have ever seen him, not flailing his arms or grabbing at me, at Mamá, the chair, a tree, to hold himself up. For the first time ever, I see him. Really see him. He even takes off his suit jacket. In only a tailored vest and without the shoulder pads, his shoulders become small, less threatening.
Ana? Juan says in such a serious way everyone stares with bated breath. I wear my Sunday dress, a faded yellow one I can’t breathe well in. Frizz crowns my head. My tongue dry, my throat aching. I knew this moment would come from the first serenade. Juan towers over me. I focus on the thin gray lines on his vest, the way they intersect at the lapels. The sweat running down his cheeks over the incoming stubble. I try not to look at him. But they all stare. Teresa stands close by with her son on her hip. My mother’s teeth are exposed, her lipstick caked on her bottom lip. Yohnny and Lenny lie on a bench like overheated dogs, so thirsty, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. I look for Papá, who stands quietly, defeated.
Where is your rifle? Where is your scowl? I want to scream.
What is it? I ask. Has my lipstick already stained my teeth?
And suddenly, Juan pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes all the lipstick off.
What are you doing?
I push him away.
You don’t need that stuff. You don’t need anything, he says. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s undone just by looking at me. I open my eyes wider. Hold my chest higher, and a smile escapes the side of my lips. Everyone wants something from a man like Juan—a visa, dollars, a good word, a ride in his car, a free meal in his restaurant. Even if my mother wants all those things, I keep my grace.
Will you be my wife? he asks.
Ramón stands behind Juan, as if without him there, Juan will split, run away, take it all back. And I understand then that maybe Juan doesn’t want to marry me after all. They are here for my parents’ land.
I could’ve said no. Teresa’s mouth, tight lipped and pursed in disappointment. You have rights, she said days before. You’re the boss of you.
I look to Papá for an answer. Go ahead, answer him, Papá urges.
Mamá grabs Papá’s arm in solidarity, an unusual gesture, understood by Ramón because he smiles and shakes my father’s hand as if I have already said yes, although nobody cares what I want.
Yohnny and Lenny run about singing:
I like to be in America … everything free in America, olé.
In minutes the adults distance themselves to make the arrangements. Yohnny and Lenny grab my hands and spin me around like they did in the West Side Story musical we had seen at the theater in the center. Juanita and Betty run out and join in the celebration.
Wow, prima, you’re so lucky, Betty says. Don’t forget to send me something.
Me too! Juanita’s voice, laced with a mix of envy and hope. After you see all those bright lights, I bet you never coming back here.
Get the refrescos, Mamá yells over to Yohnny. We have to celebrate.
Teresa stomps back into the house and watches everything transpire from the window. She holds her baby in her arms, tighter, closer to her chest as if to keep me from reading her thoughts. Who would cover for her when she snuck away? Who would do all her chores?
Then it really hits me: I’m leaving. Dread and fear and excitement ripple through my body. Once I leave no one will ever treat me the same. My life will be a load of gossip material for Juanita and Betty, who lost their parents in a flood and have lived with us ever since I can remember. I’ll be the woman with dollars, and fine clothes, and beautiful skin from all the good lotions Juan will buy me in America. I will be given lists upon lists, with orders to be filled.
Every bride deserves a new dress. So Mamá takes me to Carmela’s in San Pedro de Macorís for a fitting.
But I have school, I say.
You don’t need to go there anymore.
But I can’t not go. I haven’t said good-bye to everyone.
From the moment I say everyone she intuits I mean Gabriel, and she won’t let him ruin everything now.
Mamá wraps a scarf over her head and pulls the keys for the motoconcho off the hook. And without any hesitation she swings her leg over and sits on the scooter and yells, C’mon, get on!
She takes up most of the seat, but I manage to slip on behind her. The sun blares above us. She hands me an umbrella and waits for me to open it. After some fits and starts, the motoconcho peels onto the road, leaving a cloud of dust behind us. For a long while, we’re alone on the narrow road, miles of cane fields on each side. I hug my mother, press my head against her sweaty back and taste the ocean on her skin. You would think we’re close.
Then suddenly the clamoring of tin pots, the tooting of the ships, the stink of sedentary water inside the numerous potholes hits us. Cars and scooters compete for every inch of the city streets. The Malecón bursts at the seams, people shopping, hanging, talking, drinking. Selling lottery tickets and coconuts. Men whistling and hissing at Mamá, whose skirt hikes up, exposing her thick brown thighs, even thicker next to all my bones.
Cochino! she yells back at the gaping mouths.
Not a good one in that bunch, she says, and demands I hold on tight as she pushes through the traffic, around the park in the city center, the only refuge, shaded from the blazing sun by palmettos and almond trees.
Mamá pulls up to Carmela’s house, the only one on the block made with concrete. Once painted red, now a faded pink, with dwarf palm trees cluttering the front yard.
Carmela! Mamá yells through the iron gates.
We peek into the house. Through the window, I make out a headless dress form and back away. Mamá glares back at my watery eyes and chin pressed against my neck.
Cheer up, she says when Carmela comes out to greet us. Her hair tightly wrapped around her head in a tubi. A smile that takes up half her face. This is the beginning of great things for you. For all of us!
Carmela leads us to her bedroom. There are a few reams of fabric on a shelf. A black metal sewing machine sits on a small table by a window. A bald bulb hangs from the ceiling. A loud standing fan turns to and fro near her work chair. A rope extended from one side of the room to the other displays pinned fabric pieces and magazine photos of dresses ordered by past customers.
Bad news, Carmela says, there’s not an inch of white fabric in town. The communion ceremonies are in two weeks, and every girl between six and eight is dressing up like a bride.
Mamá fans herself with a McCall pattern she found on Carmela’s table.
I smile to myself. Maybe this is a sign that the marriage will be postponed—or better yet canceled.
What other colors do you have? Mamá asks.
What? flies out of my mouth, startling them.
Other colors, Carmela? my mother repeats.
For a bride? Carmela sucks her tooth in disapproval but pulls out three possibilities. A shiny gold lamé—a definite no—black linen, and a roll of red cotton.
Mamá fingers the red fabric on the sewing table.
It’s more pink, a flaming pink, Carmela says. She turns around and pulls out a large piece of white lace from her storage cabinet. She stands behind me, placing the lace on my chest so that Mamá gets the effect.
There are no mirrors in the room for me to look at myself. I’m supposed to be in school. Gabriel, my only friend, will wonder where I am. I can’t go off to America without saying good-bye.
Mamá scrutinizes the flaming pink and white lace.
It’s so bright. Don’t you have anything else?
I have black, but she’s not going to a funeral. Carmela pauses here and I sense she’s been saying otherwise behind our backs.
I like the black, I say.
Mamá shoos my hand away. Carmela, make her something pretty in the pink. And put on as much white lace as you can. I don’t want anyone thinking my daughter’s indecent.
* * *
We walk out into the midday sun. Mamá opens the umbrella. She locks her arm into mine. Pulls me over to sit on the cement-block ledge of Carmela’s house. The waft of fried fish and plátano makes me hungry. Ants march over a fallen apricot. Songs from radios, playing inside of living rooms and kitchens, compete for my attention. Across from us some men have set up cardboard over stacked crates to play a domino game. Women line the wash in their front yard. Two boys play catch.
Mamá reveals a cigarette she has hidden in her bra.
You smoke?
Only on special occasions.
She stops a passerby and asks for a light, then waves him away. After taking a drag, she passes the cigarette to me. I make a face of disgust.
Lesson number one to survive this life, she says through the acrid smoke, learn to pretend. You don’t need to smoke if you don’t want to, but you can use it to act like one of those movie stars.
I’m not that way.
She leans her head back, takes a drag and exhales. The sun behind her draws her silhouette. We have the same lips and eye shape, large and wide. The same coarse hair at our napes.
