Dominicana, page 20
With time, I’ll buy a small cart like the hot-dog man’s. Eventually a small shop. Then a chain of shops all over the city.
* * *
I find César waiting outside the Oven for me, by himself. He’s smoking a cigarette. I’m early. But he’s out earlier. Something’s wrong. The men are usually let out at twelve on the dot. I had wrapped slow-roasted chicken thighs—marinated overnight in lemon, garlic, and rosemary—fried arepitas de yucca, spiced with anise, into individual aluminum squares.
I’m taking you home, says César.
He takes away my basket, grabs me by my forearm, and pulls me back to the subway stop.
What are you doing? Where’s everyone? I ask.
Immigration shut the factory down. Bastards!
What?
They stormed in but we got out in time. Vicente—you remember Vicente with the bug eyes and butt chin—he jumped out the window and broke a leg, an arm, it was too chaotic for me to know for sure. The cops got him before I could grab him, and I couldn’t stick around to look.
But you have papers. They can’t do anything to you.
Don’t you watch the news? They can do whatever they want.
César pats his chest for another cigarette, curses.
And today’s payday too! Those bastards called immigration so they don’t have to pay us. It’s not the first time.
They can’t do that. Can they?
As we walk he pushes against the lunch crowds, swinging about my basket of perfectly wrapped chicken and arepitas.
What am I supposed to do with all this food?
Ana, I lost my fucking job! I was practically managing things. And when the immigration showed, that asshole fed us to them with a spoon.
And just like that my dreams of food carts and a franchise of Dominican food are gone.
César kicks the post office box on the street corner. He punches the air.
Fuck!
Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve saved myself from taking the trip down here.
I lost my job and all you think about is yourself?
But I came all the way downtown.
Please, don’t even start with me.
I step back. I’ve never seen César this angry.
I grab back my basket and walk ahead toward the train station. César grabs my arm and squeezes tight enough to leave a mark.
You’re hurting me!
Let me take you home, he says.
I don’t need your help, I’ll get home fine.
No, Ana, I’ll take you home.
He pulls the basket. I pull back. Packages fly across the sidewalk. Heels step into them. I lunge for the basket, stumbling and then falling on my side away from César. A man with a briefcase trips over me and accidentally kicks my leg, and yells, Get the fuck out of the way!
Fuck you! César yells, and punches the man in the jaw.
No! I struggle to get back on my feet.
A police officer appears behind César, grabs him by the shirt collar, twists his arm, and throws him to the ground. I scream as his boot presses on César’s neck.
Leave him alone! I want to say. You’re hurting him! Why don’t you arrest the asshole boss who screwed him?
But Sister Lucía covered none of these words in English class.
Please step aside, the cop calls to the crowd forming around us.
I crouch on the ground nearby, tossing the aluminum packages back into the basket, stretching my hand out to César. I’m looking into the eyes of a captured goat about to be slaughtered.
Run! I say.
I see Yohnny lift out of César’s body and run down a road that turns into a stream, with no end in sight. Yohnny runs and stops to lift a middle finger at whoever’s chasing him.
Sir, you have the right to remain …
The crowd watches him as if César is some criminal.
I yell, I hate you all! You don’t know him!
I show my teeth to a crowd that seems pleased by the policeman having caught a black man. An illegal man. A criminal who robbed or killed someone.
I hate you! I continue to scream. You don’t know what it’s like for us.
How hard it is trying to survive in this big city. How many times César has been screwed, even if he always walks in a straight line.
Ana! César yells. Go home and call Hector.
César’s hauled away in a police car. He’s holding back tears. He’s embarrassed. He’s sorry. I’m sorry.
Later that day, Hector calls me to say César got out.
I picked him up from the precinct, so don’t worry.
Of course I will.
Thank you, Hector.
Ana, he’s my brother.
That night, I wait for César. I rub and rub my belly. The clock ticks, ticks. The store gates all come down. The streetlamps light up. The trash bags are stacked along the edge of the sidewalks. The buses gasp. The ambulances wail. Emergency. I rub and rub my belly. Emergency. And me? Where is César? Why does he disappear as if he’s without responsibilities? Why can’t he call just so I know he’s safe? I count the money I didn’t make. Count the aluminum packages I saved from being trampled, now stored in the refrigerator. I can’t let it all go to waste. All my hard work. All that good food. So I take some of the food and give it to my Jewish neighbor down the hall who has four children, who never even dares to look me in the eye—but a woman with four children will surely be relieved to receive some homemade cooking. Take a package of food to Rose, accustomed to my surprise visits, who does not shy away from grabbing my arm for help when crossing the street. I drop off food to Mr. O’Brien, to the widowed super, to Bob the porter. The rest of the food I stuff in the fridge. I rub and rub my belly. How long will it keep? I will become so tired of eating chicken and arepitas.
César doesn’t come home for a few days. Will he ever return? When I tell Juan that César was arrested he says, I know. I know. Of course he knows more than I do. But all he says is, now, more than ever, we can’t afford to turn away customers.
With Juan being gone, I hadn’t seen any suit clients, but when Antonio calls to ask if he can bring some friends over to buy suits, I say yes.
Antonio arrives with three men. For the first time in a long while, the house is full of people. I turn on the radio.
How many months are you? Antonio asks.
Seven I say, happy I’m showing.
His eyes linger on my face. He stretches his arm out to touch my belly. His touch embarrasses me. This is Antonio, who loves his wife. I push him away.
Who wants coffee?
I do, they say in unison.
After they drink their shots of coffee, I ask, How can I be of service?
The younger man chuckles. A dirty mind.
I size him up and say, 46R?
Good guess. Patricio’s his name. About César’s age. His brother, Jorge Aguire, has a streak of gray hair at his widow’s peak. Alejandro, a friend from Juan’s work at Yonkers Raceway, is skinnier than the shadow of a wire.
I heard about your brother, Antonio says. I’m sorry.
Word gets around fast even across the sea. Maybe Juan asked Antonio to check up on me?
I haven’t opened the suit closet in a while. I pull out suits. The plastic clings to my sweaty skin. When I say it’s too hot to try on wool suits, Patricio brushes his hand on my behind. When I look to see if it’s a mistake, he winks. I move away and order him to sit on the sofa. Antonio sits on a chair at the table, smiling.
So when will Juan be back? Alejandro asks.
Any minute, I say and hand two suits to each of Antonio’s friends.
Go ahead and use the bathroom or bedroom to try them on.
Patricio goes to the bathroom. Alejandro to the bedroom. Antonio and Jorge wait with me in the living room.
You look more beautiful than ever, Antonio says.
He hovers near me, so close I smell his mint breath.
I say nothing, relieved that Alejandro has gone out of the room.
I’ll take both of them, he says and doesn’t blink twice when I overcharge him by two dollars. Antonio doesn’t say anything. The price is still a lot less than they would’ve paid in any store, even El Basement.
Jorge goes into the bedroom. Soon after, he comes out and asks the price of one suit. And agrees to get it.
Aren’t you going to offer to hem them? Antonio asks, surprised.
I’m busy today.
Oh, that would be great, Alejandro says. I want to wear them tomorrow.
You can hem my pants, too, Antonio says, ignoring my glare.
The ones you’re wearing?
He stands up to show me. Don’t you think they’re dragging a bit?
I ran out of thread. And you said your wife doesn’t let anyone handle your pants?
Antonio isn’t himself today. Though he’s supposed to be one of the good ones, he’s now acting like a wolf among his pack.
Patricio, you okay in there? Antonio calls for him.
One minute! Patricio yells back.
He’s taking too long, I tell Antonio. And I have other people coming.
I turn off the radio. I wrap the suits inside plastic bags. I stand by the front door.
Patricio finally comes out of the bathroom, but when I quote the price, he asks for a discount.
No discounts, Antonio volunteers, and stands between me and the men. He even counts the money and hands it over to me.
Antonio nudges Alejandro to open the door to leave.
Immediately after they leave, the doorbell rings.
It’s Antonio again. The men huddle by the elevator waiting.
Did you forget something? I say.
Antonio enters the apartment and closes the door behind him. He stands an arm’s length away and looks at me. I stare back, ready to defend myself with the thick plastic clothing hanger in my hand.
He pulls a lollipop from his suit pocket and unwraps it. A bright red globe. He holds it up to my lips.
Try it, he says. I clamp my lips, look right into his eyes, and shake my head no.
I know you enjoy sweet things, try it. He pushes it against my lips. It’s sweet, like red soda.
Good, no? he says.
I hear faint laughter coming from the men waiting at the elevator. My heart races, but I plant my feet on the floor, push away the lollipop, and open the door.
Nice to see you again, he says. Send my regards to Juan.
Animals don’t learn in hindsight; they only learn when punished right then. Mamá would’ve pulled out the meat cleaver and scalped Antonio’s shiny hair.
So I count the money and decide to tell Juan that I only sold three suits and not five suits. He won’t notice, I’m the one in charge of inventory. And if he does, what can he do? I’m the mother of his child. Even he isn’t crazy enough to hurt a pregnant woman. And if Antonio goes into specifics about the sales, I’ll go into specifics about lollipops and chocolates.
The phone rings. I leap toward it.
César! Where are you? It’s been two days.
I grab the earpiece with both hands as if it’ll help me to listen better. His voice has changed.
I found work with this lady in Boston. I’ll stay here for a few days.
What job? What lady? What Boston? Why can’t you come home? I need you here.
Don’t you worry, okay?
He hangs up before I ask more questions.
I turn on all the lamps, the radio, the television. I double-check the doors are locked. On the fire escape, there are still no pigeons. Will they ever return? I leave rice on the plate, just in case. I change the sheets and make the bed for César. I open a can of Chef Boyardee, heat the mushy pasta, eat it with a spoon straight out of the pot. The flavor, so flat and consistent and reliable, is suddenly the only thing I can stomach.
The calendar: 25 of July. Five days, no César. A lifetime.
I prepare another can of mushy pasta and eat it warm, tucking my feet between the sofa pillows. The warm-pudding noodles travel down my throat and to the baby.
A lock turns at the door, then another one—César?
I pull the door open; the chain is still on.
César’s hand waves at me through the crack.
Aaaanaaa? he croons.
Open the dooooor.
He’s drunk. He’ll need a shower. I’ll have to feed him and tuck him into bed. Who else would?
Before Juan left, César went from one woman’s bed to another. When the women started making demands on him—a little something toward the rent or groceries—he would switch the woman like an old shirt.
Please don’t let him come home with the smell of perfume. Please be the same César, my César.
I place the bowl of pasta on the coffee table. Once I unhook the chain, César almost falls on top of me. Yes, drunk. Yes, perfume. Yes, he needs a shower. His eyes red as if he hasn’t been sleeping.
César throws himself on the sofa. He looks at me like he’s been a bad boy. But he doesn’t care. He tells me one of the guys at the factory hooked him up with another job in menswear.
Menswear, huh? I say, happy that he’s in my living room again, that everything will go back to our usual routine.
I will make you a tuxedo with lots of room around your fat belly.
He steps back to get a good look at me and says, Damn, you grew in the past few days. Can I listen?
I sit down. He presses his ear against my belly and embraces my hips.
I can’t wait to meet you, little shrimp. He lifts my shirt and kisses it. Suddenly he is on his knees, both hands holding my belly.
She’s kicking you, I say.
I feel her! he squeals.
I giggle. He continues to rub my belly, his hands firm and soft, skimming the bottom of my breasts. All my little hairs lift. I revel in the way his hands hold me like a gift. The rush of blood, anticipating, anticipating. I want to bite into a peach. Beg his hands, his lips to misstep and fall into my mounting desire.
There you go, he says to the belly. Where the baby pushes, he kisses, his lips lingering longer and longer. My breasts tingle.
I missed you, baby, he says.
The baby kicks, and César rolls onto his back on the floor into a fetal position.
She knocked me out! he says. I throw him a sofa pillow.
Can I fall asleep right here? It’s so cool down here.
Soon after, his soft purr turns into a deep snore. I sit and watch him. To dull the ache, I place a pillow between my legs, rock back and forth, until the earthquake between my legs strikes.
Cabronita! I hear my sister snicker.
With a good woman, you’d be unstoppable, I tell César one evening.
He rips the seams off one of my dresses while I stand on the coffee table. I am his mannequin, wearing half a dress: just a slip and one of Juan’s undershirts.
Don’t move, I don’t want to hurt you.
César holds a pin with his lips, a tape measure dangling from his neck, a pencil behind his ear.
I’m serious, you need a good woman to settle down with. Who will take care of you.
You already take care of me, he says.
If we were birds, César and I could mate, and Juan and I could mate, and any bird who is capable of not eating my offspring, who is able to bring me food, to build a nest, who is healthy and has attractive colors, could be part of my mating community. There would be no marriage contract, just the game of survival and pleasure.
But we’re not birds. Our days are numbered. Juan has been gone two full months. He left end of May and it’s now almost August. If he doesn’t come back soon, he’ll lose his place at Yonkers Raceway. He has to return to pay the rent, of which he only paid two months up front. He’s losing his patience with all the corruption.
Dominicans are no good, Juan says.
But we’re Dominican.
No, really, pajarita, not even family can be trusted. Everyone sells themselves to the highest bidder. It’s hell. Hell. I miss you, he says. I can’t wait to be home.
Every moment with César could be our last minute, our last day, or week. So I savor it.
César tugs on me, pulls out darts and sews the fabric by hand.
I tell him, I want you to be someone important, César. You deserve that. Any woman would be lucky to have you.
But you’re my inspiration. Why do you push me away like that? he says. Raise your arms like Jesus and keep ’em up so you don’t bleed to death.
I laugh even more when he sews by hand around my armpit, inadvertently tickling me. He bunches the excess fabric below my breasts, folding it into darts.
I’m sorry, this is the only way, he says. He fusses and tugs around my hips and smooths the fabric on my backside; his hands dip into the small of my back and the rise of my behind, which has grown twice in size since I arrived to the U.S. He pushes the fabric down around my thighs, holds it together, his nose close to my inner thigh, just enough to make me pulse.
Desire. Desire. Desire. I have no other thought.
My arms hurt, I say, to say something.
Well, beauty equals pain. That’s what the models say.
So I’d rather stay ugly. Besides, no one sees me. Juan won’t even notice.
I see you. You see you.
He offers his hand to help me down from the coffee table so I can look at myself in the mirror. He has taken two of my dresses to make a single one. All this stuff he’s learned by working with men’s clothing. How to layer the fabric so it gives around the joints. Unlike women, men don’t tolerate being uncomfortable.
Look how easily you can move your arms. I gave you just enough space so it doesn’t pull around your back. You can also bend down without being afraid to tear open the seams.
Because I’m so fat?
My boss wants to teach me all his tricks. He says he prefers Dominicans because we work harder than anyone else.
Maybe it’s because you’re special.
Nah, he’s giving me an opportunity. Those Jewish guys give us work but keep their secrets to themselves. The Italians, they’re more open.
It’s amazing how from nothing, you made something.
You do the same with food. Me, I look at all these fabric scraps and think, four scraps make a shirt. Just have to put them together like a puzzle.
