Dominicana, page 21
I know! When the fridge is almost empty, I invent something. And it comes out good. But I forget how I did it.
Write it down. That’s what my bosses do. They’re always writing things down. People’s names, when they’re late. How much they produce. When a fabric does something interesting. That’s our problem, we don’t write things down.
I do write stuff down.
I go to the shelf to get my notebook and hand it over to César.
My name is Ana, César reads aloud. I like sunsets. I am fifteen years old.
I write every new word or anything I don’t understand. Then I look it up. Like what does alligator have to do with later?
César bends over laughing.
Americans and English make no sense, I say.
Juan will be shocked when he finds out how much you know.
He doesn’t know about the classes.
Juan’s all about school. He’s been pushing me to go to school for years.
But Juan gets so mad sometimes. I never know what will make him upset.
César imitates Juan, “If I was your age…”
I laugh just a little, struck by the resemblance.
César stands up and expands his chest, purses his lips, and furrows his eyebrows, imitating Juan even more.
Ana, tell me you love me, me, me!
He waits for an answer. Where Juan is hairy, César is smooth. Juan’s eyes are round and large and César’s almond-shaped. Juan’s hair thin and wavy, César’s a bush of tight curls. Juan is pale, César is the color of the crunchy skin off of juicy roasted chicken thigh, creamy hot chocolate, buttered toast, dark honey, the broth of slow-cooked sancocho.
Every soul food I crave.
I love you, I say, and mean it. I love César with every one of my bones including the baby’s. And if I don’t find something to eat soon I am going to bite a piece off of him.
Come here and kiss me, César says, still in character and trying to hold back his laughter.
No, Juan.
Come on, Ana, don’t be a banana. César taps his cheek.
I tap-kiss him on the bull’s-eye and run off to the kitchen.
That’s my girl! César yells from the living room. Now go get an education and become rich so I can stay home with the baby!
I press my back against the kitchen walls, hiding the red in my face from César. In the refrigerator I find half an onion, a tomato, an open can of tomato paste, parsley, some peppers. The soaked beans have to be cooked. Soup, I will make soup. And as César pedals the sewing machine I light the burners, then reduce the flame.
It’s a relief when César shows up with Hector in tow for a meal. It’s getting harder to be alone with these almond-shaped eyes and tailor’s hands and dancing feet. When the two brothers don’t talk about politics they talk about baseball, which I prefer because only bad news comes from Dominican Republic.
I watch the game with Hector and César. They make bets on when Juan Marichal will blow his top and punch catcher John Roseboro, who’s really asking for it. But on the baseball field, the nonwhite players have to play nice around whites because the world is watching. Once away from the camera we know that Marichal’s fists will come out.
Those blacks wish we’d disappear, Hector says.
The brothers share how they feel the same tension at work. At the bar. On the streets. And even more so after the Americans occupied Dominican Republic and Los Angeles had its riot. Thousands hit the streets. Stores burned down; people broke glass windows and took whatever they wanted.
Those blacks are angry, Hector says.
But we’re angry too, César says. We can’t rent houses, either. Our schools aren’t better. We’re paid less. The police harass and shoot us at will. We want to work and be left alone. To be able to live our lives without watching our backs. But the blacks look at as us like, Who invited you to our party?
It’s not easy, Hector says, shaking his head in agreement. Getting the side-eye as the new kid at work. And in baseball, we’re killing it with plátano power.
They laugh.
So during a game, when Roseboro throws a ball as if he wants to hit Marichal in the face, one time too many, we hold our breath.
Roseboro throws off his helmet. And then Marichal takes his bat and hits Roseboro on the head right in the middle of the field. We know it will make the front page of all the newspapers tomorrow.
Finally we’ll make the news. All the covers.
Is it over for Marichal and his career? the announcer asks TV viewers.
But like the rest of us watching, what satisfaction I feel to see a Dominican stand up for himself.
When I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, César isn’t in his bed. It’s eleven-thirty. He has to go to work early the next day. After dinner I left him dozing on the sofa. He’d claimed to be tired.
Out the window I see there’s still a party going on in the ballroom at the Audubon. The curtains are closed. The display lights of the Buick store light up the corner. I stretch my neck out the window. The night, hotter than ever. Two streetlamps are busted, so it’s too dark to see much else. Maybe César is taking a walk? Sometimes he likes to smoke a cigarette on the benches in Pigeon Park.
Bastard. Does he do this all the time, leave without warning?
I go through his stuff for clues, maybe I will find matches from local businesses. I take the shirt he has worn all day and hold it on my lap, stretch my legs on the coffee table. I smell his shirt. César’s smell makes me crazy.
Usually, I sleep like a log, but now the baby’s kicks keep me awake.
I turn on the television. Nothing on but long loud beeps. Emergency warnings. I get my crochet needle and yarn to relax myself. During all my years in Dominican Republic, Mamá would ask me to crochet doilies to give as gifts, and I hated it. I always lost count and tangled the yarn. But with all the anxiety of Juan returning and the baby coming, and as a way to keep my hands busy and not eat everything in sight, crocheting and counting the lines gives me a sense of control. Besides, the baby will need a blanket come winter, some boots, a hat.
Where are you? I say to the dimly lit void of the room, as if the walls can tell César’s secret. I want nothing more than for César to fall in love, make a life for himself. It would simplify everything between us.
I wait for over an hour. How am I to sleep knowing he snuck off at night? We’re supposed to be partners in crime. We’ve seen each other at our worst and best.
Mamá has always said to act the opposite of what people expect, to keep them on their toes. But when I hear the door click I turn off the lamp beside me, turn it back on, then off again.
When he sees me, César screams. I scream.
Are you crazy, woman?
I couldn’t sleep.
So you sit in the dark?
I didn’t mean, I was trying— Wait, where were you?
I go to him and my belly pushes him back against the wall. I poke my finger against his chest.
I smell a bar.
Ana, it’s too hot. I couldn’t sleep. I went for a drink.
Why can’t you ever take me with you?
You were snoring like a freight train.
I don’t snore.
You want nothing to do with that place—there’s only people looking for trouble.
Like the Irish who punch you?
The Irish only punch us when they’re drunk. And it’s two-for-one drinks at happy hour. Don’t worry, Ana, if they look at me wrong, I’ll go to Mami’s. She thinks I’m Cuban and gives me free drinks.
Mami, the bartender at the bar for the blacks who drive Cadillacs. The bar owned by the mother of Sammy Davis Jr., the man who makes music with his feet on TV.
Next time, take me with you, I say.
You’re underage. Oh and they changed the Irish bar to Luna Llena. The new sign went up today. Ha, the owner actually said to my face, you spics are better drunks.
Promise me, César!
Okay, okay! I promise to be a better drunk.
The next evening I ask him about going to the bar. Before Juan gets back I want to see this full-moon bar by the High Bridge pool.
I’m too tired, César says, not tonight.
I go into my bedroom and turn off the lights to wait until he sneaks out again. And why shouldn’t he? Who wants to hang out with a fat, married, pregnant woman? In a week Juan will be back. He already bought his ticket home. César and I are anxious about it. The last time Juan saw César, he almost punched him in the face. Because of me. Now the money is right where I found it. I’m sure once Juan sees it there, he’ll forgive César.
Although I have no business going out by myself so late at night, I wrap my hair high on my head and clip on two fake pearl earrings. I paint my lips a pale pink. I put on the dress César retailored for me and a short raincoat. It’s very hot outside, but I need armor. I put a few dollars in my bra. A purse, too tempting to a thief. I hold my keys inside my fist and think of all the times Teresa snuck out at night.
Usually, riding the elevator doesn’t scare me, but when the copper gates close and the doors rise above my head, every part of me begs, Go back home. I can’t just show up at a strange bar. César may not even be there. What if he’s with a woman? A man does have his needs. But why can’t that woman be me?
I walk on Broadway, on the west side of the street, on the same path the hospital workers take. I head north, past the parking lot, the diner, the shoe-repair shop. Without all the incessant noise of the city, I can hear the suction of bus doors as they open and close. I watch the lone riders inside on display under the fluorescent bus lights. Through my shoes I feel the vibrations on the pavement, of the delivery trucks rumbling past me. I hold my breath as I pass by hefty garbage piles, soon to be collected by large trucks. I make note of the emergency room door at the hospital, open twenty-four hours. Against all the warnings on the news about potential riots, about holdups and drive-by shootings, at this most dangerous hour, I turn east on 170th Street and head all the way to Amsterdam Avenue.
I contemplate whether to walk on the road and risk getting hit by a drunk driver or to stay on the desolate and dark sidewalks, where mice scurry. A chill crosses my nape. Someone has busted the lamps across the street, turning High Bridge Park into a black hole. If I venture into the park I will surely disappear forever.
Finally, signs of life. Men in swanky suits with shiny shoes and slicked hair enter and exit fancy cars. Children and decent women are home, and here I am, pregnant, chasing my womanizing brother-in-law to a bar named after the full moon.
Yes, Ana Ruiz-Canción is officially a lunatic.
I push my belly out to exaggerate its size, as if it could protect me.
The brand-new neon sign of La Luna Llena lights the entrance of the bar. Through the dark windows, red lamps and small tables crowd the room. Behind the bar, a wall lined with colorful bottles. Sitting on barstools are women in skimpy outfits, like dancers in a variety show. The music inside is so loud the windows vibrate, and through them I see César dancing, his arms in the air. Some women laugh, drape themselves on him: loose women, easy women, stupid women. Pink, shiny platform shoes. Long legs exposed. A short plaid skirt so high up my heart sinks. Hector climbs from chair to chair to high-five César. They twirl the women, all laughing, living their lives. They slip in and out of view, as the crowd swarms from one side of the room to another. And then I see my reflection, a stupid fat girl who might as well be herding goats.
Suddenly, all the lights of the bar come on. A waitress carries on her shoulder a big serving dish piled high with spaghetti. César pulls the plates from a shelf as if he’s at his second home. The large clock on the wall strikes midnight. César had told me about the free midnight meals served to the drunks before closing. I watch them eat, until someone exits and says, Want to come in?
I clumsily enter and the large fan blows hot air on my face. The bar is crowded, the music so loud I feel the drumming in my chest. Where did César and Hector go? I search for them and finally see César, his back to me.
César? I place my hand on his shoulder. He turns around and I step back and away. It’s not César. This stranger holds my arm. A firm grip. My eyes widen.
Hey baby, I don’t bite, he says, and with his other hand caresses my cheek.
So I slap him. I feel the sting on the palm of my hand. I look around. No César, no Hector.
You bitch, he says.
Now everyone is staring at me.
I rush out of the bar and hurry back to Broadway like a jealous wife whose brother-in-law she has to get out of her heart, because her husband is due back in a few days.
Puffer fish can kill you if you eat them, yet some people take the risk and die. Keep your eyes open and don’t be a pendeja like all the other girls in Los Guayacanes who fall for men with too much sugar in their mouths. Puffer fish inflate into a ball when they feel threatened as a warning to predators. The males work endlessly on designing their territories to attract a mate. Burrowing diligently with their fins, reorganizing shells. They work twenty-four hours and many many days without taking a break. The males have many mates and reign over multiple female territories. Once the female is in his territory and tries to leave he will bite her. The female is only allowed a visitor if the visiting fish mutes its bright blue, yellow, and orange spots so that the king puffer fish doesn’t feel threatened.
You get what I’m saying, Ana?
Three days before Juan arrives, César takes a dress from one of the showrooms his friend works at. A sample, he says, made from a new experimental fabric that stretches to the size of the body.
I have to tweak it a little, so it will fit you, he says.
Because I’m not skinny like those models?
No, because you’re a real woman.
The scarlet dress has a black band at the waist that lands high on my rib cage. The neckline cuts straight across the shoulder to reveal my neck bones—my best asset, as that treacherous Marisela once told me.
I slip on the dress and appreciate the short length, the way the low neck accentuates my breasts. It hugs all of my body in a way that feels covered but sexy. My hair cascades, thick and full, past my shoulders. I make up my face with fire-engine-red lipstick. I liberally apply eyeliner, mascara, and blush, knowing once Juan arrives I will no longer be able to wear this face.
César waits for me in the living room, holding a rose in his hands. He wears a silky brown shirt under his white suit. This time, he hasn’t puffed out his curls, but greased and pushed them away from his face—he is now the man in the Duke pomade ad.
The rose is real. I hold it to my nose.
Olé! César lifts his arm in the air like a flamenco dancer.
What do you think? I twirl awkwardly for César to admire his tailoring work.
It’s exactly how I imagined it. Perfect.
You should make clothes for fat pregnant ladies. We always look like whales.
You look more beautiful than a rose. Then he combs his hands through my hair and says, God, I love your hair.
You have too much sugar in your mouth.
Shall we? César presents his arm so I can catch it.
We exit the apartment. My thighs rub together into a sweat. My swollen feet are stuffed into high heels so that my calves tighten and elongate my legs. I want to be at my best for César on our last night even if it hurts. Tonight I am a woman without complaints.
The bouncers at the Audubon, friends of César, let us skip the line. We go up the narrow stairs. César leads me past the offices into the ballroom. I part the long velvet curtains and peek out the large arched windows, surrounding the ballroom, up at my building. How clearly one can look into our apartment at night. I left the kitchen lights on! I see the silhouette of Dominicana at the window where I left her, watching me. All those nights I longed to know what went on behind these same closed curtains inside the Audubon. Now here I am.
The band plays. People dance merengue.
Good music, eh? César pulls out a chair and he sits next to me.
I observe the women with small waists and fresh faces. I don’t want to let go of César’s hand, can’t stop looking at his face: his smile, his happiness, his brilliant eyes.
Want to dance? I ask him.
César extends his arm and we glide toward the crowded dance floor.
My belly is so large that when he turns me, César has to stretch his arms. My back is against his chest. I lean into him and he presses forward, our hips swishing from side to side, our feet digging into the wooden floors, his breath on my neck, his arm over my arms, my hand woven into his. The song starts slow, then fast and then slow and then fast, and the music envelops us. His arms are strong and confident and I trust them when I turn and turn and fall over his shoulder in laughter. Both my arms grab at his neck, my head on his chest. With each turn, my feet lift off the ground. This Ana, so light, so loved, so beautiful. Juan’s pending arrival makes the tears come, down my cheeks, gushing onto his suit. César doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong, but holds me tighter, his body pressing onto mine, his hands sliding up and down my back. He pulls out his handkerchief to wipe the mascara from under my eyes. And then he does it. I know it’s coming and I should stop him. He kisses me on the mouth, hard and strong, his tongue full in my mouth, my lips locking onto his, my head dizzy, the ache between my legs throbbing in tandem with my heart. My hands catch under his shirt. Desire. Uninhibited, unconstrained, and free.
The band members stop playing. I open my eyes to complete darkness. I hold on tightly to César while we wait for the lights to come back on. Our bodies, one pulse.
What happened? I whisper. Everyone in the crowded room stands eerily still.
Se fue la luz! yells a band member from the stage.
Dominicans are in the house! César yells, and enough people cheer along with him to show that our numbers are growing in this city. Soon there will be more of us in Washington Heights than Puerto Ricans, Italians, Irish, and Jews.
