Dominicana, page 24
Mark my words, pajarita, the Dominicans are going to flood New York in a blink of an eye. This neighborhood won’t know what hit them.
Thank you, I say, and kiss him in fast short pats all over his face.
It makes me so happy to see you happy, he says, searching for love in my eyes.
Juan is my monster and my angel. In this messed-up world, he tries his best. And I owe it to him to try my best. Maybe with time if César keeps his distance I can make my marriage work. I can ask Mamá to heal me from the poisonous fish. To make me one of her potions to forget César. Maybe then I can even love Juan.
Once fall kicks in, the city is blanketed by a firestorm of leaves. The pigeons are back on the fire escape, pecking at the rice I have left for them. New fashion has skirts cropping up on women’s thighs and men opting out of formal suits in favor of black leather jackets and berets.
I count the days on the calendar until their arrival. Juan has already figured out that the school two blocks away will enroll Lenny in first grade. Mamá will work at a lamp factory across the bridge in New Jersey. A van will pick her up and take her there every morning at 7:45 a.m. And when the baby qualifies for daycare, I will join her.
There will be plenty of people to love and to rely on. To make room in the closets for them, Juan sells a bulk of the suits to another vendor. With all of us working outside of the house, no one can take care of the suit business, anyway.
All this waiting—without César, without the suit customers—makes the days unbearably long. Whenever the phone rings, I hope it’s César, who will call to say he still loves me, that he misses me, that he’s still working hard to figure out a real solution for us. But when the phone rings it’s often the breath, even if she knows Juan isn’t home, she calls and calls. So I turn up the radio and play songs for her, and she listens before hanging up.
She must be lonely too.
Sister Lucía has gone away to visit her family in Chile. There are no more English classes until next spring. I focus on trying my best not to upset Juan. He’s being so generous. There is loneliness during the day but also peace, for once. Going out, even for a walk, is a trial. My bladder is the size of a pea. My feet are always bloated; my soles ache and shoot pain up through my legs and around my hips, especially when I have to climb the stairs. The elevator in our building has a mind of its own and only works when it wants to. If I have groceries, I will wait an hour until the super or the porter volunteers to help me up. How do the neighbor with children and the old lady Rose manage when the elevator is out of order? It’s unnatural to live up so high.
To fill my days I write in my small notebook. Writing becomes like talking. I write down my dreams. In them, Juanita sits at my kitchen table, her belly as large as mine. We press our bellies together, becoming a two-headed pregnant beast. It’s a comforting dream.
The leaves on the trees outside our window soon become vibrant, bursting with color. For something to be born, Papá always says, something has to die. But pregnant as I am, I can’t manage any more loss. How beautiful the leaves look right before their last days. Every year they fall, so the tree trunks rest and the leaves can come back in the spring.
Hold on, I tell myself and rest my bare feet on the floor and imagine them as tree roots.
César’s return. The continuous ring of the doorbell blares across the apartment to the kitchen. I run to the door to look through the peephole. I see no one. The sound of fingers tapping. César calls my name so softly I barely hear it. When I open the door, he jumps at me and says, Boo!
What are you doing here?
I pull him in and lock the door, with the chain.
What if Juan was home? I hiss. What if someone sees you? Why aren’t you in Boston?
I came to get you, he says, and we stare at each other. I have to get on my tiptoes so my face can be closer to his.
I slap him. Now, it comes so easily.
I gasp at what I’ve done. His look of disbelief and smile of admiration.
You want to do that again? he asks and takes my hand, holds it to his face.
He unhinges me. His jeans are frayed, his shirt needs ironing, his fingernails need a trim. I’m pleased he has all the signs of a man living without a woman. Men can only perform like men, Mamá always says, when women are doing everything. We’re invisible little workers so they can puff out their chests.
I walk away from him, frustrated. I want to take off his shirt and iron it. I have to restrain myself from getting the nail clippers. Now that Juan is back in New York, everything is changed. The shell of the pomegranate has been cracked open. There is no way to make it whole again.
César takes my arm and rolls me into his body. His face is close to mine. His breath smells of coffee, alcohol, and cigarettes. He steps back and forward, gently pulling and pushing me. His head slumps onto my shoulder. His feet are no longer moving, only his hips. He sings softly into my ear, his weight heavy on me.
Ay, Ana Banana, he says, and sticks his hands under my arms and tickles me. Tickles me onto the couch until I laugh so hard no sound comes out of my mouth. César tickles and tickles until I pee on myself.
César! I yell, and run to the bathroom. It has only been a small leak, but with the pressure of the baby on my bladder, I need to be more careful—he needs to be more careful.
After, I find him in my room taking out my clothing from my drawers.
Let’s go before Juan returns, he says, and pulls out a suitcase from the top shelf in the closet. Unlatches it and it pops open. Inside there is another suitcase and inside that a bag.
Did you find a place for us? I ask.
My friend will be picking us up in less than an hour. We don’t have much time, Ana. Where is your paperwork? Once we leave we won’t be able to come back here.
My mother arrives in a few weeks with Lenny. I can’t just leave.
Believe me, your mother knows how to take care of herself.
He tears open my closet.
I look at the perfectly made bed. The curtains I have ironed. Everything has an order, everything has a place. I have already made room for the baby, for Mamá, for Lenny.
I can’t go with you, I say.
But we made a plan, he yells, his voice full of sparks. Fuck!
I protect my face. His arms thrash in the air. His hands pull at his hair. He walks out to the living room and then back into the room. He knows I’m right. If he can barely take care of himself, how can he take care of me? And my family?
What am I supposed to do in Boston by myself?
I don’t know, I cry. Come back to New York?
I flee into the kitchen to chop onions, cilantro, and peppers. To mince garlic, to fry a plátano. To do anything to make the ache bearable.
He follows me. I hold on to the onion with one hand. I grip the knife with the other. Please don’t make this harder for me.
What the fuck are you doing? Put that knife down. We don’t have time for this.
I chop, chop, chop the onion into the tiniest pieces.
His hand wraps around my arm so I can let go of the onion, the knife. He leads me to the living room.
Please, he says, his voice softer. Just come with me. Don’t you love me?
My feet are rooted. My fists, tight against my sides. My eyes wide open, welling up with tears from the onions, from the fact that we both know I am not going anywhere.
Don’t move, okay? He plugs in his record player and looks through his 45s and says, at least dance with me, eh?
I know this song by the Four Tops. Sung by the four black men whose front man looks just like El Guardia. I’d memorized it from start to finish to practice my English pronunciation. It’s always on the radio. His body moves as if stepping on the uneven floor of a cloud as he dances alone and sings it aloud. Then he extends his arms toward me and once again I am trapped by his smell, his warmth. We should’ve run off before Juan’s arrival.
I can’t help myself
I love you and nobody else
We sway together for a long while. Though upbeat, the song is sad. This is good-bye. I know it by the way our hands weave together and by the way I have to finally let him go. I have chosen my family. There will be no César and Ana forever.
When I take a walk on Broadway I pretend I’m balancing a book on my head. I sway my hips, looking into store windows in search of a fur coat and a string of pearls. Some sheer stockings and a patent-leather purse. The store windows are crammed with old furniture in need of repair, piles of bed covers, sausages dangling bloody red at the meat shop. My reflection stares back at me: hair flat, no poof, no velvety bow barrette like Miss Kennedy’s to hold my hair up. The strumming guitars and banging of drums loom close by. The crowds swarm around me, people holding signs, End War Now. They shout in unison this thing and that, pushing me ahead, a riptide under my feet. The banging of pots. The ominous sound of thunder. I should go home to avoid trouble, but I throw myself in, allowing the wave to lift and take me along. Surrendering. Peace for All. We march downtown against traffic, filling the streets, halting the delivery trucks, buses, and cars. Our breaths in sync. The cars honk. The sirens wail. A helicopter dips low above us. The police hover nearby with clubs, waiting, waiting. They, like the marchers, multiply quickly. Lined up, the cops become a blue fence all along the sidewalks containing us. From my living room window, the protests seem loud and chaotic, but once inside of it, I feel weightless. A woman links her arm to mine and I link my arm to a man next to me. They’re much taller than me. We’re like a school of fish, not losing our place, swimming against the current. Alive. I can barely see anything, the mass of bodies pushing back the traffic, providing a shore for the march to break into. Turn back! Turn back! Mamá would say. Don’t get involved with business that’s not yours. But our arms looped one into the other, get tighter, stronger. Suddenly, we’re sitting. The traffic jams. There’s no turning back. I don’t care that my skirt will be full of street dirt. Chants rip through my body. Together we’re strong. So strong. This is why we sit. This is why we say no. This is why we link arms.
The day Mamá and Lenny arrive I don’t go to the airport because there is no room in the car. It’s a beautiful fall day in October, not cold, not too warm. Much better than arriving in the dead of winter like me. They arrive loaded with luggage filled with things Juan has planned to sell to a friend, things he instructed Mamá to tell the customs officer were gifts for friends, or just their own belongings.
I have left nothing unturned in our small apartment. Everything has been meticulously cleaned, polished, organized. Mamá will sleep in the foldout bed in the living room and Lenny on the sofa. At first I suggest to Juan he should sleep in the living room so when he comes home late he won’t wake us up. But it’s my house, he says angrily, a wife should sleep with her husband.
All the smells of home permeate the place. In the oven, bread pudding bakes. On the stove, a majarete simmers. I stock the fridge with ingredients Mamá will recognize to ease the transition. I turn on the radio to the Spanish station. With the money I have saved, I bought Mamá a nightgown, a pair of slippers, a dress, some underwear. A net for her hair, bobby pins. For Lenny, I bought some pants and two shirts. Just enough so they don’t suffer embarrassment. Not too much, so Juan won’t realize I have my own money to spend.
I wait for them in the lobby. The elevator is working. Bob the porter has not arrived yet. I stack the books and papers on the mantel. I sort the advertising by the mailboxes. I stand by the door, then sit on the small sofa.
When Juan’s car pulls up in front of the building, I run to the door. My eyes tear up when I see them climb out of the car. Lenny’s arms are bare, his pants too short for his legs. Mamá wears a flimsy dress and a shawl around her neck. I see a few white hairs. My old lady! Next to Juan, in New York City, they look so small.
Mamá! I call out to them and open the door, waving them into the building, where it’s warmer. She looks at me and through me. Mamá? I say again and then as if something registers, she waves. She slaps Lenny on the head and nudges him into the building.
Lenny? I hug him. He’s so shy and meek.
What happened to your hair? Mamá says disapprovingly. Now your face looks fat.
Come, come, I say, and suddenly feel the surrealness of being with them here in the building, of pressing a button and waiting for a box to come down.
What about Juan? Mamá asks, turning in circles.
I’m right here, Juan says. He comes up behind us, hauling two large suitcases with him.
How was your trip? I ask Mamá. To Lenny, Was it fun?
Lenny smiles, looks down at the black and white tiles.
Mamá says, Everything was very nice.
The Mamá in Los Guayacanes is full of words. In New York City, talking with her is like pulling teeth.
The elevator comes. The gates open. I hold the door for Mamá and Lenny to enter. Lenny jumps in and the elevator shakes, reminding me that it is being held by a few cables. Mamá doesn’t budge, stares but won’t enter.
Get in. It’s just an elevator, says Juan. I have to go to work.
Juan, I say, not to embarrass Mamá, Why don’t you go first, with those heavy bags. Lenny will keep you company.
Once Juan and Lenny are gone, Mamá seems relieved. Her fragility makes my heart open to her. Everything I feared about her as a child, her lioness will, her strict ways are gone. Gone! As we wait for the elevator to return, I ask about Teresa, and Mamá rolls her eyes.
Crazy as ever, she says.
And Papá?
He’s fine. He sends his regards.
What about Juanita?
You won’t recognize her. Fat like you’ve never seen her.
Isn’t she pregnant?
That’s what she told some chino she found down the road. Three times her age, half her size, and he’s stupid enough to take her with him to Japan.
Juanita can’t take Yohnny’s baby to Japan—we’ll never see her again!
Mamá shrugs. She looks tired.
You heard about Betty, right? She’s gone off with a man who was struck by lightning, pale as milk. We plan and God laughs, Ana.
Would you rather take the stairs? I ask Mamá.
If that’s what you want.
She turns and starts up the stairs ahead of me, as if she already lives here. After the first flight, I’m out of breath. The baby’s feet press against my lungs. Mamá looks around, making note of the stairs, of the hallways. Complaining about living so high up.
Why didn’t Juan get a place on the first floor? Too expensive?
We enter the apartment. Juan has already slapped on some Old Spice and changed his shirt.
What took you so long? he says.
Lenny sits on the far end of the sofa, clearly not wanting to take up too much space.
Will you be home late? I ask Juan.
Mamá sucks her teeth softly, but I hear it.
Explain to them how the water works, he says, and then he leaves me alone with them.
Mamá holds her bag close to her body and looks around to all the corners of the living room, the small television, the radio, at all the mirrors, at the shelves filled with old books and LPs. She walks over to the window overlooking Broadway. I can tell from her face the sight of the bustling street from above makes an impression.
See, Mamá? The higher the floor the better the view. Come, I say, I made you some bread pudding and majarete.
They follow me into the kitchen.
We don’t all fit. It’s too small, says Mamá. She sticks her finger in the pot and tastes it.
Too sweet, she says.
She puts her bag on a chair. She grabs the broom tucked by the refrigerator and says, What, you don’t have time to clean in this city? This floor looks filthy.
And just like that I become a child again, and my impulse is to hide the uncooked rice, the slippers, the hangers, the belts, everything Mamá can find to hurt me. But I can’t hide her words; they are worse than a horsewhip.
There are two Mamás. There’s the Dissatisfied one, who makes it clear that I do nothing right and who reminds me how grateful I should be because she can finally teach me how to be a good wife, a good mother, how to manage a home, etc., etc. And there is La Grande Doña Selena, who has a way with people like the Ruiz brothers, who suddenly visit every Sunday because she invites them. Mamá lets anyone who visits us know what a great man Juan is. And he laps it up, a dog with a full bowl, starved for attention.
I chop. I pound on the mortar and pestle. I do the grocery shopping. I mend the socks. I take care of her and Lenny. I am the one who makes a copy of our electricity bill and Lenny’s passport for him to go to school. With my money, I buy his notebooks and pencils.
But it’s Juan who’s the hero. It’s Mamá who has her way in the kitchen. Out on the street she’s a mouse, inside the apartment she’s a lion.
To escape her I hide in the bedroom and arrange Juan’s ties and my underwear, by color, by style. Juan’s things, she does not dare touch. They are his wife’s territory.
Then I take long baths and let the water move about me, touching my large belly, all my parts, still remembering the gentle touch of César. Is he still in Boston working with the tailor? I never asked him where he slept, if he slept alone. Too painful to even think about it.
I count the days until Mamá will start to work at the factory in New Jersey so that I can have the apartment to myself again. First Lenny will start school, all the details arranged by Juan. Then a man with a van will pick Mamá up on the corner of 165th and Broadway at 7:45 a.m., Monday to Friday, and drop her off across the George Washington Bridge to work on miniature lamps.
To bring more light in the world, I joke. You will have to get used to the elevator, Mamá, to know how to get around, even if just around the block.
You talk like I’ve never been to La Capital, she says.
But she’s afraid of the outside. This city’s much larger, and at night it wakes her up with sirens and gunshots. In Los Guayacanes, the only sounds at night are of the animals, all beating to a clock she understands. She won’t admit that this city is alarming to her. Not to me, not even to herself.
