Dominicana, page 26
Finally hearing her voice releases a tension in my chest.
Caridad, I know who you are, I say into the phone as Juan tries to grab it from me.
Give it to me, Ana, or else …
Or else, what … Juancho?
He twists my wrists then stops. Everyone’s watching.
Ana, give him the phone, Mamá says. Don’t be disrespectful. We have visitors.
No. No. No! I yell like American children do in public, and I hold up the phone for Caridad to listen from the other end.
Stop playing games, pajarita, Juan says and laughs to lighten the mood in the room. But even the music sounds hollow.
Tell that to your Cari.
Give me the phone, carajo, Juan says, this time louder.
I wrap the cord around my arm and turn away. The phone is mine. All mine.
In one move Juan snatches the phone from me and with it smacks my top lip so hard I bleed.
Yrene steps forward, but Hector pulls her back and says to Juan, Brother …
Goddamnit. Look what she makes me do.
If you’d like to make another call, please hang up … And soon the sound of short beeps.
I cover my lip. The blood is bright on the tips of my fingers. I look up at Juan and past him, see Antonio cover his face. I see Lenny by the door. I hear the baby crying.
Mamá pulls me away.
Ana, go to your room and find your head before you embarrass us further.
You always take his side, Mamá. Haven’t I done everything you wanted me to do and lived up to my end of the bargain? I say, and glare at him. Go to her, Juan! Go to her and leave me the hell alone, I yell. All of you!
Yrene runs past us to the crying Altagracia in the bedroom.
Juan’s cheeks are red, his eyes small. He wants to punch something. He swings his arms and slaps my Dominicana off the windowsill. She flies across the room and shatters all over the floor.
What have you done? I scream.
Juan grabs both my shoulders as if he can calm me, but his fingers dig into me hard.
A sharp burn shoots through me. I feel liquid trail down my leg—the stitches. The stitches.
Stop it, Juan keeps saying. Just stop it.
He shakes me and shakes me.
But it’s too late.
Get away from her, Mamá says, and balls the dishtowel she’s holding and presses it on me to stop the blood. But it’s coming too fast, a fountain.
You monster! she yells at Juan.
Call an ambulance, Antonio says.
No, says Hector, it’s faster if I run across the street and get help.
Then he and Antonio run out of the apartment.
Mamá, I cry when I see the blood spread on the floor, the rug, my clothes. My vision blurs. The pain pulls me in and out. I see Yrene bouncing the baby on her shoulder, walking between the bedroom and kitchen. I’m too weak to say, Bring her to me, let me hold her.
Juan paces. Why doesn’t she stop crying? he says to Yrene.
You stop your crying, says Mamá.
She goes to yank the sheets off the bed, and then wraps them around me like a diaper. She leans me on her hip to wrap my arm around her neck.
I’ll carry her downstairs, Juan says, and tries to move Mamá out of the way.
Don’t touch me, she says in a guttural voice. And get away from her.
Mamá bends her knees and lifts me from the floor. They don’t know she has lifted animals even heavier than me.
You’re being ridiculous. Let me carry her.
Go tend to that crazy downstairs, Juan, before the neighbors start talking. Lenny, open the door.
Can you believe this woman? Juan says to no one out in the hallway as Mamá carries me to the elevator. This is what happens when you get involved with backward people. I told Ramón they would be more trouble than it’s worth. But he insisted. And insisted. And I went and married her, trying to make the whole goddamn world happy, but nobody’s happy. Nobody.
The elevator arrives. Mamá hesitates but steps in, and leans me against the wall. When Juan tries to enter and help, she says, Don’t you dare. He throws up his hands and allows the elevator gates to close.
The small corner mirror distorts our reflection. Mamá looks twice her size.
Down in the lobby, the doors fling open to Hector and Antonio standing beside a hospital medic who carries a cloth cot. They enter the elevator and lay out the cot. One-two-three. They lift me.
I am on a boat crossing a river. Caridad wails from afar like a ship’s horn. Juan tries to calm her from up in the clouds. I float downriver, holding Yohnny’s hand. Stay with us, Ana, stay with us.
At the hospital Mamá sits close by my bed and watches over me. Wipes the sweat from my brow. Holds my hand. When my eyes finally open, I say, Stay with me. Stay with us.
Of course, I’m your mother.
I need to get to Altagracia.
Get well first.
I feel the same ache of longing for Altagracia I once felt for César when we were apart. When I try to sit up, Mamá presses me back down.
Doctor’s orders: rest.
Mamá’s hopes have turned. It’s now us and only us. And together we brace ourselves, imagining how and when Juan will make us pay for disrespecting him in front of others. Here she is, in a city she doesn’t know, thinking the weight of our survival is on her shoulders. She had wanted New York. She had pushed for it.
So this is New York, she says with a weak smile.
Don’t worry, Mamá; it’s made me strong.
She lays her head on my chest, and she lets me comb through her graying hair. And that’s when Mamá’s cries come in, a tropical storm without warning, her wail with no top or bottom. Finally she understands everything I have sacrificed, everything I have survived for her and for the family.
Let’s go for a walk around the block, I say to Mamá. My stitches are finally gone. It’s unusually warm for November. The leaves are on fire, the sky blue blue, not a cloud. I am able to move around without feeling any pain. I pack the baby’s bag, hook it on the stroller. I make Lenny put on his coat, head toward the door. Mamá surprises me by saying, Fine, fine, I’ll go.
We walk to Fort Washington, and I point to the river.
And over to the right, I say, is the George Washington Bridge. And past that, your job.
All of New York makes me think of César. Sometimes he calls to check in and says he’ll visit to meet Altagracia, but he never shows up. The Ruiz brothers laugh him off and say he’s caught up with some woman in Boston. I ache just thinking about it.
Mamá and Lenny sleep in the bedroom with me. Juan now sleeps on César’s sofa. We have no choice. We have to make it work until another apartment opens up, until we make enough money to cover the rent ourselves.
We walk up 164th Street.
Mostly Jewish people live on this block, I say. Cubans and Puerto Ricans too, but soon it will be just us. Soon soon I’m going to go to school and study accounting so I know how to manage all our business. You’re going to make your famous dulce de leche and sell them at every bodega. There will be a bodega on every block. And Lenny here, when he’s off from school in the summer we’ll have him sell frio-frios like we did back home. We’ll get the largest block of ice we can find, and everyone will be coming to our cart, from all over, for the best tamarind and lemon flavor shaved ice in the city. We’ll make them in every color imaginable. And in the winter, Mamá, in the hours we’re not working at the factory and I’m not in school, we can sell your delicious beans: sweet and hot. And pastelitos made with flour, even with yucca. And all these stores on Broadway will be owned by us, catering to us. The bodegas will have piles of plátanos taller than me, and coconut water, and yucca, and bacalao.
Mamá laughs at me or maybe with me. But I don’t care. I know one day I will no longer live with Juan. I know that Papá and Teresa and her baby will all be here with us. And we are going to work hard. Especially Altagracia, who will make something special out of herself.
We stop at the bench in front of La Bodeguita owned by Alex, the Puerto Rican. When I’d first arrived, Juan told me never to enter the store without him and I obeyed except for that one time.
You both sit here while I get something inside, I say.
I make Mamá hold on to the stroller.
Once inside, I head straight to the register. The man behind the counter does a double take.
Hey, Dominicanita, I remember you. You’re Juan’s wife, no? Are you back for some free chocolate?
I purse my lips, hand him my crisp dollar.
Three bars of chocolate, please.
New York looks good on you, he says. You planning to stick around?
I look out to see Mamá and Lenny. They’re all bundled up, eagerly waiting for me to return, their eyes wide and fresh.
Yes, I say. Yes, I am.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was inspired by my mother’s story as well as all the Dominicanas who took the time to answer my questions about their lives and who opened their photo albums so I could bridge the gaps in all the silences in the telling, often painful. When I told my mother back in 2005 I would write a novel inspired by her, she said, Who would be interested in a story about a woman like me? It’s so typical. And yet, stories like my mother’s, although common, are rarely represented in the mainstream narratives available to us. I am grateful for the opportunity to publish this singular story, knowing very well that so many writers who are women of color do not have this privilege and access.
Thank you to Daniel—you have been so patient with me. I love you so much.
Thank you to the Cruz, Gomez, and Piscitelli families, who generously took on the care of my son, making it possible for me to take time away to write. To Paolo, who fed me art and countless meals. Grazie, Stefania, for providing me una stanza to write. I’m grateful to Texas A&M University and the University of Pittsburgh, who funded numerous research trips in support of this novel. To the fellowships and residencies: Hermitage, Art Omi, Siena Art Institute, and CUNY Dominican Institute. To the following publications for publishing excerpts of this novel: Gulf Coast, Kweli, Callaloo, Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas, and Small Axe. Thank you, Adriana, for introducing me to my agent, Dara, who reenergized the novel with her brilliant editorial notes. And to my editor, Caroline: wow. Oh wow. Perfect timing. Collaborating with you and the amazing team at Flatiron on this book’s journey has been divine.
I am grateful to everyone who read this novel and provided their input and expertise, including the creative and scholarly works that have profoundly impacted the trajectory of this book. So many! But, in particular, for their critical feedback: Irina, for encouraging me to be more explicit, and also for suggesting the title. Jennifer, who breathed fire into the novel with her suggestion to change the POV. Milenna, my tireless, devoted listener. Laylah, for encouraging my rage and for our invaluable creative exchanges.
To my Aster(ix) familia, thank you for the ways you keep challenging me. I am especially grateful to mis hermanas, diosas, and brujas—who, without their many interventions, I certainly wouldn’t have completed this book. To Nelly, my astral twin, for being the best line editor ever. To Marta Lucia, my fierce, loving comrade in writing and social action. To Emily, for plotting with me in fiction and in life, and for nudging me to fight for my work. To Andrea, for bringing the light when I am full of despair. And to Dawn, for all the love, beauty, and poetry we’ve shared; so much of it informed Dominicana and its coda:
Leave wreckage by the roadside.
Burn all decayed tissue.
Tightrope from which we emerge.
—DAWN LUNDY MARTIN,
GOOD STOCK STRANGE BLOOD
Yes, yes! Let’s emerge!
* * *
Note: If you have photographs/videos from the ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s of Dominicanas in New York City, please submit them to the visual archive on Instagram at @dominicanasnyc.
Recommend Dominicana for your next book club! Reading Group Guide available at www.readinggroupgold.com
ALSO BY ANGIE CRUZ
Let It Rain Coffee
Soledad
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Angie Cruz is the author of the novels Soledad and Let It Rain Coffee, a finalist in 2007 for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. She has published work in The New York Times, VQR, Gulf Coast, and other publications, and she has received fellowships from the New York Foundation of the Arts, Yaddo, and the MacDowell Colony. She is founder and editor in chief of Aster(ix), a literary and arts journal, and is an associate professor of English at the University of Pittsburgh. Dominicana is inspired by her mother’s story.
Visit her online at www.angiecruz.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Acknowledgments
Also by Angie Cruz
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DOMINICANA. Copyright © 2019 by Angie Cruz. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover design by Adalis Martinez
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Cruz, Angie, author.
Title: Dominicana: a novel / Angie Cruz.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019012554 | ISBN 9781250205933 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250205926 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3603.R89 D66 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012554
eISBN 9781250205926
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: September 2019
Angie Cruz, Dominicana
