Dominicana, page 3
When she comes back for air, she winks and smiles at me.
They’re gonna eat you alive in New York if you don’t change that pendeja face. You need to toughen up, Ana. You think I like being the way I am? But your father has no backbone. Never fought for anything in his life. Not even me.
But you always say he came after you.
Ha. You better open your eyes before someone else opens them for you. You hear me?
That day, Mamá was a wolf pushing away her pup.
You go to America and pretend you don’t care about what he and his brothers are talking about, but you listen carefully and take notes. He comes from a family of hard workers, good men, entrepreneurs. We can learn from them. The Ruiz brothers started poor like us. But they work together. Not like my family or your father’s family, a bunch of uneducated and greedy idiots only out for self. And now the Ruiz brothers are going to be our family too. Ramón wants to build on our property, and with this marriage we’re now bound. This is important for us—your father especially because soon all our fruit trees will be barren. The cherries are already rotten, the mangoes mealy.
But every fruit tree has had a bad year, I remind her. Some years they don’t bear fruit at all.
And you’d count on that? These people own a restaurant in the capital right by the sea. I bet it’s a fancy one, with cloth napkins on the tables, chandeliers in the main room, bathrooms with bidets and tiled floors. And in New York, Juan is working with his brother to start not one business but many. They are detailed people. Organized people. People with intelligence. You want to study, don’t you?
Yes, I want to study, maybe have my own business. I fight to hold back the tears.
Mamá takes the last drag from her cigarette and puts it out on the ledge. She picks up my chin so tenderly, she takes me by surprise.
I promise nothing bad will happen to you. You go to New York and you clean his house and cook him the kind of food that will make him return home every night. Never let him walk out of the house with a wrinkled shirt. Remind him to shave and cut his hair. Clip his nails so women know he’s well taken care of. Demand he send us money. Demand he take care of you. Make sure you sneak some money for yourself on the side. Women have necessities. And whatever you do, stay strong. Don’t allow yourself to be tempted or derailed by anyone. The city is filled with predators, and you’re just a girl. My innocent little girl. I’ll come to America as soon as you send for me. We’ll all go to New York to be with you, and together we’ll build something. I swear to God who’s my witness.
Do I really have a choice? What kind of future waits for me or my brothers if I stay?
Think of your Tía Clara—her daughter married a man who works in New York, and every month he sends the family money. He never fails. They have a cement floor and a new bathroom.
I don’t want to cry. But I cry.
Oh mi’jita, please. Stop it. Now everybody’s looking at us. You’re being ridiculous. Look at those kids. You see those kids?
Mamá points at some barefooted boys carrying baskets of bags filled with peanuts and peeled oranges. Do you know what your brother Yohnny is doing every day while you and Lenny spend your mornings at school?
I turn away. Mamá grabs my chin and makes me look through my tears.
And as soon as Lenny can write his name and add his numbers he will be out there, too.
Yes I know. I know. Every day, I press Yohnny’s shirts, only so he can get them dirty again while carrying baskets twice his weight, then sitting by the road to wait for someone to buy Papá’s fresh meats and fruits. Knowing he’s not allowed to come home until he sells everything.
Please try and be happy. It kills your father to see your sad face all the time.
I refuse to leave Los Guayacanes without saying good-bye to Gabriel, who is the only one who actually cares about anything I have to say. The next morning, before Mamá wakes up, I prepare to go to school. Heat the coals for the morning hot chocolate, slice the bread. I let out the chickens, check their water and food. I envy their freedom. How they walk about without a care in the world. I sweep away the layer of dust that drifts into our living room while we sleep. Look over the two photographs we have: one of Papá and Mamá when they married, and a portrait of all the family by a tourist who took it and mailed it to us three years before. Our only photograph with all of us together.
The sun’s still low, the animals tucked under the trees and bushes. I slip into my Sunday dress and shuffle out.
I walk quickly, until my mother can no longer yell out my name to call me back. I carry my notebook and a sharpened pencil. I cut across the field of overgrown weeds and wild tobacco and skip over rocky patches of grass. I delight in the scrape of bushes and brittle branches on my arms, as if they themselves are saying, Good-bye, Ana, remember us. I recite my numbers and spell words in my head. D-e-s-e-o: Desire. A-l-t-u-r-a: Height. P-r-o-g-r-e-s-o: Progress. It’s all for the best. It’s all for the best.
By the time I arrive to the one-room schoolhouse I can’t breathe. I sit on the side of the road to reorient myself. Am I dying? An emptiness, deep in my gut. It hurts. I hunch over my legs to calm myself down. Breathe, Ana, Breathe. This cannot be my last day of school. How in the world does anyone say good-bye to everyone they love, to everything they know?
Soon after, Gabriel emerges from the sun, an out-of-breath angel pedaling up the hill. Sweat beads crown his temples.
You okay? he asks. His thick eyebrows come together.
Hoping he will understand, I say, I can’t be here. He stares at me and then my body bolts. I run away from the school in denial of the inevitable. I find an opening in the fields.
Let me go! I yell back to Gabriel. I’m marrying Juan, punto and final.
I run by men working in the fields, lifting their machetes, bending at the knees, chopping the cane close to the ground. Chop. Chop. Chop.
Wait up! Gabriel is standing on his bike, pedaling faster. There are snakes.
Where? I stop and yell, and jump.
Everywhere, he says, laughing as he reaches me. Better to leave before they find you.
That’s not funny.
Out of breath, I walk back to the main road. He trails beside me on his bike.
Let me give you a ride home.
No, just go away.
He takes my arm gently and pulls me so I look at him. It’s a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. The green foliage iridescent. If it were any other day I would shy away from him, but Gabriel’s persistence lifts my feet off the ground.
Wanna go swimming?
The beach is only a mile away, and yet I haven’t touched the sea in months. What a strange thing for him to ask. But not stranger than Juan Ruiz asking for my hand in marriage.
He says, I take care of this house with a pool, for some gringos. They let me use it when they aren’t there.
Is that true?
Yeah, man. They’re real relaxed.
Okay, I say, and hop on the bike. He pedals fast, cuts across fields, dirt roads. He tells me to hold on, and I grab his waist; our bodies bop and bump over pebbles and branches. He pedals up a hill I’ve never known of and behind a wall of fragrant flowers I’ve never seen. He parks his bike in front of a colonial-style house that stands overlooking the valley. There are iron gates everywhere with huge padlocks, and Gabriel has all the keys.
Been working with them for two years. You can’t tell anyone because once people know this house is empty, forget about it. They’re real nice gringos.
You sleep here too?
When they aren’t here, yes. I’m the watchy man.
Diablo, you’re good at keeping secrets.
He pumps his arms to show me his small muscles and says, Wanna check out my room?
I’ve never been alone with a boy that isn’t my brother. My mother’s voice rings in my ear: Don’t stick your foot in it. You can ruin everything.
I follow him on a tiled path around the house, and he unlocks a gate into the service room. It’s furnished with a twin bed, a table, a ceiling fan, a window overlooking the pool, a chair, bright red sheets, matching curtains. A small television, a shower stall and sink. The walls painted in a bright yellow and the concrete floors a dark red.
The service room is a far cry from the one I had to stay in when I worked for a family in San Pedro for two weeks. My room was in the back of the house. The bathroom had no door. The floors hadn’t been finished. They had asked me not to use the toilet in the main house. They assigned me my own dishes and glasses, explaining to the children how countrywomen carry illnesses because we live with our animals.
Gabriel even has a television. I haven’t known anyone with a television.
Maybe I could live in this room with Gabriel and cook and clean for the gringos …
The fabric on the bed is so soft, gringo sheets. What other secrets did Gabriel have?
Let me show you the pool.
Gabriel stands at arm’s distance, shy and gentlemanly, unlike brutish Juan, who pokes and pinches as if I’m some animal. I follow Gabriel, who caresses the pool water to check the temperature.
Still early, so it’s a little cold, he says. Then he takes off all his clothes except for his underwear briefs, and jumps in head-first.
You coming? He waves to me. I have swum in my underwear plenty of times with Lenny and Yohnny but not with a boy boy.
I won’t look, promise, he says, and turns around and waits.
I take off my dress.
Don’t look! I yell because I don’t own a bra. I jump in. The cold water slaps my skin. I yelp. Gabriel laughs. Backstrokes across the pool. He flips to swim on his belly. I watch him nervously. I only know how to float.
I’ll teach you, he says.
But then you can see me.
My arms and hands cover my breasts. They’re two small lumps, but I still cover them.
Not for nothing, says Gabriel, but I got more stuff to show than you do.
He flexes his pecs.
You bastard, I say, and splash water at him, and stretch out my arms wide, and lean back to float. He places his hands under me. Above me, the sun presses its warmth on my skin. Water fills my ears. For a moment I pretend I’m alone, just me and the sun.
Now paddle your feet, Ana. As fast as you can.
I paddle, splashing water into both our eyes.
He climbs out of the pool first and puts a towel on the floor for me to sit on. As if to keep from looking at my body, he points to the view of the valley. The clouds drift far away, teasing us with their presence, the land thirsty. It hasn’t rained in weeks. He sits close enough to skim his fingers on my leg. The hairs on the back of my neck awaken. How much time has passed? We sit there in silence; his arm brushes against mine, my heart races.
So what if I stick my foot in it? What if I turn my head to meet his lips?
I wait for him to lean over, but he doesn’t. He props his weight on one arm, then the other. He acts as if we had all the time in the world. But I don’t have time, so I kiss him, right on the mouth, covering my breasts with my hands. Our full lips closed tight like our eyes, they press against each other like soft pillows. My insides spin around as if I’m still in the water. A thread pulls up between my legs, through my heart and up my throat. Don’t pull away. Don’t look at me. Not yet. Not yet. What have I done? Is this what Teresa and Mamá have warned me about? The trouble ahead, that once you start you can’t go back. When we part, we both giggle. I clamp my legs together, open my eyes wide, pull in my body tight tight tight all around, covering every point of entry. He looks away embarrassed.
I should go, I say. If I don’t get home soon my mother will kill me.
Let me take you home.
He mops the edges of the pool as if to erase our time there together. I clumsily put on my dress, afraid to stay another minute, afraid of myself.
After he drops me off a few feet from my house, he says, I’ll see you tomorrow? His smile takes over half of his face.
Okay, sure. I pretend my life isn’t about to be turned upside down.
Mamá isn’t home when I arrive. What a relief. I rush over to my room to look in the mirror to see if Gabriel’s kiss left a mark. I stare at my reflection and pucker my lips. They look swollen, transformed.
One kiss and suddenly I’m una mujer. Not a niña or jovencita but a woman. I touch the mirror to understand how it happened without warning, but with the hot-pink dress on, the girl who had never been kissed is gone. I am Ana, about to be married and to travel to America. Juan Ruiz is expected before noon.
I look into the distorted mirror at the white lace ruffles around the neckline over and around my shoulders. The dress cinches at the waist and barely covers my knees. Juanita has blown out my hair and tied it back into a bun at the crown with ribbon upon curly ribbon, in white and pink. I put one hand on my waist, shift my hip to one side. Is that really me?
In New York I’ll have a closet full of dresses and jewelry. All kinds of purses and shoes. And Juan will pay for me to go to the salon every week and get my nails done. And he’ll take me to see shows and we’ll go dancing with live bands. And our house will be full of his friends and family. Every day will feel like a party.
Mamá walks into the room carrying her pouch of makeup.
Come by the window. The light is better, she says.
I kneel on the floor and lean against her knees. Hold myself up nice and tall so she can study my face.
Look up, she says, and brushes mascara on my eyelashes, then blows into them to dry. She pulls the sides of my eyes and draws a line above them, leaning back for a better look.
I want to see, I want to see, I say, and jump over to the mirror. Surprise! My eyes are twice as big. My lashes twice as long.
Mamá pats pink cream on my cheeks and curses how dark my skin has become. Even darker after spending time with Gabriel in the pool.
What if Gabriel sees me now? He’d probably think I’m too much woman for him.
Mamá pats red lipstick on my lips and asks me to lick and spread.
But Juan won’t like it, I say.
Just for the photo, she says. So your lips don’t get lost on your face.
She takes a tissue to blot them. A trick she recently learned from a magazine. So it won’t get on your teeth, she says.
I go back to the mirror, thinking of all those times Teresa stole my mother’s makeup and put it on to sneak out at night to meet El Guardia. I smile to show Mamá that no lipstick got on my teeth. We all need some kind of mask.
Mamá makes me sit outside on a wooden bench, under the shade of an almond tree, where it’s much cooler than our house—a real furnace. Teresa, Yohnny, Juanita, and Lenny are off to the beach.
Ana, get out of that dress, Teresa insists. El Guardia will be here any second.
She’s in her bathing suit, a sausage casing, under the oversize men’s shirt she uses for cover.
My little brother, Lenny, already in his cutoff shorts, slaps his sweaty arm against mine.
Gabriel will be there, Teresa eggs me on as if she knows about the kiss.
Oh the fun I will miss, I say, thinking about Mamá’s warning. Not a hair out of place. Not a speck on the dress or else.
Ooh Gabriel, Lenny teases.
I try not to blush.
When he gave me a lift home on his bike, the feeling my mother calls the devil who steals reason came up between my legs. Without reason is how women make mistakes. Big ones, like Teresa, who got caught by the devil the day El Guardia stuck his cucumber inside her and gave her a baby Mamá has to care for.
Go, already, I tell them. Mamá’ll kill me if I get up from this bench.
One time, Yohnny spoke back to her and she hit him with a broomstick so hard he lost consciousness. She did cry afterward for those three, maybe five minutes when we all thought he was dead.
You really want to go away with that old man? Teresa asks. Her tits sit on her chest like hand grenades.
It’s true, Juan’s old and hasn’t married and has no children. This worries my mother, but he comes from hardworking people who can be trusted. And he’s tall and fair, and his shoes are always polished. Besides, out of all the girls Juan could marry and take to America, he picked me.
Look, Teresa, I finally say, when one’s hungry no bread is too hard to eat. I have no choice.
Teresa takes a small towel from her bag and pats the sweat from around my hairline and neck, her breath fresh from chewing on fennel.
You’re a ghost with all this powder. And this ridiculous dress? Poor little thing.
I like the dress, I mumble. All my life I wore Teresa’s hand-me-downs although she is wider and shorter than me. She’s probably jealous. The dress smells new, all starchy and crisp.
C’mon, Ana, if the old man wants you he’ll wait until we get back from the beach.
El Guardia’s clunker pulls up. One of the doors has fallen off, but he has temporarily duct-taped it back to the car. Merengue blasts from his radio. He honks on the horn.
You don’t have to marry him, Teresa says, extending her hands. As El Guardia revs the engine she reminds me that Gabriel is waiting for me at the beach.
I touch my lips. Underneath the lipstick, I can still taste his kiss.
Mamá, a real mind reader, rushes out of the house and swats Teresa away with a kitchen towel.
Get away from her. Why do you want to ruin Ana’s life the way you ruined yours?
Mamá turns to me and asks, Do you want to stay here and end up with a good-for-nothing, pigeon-toed, backward man like El Guardia, who can’t even feed his own child? Or do you want to go to New York with a respectable, hardworking man so you can make something out of yourself and help your family?
At least El Guardia loves me, Teresa shouts back, loud enough to cut through the music blasting from the car.
Ay, love, love, love. You children don’t know anything about love or survival. You live in the clouds.
I can’t look at either of them, so I stare at Yohnny, who’s tying a goat to a tree. If he lets her loose she’ll run. She looks at me with longing. I want to pet her.
