Dominicana, page 5
I’ll never love you, I say. I throw myself on the bed and curl up as small as possible. I no longer feel my body. I am no longer in the room.
I’m sorry, Ana. But we’ll have to make this work.
Juan turns on the radio. He lies on the bed, next to me, my back away from him. He spoons me. The woolly fabric of his pants rubs against my bare skin, almost warm and comforting.
He says, Don’t worry, little bird, I’m going to take care of you. He wraps his arm around me, still wearing his shirt, his tie undone.
Combs back my hair from my face and sings along with the radio.
Solamente una vez …
His voice thunders against my back. So warm, so rich, a glaze on my skin. Suddenly we’re in my backyard. Ramón’s on the guitar. Papá tends to the fire. Beer bottles clink, my brothers giggle. Mamá’s full of dreams for me.
Una vez nada más
Se entrega el alma
Con la dulce y total
Renunciación
We listen to song after song, the words infused with loss and sadness. He turns me to face him. His eyes, bruised, tired, and hopeful. He grabs the champagne bottle from the nightstand, hands it to me, and says, Drink some more. It’ll make it easier.
I hesitate, overwhelmed by the rancid flowery scent. I gulp it like the medicinal juices Mamá makes, straight from the bottle; the sour grape taste sits on my tongue.
I lie on the bed, stiff, turn my head, look toward the window. Watch the reflection of his legs and my legs, his clothed, mine naked.
He unbuttons his shirt. Exposes his plump hairy chest and stomach. Presses against mine, sticky but warm. He kisses my cheek, my ear, my neck, wet and lingering. His fingers feel like clothespins on my nipples. Stop. It hurts.
He unbuckles his pants. I don’t look when he grabs it, hard and wide like a pestle. Chirping. Croaking. Screeching. The explosive mating song of frogs. The pain, short and sharp.
After, he gets out of bed and tucks in his shirt, zips his pants, puts on his vest.
Clean yourself up and try to sleep. We leave in a few hours. I’m out of cigarettes, he says, and walks out of the room.
The room is cold, so cold. I pull the starched white sheets over me. Move away from the wet spot on the bed. The airplane will be cold. New York will be cold too.
PART II
Are you a manatee or a shark?
Mamá asks this when she sees me idling by the bushes when I’m supposed to be doing chores.
When Mamá was a kid she saw lots of manatees. They’d show themselves up close to the shore, move slow slow across the beach. Large like cows, black and leathery. So close she could almost pet them.
Manatees have six teeth in each jaw—and not even in the front of their mouths, but in their cheeks. They move slow and mind their own business. Sharks, though, could have like fifty teeth in their mouth at a time.
But look at where that got manatees, she says. They’re practically extinct. Sharks just have to show themselves and everyone steers clear.
In New York it snows. So much snow. Juan’s brother César welcomes us at the airport with winter coats. He’s the only brother I had yet to meet. He emerges from a crowd of other men, waiting by the baggage claim. He’s the youngest. And darkest. Tall and skinny, sparkling eyes, warm smile.
Not bad, he says, taking a good look at me, punching Juan in the arm. He covers my head with a large knitted hat, then grabs my bags from my hand. Juan pinches me under my arm.
Don’t look at people, it attracts trouble. And close your mouth.
Am I staring?
Juan moves quickly, pushes me through the sliding doors. A big fat suction. The sharp cold air stings and bites. The city so loud I cover my ears.
What did you think of the plane? César asks. My first time, the plane was so shaky, I almost peed in my pants.
Everything good, I say. Like a dream.
Juan yanks me and all our luggage, stuffed with packages for his friends, his associates, his family, toward the parked car.
Inside my coat I can still feel myself, a residue of dried sweat all over my skin.
I stick out my tongue to catch a snowflake.
We don’t have all day. Juan talks louder than everyone else.
Juan loads the trunk. César opens the back door for me. Welcome to New York, little lady, he says.
Oh. Thank you. My voice is alien to me. An ache in my chest.
Everything set for tomorrow? Juan asks César once we’re settled in the musty car. Furry red rugs cover the front seats, and there are sheets of damp cardboard under our feet. A rosary and a picture of a naked lady dangle from the rearview mirror. I have the backseat all to myself. No Yohnny, Teresa, Lenny, Juanita, and Betty. No sweaty arms and thighs or bony elbows poking in my ribs. No talking over each other. I miss them so much.
All work and no play, César says, and laughs. He turns on the radio and sings along to a Dean Martin song full of static.
Juan shuts the radio off. The silence makes it as if someone died.
Snow mutes the city. The cars inch along the highway. The bridge spectacularly long. The river iced. The trees bare. Everything is gray.
You missed the exit! Juan yells at him, and slaps his head.
Trust me, César says, and drives right into midtown. I just want to give the little lady a taste of New York.
But now we’ll hit traffic. Juan sucks his teeth.
I feel ant small among all the skyscrapers. We move through the city slowly, cars lined up, pushing up against each other like dominoes on cardboard. And the people, mummified, carrying so many packages in bright-colored bags, all in a hurry just like Juan, as if they have somewhere urgent to go.
My nose presses against the car window. My breath fogs the pane. A soft snow comes down. We’re inside one of those snow globes I saw at the airport store.
All right, César, you had your fun. Can you get back on the highway now?
At the stoplight, César turns to me and says, Pretty cool, huh?
I nod yes. He’s a troublemaker like my brother Yohnny. Like Gabriel, César seems to have secret keys to secret places. Nothing like Juan, all serious. All business.
After we drop Ana off, I need you to take me somewhere, Juan says to César.
At your command, jefe.
I pull away from the window. You’re leaving me?
Just for a few hours. I’ve got some business to do.
But why can’t I come with you?
Ana, don’t even start. Your mother assured me you would know how to keep busy.
My teeth clench. I tremble. Manatee or shark? I show all my teeth but Juan has moved on. He turns on the radio and switches to the Spanish news station. Johnny Ventura’s coming to town. Civil unrest in Santo Domingo. Cuban exiles fired a bazooka at UN headquarters.
César speeds up on the highway, weaving in and out of cars. Outside the window the river glistens, the sky—early morning blue, but not like back home. New York’s blue slices right through the skin.
Juan’s apartment smells bad. At best, like wet cardboard, at worst, like something dead. I don’t say anything, not to offend him. Suits, covered in plastic wrap, are piled on the furniture. Stuffed boxes. Bare mattresses lean against the wall.
How many of you live here? I ask.
César laughs. Depends on the day.
Don’t worry, Juan says. My brother Hector moved out this morning. He got a job in Tarrytown and moved his family up there. It’s us and César …
You’re gonna live with us too? I try to hide my relief that I won’t be living alone with Juan.
César’s barely here, with all the trouble he gets into.
A man’s got to use his gifts. César defends himself.
Juan shows me around the apartment. We climb over the clutter in the living room and walk into the kitchen, a long hallway of a room. A small red metallic table, a chair, and a white stove with four burners lined up against the wall. There’s no place to cook over a fire, to stack the wood, to pile the coal.
A thin film of grease covers the stove and the walls surrounding it. I try not to focus on the large porcelain sink, yellowed and full of dishes as Juan speed-talks.
This is how you turn on the hot water, the cold water. This is how to turn on the stove.
Where do we get water and gas? I ask. Back home we fetched water from the well.
Juan, in a hurry to leave, doesn’t bother to answer. The refrigerator’s tucked all the way at the end. Only one person can enter the narrow kitchen at a time. The bedroom is on the other side of the apartment. The bed is unmade and more boxes are piled and stacked against the wall.
What’s in them? I ask Juan.
Nothing that concerns you.
Next to the bedroom door is the entrance to the bathroom. A frayed brown towel hangs on a rack. The tiles, moldy and yellow. The sink and mirror are splotched with toothpaste and beard clippings. The shower curtain needs washing.
Make sure not to flush while someone’s taking a shower, Juan says.
It’ll freeze your tits off. César laughs.
Don’t mind him, Juan apologizes.
At the door, before they leave, Juan hands me the brown paper bag I had seen César pull out from the car’s trunk earlier. In it is something warm and alive. I drop it to the floor.
They laugh.
César picks it up and pulls out a chicken by its neck.
Welcome to America, he says.
He hands it to me. I look into its glassed-over eyes. The drop must have injured it. I’ve held plenty of chickens before, plucked, chopped, and cooked them too. But here, I want to save the chicken from its fate.
Juan jiggles his keys and wraps a red scarf around his neck.
Don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t leave the apartment until I explain how things work around here. Keep the doors locked.
Why? Do people break in?
Sometimes. But this is a good building. The people here keep to themselves and out of trouble. But don’t be fooled, New York is dangerous. People here aren’t like they are back home. They care only about themselves.
I must look scared and pathetic to him because he softens his eyes and picks up my chin.
Don’t worry. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You’re my pajarita.
Juan kisses me on my forehead.
Do you need anything while I’m out? he asks.
Demand, demand, demand, Mamá said. Underwear. Some clothes. Food. Perfume would be nice. Nail polish. Money for my family back home. What to ask for first?
Ana, I don’t have all day.
I’m good, I say. Not asking for anything might make him not ask anything from me.
César grabs Juan’s collar and pulls him out of the apartment.
The apartment is a sad mess. Thank god I have the chicken as company. Dust covers everything. It all needs a wash.
I pull the chicken out of the bag. Prop it on the table. It quivers, barely moves. I’m sorry, I say, then twist its neck and stuff it back into the brown paper bag.
I take off my heavy coat, which is twice my size. Off goes the sweater Juan’s sister-in-law gave me before I boarded the plane back in Santo Domingo. Off goes the flaming pink dress. After two days, it needs airing out. I put on a white undershirt I find in a drawer in the bedroom. The furniture is so filthy I fear something will crawl out from its cracks. And the smell, Mamá would know in a second. A mix of man funk? Cologne? Cigarette ashes? Dead rat.
Get to work, Ana! You’re now a wife. You have duties.
* * *
I start with the kitchen. I mix vinegar with water in a bowl and scrub the grease from the walls and counters. I pull a hunk of ham, bottles of soda, a bag of bread, and a bunch of plátanos from the fridge and clean the shelves. I rearrange the condiments, making notes on a napkin, with a pencil I found by the saltshaker, of what Juan needs to buy at the supermarket. I place the dead chicken in the fridge for plucking, cleaning, chopping, and cooking later. I soak the sheets and scrub them clean. So soft. Like the sheets at the gringo’s house Gabriel took care of. Ay Gabriel, are you thinking about me? I line the sheets to dry in the kitchen then make a clear path in the living room to walk through. I scrub the bathtub. Mamá and Teresa would love this bath. Just like in the movies, where you can fill it with bubbles. I find makeup, sunglasses, and earrings under the bathroom sink.
Women have been here? In this mess? No wonder Juan went looking for a wife.
* * *
Dusk falls, very quick. Juan hasn’t returned.
I turn on the radio to drown out the clank-clank-hiss-hiss of the heater.
Gowing to da chapa, Ana go to get ma-a-areed, gowing to da chapa, Ana go to geet ma-areed.
I wrap a flannel robe I find in the bathroom tight around my body. The heater makes it hard to breathe. I open the window, to clear the air. I sit by it and wait for Juan. I place the ceramic doll Juan bought me at the airport in Santo Domingo on the table. She wears a blue dress and a yellow sash around her waist. My sweet, hollow Dominicana will keep all my secrets: she has no eyes, no lips, no mouth.
Down below, the streetlamps light up. In front of a showroom filled with cars, a young man shovels snow. He wipes fingerprints off the windows and stares into the storefront with longing. They’re preparing to close. Above the store, the musicians in the building set up to play. Already a line forms. Everyone’s dressed up.
Maybe Juan will take me one day.
In the same way he showed me around the apartment, Juan gives me a tour of the neighborhood. He’s pleased that I cleaned the place but annoyed he can’t find anything. Before we walk out of the building he lowers the knitted hat I’m wearing over my ears and knots the itchy scarf around my face. I breathe in and out of the woolly scarf. The bright white sky reflects off the snow and blinds me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and together we fight the cold wind that pulls us away from the street we’re about to cross.
People wait for their turn, cars wait at the stoplight. All the litter is stuffed into trash cans. So much order. Phone booths and blue mailboxes on every other corner. Convenient. Efficient. No green to speak of. Trees naked and gray like the cement of the sidewalks. Across the street from our building is the parking lot for Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.
One of the largest hospitals in the world, he says as we cross. This is the Audubon Ballroom, where the Jews pray, the blacks make trouble, and we can watch movies in Spanish and go dancing. Under the ballroom I can now see the car showroom up close. Juan makes new fingerprints on the glass.
One day soon, we’ll buy a new car, Juan says, tracing the silhouette of the Buick on display in the window. Across from us is the German shop that sells sausages. Beside it, the Jewish photo shop. The Cuban everything store displaying a life-size doll, toilet paper, toy airplanes, packets of pencils and notebooks, cigarettes, shoe polish, a plastic bucket, a mop, extension cords.
If the Cuban doesn’t have it, says Juan, it must not exist.
Down on 165th Street, we visit the post office. Inside, an unsettling quiet, an antiseptic smell, a waiting area, an orderly line. Nothing like back home where public offices have shouting matches and vendors selling their fruits, pastelitos, and lottery tickets to the crowds of people waiting.
Indoors, Juan makes his voice small and shows me the window where he orders stamps and buys money orders to send back home to Ramón, who administers their investments. All together there are four Ruiz brothers, three in New York now and one in Dominican Republic.
He points across the street to St. Rose of Lima Church; next to it is the rectory and a few steps away, the school. It looks like an apartment building, but Juan assures me it’s a school. Soon, hundreds of children in plaid uniforms parade around the block led by two nuns. What a simple life they lead, with God at their beck and call.
Is that the school I’ll attend? I ask.
No. In September, you’ll go to a secretarial school so you can learn how to type. And then you’ll work at my friend’s agency. Don’t you worry, everything’s been decided.
Tell him you want to study to be a professional. To open your own business, to help your family. Typing is a good start, but that’s not the only thing you’ll do. Tell him. Tell him.
Juan walks quickly. He pulls my hand this way then that way, and finally we stop and enter La Bodeguita downstairs, under our building, next to the bar, Salt and Pepper.
A bell chimes when the door closes behind us. Loud merengue spreads out inside the cramped store, the burst of the drums, the scratch of the güira. At every turn I catch the tail of Teresa’s skirt, Mamá’s laugh, Lenny’s knobby knees. My heart races, a sudden warmth. I pull off my hat and scarf, overwhelmed by the music, the little store, the shelves as tall as the ceiling. A young man watches me from behind the counter. He winks when I look his way.
Juan grabs my shoulders and tells him, Compadre, this is my wife.
You married? Congratulations, he says. Then to me, I’m Alex, at your service. If you ever need anything …
Before I can respond, or even smile back, Juan pushes me toward the wall of crates filled with plátanos, yucca, potatoes, lettuce. In my ear, he whispers, We don’t buy vegetables here. This Boricua sells them for twice as much as the supermarket. Then he picks items from the shelf and explains. This is for washing your teeth: Colgate. This is to wash the windows: Windex. This is to wash the dishes: Palmolive. This is to scrub the toilet: Comet. This is what you will eat for breakfast: Cornflakes. This is what you will eat for lunch: Chef-Boyardee. He piles ten cans of it on the counter.
Nutritious. Easy to make. You just heat and eat.
At the register, Juan grunts at each item as if the adding of numbers causes him pain. Alex smiles knowingly at me and says, Me and your husband go way back.
Weird to hear him say “husband.” Alex winks at me and takes Juan’s money. He pulls a Hershey’s bar from a stack near the register and hands it to me.
