Dominicana, page 7
Pop, pop, pop.
I crouch to the floor the same way I did when the military boys shot in the dark so that Papá would open the colmado after hours. I crawl over to César, who sleeps all day because it’s Sunday. I clap in his ear but he’s in deep.
Wake up! I tug at his pants. César curls into the sofa, his back to me.
César, please.
I duck my head.
What’s happening? César says, half asleep. I pull him up from the sofa and stand behind him for protection. He opens the window. The city’s volume turns up. A cold gust slaps my skin. A man pushing a gurney sprints across the street and slips into the Audubon.
César’s head and chest now hang out the window. We watch a crowd of men rush out of the ballroom. One of them grabs a man and throws him to the ground, beating him, kicking him. Still no police? It’s Sunday. Where are the police?
Finally, they arrive, clubs in hands. A man is wheeled out on a stretcher through the aluminum doors and across the street to the hospital. Cameras flash. People run out of the building screaming. Faces bury into shoulders. Hands flail. Who is dead? Someone’s dead.
This is bad, César says.
What? What?
Another man is carried on a stretcher in the direction of the emergency room at the hospital.
This is really, really bad.
Maybe he or she will be okay?
Do you know how long I waited for this night? César says, fully awake now. Las Hermanas Milagros are performing at the Audubon, I even scored some new dancing shoes. I bet you anything the cops are gonna cancel the concert because of this shit!
Don’t you care? Someone might be dead.
People get shot all the time, right? But getting a night off when there’s something fun to do? That never happens.
Are you serious?
César moves throughout the apartment as if Las Hermanas Milagros is already playing. He steps from one corner of the living room to another, circling the coffee table, bumping into the dining table, the shelves, the sofa. He has a pile of records on the coffee table. He takes one from the top, pulls it out of its sleeve, and wipes it with the hem of his shirt.
El Pussy Cat … ay ay ay … Ana, this is the real good stuff!
El Pussy what? I ask as he pummels through the living room. I try to put things back in place. If only he stayed still.
Man, Mongo Santamaría channels God when he plays!
César screeches like a cat. His hand motions to scratch me. He bops his head and smiles. I flinch every time he bounces by me and reaches out, knees and elbows bent, head tucked in, teeth out, ready to pounce.
César sings and sings, out of tune, nothing like Juan.
Good, huh? His breath warms my face.
How can you dance right now? Look at those poor people.
Listen to this one. From me to you, he says.
César polishes a new record and places it carefully on the turntable, bends over to make sure the needle starts right at the beginning without slipping off. He throws himself on the sofa, puts his feet on the coffee table, and places his hands behind his head. He shuts his eyes to listen.
Isn’t this the most beautiful song, Ana?
The phone rings. Let it be Mamá. Even if she’ll only ask for money.
Mamá? I yell above the music and César singing and the noise outside the window.
But there’s only a breath.
Juan?
The breath hangs up and a new creepiness invades.
* * *
Later, a still image of the Audubon Ballroom flashes on television.
Special Report! Especial! Special! Report! Reportaje!
A young man. A black man. Even handsome. Malcolm X.
The crowd on the street below amplifies the sound of the TV in the living room. Behind the dead man on the stretcher onscreen is the dental-supplies store and the small park where Juan and I sometimes sit on a bench and share an ice cream. There it is, our Broadway, making the news! The 168th Street subway entrance, the emergency room sign. Our building! The bright Salt and Pepper sign from the restaurant downstairs. The small rectangle in the midst of it all. Our red window curtains! There, a silhouette—is that me?
Juan gives me five dollars and a sealed envelope that needs a stamp.
Go to the supermarket and buy eggs, he says. There’s nothing in the fridge for me to eat, just oatmeal and cornflakes. Food for birds.
I have not yet left the apartment by myself. Always with César or Juan. Most days I don’t leave the apartment at all. Between César and Juan, who come and go, from one job to the next, the wash has to be done every other day. The bathroom scrubbed. Meals made. Besides, I don’t even have my own key. Juan says he hasn’t had time to make a copy. Always an excuse.
Go already!
I feel like our chickens back home. Let in and out, at their owner’s will.
I wear the wool dress from the bag full of used clothing given to Juan.
I don’t yet own a wallet or purse, so I fold the five dollars and put it in my coat pocket. It swims in there. What if I lose it? I leave the building, relieved there’s no cold wind to walk against. I cross the street toward the post office. It’s on 165th Street, like our building. Across from the little park with benches facing the church. I stand in line with three other people. I try not to stare, so I look at the shiny black-and-red tiled floors, at the corkboard filled with notes. Everything is in English. Orderly and clean as a hospital. Soon I slide the envelope to the cashier after waiting on line. She talks as if her mouth is full and stamps the envelope. I nod, not knowing what I’m agreeing to. I give her the five dollars, damp with my sweat. She unfolds it and counts change. All these coins. Four dollar bills! I’m rich.
I must’ve been smiling, because she smiles back.
Once outside I high-five the sun. Wepa! Mamá, look, a real New Yorker, doing my errands, a fistful of money.
I turn on St. Nicholas to take a quick look at the school where the students wear uniforms. And then, straight straight I will go to Foodorama to buy eggs, milk, and maybe find apples and chocolate. Juan said the city is a grid.
Squares and rectangles, Ana. Numbers go up and down. The supermarket is on Broadway, off 161st. You can’t miss it. But be careful. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t go into any buildings that aren’t stores. Don’t look the police officers or drug addicts in the eye. Cross the street if necessary. And don’t snail about. I have to get to work.
I look for signs of life inside the school, though the windows are shut tight. Nothing like my school back home, filled with interruptions and smart mouths. No Gabriel, who always snagged the desk next to mine. Maybe he still thinks of me?
I turn on 164th Street toward Broadway, but a police car is parked in the middle of the block. An officer writes up a ticket. I turn back on St. Nicholas, walk past the barbershop packed with men waiting for a buzz cut, wigs on display, a pawnshop with a window display of wedding rings, a camera, a gun. So much to discover. All I have to do is stay on St. Nicholas, parallel to Broadway, and then on 160th Street, walk up one block and there’ll be the supermarket.
But 162nd Street is neverending. No more stores. No more 162nd Street. No more St. Nicholas. Edgecomb?
Nothing looks familiar. I turn around, looking for the George Washington Bridge. The Carvel Shop. The ground beneath me spins. The faces of strangers enlarge. Juan’s waiting, he’ll be late to work. A car slows down and rolls down his window. Words come out of a man’s mouth. I run. My pockets, full of change, clink against my thigh. I run back in the direction I had come from but 162nd goes on and on. Then I see the pawnshop, St. Nicholas. I find Broadway. But I’m late. So late. I look around to make sure there are no witnesses. I go into La Bodeguita. The man Juan doesn’t like isn’t here. What a relief. It’s another guy, much younger, who doesn’t even greet me when I enter. I buy milk. Eggs. He calculates the sum. Not looking up from the cartoons he’s reading in the newspaper. I give him a dollar. More coins!
The lobby door is already open. The elevator is already waiting. By the time I arrive to the apartment, I’m sweating inside my wool dress.
What took you so long?
Line at the … supermarket?
Really? At this hour?
I shrug. Juan is no idiot.
Now I don’t even have time to eat, he says.
Of course you do. Sit, I say in a Mamá tone. I firmly place my hand on his shoulder, and like the animals on the farm, he calms down. Sit, Juan, sit.
He looks at my sweaty face.The wool of my dress makes me itchy everywhere.
If something happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself, he says.
You see what a good man he is? Why did the streets of New York have to go and betray me that way?
Before Juan, before New York, Mamá, Teresa, Juanita, Betty, and I sat around the radio to listen to Jackie, the perfect wife, so elegant, who was also married to a good man in America. The First Lady’s breathy voice was difficult to hear under radio celebrity Doña Alegria’s loud scratchy voice translations. After Kennedy was shot we listened to how much Jackie loved her husband—so much so she put herself in danger when the Russians threatened America. Thirteen days of worry, while little old Cuba held the cards.
I want to die with you, Jackie cooed on air, and the children do too, rather than live without you.
Learn from her, Mamá advised all her girls. She always says exactly what people want to hear. She may be a widow, but a rich one! That’s why it’s important to choose well.
And so we listened carefully to Jackie, who shared all her womanly secrets.
The best thing a wife can do is to be a distraction, Jackie said. A husband lives and breathes his work all day long. If he comes home to more table thumping, how can the poor man ever relax?
It’s true. When Juan comes home all he wants to do is relax. He doesn’t want to hear that the heater didn’t come on until late afternoon or that the drain in the sink is slow-moving.
Flick away your worries like a fly from a horse, was Kennedy’s advice.
One must not let oneself be overwhelmed by sadness.
Sex is a bad thing because it rumples the clothes.
Jackie’s words made us giggle. Her dresses must cost more than our house, more than our land, more than anything we will ever own.
Maybe it’s better to be not as rich and as important so we can still have sex, Teresa whispered out of Mamá’s earshot.
Oh, how I miss them. I wish they were sitting in my kitchen as I wash the dishes. Maybe it’s better to be a widow, I tell the empty chairs. What if Juan leaves the house and never comes back? A widow like Malcolm X’s wife, Betty—oh, cousin Betty!—Shabazz, left to raise six daughters by herself. Like Jackie Kennedy, left with two children, but who’s as elegant and fragile as a doll. Even my voice, like Jackie’s, has grown breathy around Juan, as I hold my breath before each word.
When the doorbell rings I don’t answer. I go to the window. A man exits the building and looks up before I duck out of view. It’s Antonio. The last time Antonio had visited he said Juan hadn’t told him that he got married. Juan hadn’t told him I was beautiful. Juan hadn’t told him anything, despite the fact that they saw each other at work almost every day. They’d worked the tables at Yonkers Raceway since they first arrived in ’60. On Antonio’s last visit I served him whiskey on the rocks in our living room, but unlike other men, Antonio’s soft-spoken. If I don’t open the door it’ll be worse, because we can’t afford to turn away the business.
I buzz him in.
I tear off my housedress and brush the lint away from my wool skirt. Reapply my lipstick. Unravel the scarf holding my hair.
I turn on the radio and wait with my back against the door for Antonio’s knock.
As always, Antonio is groomed: manicured nails and a trimmed mustache.
Started to think you had better things to do than see me, Antonio says, and waits for me to invite him inside. He carries a small bag stuffed with pink tissue paper, awkward in his large hands.
I’m sorry, I say, looking at my feet, then his shoes. I guess the radio was loud, I didn’t hear the bell.
How does he keep his shoes so shiny even after walking in the snow? Juan’s get snow stains and I have to rub the salt off every night. Antonio takes off his heavy leather jacket and hands it over to me. It’s freezing outside! His jacket’s cold. I assume his hands and cheeks must be too. He laughs as if I make him nervous. Older men are funny that way.
Do you want some water or anything else before we begin?
Antonio cocks his head.
Do you talk to all men this way?
My cheeks warm up. I usually offer water, which doesn’t cost anything. Back home, I had to fetch water at the well, then boil it and drink it warm, because Papá doesn’t permit us to take ice from the freezer. Ice is for customers. New York City water is so sweet, clean, and cold.
Can we begin? he says. I’m in a bit of a hurry today.
He places the pretty pink bag on a side table by the door.
Yes, yes, of course. I immediately open the closet door in the foyer and pull out two suits.
Juan used to keep the suits all over the living room in piles, bursting out of boxes. Boxes his associates had pulled off of trucks on their way to the department stores: Macy’s. Gimbels. B. Altman and Company. But I organized them in the closet the same way they do in the stores. The hardest-to-sell suits most visible, right at the door opening. The newer shipments hidden in the back. I even grouped them by size for easier access.
Everything fits Antonio, his body like a hanger. I help him with the jacket. He smooths the lapels and straightens his back, examines himself in the mirror taped to the closet door. I suppress a giggle as he inflates his chest and arches his thick eyebrows.
You should try the pants on too. Juan won’t allow returns.
Juan’s a pain in my ass. If I hadn’t known him for so long, I would’ve taken my business elsewhere.
I’ll give you some privacy, I say.
I leave him to change in the foyer but spy on him through the crack between the wall and the door to the living room. His legs are muscular, skin brown like a man who doesn’t fear the sun—Juan’s skin is pasty, hairy, and dry—and Antonio’s hair is sculpted a dark black, away from his face, shiny like his polished shoes.
The pants fit him well around the hips but need to be hemmed. Before he says anything, I pull from the shelf a metal tin filled with pins, needles, and thread given to me by César so I could start my side hustle.
It’ll only take me a minute to fix them for you.
Juan didn’t tell me you’re a seamstress.
Don’t be an exaggerator, Antonio. I just shorten pants. That’s all. I can do it while you wait.
Juan doesn’t know I sew and keep the money. Mamá would approve. Women must keep money on the side for when we need things, for our skin, hair, feet, for that special time of the month. But also to send money home. She expects Juan to help the family, but he counts every penny. When the price of toilet paper or milk goes down he rushes to the supermarket. In his mind, taking me off my parents’ hands is enough. So I’m saving up to send Mamá money, crediting Juan of course.
My wife does my tailoring, Antonio says in a serious, almost scary voice. She doesn’t appreciate other women handling my pants.
Oh. I don’t mean to—
Don’t worry, corazón. My wife’s a smart woman, that’s all.
So will you take both the suits?
Do I get a discount?
This part of the business makes me nervous.
I can’t give you … I’m not supposed to …
Antonio doesn’t insist. Other men become angry and demand to call Juan so they can speak to him directly. One man once yanked the suit from my hand, folded it over his arm, and threw the money at my feet, paying only what he thought was the right price.
Not Antonio.
For both the suits, he says, pulling money out of a silver clip. But next time, Ana, tell Juan I expect a discount.
His smoker’s breath, laced with mint, reminds me of my father, who smokes a pipe. Antonio slings the suits over his shoulder so that their plastic covers won’t drag.
He leaves the pink bag behind. I don’t run after him. Recently, the old Jewish lady who lives right below us was robbed in the elevator. She’s lived here for more than thirty-five years. Juan says no one’s to be trusted, especially the blacks who sleep on the streets waiting for their next fix. Juan says those blacks as if he’s skinning a goat.
They’re like the Puerto Ricans, he says, wanting everything for nothing. Dominicans work hard for what they have. That’s why there’s always a job for a Dominican.
I’ve never met a man who works as hard as Juan. Every day, I warm water with salt for him to soak his feet. Every day, I have to brush his nails clean and spread cocoa butter on his calluses.
I slip two dollars from the sixty-two dollars Antonio gives me and I fold it inside my ceramic Dominicana. I jot the sale amount from the suit in Juan’s notebook before adding it to his envelope. Juan only knows how to add, not subtract, jokes everyone who visits. Below the windowsill I log my earnings with a pencil. Each dollar inside the doll I add and each dollar spent I subtract. In six weeks I’ve already saved fifteen dollars to send and calm any worries about me.
When Mamá calls she talks and talks.
Aló, Ana, can you hear me? How’s it going? Aló?
Great. I—
I knew it would be great. You’ll spend your life thanking me.
But how is—
Is it cold there? I bet your closet is full with new dresses and shoes. Remember to keep all your jewelry organized so it doesn’t get tangled up. So are you working? Did you start school yet?
It’s not that easy. There’s paperwork to be done, but I’m running Juan’s business at home. He has lots of customers.
