Dominicana, page 9
And for many nights I will hear Mamá lamenting that Juan Ruiz can’t be that bad and if she were in my shoes, she’d be bathing in the rivers full of gold.
I take my fifteen dollars from inside my Dominicana and seventy-five dollars from the safe. I wear all my clothing—wool dress under two shirts and skirt over pair of pants—instead of carrying a suitcase. The extras, I carry inside the Gimbel’s shopping bag left behind by a suit customer. At 8 a.m., I make my way to the bus station on 179th Street. The sun has come up; and dawn’s cold air presses against my cheeks though I’m sweating like a stewed onion under three layers of clothing.
Nobody knows me, but everybody seems to know Juan, so I keep my chin tucked into my chest. My scarf rubs against the bruise on my throat.
I locked the apartment door behind me. Without the keys, I can’t ever go back. I left! I walk so fast I almost trip over a child holding his mother’s hand. Twelve blocks, one avenue to the bus. If the ninety dollars in my purse aren’t enough for an air ticket, I’ll beg to be let on the plane. I can show the bruise around my neck. Someone has to have mercy on me.
I walk and walk, first up Broadway, past the entrance to the ballroom, where in a few hours the lady in the red hat will leave fresh flowers. A cluster of wig-wearing and long-skirted mothers push strollers the size of shopping carts near the subway stop. Past the triangle on 170th Street, where the trees light up at dusk and people sit watching their children play until the night takes over. I try not to look at the eyes of anyone, just at the fire hydrants, the bus stops, the iron lampposts, the uneven sidewalks cracked in parts that have imprints of hands and boot soles. Pigeons eat from the soil moistened by the recent rain. Is it true that the sewer houses the devil, and that if I get near it, it will suck me in? I know rats live in there. They zigzag from one side of the sidewalk to the other, too fast for a passerby to notice, but I have seen them on many nights from my window, slip in and out of people’s feet. I walk and walk. What will Juan do when he returns from work? He will show up with flowers or some other trinket, to no dinner or ironed shirts to wear to work tomorrow. He’ll punch a wall or go out and punch somebody. I walk and walk. Sweat trickles down my back. A crazy lady under three layers of clothing. But I don’t care. Let people think what they want, I’m going to the bus, to JFK, to the airport of Las Americas in Santo Domingo. Once there, I’ll send word to Yohnny or Teresa. They’ll find someone to fetch me.
At the terminal, buses are lined up between Broadway and Fort Washington Avenue. Long lines of people too. The numbers fly in my head: seven dollars one way. Twelve dollars round trip.
At 179th Street and Fort Washington Avenue, I turn away from the opening of the bridge, the roll of the cars thundering overhead, and I escape the noise through the glass doors. Afraid to go on the electric stairs, I climb the nonmoving ones beside them. I try not to look at the unwashed men who sleep on the floor. I try not to breathe in the dried urine stench and ignore the beggars. I clutch my purse and lift my bag at the terminal lobby, where crowds move with determination and certainty. Signs everywhere. Gates, numbers, blinking lights. My heart in my throat. What am I doing? Will Juan ever let me go? Will my mother even take me back? My mind locks.
A hand lands on my shoulder. I scream. That hand covers my mouth.
Shhh, Ana. You want to get me arrested?
César.
I bite him firmly so he lets go.
I’m going home, I say, turning around.
César shakes out his hand as if I hurt him. You got some teeth.
He pulls out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. You leaving without saying good-bye?
It’s not like you’re ever around, busy with all your girls. I say it in a voice I don’t recognize. Why am I flirting? Now? And with César!
I change my tone quick and ask, Why aren’t you at work?
It’s been over a week since he came around the apartment. Every time I asked Juan about him he would say, Don’t meddle in family business.
I was looking for you, César says. When I step back, he laughs.
Relax, Ana! I’m joking. I was catching a van at the bus station to meet this woman who’s hooking me up with a job.
I lightly punch his chest. His leather jacket is unbuttoned.
You’re gonna get sick, I say. The cold doesn’t bother you? Nothing you say or do will stop me from going home.
I start walking away, but he grabs my shopping bag and walks toward the terminal exit.
Give me my stuff back. I keep yelling, trailing behind him, past the glass doors, and then block after cold block. He finally settles at a park bench on the top of a rock on 175th Street and Fort Washington. He pushes aside some newspapers from the bench as I stop to catch my breath.
C’mon, César, I have a bus to catch. Please.
But if you go, who’s gonna take care of us?
And that’s the best you can do to convince me?
Still I sit beside him, too tired to fight. Lately, even when I sleep well, I am tired. He presses my head into his cuaba-soap-scented shirt, the same one I washed for him. He pats my back over the layers of dress, shirt, coat.
You know, Ana, on my first night in New York I was scared shitless. I couldn’t sleep. The heater coughed like it had fur stuck down its throat. And there were these crazy people screaming right outside our window. I decided right then I was taking the first plane back home.
Let me guess, you stayed.
Never say you won’t drink from a certain well.
It’s different for men. You can do whatever you want.
I push César away and walk over to the iron fence separating us from the river. A strip of tall buildings. The cars zooming on the Hudson Parkway sound like the ocean. A push and pull. Birds chirp. A whiff of dried shit on the concrete nearby. In the distance, is the George Washington Bridge. When I first arrived to New York, the bridge lit up like a man-made constellation. I had thought the river to be narrower, bluer, more like the sea. Instead, it’s gray and massive. A tugboat appears, then disappears. I feel the burn of César’s eyes on my back.
Whatever it is that happened between you and Juan, I promise you, it’ll get better. My brother can be an asshole, but he’s not a bad guy.
You’re always defending him.
He pisses me off too, but we’re blood. Nothing can come between that. Even when I’m mad at him I remember in this shit of a life, we’re all we got.
Blood is why I want to go home, too.
And go backward, Ana? What future do either of us have back there? Just like you I wanted to get the hell out of this city, but the next morning, the sun poured into our room, and Juan made me coffee and showed me how New York City cleans up real nice in the daytime. We walked downtown to the Empire State Building. Shit, it was all cream, no salt. King Kong holding his girl and banging his chest.
César kisses his fingers. Fucking beautiful. In twenty-four hours I saw more than in a lifetime back home.
The thought of having to return to Juan makes my breakfast come up my throat. I hover over a nearby garbage can and vomit, then wipe my lips with the sleeve of my coat. My head spins under the harsh wind as I reach for the iron fence.
I’m blinded by the fluorescent lights overhead at the hospital. Overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic soap.
What happened?
My head throbs. I can barely lift it. I swing my legs to one side of the metal table. César sits in a chair beside me. He looks at me as if I’d died and he has witnessed a miracle.
Ana, you fainted.
I feel cold and naked in the thin gown, miss the security of my layers. Frantically, I survey the small room.
My bag—Juan’s money!
And my clothes? My stuff? I ask.
César jolts out of his chair and opens a nearby cabinet where my clothes are folded and piled high.
It’s okay. It’s just us. Do you want me to get Juan?
I shake my head.
How long have I been here?
Not even an hour. The doctor says you should pee in this cup, and if everything is okay, we can go home.
I’m starving. I see the bowl of lollipops on the doctor’s desk by the bed and reach for a yellow one.
A bright drawing of a giraffe for measuring a child’s height hangs on the wall. I leave the bed and stand beside the giraffe—sixty-three inches.
Hey, little elf, the bathroom’s over there, says César.The nurse says to leave the cup on the shelf out in the hallway.
I pee in the cup and take it out to the white shelf next. All of the cups have labels: New York–Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital.
Mine says: Ana X: DOB unknown.
I smile in relief at César, who knew not to tell anyone my real name. The hospital can’t turn me away just because I have no money. I set my cup of urine among the others. Ana X: a woman without family. Maybe the price of being an American is to no longer have a family to claim you.
The doctor returns. His face, smooth as a water stone. His blond lashes, brows, and hair makes his blue eyes brighter and his words swirl in my ears.
If you sign here, you can go home. During pregnancy fainting is not uncommon, the doctor says.
I wait for César to translate.
Escú me … plis, sló, I hear César say.
The doctor makes the shape of a balloon over his stomach.
I cover my mouth with one hand, hold my belly with the other. It only takes one time. One time, and El Guardia got Teresa pregnant. Now everything makes sense. How the pudding I ate that morning got stuck in my chest. The many more times this month I needed to use the bathroom. The exhaustion in the middle of the day …
Congratulations! The doctor pats César on the back, hands him a white plastic bottle as if it were a cigar and shouts, Vitaminas!
I’m too embarrassed to explain to the men that I still bleed. Not too much, but enough. What if something’s wrong?
Okey, okey! César shouts back, all smiles. He hands over the plastic white jar. I grab it. Whether he’s excited or scared, I can’t tell.
When the doctor leaves, César says, Now you can’t go anywhere. You’re going to have an American baby.
An American baby, I repeat. That’s what Mamá wants. Juan wants. A blue-blooded baby with a blue passport and all its benefits. In that cold cold room, oh how I wish my family were with me so I could tell them the news. My mind and heart, a roller coaster. One minute set to leave, another minute flying with joy and fear. A baby! To love, to keep me company, yes, but with a baby there’s no way Juan will let me return home for good. What if I never get to see my house in Los Guayacanes again? I burst into tears.
You should be happy, César says, and wraps his arms tight around me, and in that hospital I feel more than ever like a child who needs to be contained.
We walk back to the apartment, both too hungry to speak. He carries my bag. I loop my arm around his. The sun beams on us. The wind whips paper cups up from the corner garbage cans. I want to scream, sing, spin, laugh. I’m having a baby! And as if César can read my thoughts, he drags me across the street toward the pigeon park, in front of the Audubon Ballroom. With my bag still in hand, he climbs the large rock where kids sled in winter, and stands high up and bangs his hands into his bony chest and says my name, Ana-na-na-na! He shimmies down and startles the crowd of pigeons. They lift to the sky, blocking the sun. I have no choice but to dodge the falling bird shit and run along with him to find shelter under the movie theater awning, beside their Malcolm X memorial.
Did you get hit? he asks.
I examine my dress and my hair.
No, did you?
That’s good luck.
I think it’s the other way around.
He picks a bright red carnation from the ballroom memorial and gives it to me.
You can’t do that, César.
I smell the flower before laying it back on the ground with the others.
He won’t care, he’s dead.
An altar is an altar wherever you go.
You still want to take that plane back home? he asks.
Don’t tell Juan I’m pregnant.
What? You’re gonna make Juan the happiest man alive.
I have this urge to dig my face into his chest, to feel his arms around me. I tuck my hand into his coat pocket and grab his key chain, then dart across the street in the direction of the apartment. The streetlights have turned, giving me time to cross, but leaving César stuck on the other side, behind the passing traffic. He runs in place, waving the cars to pass him by.
I reach the building door and rattle the keys of the apartment in the air. My cheeks burn from smiling so hard.
PART III
Juan waits for me to lay out his work clothes. It has been three days since I tried to leave him. Since, I’ve ignored him. A slap’s one thing, a dent in the wall another, but choking? He could have killed me. Oh, and wait until he finds out that I’m pregnant. How bad will he feel then? How long can I keep this baby all to myself? César isn’t the best at keeping secrets.
I climb onto the bed and touch up my toenails. My hands shake, smearing red nail polish around my cuticles, anticipating him to raise his voice, his fist, his anything. But this morning, he’s an ocean without waves. Maybe because he knows he’d gone too far. Again.
Where is my new suit? he asks, almost nicely. Stop fooling around and pick out a tie for me. I can’t afford to be late.
I look outside the window. After weeks of spring-like weather, New York City is under a freeze. Icicles hang off the window edges. Still, a growing crowd of people in front of the Audubon building hold signs and spill over into the park where the pigeons meet, toward the entrance of the subway station.
Damn hooligans, Juan says to fill the quiet, trying to take over our government.
Realizing he means the numerous politicians back home I turn away from the window.
We may lose everything, if Dominican Republic goes to war. We still don’t have the land title.
I pick out a tie striped with different shades of blue and hand it to him, making the mistake of thinking aloud. Papá says, worry when you have to.
That’s why he’s poor like a mouse.
Juan pulls a folded dollar bill from his pocket and holds it under his nose.
This is what I believe in, he tells me. The way he looks at money, like a child with candy, makes me sad. I leave the room to brew the coffee.
A woman will come by to drop off some money she owes me, he yells from the bedroom.
A woman?
Yeah. I lent her one hundred dollars. Her name is Marisela. As collateral she gave me her wedding ring to hold. It’s in the safe. Every week, for six weeks, she’ll pay back twenty-five dollars. The easiest money I’ll ever make.
Do you want the coffee with milk?
He usually drinks his coffee black with a ton of sugar, but I always ask. If I don’t, he’ll call me lazy. Because what kind of wife won’t bother to boil the milk for her husband?
Ana, I can’t find my belt.
I leave the coffee to undo his belt from the pants he’d worn the night before. They hang over the chair in the living room and smell of kitchen grease and horse. I don’t mind the smell. It reminds me of Los Guayacanes, of lazy horses grazing near our house while I fry dough over the pit. The smell also means Juan has extra cash in his pockets after the races, after catering in the stalls to the horse owners, who tip big. But what I find inside the pants is a folded paper—a letter?—that I tuck into my skirt pocket.
Dressed, Juan appears to be important: a successful American man. Not the child who’d once peddled lollipops on the streets without a pair of shoes of his own. I watch him finish his black coffee while standing. I watch him put on his tweed coat. Wrap the red scarf fragrant with the aroma of a woman’s perfume around his neck.
Be good, pajarita.
He grabs me by the waist and mashes my lips with his mouth. He pats my cheeks three times as he would a baby’s bottom.
You’re finally gaining some weight, pajarita. I don’t care for skinny women I can snap like a twig.
I lock the door behind him. When Juan leaves, a tangible calm comes over the apartment and also over me. From the window, I watch him walk quickly through a crowd thick as a pile of ants. People march with flowers, photos of Malcolm X, and poster boards.
BLACK AND WHITE TOGETHER!
JUSTICE!
GONE TOO SOON!
Juan keeps his head down when he passes the police. Inside the apartment, he is a bull. On the street, he looks small, vulnerable, even scared. As if I can blow him away like a speck of dust.
Even the letter smells like horse manure.
Dear Caridad,
Please forgive me. I so desperately want to be with you but the situation is complicated. There comes a time in a man’s life he must make sacrifices for the family. You know this more than anyone, with your husband at war, not knowing if he’ll ever return home. And now with Vietnam.
You ask me to come to you but I can’t just leave A alone. She doesn’t know anyone. Her family entrusted her to me. She’s my responsibility. You have no idea how difficult this has been for me.
