Efrain's Secret (22 page)

“I ran to tell everyone that maybe we should seek higher ground at one of the hotels downtown. That’s what we call vertical evacuation. They thought I was crazy.
Girl, it’s too late
. Meanwhile, we had to yell to hear each other over the wind beating down the roof of the house. It was as if an army had surrounded the house and was trying to knock down the walls. But my friend’s mother said,
Just go upstairs and try to sleep. It’ll be over in a few hours
. She blew up an air mattress for me, then gave me a few pills to help me sleep through the noise.”

The waitress returns with our orders. No one says a word as she sets our food down before us. Even when she leaves, no one moves.

“When I woke up the next morning, my blanket was soaked, and the mattress was floating,” Candace continues. “I called the name of everyone in that house, but nobody answered me. I grabbed something floating in the water—I don’t remember what—and used it to break the window so I could get out of the house.”

“Do you know how to swim?” asks GiGi.

Candace nods. “Not that you wanted to be in that water.”

Nestor bristles. “Why not?”

“The sewers flooded, so the water was contaminated. I could see the swirls from gas and oil in it. I even saw a few snakes the hour I was drifting out there.”

GiGi asks, “You didn’t see anybody else?”

“Yeah, they were stranded on roofs holding up sheets with
Help!
written on them. One guy on a balcony had a little girl on
his shoulders waving a red towel. People would call across the street to one another.
Hold on! Please come and get me! I can’t swim, but don’t worry, they’re coming.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” says Nestor.

I mumble, “That’s the million-dollar question.”

“People were outside waving signs and flags, and meanwhile, there was no more wind,” says Candace, shaking her head. “It was, like, almost a hundred degrees out. Humid, too. No wind to wave anything. Anyhow, even though my family decided to stay, we planned years ago that if a hurricane got really bad, we would head to the Superdome. That would be the place set up for people with special medical needs, and my grandmother has diabetes. I finally drifted toward some projects where people were actually walking through the water, which was almost chest-high. One woman and her two little kids were floating in a refrigerator with no doors, using pots to paddle through the water. Finally, I came across this building, and some of the people who lived there had boats.”

“Say word?” laughs Nestor. “Nobody in no New York projects owns no boat!”

A little smile dances on Candace’s lips, letting us know that it’s okay to laugh along with him. I mean, it
is
kind of funny. Then Candace says, “The folks with boats were shuttling people back and forth to the bridge, so I got a ride with them.”

I ask, “How did you find your family, though?”

Candace explains, “There were thousands of people at the bridge. Whole families even. But there were also a lot of folks walking around with pictures of their relatives, asking other people if they’ve seen them. And some people …” Candace stops, lowers her head, and closes her eyes. Seconds later tears seep through her lashes and down her cheeks.

I rub her back with my hand. “It’s okay, ma.” I dig my fork
into the
pilón
and scoop up some of the garlicky mashed plantains. “Eat some of this before it gets cold.”

Candace opens her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Nestor and GiGi rush to dismiss her apologies and even dive into their own plates. We all seem especially grateful for the good food before us. Candace even loves the
mofongo
and asks how it’s made. GiGi explains, and the four of us go on for a while about our favorite foods as we finish eating.

Eventually, GiGi pushes away her empty bowl. Candace stares at it, making GiGi self-conscious. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Did you want to try some of the
sancocho?
I must’ve been hungrier than I thought.”

Candace says, “No, it’s not that, … Every time I see a bowl that was just emptied, I think of home.”

Nestor gives a nervous laugh. “Why?”

But Candace only stares at the bowl. She has shared so much already, and I’m so proud of her. She shouldn’t have to say any more, but folks need to learn and understand.

Remembering what I had learned while reading Candace’s paper, I reach for the pitcher of water and slide GiGi’s empty bowl into the center of the table. “New Orleans was built seven feet below sea level.” On one side of the bowl, I place Nestor’s glass of water. “To the south is the Mississippi River.” Now I grab GiGi’s glass and place it on the other side of the bowl. “To the north is Lake Ponchartrain. When Katrina broke the levees—” I suddenly grab both glasses and gush the water into the bowl until it runs over every side and across the table. “That’s how New Orleans drowned.”

Overwhelmed by the mess, no one rushes to clean it up, the same way no one jumped to save or rebuild New Orleans, and now even I finally understand why it matters so much to Candace to go back home.

Apprehend
(
v
.) to seize, arrest

The cold infiltrates my layers of clothing like a snitch. I shiver so hard, I know a headache is coming. Still, I stay on my hustle because thirty-seven degrees with a windchill factor of twenty-four doesn’t keep cokeheads and dope fiends at home.

Nestor heads back to the curb after servicing some brothers in an Escalade. “Man, you would think with all the running back and forth, I’d be warm by now.” He bounces up and down like a boxer in his corner.

“Kill that,” I say. “You’re making me dizzy. Bad enough I’m freezing.” Nestor stops jumping and closes his eyes. A silly grin comes across his face. Suddenly he snaps out of it, flicking his eyes open and sucking his teeth. “For real, kid, the cold is eating away at what little sanity you have left,” I say. “What was all that about?”

“I was imagining myself chilling on a beach in PR, but it didn’t work. Guess it’s because I’ve never been.”

“You’ve never been to Puerto Rico?”

“Nah, man, and why you say it like that’s a crime and shit?”

An Elantra inches up toward the curb. I notice it first, but I motion for another guy in our crew to make the sale. “My bad.” The cold has Nestor and me bickering like two
viejos
all night. “Just surprised is all. Don’t you have fam there?”

“I’ve probably got some distant cousins I’ve never met.” Nestor starts to bounce again. “Sure wouldn’t mind making their
acquaintance right now.” A Rio drives up to the curb, and he elbows past another dude to work it.

I rub my hands together and close my eyes. I imagine stepping off a plane in Ponce and the slight humidity making the hair on my neck curl. Cool air hits my face as I enter the terminal, and seconds later, I hear a woman call my name. I turn to the voice and see my
abuela
smiling and waving. When I hug her, I smell a mix of my mother and lavender. We climb into her beige hooptie, and she asks me if I want to get something to eat before we head to her
urbanización
in Guavate. I say, “No,
’uela
, take me straight to the beach, and I’ll get us some
empanaditas
there.” Now I feel the sand between my toes and smell—

“Yo, Scout!” Nestor waves at me to come over to the car.

I jam my hands into my pockets and jog over to the car. The driver is an African American woman about twenty-one, twenty-two. She has a big, pretty smile with short, deep dimples. Her friend looks Latina, a little younger, with bone-straight brown hair and blond highlights pulled back into a ponytail. They definitely fit Nestor’s idea of preferred customers.

He says, “This is my boy Scout. Kayla and Martita wanted to meet you.” He nudges me in the side, and when I glance at him, he’s motioning toward Martita as if to say
Especially her
.

Girlfriend or not, I have to look out for my boy. Besides, it’s just conversation, and I’m loving the hot air blasting through the vent on the dashboard. I take off my glove and offer Kayla then Martita my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Martita holds on to my hand and peers into my eyes. “Never seen you out here before.” She presses a folded bill against my palm.

“Look at that baby face,” says Kayla. “No wonder you call him Scout.”

Martita asks, “How old are you?”

“I’m going to be eighteen in July.” I take a quick glance at the bill in my hand—a twenty—before I stuff it in my pocket.

“Guess I’m going to have to come back then.”

Kayla laughs. “So who’s gonna hook us up?”

I point to LeRon. “Check out my man over there.”

“You mean the one that looks like Frazzle?”

Nestor and I laugh hard at that, and this is the warmest I’ve felt all day. I say to her, “Thanks for that, love.” Then I step away from the car.

Nestor adds, “Y’all have a good night and holla at us again soon.”

“We will,” says Kayla, and then they crawl up the block to get their order from Frazzle. I mean, LeRon.

Nestor says, “Yo, Martita was feeling you, bro.”

I’m glad he noticed, but I play it cool. “She’s just flirting, hoping to get hooked up.”

“Nah, man, she was checking you out. Fine older woman, too.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as if he just swallowed hot sauce. “You frontin’ like nothing.”

“I don’t mind being your wingman, but that’s all I can do for you,” I say.

Nestor keeps shaking his head. “You need to stop denying your true nature.”

“Leave that alone, Nestor.”

“Don’t get me wrong, man. Candace is a sweetheart, but it’s in a man’s blood to have more than one female at a time, E. Especially yours, player. You know, Rubio must’ve—”

Suddenly a Nissan screeches up to the curb. Some guys jump out and run up on us, slamming us against the wall of the building. The dude on me pats me down and then yanks my wallet and loose cash out of my pockets. When I turn to look at his face, he grabs my head and presses it against the brick. “Easy, Efrain,
easy.” He must have read my school ID card. “Efrain Rodriguez, you’re under arrest for criminal sale of a controlled substance.” As he continues to read my rights, he grabs one wrist and twists it behind my back. Cold metal tightens around it, and he treats my other arm to the same. Then the plainclothes yanks me away from the wall and drags me toward a police van. He guides my head as I climb inside, joining some other guys, including Julian and other dudes in Hinckley’s crew. Within seconds, Nestor follows, and I’m too relieved. He plops down next to me and says, “No matter what they say or do, keep your mouth shut.”

I turn to peek out the window. Some of the other guys in our posse bop away like innocent bystanders who just happened upon the commotion and quickly grew bored with it. But a uniformed officer grabs LeRon, pins him to the ground, and yanks a bag of vials out of his pocket. Nestor hisses, “Freakin’ Frazzle.”

Egregious
(adj.)
extremely bad

I expect the paddy wagon to take us straight to the precinct, which is a short walk away from the block. Instead, it cruises the Bronx for another two hours, following one raid after another. One kid—he couldn’t have been a day over thirteen—mumbles, “The breezies.” No one says anything, but we catch eye. He asks me, “You sold to two females in a Rio, right?” The hulk beside him gives him a hard head-butt, then tells him to shut the hell up. The kid bites his lip while a single tear crawls down his face. After every stop, the police stuff in more guys like dirty laundry in a front-loading washer. Soon we have our knees in each other’s backs, and it reeks of street grime and gym musk. When we finally arrive at the precinct and the cops open the back door, dudes tumble onto the asphalt, stretching and sighing with relief as if this is home.

Within minutes after we enter the precinct, a detective named Mendoza hauls me into a room and leaves me there alone. I aced a class on criminal law last year where the teacher repeatedly emphasized how things were not like the way they’re depicted on television shows, yet I sit here for hours like a murder suspect on
Law & Order
. As much as I rack my brain, I don’t remember learning anything that can answer the questions racing through my mind. Why would they separate me from the others? Are they all in rooms by themselves, too? If they’re going to question me, why are they taking so long? This just isn’t textbook.