Efrain's Secret (32 page)

That gets Rubio going in a way I never expected. With the
earnestness of someone running for office, he delivers a scouting report on all the great Dominican players on the Boston Red Sox. I pretend I don’t want to hear it, and it becomes a game. Rubio swears that Dominicans are going to turn New York City into a three-team town—the Yankees, the Mets, and the Red Sox. Yeah, right, I say.
Dos semanas después de nunca
. Two weeks after never. If you
plátanos
have a problem with the hometown teams, I say, the lot of you can move to Beantown. I expect Rubio to take offense, but, instead, he laughs and laughs. “We can do that,” he says, “but then you can forget about ever getting a cab to take you above Ninety-sixth Street.”

Finally I laugh. “True.” I have to give him that one.

And that’s what we always end up talking about when Rubio visits: politics. I should say argue. We don’t agree on a damn thing. He says Puerto Ricans should be doing everything in their power to become the fifty-first state. “All that talk about independence?” he chides. “Do they want to end up like the Dominican Republic?” I spit back one of Miss Polanco’s nationalistic lectures. It gets to the point that I start to look forward to Rubio’s visits just to work his nerves.

The day will come when I will tell Rubio everything that I suppressed all those years when I refused to let him be my father. Things I wouldn’t admit to myself. Like how hurt I was that I guarded his secrets to keep him home and yet he still left me. Revelations that come to me at night after each of his visits and I sometimes turn on the television to drown out. I can only handle one loss at time, and Nestor may have been the latest, but now he has to come first. I’m not man enough yet to deal with all that at one time. But one day I will be, and I’ll tell my father in a way that he can hear it. Maybe he won’t be man enough to
listen
, but I will say it, and it will be enough.

For now it’s politics.

Vindicate
(
v
.) to avenge, free from allegations, set free

Two weeks after Nestor saved my life, I run a new marathon. Once the DA gave my parents the date when I had to testify before the grand jury, they booked my flight to Puerto Rico for the same afternoon. Today, I head from the hospital to the courthouse. After I tell the grand jury everything about the night Nestor died, Rubio will drive me straight to Kennedy Airport, where I will board a flight to Ponce. My grandmother will pick me up from Mercedita Airport, and we’ll drive another half hour through the mountains to her house in Guavate. I can leave because Miss Avery convinced the DA to drop the charges pending against me in exchange for my testimony. With the evidence the police gathered against Julian after I gave him up, she expects him to cop a plea. And Lefty? I still don’t know his exact role in this drama, but he can’t outrun justice forever. Whether representing the law or the street, someone will knock on Lefty’s door and collect his debt one day. It is what it is.

My mother cries as she helps me pack the few things I have at the hospital. All my other things—except whatever I had at Nestor’s apartment, including all that cash—are already in a suitcase in Rubio’s trunk. Neither of my parents wants me to testify. They fear for my safety but stand by and respect my decision to do it. As afraid as they are, I know they are both proud of me, and I remember that whenever I have second thoughts about going through with it.

Believe it or not, on most days, I’m not scared at all about what might happen to me after I testify. Maybe it’s because I finally had a good dream last night. I dreamt that Chingy, Nestor, and I were walking down St. Ann’s Avenue wearing graduation caps and gowns. The funny thing is we were older—college-age—and still heading toward AC. And Chingy and I were giving Nestor daps for realizing his impossible while he did his laugh dance, tickled to be graduating.

I woke up so happy. Even when all the realities settled as my eyes adjusted to the daylight—my leaving indefinitely for Puerto Rico, Chingy heading to Morehouse in ATL in September (after all that happened, he decided that he wanted to be closer to Baraka), and Nestor no longer walking the streets—I felt deeply hopeful for the first time in months. Even though the dream is at once a reminder of both the way things once were and now how they will never be, I truly believe Nestor sent me a message that it doesn’t matter that the three of us are headed separately to places we had never planned. Each of us has still graduated to a place that will prove to be better than any other we have ever been.

Dream or no dream, I’m determined to outlast anyone who means me harm because I stood up for Nestor. Why should I live in fear of them? If the statistics hold any water, while I’m attending the University of Puerto Rico, one by one, they will either go to prison or die. Right or wrong, it is what it is. Now I’ve come too close to both destinies to wish either on any of those brothers, and I felt I had my reasons for doing what I did, so I’m in no position to judge theirs. But I’m mad clear on one thing: how damned lucky I am to have this second chance to beat the game by resisting the temptation to play. All I hope is that if any of them is lucky enough to get one, he is smart enough to take it.

“We got everything, right?” asks my mother as she zips
closed my carry-on bag. Even though we are ready to leave, neither of us moves.

Suddenly I blurt out, “Mami, I’m sorry.” I try to squeeze back the tears to no avail. “For everything, Mami.” I apologize for so much more than she knows. Things I may never have the heart to tell her, like how for years I knew that Rubio was cheating on her and kept his dirty secrets. That I did so for my own selfish reasons because as much as I hated him for disrespecting my mother, I also still loved him too much to risk losing him. I didn’t want him to be angry with me, and I didn’t want her to divorce him. Rubio forced a little boy to take sides, and like a little boy, I chose his simply because he was my father even though he was wrong. And he rewarded me for keeping his secrets by leaving instead of fighting for another chance and making things right.

My mother gestures for me to come to her. I limp over and bury my head in her lap. As she strokes my hair, she says, “I’m sorry, too,
m’ijo
. You made some mistakes, but this is not all your fault. We all made mistakes, especially me.”

Fervent
(adj
.) ardent, passionate

I hobble out of the courtroom, and there is Candace sitting with my mother in the hallway. When she sees me, she races toward me and throws her arms around me. Scout would have been angry at her for staying away from me so long, but New Efrain doesn’t care. She’s here now, and I hold on tight for one last time.

“I wanted to come see you in the hospital, but once the police came to my house, my mother started watching me like a hawk,” she sobs into my shoulder. Candace pulls back and I can see her pretty face. She smiles at me. “But you know me. Somehow I was going to find a way to see you.”

How could I have ever doubted her? My girl survived a hurricane. I cling to Candace, both ecstatic to see her once more yet scared to death that I won’t feel this way about anyone again. “Thanks, ma.”

“Your mother tells me you’re leaving for Puerto Rico today. When are you coming back?” Candace braces herself for an answer she doesn’t want to hear.

“I don’t know.” Then I have to laugh. “It’s funny because all this time you’ve been wanting to go to college back home, and now here I’m the one returning to the motherland and whatnot.”

Candace strokes my cheek. “I’m happy for you.” Even though the tears start to fall, I know she means it. “And someone gave me an airline ticket for Christmas, so maybe—”

“Efrain …,” my mother calls, pointing at the clock on the wall.

I put my arm around Candace and lean on her as we make our way to the elevator. “Don’t think that you’re off the hook,” I say. “Physics is still kicking my ass, and you promised to help me.”

We hold hands on the elevator ride to the lobby. My mother turns to Candace and asks, “Shouldn’t you be in school?” Candace casts her eyes toward her sneakers, answering her question. Moms sighs and says, “Since you’re here, there’s room in the car if you’d like to go with us to the airport.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rodriguez!”

“Thanks, Mami.”

My mother shakes her head as if to say
Kids
, but she can’t hide her smile. I may look like my father, but I have that smile. From now on, I’m going to do everything I can to maintain that smile on both of us.

Outside the courthouse, Rubio is double-parked across the street, and Mandy sits in the front passenger seat. “How long is the ride to the airport?” asks Candace.

“About forty minutes.”

She pouts. “That’s not a lot of time.”

No, it isn’t a lot of time. But it’s enough to explain anything that requires understanding, to profess all that we feel should be said, and to hope for everything we dare to want. Because there are no more secrets between Candace and me, forty minutes will do for now.

With every book I am blessed to publish, writing acknowledgments becomes increasingly difficult. Not because each book gives me less reason to need or desire support. On the contrary, every book brings new people into my life who—in ways both big and small—enable me to write the next one. Hence, attempting to name all the people I appreciate becomes such a daunting task that I risk not making any attempt at all. Please understand if this time around I focus on the handful of co-creators who played a particular role in developing this novel.

The Gaea Foundation, for the blessing that is the Sea Change residency.

My sister, Elisha Miranda. Thank you for the inspiration that was The Sista Hood: On the Mic (just one of innumerable gifts that you have bestowed upon me).

My literary agent, Jennifer Cayea. I hope you know that your persistent confidence means more than words can say.

My editor, Erin Clarke. Your insightful feedback and endless patience make me so excited to work on
Show-N-Prove
.

Leana Amaez and Vanessa Martir, for the time and expertise you generously lent so I could get certain details just right.

And most importantly, the brothers of the Urban Assembly Academy of History and Citizenship for Young Men, especially Danzel Blash, Devin Dixon, Ravon Morehand, Juan Polanco, and, of course, Chris “Pohetic” Slaughter. Your help improved my ability to tell Efrain’s story well.