The Accidental Native (21 page)

My mother, who often said worst things regarding her father's American chauvinism, would defend him then.

“He fought for his country, Juanma, like many Ricans in that generation. What else can you expect?”

“His country?”

“Ay, please don't start. If Puerto Rico had a navy, then we could talk, awright?”

But when Mami and Buelo got into it, it got ugly. They would scream and she would throw things, not against walls to smash, and never at her father, but perhaps a book slammed on the table, a ratty sofa pillow hurled across the room. He'd point a sausage finger, tell her never to set foot in his house. Poor Güeli, used to the fights, would leave for the supermarket or cocooned herself in her bedroom to watch the novelas. In a soft voice she would beg for peace, but father and daughter wouldn't listen. They were in that loud, tit for tat, rapid fire, forget dialogue, it's a matter-of-who-can-yell-the-loudest-over-your-opponent Puerto Rican mode.

“Ay, Dios mío,” Güeli would say, sighing. Then under her breath, uncharacteristically, would say “Jodía política,” fuckin' politics, and head back into the bedroom.

As a child witnessing these verbal battles, I never quite understood the content. Only the often repeated words entered my consciousness: “estadista,” “independencia,” “pitiyanqui,” “comunista.” When he got patriotic, he would argue in English, and I'd pick up a few sentences. Things like, “Without the U.S., Porto Ricans would still be eatin' bananas and shittin' in letrines.” Or, “You should get on your knees and thank the good Lord you are an American.” But it would calm down, both combatants moving to a corner, distracted by something else, yet you could almost see the fumes emanating from their heated heads.

It depended on his moods, I guess, plus the amount of alcohol consumed. Buelo was not an alcoholic, but during special occasions he'd slam down a few, and he was not a lovely, charming drunk. And anything could incite him, get him going. That day, I
remember looking at all the trimmings, the multi-colored lights with which Mami had circled the tree—all the decorations, each having a singular, significant importance. Being six or seven years old, I blubbered out something about Santa bringing me a gift I wanted badly. Don't remember what exactly, probably never will, but I do remember as if a camera had closed up on Buelo's face, my grandfather's eyes withering, his enormous presence withdrawing, back into the sofa, his upper lip snarling.

“Oh yeah, Santa Clos?” he said.

“Yeah, Buelo.”

He pouted his lips in that snarky way.

“I don't think so, nene.”

“Why not?”

He pushed himself toward me, an effort that made him breathe heavier, and put his face as close to mine as possible, his breath smelling of beer.

“Because he don't exist, Rennie, that's why.”

My mother stopped midway in circling the tree, silver garland hanging in her hands. Her eyes fixed on her father, who had a full-blown sneer on his face. And he took a sip of beer. An exchange of words, harsh, and they were off. Güeli even screamed at Buelo.

“What do you mean, Buelo?” I screamed, now crying. “I've been good.”

When I started crying, my mother slapped my grandfather on the arm hard. Buelo got up, and Güeli got between them.

“You respect me,” he yelled.

“Right now, it's really hard, Pa,” my mother said. They reserved the hardest things to say in English.

I didn't care about their bickering. I wanted to know then and there if or not the man in the red velvet suit would be bringing me that special present.

More yelling, and I was crying out loud now. What had I done? The words did not register for me.

“What does ‘exist' mean, Mami?” I asked.

“Your Buelo is just playing with you,” she said.

“Stop,” he screamed. “Tell the boy, Magda, tell him the truth.”

My mother looked at him, amazed, her eyes, I remember so well, blazing with anger, perhaps even hate at that moment.

“No more lies, m'ija,” Buelo was saying, out of breath now. “He deserves to know.”

More words in Spanish, flung at Buelo like knives, as Mami squeezed me, now crying in her arms.

Güeli shaking her head, stood up and said something to Buelo, in the most solemn tone I had ever heard her speak. She pointed a finger at him and left him with his head down, cradling his hands in front of him.

Minutes later, he told my mother, “Nena, I'm sorry.” And then he began to cry.

Watching that tattooed man, weighing over 250 pounds, weeping with such fervor, scared me out of crying. I still see him in that battered brown leather recliner, the tears falling off his nose, his head down, an arm extended as a peace offering to my mother. My mother took his arm and held it up to her cheek, and she bent down and kissed Buelo on the head.

“Buelo, don't worry, Santa's gonna bring you something too,” I said.

And he looked at me, hugged me hard and kissed me.

“Yes, he will baby, and he better bring you something, or I'll kick
his
fat ass.”

José Feliciano's “Feliz Navidad” came on the radio, I smelled Buelo's Old Spice aftershave, saw Mami sniffling, wiping her nose on her red Christmas sweater, and I felt better that Santa would bring me that present. From the kitchen, Güeli started singing the lyrics, and out floated a cloud of heavenly aromas stemming from the kitchen, her hands holding fresh coquito mixed and put back in the rum bottle to serve it from there. I felt so warm, surrounded by people I loved, surrounded by sounds, smells, memories, the sort that come back stronger than ever to haunt you.

Licenciado Ledesma had a tic which signaled bad news. I had met him enough times to pick this out: a rotating of the right shoulder, accompanied by a little clearing of the throat, which prefaced the unwelcome information he was going to lay down on you. Reassuring in a way, a sign of a person with a conscience at least, who hated delivering news that would make his client irritable and unhappy. For a lawyer, that was the closest he could come to being virtuous.

His secretary led me into his modest office, and he stood up. Right away the shoulder got moving and the throat started making noises as he extended his manicured hand out for a handshake. He had phoned, left a message on my cell, and I was happy to receive it because I thought the Riveras had been evicted. Two weeks ago in this same office, I had signed a barrage of paper making me the legal owner of my parents' house. Ledesma handed me the deed with a smile.

“You're now a property owner and a Puerto Rican taxpayer. God help you.”

I didn't know about Hacienda, the tax department, but as his secretary gave me the latest tax bill, I thought it could not be worse than the fleecing I was getting from the licenciado. But I paid happily, thinking the big mo was with me.

“We'll initiate an immediate Demanda de Desahucio,” he had said. At my puzzled face he translated: “Eviction process.”

I could not believe the judicial system was finally taking my side.

“It's pretty straightforward from here,” he added, leaning his big torso forward, his demure hands coming together in a somber gesture of gravitas. “Recently, the Puerto Rican Legislature amended the process, which now should take no more than two weeks. The Riveras will have 10 days to leave, once they are served with papers.”

“My heart bleeds for them,” I had said. “Don't let the door hit your fat asses.”

Ledesma had frowned at my remarks and told me he would contact me when it was all resolved. So, finally I was summoned, thinking resolution, but here was Ledesma rotating his shoulder like some overused major league pitcher and clearing his throat like he was trying to dislodge something stuck to the back of his adenoids.

He had me sit down, asked if I wanted coffee, not a good sign coming from an attorney who bought his suits from Sears. I just stared at him. In our budding attorney-client relationship, he had become accustomed to my impatience and the facial signals that said, “Just give me the fucking bad news.”

“There's been an unexpected development,” he said.

“Oh, do tell.”

Not missing a beat, used to my sarcasm, he informed me the Riveras had acquired a legal aid lawyer to represent them.

“I thought you said this was straightforward.”

“These two are good at what you Americans call, ‘milking the system.'”

“So, what are you telling me?”

“They're like professional squatters and will use the legal system to keep living in a place as long as they can.”

“But there was an eviction process, right?”

“Process, Falto. You said it. And the process allows them to present their case.”

“But I own the house, and they are not paying rent. How much of a case can they have?”

“Well, technically, the rental contract was not between you and them. Their case is not between landlord and tenant. They have recurred to
interdicto posesorio
, or at least their lawyer has, alleging
that since your parents became deceased, there was a period when no one legally owned the house and they were in possession of it and thus have a claim to it.”

My look must have been amusing to him, because he chuckled. I was certainly not in a jovial mood, but the absurdity of the situation and his reaction made me laugh too. And we both kind of laughed for a few seconds until we could do nothing else but sit in silence.

“I can't believe this,” was all I could say.

“It's a frivolous argument, Falto. You have to understand that it has no legal standing, but the court must hear it and juridicate. They are just buying more time.”

“Great. Meanwhile I'm living in a guest house, and they're entrenched in the house that represents my parents' retirement dreams.”

Ledesma pursed his thin lips, his eyes saddened as he stared at the legal paperwork in front of him.

“Sad but true, amigo,” he said, nodding.

“Well, do what you have to do and get them out.”

He stood up and stretched out his hand. He stared at me more seriously than ever before.

“These are bad people, Falto. You will have your day in court, trust me.”

I shook his hand, paid the secretary the hefty bill and walked into the cool, bright January morning, feeling violated and used.

Walking back to the Guest House from Ledesma's office, it hit me how quiet and desolate the town was. The students had departed for the Christmas recess, the losa professors back in their precious San Juan, the area faculty visiting family somewhere else on the island or the States. La Tirilla eerily silent, El Pub, the college hangout, closed. A relative ghost town.

Back home, I threw on a tee, laced my running shoes and jogged until I lost track of the laps, falling on the bench under the giant moss tree where I had talked to Mari that day. Sweating, breathing hard, I lay back on the cool concrete bench and peered through the tree's leaves, thinking about Mari, wondering what she was doing.

After the blow up in the parking lot, she called and apologized, but I couldn't get her to see me. She wanted time to think, she had said. No, she had said “needed.” And then she added, “You should do some thinking, too.” I ached to be with her. That basic fact trumped any other thoughts, and I'd let that carry me anywhere she wanted me to go. What else was I supposed to think?

Birds chirped on the tree above, and suddenly I hated that I could hear birds singing. I was the only person on campus, except for the guard at the entrance of the college. My colleagues had gone off traveling somewhere, an inspirational idea. I headed back to the Guest House and started packing a carry-on. After a quick shower and slipping into cargo shorts and a clean tee, I roared away in the Civic, heading east to Fajardo.

There, I parked in the lot at the Ferry Terminal, bought a ticket to Culebra, an island that friends, colleagues and even Julia praised for its beauty and tranquility. The ferry was similar to the ones crossing The Narrows in New York City, the trip longer. Upon entering the town of Dewey, the views of the coast were postcard gorgeous, with the sea reflecting shades of varying blues, the sky a clear powder blue. I had not made reservations or thought about it, so when I entered the Hotel Kokomo, right off the dock, I hoped there would be a room available. “Tiempo muerto,” the desk clerk said, meaning literally, “dead time,” but signifying “slow season.” She handed me the cardkey to a pleasant, clean room.

The next morning, I drove to Flamenco Beach and was amazed to see my feet so clearly through ocean water. What a slice of paradise, I thought, as I felt myself melding into the white, spotless sand. My thoughts became scattered with every stabilizing beat of my heart, until mental effort glazed into “nothing matters.”

An Australian I met during dinner recommended snorkeling near Luis Peña, one of the many keys off Culebra. Swimming near the coral reef, along striking, colorful tropical fish, I faded into pinks and opals, time and place. When I surfaced, a fellow snorkeler pointed to a manatee about a hundred yards from us, the massive beast gracefully diving in and out of the water.

My last night in Culebra, at Flamenco, my reverie was broken by laughter. A young woman ran barefoot on the beach, dressed in a formal gown, the train dragging across the white sand. A man in a tux, equally barefoot, pant legs folded up to the knees, caught up to her and wrestled her to the ground. She screamed and laughed as they both went down, and they tussled, kissing drunkenly until all I could hear were the waves splashing onto the sand.

I returned to Baná tanned and rested, but restless. The Spring semester would start in a week, and I had not heard from the Institutional Committee about my contract. I was not looking forward to more battles with Roque, and I could not keep Mari out of my mind.

The day after my escape to Culebra, I sauntered over to the college post office to pick up mail and encountered Micco, himself tanned, although presumably from a bottle. He was sorting through a mountain of mail he had thrown on one of the side counters. He spotted me with my copy of the
Atlantic
and a couple of bills.