The Accidental Native (9 page)

My side was sparse, clean. A few composition books on the overhanging shelf with the sliding door. Not even a calendar, blotter or a cup to hold pencils.

I went into Stiegler's office, one door over, to ask if he wanted to go to the cafeteria for coffee. He had a radioactive sign on his door.

“What's that all about?”

He looked at me with quizzical hazel eyes, narrowing his auburn eyebrows. He pointed to the microwave inside the office, which everyone used. The communal microwave.

“I'm being nuked daily,” he said in his squeaky voice. He opened his mouth, barely exposing tiny gray teeth behind the unruly mustache.

“Why not move it?”

“To where? I'm the new kid on the block, so they dump it in my office. Hey, maybe it should be in yours.”

“Just move it out there,” I said, pointing to the open unused area in front of our offices. He mused it over for a few seconds, scratching his chin.

“Roque may not like it,” he whispered.

“Oh, come on,” I said. I unplugged the machine and grabbed it. “Bring the table.”

Together we installed the microwave in its new place, against a wall. It looked isolated surrounded by so much space, but at least it was away from any one person. Stiegler's eyes softened, a smile flew out from under the bush draping over his lips.

“You can't be too careful, you know,” he said. I stared at him, confused. “There's some shit going on in this place,” he whispered again.

“What the hell you talking about?”

“This is a cancer cluster zone—don't you know?”

“No, I don't.”

“Baerga, upstairs in Humanities. Colon cancer. Giusti, Business; Huerta, Math, both breast cancer. Fernández, Spanish, lung; Robles, Accounts Payable, breast; Mercado, custodial, kidney, I believe. These are only in the last year.”

“Probably coincidence.”

“Coincidence, my ass! Man, this was a military base. They buried ordnance here, polluted the water supply, the surrounding environment—who knows how it's contaminating all of us.”

“Oh, come on, Stiegler. There are students here.”

His eyes widened like I was mad, or hopelessly näive, or both, then walked away, shaking his head. Perhaps I was being ingenuous, but Stiegler seemed to have a conspiracy theory for everything.

I had that coffee alone, and while sipping it in the noisy cafeteria, thought about the squatters. With classes starting, I hadn't given them much thought. But I had to do something, although what, I didn't know. Micco mentioned going to the police first, and there was a precinct just outside of the college, across La Tirilla, near the courthouse. I remembered needing a Certificate of Good Conduct to complete my file for Human Resources. This was a police check to assure the college I wasn't a chainsaw murderer or pedophile. Quickly, I looked at my watch and realized my next class was in two hours, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

Once I entered the precinct, I came across a mustached sergeant sitting on an imposing high wooden bench. His mustache seemed painted on. Sarge didn't look up from his newspaper. Around him his comrades laughed, loudly discussing the latest sports headline or the details of an action movie. A young handcuffed man sat by a wooden bench to the side of the front door, a stout, handle-bar mustached cop standing over him, struggling with a clipboard and paperwork. The young man's head nodded, and he mumbled. He was filthy, greasy, the stench emanating from his body unbearable.

I was standing at the door, the high bench and Sarge no more than five feet in front of me. I imagined offices to the sides somewhere and presumed cells, where the hand-cuffed man would soon go. But there wasn't much space or anything else for that matter in the front part of this precinct.

The cop pulled up the young man by the handcuffs and dragged him away to one of the hidden cells. I said “excuse me,” to draw Sarge's attention. He lifted tired eyes to me and said with a voice
weighed down by effort, “Yes?” as he reached for the clipboard left behind by the cop taking the homeless person away.

“I need a Certificate of Good Conduct,” I explained.

“Form?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Excuse me?”

“Where's the form?” This a bit agitated.

“Oh, I need a form?” A stupid question, I would soon learn, and Sarge's smirk confirmed it, or was it a response to my mangled Spanish? You need a form for everything in Puerto Rico, and “sellos.” Get a form, buy the official “stamp” that meant you've paid for something and then go wait in line for eternity.

“Ask your Human Resources department.”

I nodded, and he resumed flipping pages in his newspaper.

He saw that I hadn't moved. “Yes?” again, this time with a sigh.

I explained the squatters' situation.

He shrugged. “What do you want us to do?”

“Can't you get them out?”

His little eyes got even smaller.

“You need a court order to evict them.”

I was wondering why Micco told me to come here, when Sarge swiveled around and reached over to the bins behind him holding all the forms, obviously all but the one for Good Conduct. Above the bins, and his head, hung a photo of the present governor. Sarge handed me the form.

“File a complaint. This will help begin legal proceedings.” Speaking two consecutive sentences, while reaching for the form, tired him out. He began to perspire and breathe harder.

I uttered my thanks and waved goodbye.

He didn't notice. He returned to his newspaper and I stared at the legal size form—two pages long, back-to-back. I had to write the squatters' names? I didn't know these people—how would I get their names? Complainant's—that was me—parents and grandparents' names? The usual stuff: address, phone, social security number. Eyewitnesses? References from neighbors attesting to the defendant's conduct. Boxed spaces for the appropriate sellos to be purchased at your local “colecturía.” This would take more time than what I had. I folded the onion-skin papers and exited
the precinct. Walking toward me a lanky, droopy-mustached cop escorted a dark, hand-cuffed man.

I crossed the parking lot into the dirty, narrow street that twisted uphill into the network of streets leading to my hostage house, and which in the other direction connected to La Tirilla and the college. The municipal bus, ancient and noisy, spewed exhaust everywhere as it chugged into a stop. What if I can't get these squatters out of the house? I thought, waiting to cross the busy avenue. What if it takes me years and thousands of dollars?

For a moment, I considered calling Julia for help, but I just couldn't do it. During our weekly conversations, she would ask, “Is something wrong, René?” Tell me that I sounded stressed and worried. Was that mother's intuition? Or just my anxiety displaying itself? In between the “cultural field trips,” we talked often and the topics were more frequently drifting away from the formal to the personal. Not always easy. How does one open up and let someone enter your private world who should have been a part of it from day one? Bizarre—to feel so distant from
your mother
—the person who carried and sustained your life for nine months, who labored to bring you into the world. The whole scene sometimes wore me out. It felt like therapy, and I didn't feel like talking to her about anything, never mind legal issues with squatters.

Roque called me before I could slip into my office and slump before my desk in despair. I thought he was going to make some comment about the morning's episode with the bathroom, but he ushered me into his office with a face more solemn than usual. He seemed exasperated; in fact, he sighed. But I sensed a smile behind it, like he was happy to have something on me, so early into the semester.

“Falto, these syllabi won't do.”

“Why not?”

“You strayed way off the master syllabi. These are for courses I can't even recognize.”

“Don't I have some say how I teach my courses?”

“Well, of course. But I'm trying to guide you toward a more effective pedagogy. I've been here a long time. I know our students.”

“Are you saying they're too dumb to follow the content of these syllabi?”

“Don't put words in my mouth.” He narrowed his eyes, his wing-like heavy eyebrows looking menacingly ready to pounce. “I can tell you from experience this will not work.”

“With all due respect, Dr. Roque, please let me try. Let me do my job.”

He sat back and pushed the syllabi away. Behind him, I noticed a small crucifix hanging lonely on the wall. “Suit yourself.”

I slunk back to my office. Micco was warming something in the microwave. “Dead Man Walking,” he yelled. Beside him, Stiegler waited his turn, frozen entrée in hand. He walked toward me, nervous.

“Was he pissed about the microwave?” he whispered.

“No, Stiegler. Go nuke away.”

I first heard “God Bless the Child” blasting from Jeanie Caine's dorm room when I was a college freshman. Billie's raspy, mournful lyrics captivated me, held me hostage, as I was about to knock. As I entered the cluttered room, I felt like I had drifted into another era: a scene from an old black and white movie. Jeanie's taste ran to hip-hop and strong female vocalists like Mariah and Whitney. Who was this yearning woman singing the blues, sounding so affirmative but yet vulnerable? And why was she coming out of Jeanie's speakers like a sultry siren?

I found Jeanie on her bed, crying in a fetal position. Before I could ask her what was wrong, she waved me over to the bed and made me hold her tight. I held her for what seemed hours while she continued sobbing, my hand which she held to her face getting wet.

Jeanie's parents were successful doctors who had made the cover of
Ebony
magazine. They wanted her to take advantage of her very expensive education and become a doctor or lawyer—something “worthwhile.” She wanted to live in Amsterdam and write poetry. She was always having fights with them on the phone. “They hound me something fierce,” she said, “just to tell me the same old shit.” So sometimes she would have these funks and play depressing music.

Today, I'm thinking about Billie singing that day, the chorus stuck in my mind. Back in college I couldn't understand Jeanie Caine. I thought she was selfish and spoiled. My parents and I never had volatile fights like she did with hers. None that would
make me crouch in bed and whimper while listening to the blues. But then I didn't have parents like hers, until now.

Julia called to have lunch, another “together moment.” I had grown accustomed to her presence, even enjoying my time with her, although at times I had to stop and remind myself, “Oh, this is my mother.” The stories she told about cases, influential people she knew, celebrities she had represented, the ins and outs of the legal profession, the situations she confronted being a successful female attorney—it was dizzying and amazing. Julia was powerful and influential; the authority she wielded and the respect she earned scared people, especially men. She was also quite financially settled. The wealth didn't strike you until you saw it manifested in something concrete.

Julia invited me to her apartment in Miramar, the one-bedroom suite close to the law offices on the Milla de Oro in Hato Rey and the house in Guaynabo in a gated community that reeked of affluence and prestige. Both places were impeccably decorated by professional designers, with fine fabrics and colors enhanced with perfect lighting, and collected art appreciating in value every second you glanced at it. You can tell someone's rich when they don't think about the material things they own. An opulent item such as a Lladró figurine or a Steuben glass decanter blends into their everyday world.

You have a parent like this and you begin to appreciate Jeanie Caine. “And God Bless the Child” becomes your anthem too.

Around that time, I'd wanted to confess to Julia about my legal problems with the squatters and the conflicts at the college with Roque. Here I had a mother with this wealth of legal knowledge and experience who with one call could make Roque and the Riveras shit in their drawers, and I couldn't get around to asking her for help. I didn't want her thinking I was taking advantage of her guilt—not that she would have said that's what it was. But she tried too hard to please me, to compensate with little gifts, lavish meals and offers that I declined. She wanted to set me up at a studio apartment in the Condado, which I shot down. She wanted to buy me a car, nothing fancy, she said. I turned down the BMW
128i convertible, and she couldn't help smiling and shaking her head when I picked her up in a rental.

“I'm doing what any mother would do,” she told me.

I thought, what, spoil your kid? You can't buy your son's love, especially coming from nowhere after so many years.

For my part, maybe not asking for help was too extreme. I mean, isn't that what parents should do? Give advice to their children? I had no one to turn to, but I felt strange asking Julia for anything, even legal advice. Mami and Papi were my parents in my heart and mind. To turn to her for anything was painful. It felt like betrayal. Still, she was my biological mother. And clearly she was trying hard to regain that role for herself. The truth was I needed advice badly. If anything, I had to tell her that I might be out of a job by the end of the academic year. I vowed that during lunch I would tell her everything.

But first I had to pick Julia up at work. The law offices of Garrutia, Matos and Bustamante were in a shiny skyscraper along the Milla de Oro, in Hato Rey, the financial and business hub of San Juan. She told me to park in her private space, since she had car-pooled to work with a colleague. I drove the rented compact into the space tagged with her name. I got a kick out of the double takes that generated. This being the first time visiting Julia's office, I had no idea what to expect, but once the elevator opened onto the fifteenth floor—the Executive Floor—of the firm's headquarters, it hit me that my biological mother was a founding partner of at least a medium-size law firm. I passed the bevy of clerks, paralegals and typists in cubicles, all smiling and saying hello, and I approached Julia's secretary, a twenty-something with a vivacious smile. Before I introduced myself, she stood up, walked me over to the door and waved me into Julia's office.