This Side of Providence (10 page)

A few minutes after he leaves, while the TV is still warming up and there isn't even a picture yet, Cristo walks back in the house.

“Hurry up,” he says, slapping the knob to turn the TV off. “And grab your coat, you know how cold the Showcase gets.” He picks a sweatshirt up off the floor. “Here, wear mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We're gonna miss the previews if you don't get off your ass.” He hands me the sweatshirt. “Let's go.”

I get off the couch slowly. “You sure? I can come?”

He nods and gestures with his hands. “
Vamos, vamos
. God, why are girls so slow?” He grabs me by the hand and tries to pull me out the door. I jerk my hand free.

“Why are boys so pushy?”

He glares at me and I give him a fake smile, tying the sweatshirt around my waist. I know he's only being nice to me because it's my birthday and there's no one else around who gives a damn. But still, it's pretty nice of him to drag me along. A few months ago he would've left me here without thinking twice, but ever since César got shot he's afraid to leave me home alone. I guess having one of your friends almost die can make you nicer to your sister.

I say, “Thanks,” as we walk to the car but I don't think he can hear me over the sound of an ambulance speeding by. Cristo stares after it, like he's checking to see if it's someone we know.

The movie Miss Valentín takes us to is a cartoon about this Japanese girl who pretends she's a boy to get into the army and protect her family. It's pretty good but not very realistic. I don't know any girl who cares more about her family than she does about herself. But it's nice to be out of the heat and in a room full of people, even if they're all strangers. We don't usually get to go to the movies because my mother doesn't like big crowds. I like them because you can sit in the dark and forget who you are for a few hours. People think I read a lot because I want to be smart but really it's because I like to forget who I am. The more I read, the longer I can pretend to be somebody else.

When I was little, Cristo used to let me sit on his lap for the whole show. He even let me hold the popcorn. Now he holds the bucket on his lap and doesn't even look over. Every time I take a handful I sneak a look at his face. In the daylight, he never lets me study him like this. A lot of girls think he's handsome, but I think he's too thin, and he has these deep circles under his eyes, just like my mother. His eyes are so green they almost look fake, like the contacts dark-skinned women wear so people will notice them. When he laughs I can see his teeth; half are capped in silver thanks to the milk rot that ruined his smile, and they shimmer like he's chewing on coins. He looks so young in the dark, and happy, like a little kid. Like how he used to look.

He probably never thinks about it, but I remember the exact day when Cristo stopped looking like a little kid. It was a few years ago, when Scottie locked us in our bedroom all day. He had worked a night shift and just wanted to come home and go to sleep, but my mother said she had to go out and he had to watch us. We were all pretty little, Trini wasn't even walking, and they weren't leaving us alone yet. After my mother left Scottie was sitting on the couch falling asleep and we were running all over the place. Finally he said, “Fuck this,” and told us to go to our room. Cristo tried to run but Scottie picked him up by the shorts and tossed him into the room. When he tried to sneak out between Scottie's legs, he slapped Cristo across the face.

Once we were all inside he locked the door from the outside with a bike lock. He told us what he was doing and said if we tried to jump out the window he'd beat us all the way back to Puerto Rico. It was summer and it was hot in that room, so hot that it felt like the oven was on. Trini wouldn't stop crying, even when I took off my shirt to fan her with it. After a while Cristo started banging on the door, saying he had to use the bathroom, but Scottie just yelled for him to shut up and piss out the window. Cristo pounded on the door and said that he couldn't, that it was more than that. Chips of paint started to peel off the door where he was hitting it, and the wood began to splinter under his hand. But Scottie didn't come back. Finally Cristo gave up, and he shut himself in the closet and went to the bathroom on the carpeted floor. I watched Trini pick a paint chip off the ground and put it into her mouth, and even though I shouldn't have, I let her keep it since it was the only thing that got her to stop crying.

I didn't have a book to read, so I picked up a pencil, and when I couldn't find any paper, I wrote on the wall. Not a story, I just wrote my name over and over again, scratching letters into the white paint like I was holding a knife. After, I moved the dresser in front of it so I wouldn't have to clean it off, but also because I wanted someone to read it years later and know that I had been there. That I was alive.

When Cristo came out of the closet he didn't say anything
and he didn't look at me. He closed the closet door and sat on the floor in front of it. It must have been a hundred degrees in that room but he wrapped his arms around his knees like he was cold. Eventually we all fell asleep, even though it was the middle of the day, and when Scottie opened the door the whole place was dark and the sun had set. I know because I woke up early and watched it set from the window, wondering how I could see anything so pretty on this side of town.

When Scottie figured out what Cristo did he got all pissed again and forced him to clean it up. Cristo didn't say anything, didn't even fight him, he just got the pail from under the sink and an old rag and went to work scrubbing the carpet. Since Trini was still asleep I helped him, working until our knuckles were raw from rug-burn and it was as clean as it was before, which was really not that clean. Then Scottie made him hand wash his underwear and put them back on.

After that Cristo didn't really talk to me that much and he started playing with older kids in other houses. He stopped giving me rides on his handlebars and he forgot to save me the gum from his Blow Pops. I used to think he stopped loving me after that day, but now I think he stopped loving himself.

After the movie Miss Valentín takes us to Newport Creamery for dessert. We order an ice cream cake in the shape of a whale and they sing “Happy Birthday” to me twice, once in English and once in Spanish. The other people in the restaurant think we're crazy but I don't care because sometimes it feels good to do what you want and not worry about other people. Before I blow out the candles I wish for César to wake up and for my mother to come home soon and for Cristo to be able to sleep through the night and for Trini to never know what it feels like to be forgotten.

I don't make a wish for myself.

 

       
S
HE SEES
the girl lying in a darkened room. Sunlight shines in from the edge of a drawn curtain. The girl can't sleep. She no longer trusts the darkness. She's not safe in this house without her mother. Now it is a house of men: her brothers, her father, the farmer who owns all this land. Even the house they live in. The girl wonders what else he owns. A man crosses the room, his face hidden from view. There is a faint smell of cigarettes and fried pork. The scent of a man who works long hours in a field. The farmer sits down next to her on the bed. He fixes the bow on her dress. Her dress is too small. She closes her eyes. The last thing she sees is her feet on the bed. How small they look, like they belong to a doll. He touches her leg. The girl flinches, as if he had just hit her across the face. The next time he touches her, she doesn't move.

Arcelia

S
ometime in July one of the counselors tells me I been clean for forty-five days. I ask her if it still counts, since it's not by choice. She laughs and says being sober is always a choice, even in prison.

I thought it might be different, but prison's just like the streets. You've got your good spots and your bad, your cops and your criminals, your teachers and your preachers. You've got your addicts and your angels, your doctors and your lawyers, your enemies and your best friends. If you know the right people you can get anything in here—drugs, sex, movies, or jewelry. Hell, they'll even give you medicine. That's the real difference between prison and the streets—in here the medicine is free.

They put me on something called AZT about a month ago, and a few other drugs I can't pronounce. They're supposed to help my body fight the HIV. They said I don't have AIDS yet, just HIV, but I still don't get the difference. If they both make you sick, what's it matter what you call it? They told me there's a Spanish-speaking nurse who works overnights and I can sit down with her sometime if I got anymore questions.

When the social worker told me I had it, she asked if I was surprised. I said no, 'cause all those pamphlets they gave me made it seem like I was a perfect match. All I wanted to know was if I'm gonna die. When she said not now I figure that's a good enough answer. Then the nurse came in and started talking about something called my T-cell count, saying how it was 220 and I was on the verge of pneumonia and how I had to get
that number up to at least 500. I guess it's like baseball—the good hitters are in the three or four hundreds, but you know you're a superstar if you're batting better than 500. She asked if I had other problems and I told her I get yeast infections all the time. She said that was probably from the virus, too, so now I'm thinking I can blame the HIV for everything—like being broke, shooting dope, and getting locked up for almost a year.

As soon as I start taking the medicine I have to stand in the med line every morning, instead of going to the rec room after breakfast with all the regular girls. They try to keep it private but all my pills are such crazy colors that any idiot would know I'm not taking Vitamin C. They call it a cocktail, but it don't look like any mixed drink I ever seen. And I used to get drunk in some fucked-up bars. The worst thing about it is it makes me have to go to the bathroom all the time. It's real loose, almost like diarrhea and sometimes it burns like I been eating nothing but Chinese food for a week. And bottom line—I'm just not used to shitting that much. Thanks to the dope I was only going a few times a month. I guess I never knew how much money I was saving on toilet paper.

I see the nurses every day, but once a week the doctor comes out here from some big hospital in Providence to check out my blood and see how my body's reacting to the drugs. I ain't seen a doctor this much since I was pregnant—and I missed at least half those appointments. I think a few other girls got it, too, 'cause their pills look pretty much the same as mine and sometimes we fight over the bathroom. We don't talk about it, though. Nobody in here talks about anything they don't have to. One time the counselor asked me if I wanted to go to a support group for women with HIV and I said only if they can cure me. What's the use in talking is how I see it. The damage has already been done.

The first people to come visit me here are my cousin Chino and his girlfriend, Kim. Kim's all right—for a white chick with big hair and a Cranston accent—but she's one of those people who
always hints at things and never just says what's on her mind. Chino is like a brother to me. He took me in when I showed up in New York with nothing but a baby and a duffel bag and the dream of raising my kids in America.

We sit at a small table in the visitor's room—Chino and Kim next to each other, me on the other side. They bring me
arroz con gandules
and
chuletas
but the guards take it all at the door, pointing to the sign that says:
NO FOOD ALLOWED
. The only thing they let them bring in is a calendar with pictures of sunsets from all over the world and a light-blue hooded sweatshirt that says “Little Rhody.” I'm happy to have something warm since nights get pretty cold in this building, and everybody always says I look good in blue. At first I think there's something wrong with it 'cause it smells weird but then I realize that's just the smell of something new. I'm a grown woman, but I'm still not used to having anything someone else didn't have before me.

Kim talks non-stop—about the weather and her job and how being inside here isn't as bad as it seems from the outside. I want to say, “Try sleeping here,” but I stop myself. When I ask about my kids Kim finally gets quiet. Chino looks at her before he answers me.

“They're all right, they're fine.” He shrugs. “They're kids, they'll bounce back.”

“How's Cristo doing with everything?” For some reason, he's the one I really worry about.

“He's fine, Arcelia, he's the same.”

“And the girls?”

“Everybody's good. Lucho, too.”

Hearing her name is like a punch in the chest. “How's she doing?” I cross my arms like I'm hugging myself. “I mean, how are things going?”

“We don't see her a lot, Ari, you know how she is.”

“I know. That's why I have to ask.”

Kim clears her throat. “Last time I stopped by she wasn't around. But the kids said they had just seen her. Within the last day or two.”

Chino rubs his hands on his jeans. “She's working a lot but she's still there at night. She promised me she's sleeping there.”
He glares at Kim, but she won't look him in the eye.

My stomach tightens like I just got kicked in the gut. “I know she's not perfect, but she signed those papers with the state. She said she would take care of them. I don't think she'd go back on that.” My hands are suddenly cold and I try to warm them in my armpits. “I need her to be there, to take care of those kids.” And me, I'm thinking, I need her to take care of me.

“Don't worry about it, it's going to be fine. You need to focus on yourself.” Chino looks around the room. “Focus on getting out of here. There's nothing you can do from in here anyway.”

I look at him. “They're my kids, Chino. I worry about them wherever I am.”

He nods and don't say anymore. Kim shuffles in her seat. Her leather jacket squeaks against the plastic, making half the eyes in the room look at her. She don't seem to notice.

“I wish we could help out more. That we could take them, you know? But three kids…that's a lot. And with Chino out of work and without any money from the state, we just can't do it right now.”

“I know. I'm not asking you to.”

“If it was one or two, maybe we could talk about it. Just the baby or—”

“No, I don't want them split up.” I blow on my hands to warm them. “It's too hard.”

Chino looks at me. “On who? You or them?”

“What's the difference?” My fingers feel stiff like a doll's, like I'm made out of plastic. “I made that mistake once before. Never again.” Chino knows the story so he don't make me say no more. How I left my husband in the middle of the night. How I took Luz—my baby, my little girl—and walked out holding her and the bag I had in my hand. What he don't know is that I never said good-bye to Cristo, I just pressed a flower to his pillow so he could remember how I smelled and kissed his head in the dark.

“It wasn't a mistake, Ari. It was the only choice you had.”

I shake my head, not looking in his eyes. “I coulda done it
different.”

“It's done now, it's over. No use beating yourself up over something you can't even change.” Chino picks a scab on his hand. “And you left him with his father, for God's sake. It's not like you left him on the street corner.”

“I still left him.”

He licks the scab as it begins to bleed. “It was only six months.”

“You say that like it's a sneeze. Try doing that same time in here.”

Chino exhales and sits back in his seat. He tries to avoid my eyes but I stare at him. When our eyes finally meet he lifts his eyebrows, a sign that he wants to squash the conversation. All the men in our family do that, but he's the only one who waits for an answer. I shrug, letting him know it's okay.

“Lucho told me she finally paid the phone bill,” Chino says with a smirk. “So it should be turned back on soon. Any day now.”

“Good. They let me call out once a week. On Sundays. So tell the kids to be home.” I squint to block out the harsh fluorescent lights. “You know, if they're not doing anything else.”

“The only place they really go is the hospital, to visit Cristo's friend.”

“Oh right. I heard about that on the news. How's he doing?” One of the guards gave me a newspaper article when they heard I knew the kid that got shot. I pinned it to my wall but never actually read it.

“All they're saying is that he finally woke up. I don't think he's talking yet, so they don't know how much, you know, brain damage he has or whatever. But he's alive.”

“Good. That's good to hear.”

Kim leans back in her chair suddenly, making a loud creak that echoes throughout the room. The guard near the window stands up while the others stare at us from the door. One of them holds up her hand, telling us we have five minutes left.

“Oh, to be that boy's mother.” Kim shakes her head. “I can't imagine.”

“I'd kill someone if they did that to my kid. Accident or
not. Family or not.” Anger rises in my chest and makes my whole body hot. My skin feels tight and all I want to do is punch the wall or run along the beach or take the biggest hit of any drug I can find.

“He wouldn't be walking around,” Chino says. “I can tell you that much. An eye for a fucking eye.”

“Shit. You know that's right.”

Chino flexes his bicep, making his tattoo—a picture of the Puerto Rican flag he got on his eighteenth birthday—ripple. I reach out to touch it, but the guard gestures for me to stay put. I take my hand back after squeezing him softly.

“Hey, is that teacher still coming around?”

Chino nods. “She's the one who takes them to the hospital. And to the movies, Cristo said, and sometimes the park.” He leans closer to me, his face softening. “It's nice of her to take an interest in him, don't you think? It's good for him.”

I nod because I know I'm supposed to, but I feel like saying, “Hell no.” So what if she went to college and drives a new Jetta and speaks English without an accent—why does that mean she gets to spend time with my son? I'm his mother. I'm the one who should do those things with him. What does she know about being someone's mother? It's not just about the good times—it's hard fucking work—and you can't just replace someone because they ain't perfect.

After they leave I make a promise to myself that when I get out I'll take him to the park, even if it's twenty degrees and snowing, and I'll take him to the movies, even if we have to sneak into the theater, and I'll be the mother I never was—the one I shoulda been—even if it damn near kills me.

I'm still pissed about the teacher when I meet with the social worker later that day. She wants to know why I got a problem with her so I tell her about the letter she sent and how she thinks she knows me. She don't say nothing, just puts a notebook and a pencil on the desk between us. The desk is so high I can't really see her body. She looks like a puppet, her head just
floating on top of the chair.

“Write her back,” she says, pushing the notebook closer to me.

“Who?”

“Miss Valentín. Do something constructive with your anger and write her back.”

I sit back in my chair. “I don't got nothing to say.” The plastic is so smooth I almost slip off and fall on the floor. I steady myself while she looks at me.