When I Was Puerto Rican (29 page)

Goodbye lovely Candelaria,
I turn my back to you,
I feel not for what I take,
but for what I leave behind.

“I
couldn’t believe it! I get home, and everything’s gone. The house is locked. The windows are shuttered. There’s no sign that anyone lives there. So I ask the neighbor, who tells me Pablo moved! Didn’t even write to me in New York. He just sold everything, packed off the kids, and went back to Macún. ”

Angelina gasped. “How did you find them?”

“I went to Doña Margara’s house. She told me.” Mami stroked my head, which lay relaxed and at home on her lap.

“Are we going back to Macún?” I asked, hopeful.

“Nah! I’m not living there again.”

“Is Papi going to live with us?”

She tightened her lips. “Yes, of course.” She stood up. “Go get your things. We have to go.”

I stuffed my belongings into a bag, fingers shaking so hard I couldn’t zipper the top. Mami had come back from New York with cropped hair that formed a curly black ring around her face. Her nails were long and painted deep pink. She wore high heels and stockings that shadowed the blue lines on her legs.

But besides her appearance, there was something new about her, a feeling I got from the way she talked, the way she moved. She had always carried herself tall, but now there was pride, determination, and confidence in her posture. Even her voice assumed a higher pitch that demanded to be heard. I was puzzled and frightened by this transformation but at the same time enthralled by it. She was more beautiful than before, with eyes that seemed to have darkened as her skin glowed paler. Even Angelina remarked on this. “¡
Qué bonita te ves!”
she had exclaimed, and we all had to look and agree that yes, she looked very pretty.

On the way to the bus, men stared, whistled, mumbled
piropos.
Eyes fixed straight ahead, she pretended to ignore the gallantries, but a couple of times her lips curled into a smile. I strolled next to her half proud, half afraid. I had heard men speaking compliments in the direction of women, but I’d never been aware of them going to my mother. Each man who did a double take or pledged to love her forever, to take her home with him, to give his life for her, took her away from me. She had become public property—no longer the mother of seven children, but a woman desired by many. I wanted to jump on those men and punch their faces in, to quiet the promises and the seductive looks, to chill the heat they gave off, palpable as the clothes I wore. During the entire bus ride home I was miserable, wrapped in a rage I couldn’t explain or think away. Mami chatted about New York, my cousins, movies, and tall apartment buildings. But I didn’t listen. I kept replaying the walk to the bus stop, her proud bearing, the men’s stares, their promises, and the nakedness her accessible beauty made me feel.

Our new place in Sabana Seca was a pretty
finca
at the end of a cul-de-sac by a golf course. A creek ran at the side of the property dividing us from the large house next door, which Mami said belonged to
“una gente rica”
—rich folks. On the other side of us was the home of Doña Lina and Don José, their children, and their television set.

We had seen television before, but this was the first time we were captivated by the figures on the screen. Tom and Jerry, El Pato Donald, and El Ratoncito Mickey Mouse delighted us with their adventures. Superman burst through walls, lifted cars, and caught people falling out of buildings before they hit the ground. Tarzan let out mighty yelps and swung from limb to limb on vines that looked suspiciously like ropes decorated with sweet-potato vines. All the male characters, cartoon or live action, sounded like the same two people—José Miguel Agrelot or Jacobo Morales, two of my favorite radio voices. It took me a long time to figure out that the programs were actually in English dubbed into Spanish, and after that I enjoyed them less because I spent most of my time watching the mouths move out of synchronization with the voices.

Papi was never a part of this entertainment. He had converted what used to be a tool shed into his private world, with a padlock on the door and curtained windows from which sometimes rose sweet-smelling smoke. He came home, ate dinner, and disappeared into his room with a lit candle and books and magazines. We knew better than to disturb him. He was as withdrawn as a person can be and still live in the same household: morose, preoccupied with matters that were none of our business.

Once, while he was in the latrine, I sneaked into his spice-scented hideaway and rifled through a stack of Rosicrucian literature and a book by Nostradamus. Just touching the pages gave me the creeps. Illustrations of disasters and holocausts bloomed over the turbaned heads of men with bulging eyes of frightening intensity. The texts were in formal Spanish, with
thee
and
thou,
and grammar that was hard to follow. On a small table by the window, an unmarked bottle of amber liquid sparkled next to a chipped bowl with ashes. A strange energy shadowed the corners of the room; the air seemed to circle on itself, confined by the narrow walls. I ran out, breathless, my heart beating fast, chills curling my tailbone.

I got my own room, off the kitchen, with a curtain for a door. In it Mami put a cot with its own mosquito net, a small table and chair, and a basket for my underclothes. Papi nailed a rod in the corner, where I hung my uniform and good clothes.

“Now you keep this room neat,” Mami said. “You know you’re almost
señorita
and should learn how to take care of things.”

From his toolbox, Papi pulled out a package of green thumbtacks. “You can use these to pin pictures and poems on the wall,” he said, handing me a portrait of the governor.

I clipped out flowers from cans of Carnation milk and pinned a wreath around cutouts of the little girl under an umbrella from the salt box and of Mr. Quaker from the box of oatmeal. Edna drew me a horse, and Hector gave me one of his best marbles, which I set on a small pedestal carved from a dried avocado pit.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The floorboards were pocked with holes where knots had fallen out. Cold air blew in, whistling a mournful tune like the dead singing. I pulled the sheets up to my chin and tucked my head between my arms. Under the house, hens cackled softly, while the flapping of wings above sounded like secret applause. I rolled into a ball in the middle of the mattress, cold sweat nipping my back. I missed Delsa’s warmth, the secure feeling of sleeping in a room full of people. I tossed until dawn, unused to so much room on the bed, while on the other side of the wall, my sisters and brothers slept, their bodies gently rising and falling in rhythm with one another’s breathing.

I woke to the cock’s song. Outside the air glistened misty grey, and in the dark recesses of the yard, toads and tree frogs still serenaded the night. Inside, my sisters and brothers curled against each other like newborn kittens. From Mami and Papi’s room came a rustle of sheets and hushed mumbles. I tiptoed to their door and a board creaked.

“Who’s there?” Mami called out.

“It’s me,” I whispered, walking in. Mami lay in Papi’s arms, her head on his shoulder, his left hand cradling her face. He quickly pulled their covers up, but I saw she was naked. She blushed, and even though Papi’s skin was too dark to show it, I knew he blushed too by the startled expression on his face.

“What are you doing up so early?” Mami asked sitting up. Her hair was matted against her neck, and she brushed it away with one hand, while with the other, she held the covers up to her chest.

“I don’t know. I just woke up.”

“Go back to bed. It’s too early.” She lay down against Papi’s shoulder again, and I backed out of the room, feeling left out. I stood on the other side of the door a while, but there was no sound from their room until I’d crossed the creaky floor. The rustles resumed, and the throaty whispers. I lay on the living room couch and was lulled to sleep by the sound of my parents making love.

Papi and Mami started a business. We called it a
cafetín ambulante,
a small truck with compartments and shelves in the back, a refrigerated section, and a hot plate. From the truck he sold coffee and pastries, the hot lunches Mami cooked daily, and the bark cider he made by the gallon. The shelves were laden with snacks and sweets, which we were not allowed to touch. He drove to construction sites and broadcast the menu of the day through a loudspeaker. His rich baritone could be heard a mile away reciting poems about the food on the back of his truck:

They say my arroz con pollo is good,
Especially when enhanced by red beans
Soaked overnight,
Cooked at low heat with ham and delectable spices.
The plantains are ripe, fried until just right.
The coffee steams hot like Vesuvius.
The milk pasteurized, sugar del país,
So you know it’s sweet.
Come see for yourself.
Give your mouth a treat.

The business didn’t last very long. The truck was expensive to maintain, bandits tried to mug him a few times, and he didn’t have the heart to say no to men who bought on credit then never paid him back. The truck was returned to wherever it had come from, and Papi went back to his work fixing other people’s houses.

Love made people do crazy things. Husbands shot wives in fits of passion then turned the gun on themselves and splattered their brains all over the walls. The newspapers printed photographs of dismembered bodies, bloody sheets, rooms in which all the furniture had been upended and strewn as if by a hurricane: SCENE OF THE CRIME, the headlines read.

On the radio, love was different. Men with rich voices, who were always tall and dark, won the hearts of young women who were always petite and innocent. Even if poor, the men were decent, worthy of respect, accomplished in the manly arts of riding and pistol shooting, but not reckless with either animals or firearms. The women suffered. Frequently they were orphaned, brought up by nuns or stepmothers who made them do all the housework. In spite of this, they were cheerful and optimistic, never doubting that if they were pure of heart, life would eventually get better.