This Side of Providence (29 page)

When Valentine's Day comes I use some of the money I saved
from working to buy presents for the special females in my life. I get a huge chocolate heart for Teacher, a box of Sweethearts candy for Luz, a white teddy bear with a necklace that says “Forever” for Trini, and a dozen red roses for Mami, because since she's been back she's always talking about how much she missed flowers when she was gone. And I know she doesn't have anyone else to give her any. I want to get Graciela something, too, but I can't find a store around here that sells the kind of books she reads, so I end up sending her a card with a handwritten poem inside. I write it out in English, just to show her how my writing got better, but I don't sign it because I figure the poem says enough and if she really cares she'll figure it out.

For a while I was doing better in school but lately I haven't been turning in my homework and sometimes I fall asleep on the bus and miss my stop and don't even get to school until second period. Mrs. Reed always asks me to stay after class to catch up but most days I sneak out the door before she can stop me. Sometimes I go to the library to pick up books for Snowman but sometimes I have to meet Mami at the Free Clinic to help her carry all those cans of Ensure back to the shelter. I don't mind staying there, but it's hard to sleep because the TV's always on and everybody's coughing and talking and getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It's like trying to take a nap in a hospital waiting room.

When Mami sticks around it's okay, but when she's gone I get bored and end up playing dominoes or checkers by myself with only half the pieces. I try to stay awake so I can say good night to her when she comes back, just to make sure she looks okay, but most nights I end up falling asleep in the rec room. When I wake up I'm on the cot in my room with my sneakers still on, and I never know if one of the staff people carried me there or if Mami did. When I get up to go to school, she's still asleep, looking so peaceful I don't want to bother her. Sometimes days go by before we actually see each other and it makes me remember old times.

When I turn in the first draft of that book of poems I'm making for school, Mrs. Reed is shocked.

“Wow, Cristo,” she says, flipping through it. “I'm impressed.
You have a great breadth of experience represented here.”

I look at her. “What's that mean?”

She laughs. “It means you're doing a good job.”

“Oh. Nice.”

She points to the calendar. “The next project we have is a book report for Black History Month and a personal essay reflecting on cultural diversity. If this is any indication of what you're capable of, you should do quite well.”

I ask her what she means by cultural diversity.

“You know, how people act, what they eat, how they dress. A lot of it has to do with where they're from and how they grew up.”

“And diversity means different, right?”

She nods. “Some people refer to America as a melting pot, because it's made up of people from all over the world. Sometimes we blend together like in a soup and it makes a new flavor, and sometimes we stay separate, distinct, each with our own taste. I want you to write an essay about why you think that is.”

I tell her I think it sounds hard but then she says there's really no right or wrong answer, so that makes me feel better. I look back at the calendar. “So wait, why do black people get a whole month, when we only get a week in April?”

She looks confused. “Well, Puerto Rico is a small island, Cristo, whereas Africa is an entire continent.”

“A friend of mine says they're trying to make up for slavery. And for the fact that so many black people are in prison, in the ghetto, or dead.” I know
friend
isn't the right word for Snowman, but I can't think of anything else to call him.

“Interesting theory,” Mrs. Reed says. “You know, you could celebrate Black History Month as well, if you want to. I'm sure a lot of your ancestors are from Africa.”

She moves on to the next student, but I'm still thinking about what that means when the bell rings and it's time to go home.

I meet up with Teacher after school and she brings me to the library where they have a huge table covered with black history books. I read a story about a lady named Rosa Parks who starts some bus boycott in Alabama when she won't give up her
seat to a white person. I guess I learn some history by reading that book, but most of what I know about discrimination I learn in real life. In America, it's all about skin color: the darker you are, the faster people cross the street. That's why Snowman trips people out. His skin's white like rice but his nose and mouth look just like some African dude, and even though he reads a lot he sounds like he's never once left the corners of South Providence. People don't know where to put him and that makes them nervous because without a group they can't figure out how good they should treat him. I don't really care about race since everybody I know has the same thing in common: being poor. No matter what color your skin is, being broke don't look good on nobody.

When Teacher asks me what I'm gonna write my essay on I start telling her a story about being in Kennedy Plaza when I first moved to Providence and watching a white couple fight in the street. The guy pulled the lady onto the sidewalk by her hair and started slapping her hard across her face and the back of her neck. Instead of protecting herself, she flung her arms out and started wailing on him in the ribs. He kicked at her like she was a crazy dog and then she dove into him and held him around the waist. She looked like she was hugging him but I could tell she was just trying to keep herself from falling onto the ground.

A group of teenagers, I tell her, all of them black, got off the bus from Hope High School and when they saw what was happening they ran over to the couple and started yelling at the guy and eventually pulled him off. The way they acted I thought they knew him, or maybe even knew her, but after a while it was clear they were strangers. Pretty soon the guy calmed down and left, but the teenagers stayed with the lady and asked her if she wanted them to call the cops or an ambulance or something. She fixed her ponytail and said, “No, thanks,” and spit a bloody chunk of snot onto the street, right next to the bus I was waiting for. I watched her pass a few white teenagers as she limped over to the bus and they all kept their eyes on the ground.

When I'm done with the story Teacher asks me what I think it means. I tell her I don't know, but she doesn't like that type
of answer so she keeps staring at me till I say more. I finally tell her all I can figure is that white people think it's good to mind their own business, whereas black people figure if something shady's going down then it is their business.

“What about Latinos?” Teacher asks, her eyes twinkling a little bit as she smiles. “Do you think we're more like the whites or the blacks?”

I know the answer is neither because we're our own thing, but then I think maybe it should be both since we're all mixed up thanks to slavery. Before I can answer her she leans forward real close to me and whispers, “What about you, Señor?”

I don't want to laugh in her face, but I can't help it.

“Come on, Teacher. You know I'm not trying to be white, don't you?”

“You trying to be black?”

Is this lady for real? I shake my head and make a face at her until we're both laughing. She looks real pretty when she smiles, like she's happy just being with me. I wonder if I look the same way.

“You know what?” I say. “I'm trying to be. Just
be
.”

She nods and I know I don't have to say anymore. When it comes time to write that essay I end up telling the same story about what I saw in Kennedy Plaza instead of writing about Rosa Parks like all the other kids, and at the top of the paper I write my full name, Cristoval Luna Perez, which seems pretty damn culturally diverse to me.

 

       
S
HE SEES
the girl running. Racing through the field as if she were on fire. Her mouth open wide to breathe. To scream. A scream so loud it makes her run. The hot, dry dirt burns her bare feet. She cuts down a path where jasmine blooms in soft bunches like cotton. The smell is so sweet it makes her feel light-headed. There are hills in the distance, covered with kapok trees taller than the houses that surround them. She just wants to make it to the trees. The sun has set; the coqui begin to sing. In the darkness, a hand reaches out to grab her. Instead he catches her skirt, tearing it off. He tells her to come home. He's sorry. He won't do it again. She refuses to stop or turn around when he calls her name. She has to move. As she passes a neighbor's house, she sees her naked reflection in the window. She is the one who is screaming.

Arcelia

M
oving into the apartment off Parade is the easiest move of my life. I bring my duffel bag, two boxes of Ensure, and myself. And Cristo, of course. These days he hardly leaves my side.

Snowman did good by me—the place is nice. It's bigger than our old spot on Sophia Street and it's clean like a bank. The crazy part is that everything works—all the burners on the stove, the window locks, and the outlets—and there's a closet in every room. Some mornings it's hard to sleep 'cause it gets so bright in my room. I tried hanging towels in the windows to block out the sun, but they keep falling down. It's good though, 'cause it gets me up and out of bed by the time Cristo goes off to school. Sometimes we even have breakfast together. He heats tortillas on the stove and we eat them with butter and honey, or other days he makes Cream of Wheat in ceramic mugs we got from the flea market that say “Believe in Providence.” They're all chipped and some of the handles are broken off, but the words are written in fancy gold letters that feel good against my fingertips.

The neighborhood is loud as hell, but it don't bother me. There's a park around the corner and you can hear children yelling on most afternoons, even though it's the middle of winter. Dogs bark at all hours of the night. There are so many cars on the main street it looks like they're having a parade. I guess that's how they named it. Motorcycles speed between stoplights like they're in a race, and going by the number of fire trucks I
see every day, I'm thinking there are more fires in this part of town than anywhere else in the city. It's strange how the sound of a siren can actually become familiar enough to be a comfort, like the voice of somebody you love.

But inside the apartment it's quiet. I didn't know just how silent a place could be with only two people living there, since I've always lived in a full house. Even when he's here Cristo barely makes a sound. Most nights he watches TV with the volume off and pretends to do homework. Or he lies in bed and listens to the Walkman his teacher gave him for Christmas until the batteries run out. Then he collects all the used batteries and lines them up in rows along the windowsill like he's building a miniature army to protect us. When he leaves for school in the morning, I usually go back to bed. I don't fall asleep—for some reason I can't sleep anymore—but I feel better lying down. It's easier for me to breathe.

I don't like being alone. There's too much time to think about all the mistakes I made. Every day I feel like crying but the tears won't come. I'm all dried up inside. I keep thinking it's gonna get better soon, but the next day I feel the same way. Mornings are usually the worst. Right after I wake up, I don't want to move or open my eyes. With my eyes closed, I only see what I want to see. Sometimes I think I can hear the blood rushing through my veins. It makes my belly hurt, but also reminds me I'm alive. And that don't always make me feel better. Just knowing I still have to live.

A week after we move in I get a surprise visitor. I hear a round of knocking on the front door, loud like gunfire. It's almost noon but I'm still in bed. Every time it stops I think they went away, but then it starts again. I finally hear the noise move from the door to the window just off the porch. Scratches almost, like a cat. That's when I get up.

I open the door and the porch is empty. There's a man in a nylon warm-up jacket walking down the steps with his back to me. The sound of the door opening makes him turn around. It's not a man. It's Lucho. She stares at me, her lips slightly parted. Her gold tooth shines in the sunlight. Her body looks the same, still pale and hard, but her face looks softer.

“The doorbell works,” I say, gesturing toward it. Her eyes, which usually jump around like a trapped housefly, stay fixed on mine.

“Oh.” She shuffles her foot and almost slips off the step. She steadies herself, trying to look like it was on purpose. I'm glad that seeing me can still put her off balance.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just assumed it didn't.”

“It's the first one I ever had that works.”

She nods, like I'm saying something really interesting.

“I heard you just got out.”

“For real? It was almost three months ago.”

She shrugs. “You moved. Took me a while to find you.”

“Must not be looking too hard.”

She grabs onto the porch railing, which is covered with peeling red paint. The chips crumble in her hand like dried blood.

“Found you, didn't I?” She wipes her hands on her jeans. “So how you been?”

“Fine.”

She steps onto the porch, close enough for me to smell her aftershave. I don't remember it smelling so strong.

“You look good,” she says.

I cross my arms over my chest, since I'm not wearing a bra. “Thank you.”

“I like your hair. It's different, right?”

“Yep.” If I was keeping score I would give her two points for that one. Usually she's just like a man—don't even notice the seasons change.

She steps closer to me. “It's been a long time, Celie. Too long.”

“That's more your fault than mine.”

She nods. “I tried to—”

“Forget about it, Lucho. I don't want to hear it now.”

She puts both hands in the air. “Okay, okay. I won't apologize.”

“That's not what I said. What I don't want are your excuses. Apologies are something else.”

She motions toward the door. “Can I come inside?”

“No.”

“Well, can you come outside?”

I wait a few seconds before I step onto the porch. I close the door behind me and lean against it. The wind is cold so I zip up my sweatshirt.

“I made a mistake, Celie. I shouldn't have left like that. I'm sorry. You needed me and I let you down and I won't blame you if you never forgive me for that. I really won't.” She looks up, her eyes full of sadness I never noticed before. “I was messed up back then and I missed you so much. I just got scared that I couldn't do it, you know? I knew that I couldn't be you and me, so I just panicked and—” She runs her fingers through her hair, still short and stiff with gel. She inhales deep and slow, like taking a hit from a joint. “I fucked up, okay? I'm a fuck up.”

“Don't say that.” I reach for her out of habit, and then stop myself. My arm hangs awkwardly in the air.

“Why not, we both know it's true.”

“So what does that make me?” I ask her. “I'm the one who left my kids in the first place.”

“You didn't leave.”

“Fine. I got taken away. Same difference.”

She taps the floorboards on the porch with the toe of her work boot. “We're quite a pair, the two of us.” She keeps her eyes down.

“A pair?”

“You know, like a couple?” she says. “Two people together.”

“I know what
pair
means. But I don't think it fits with us.”

“You used to. You used to say that's all you really wanted.”

I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Things change.”

She looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight. “Has that?”

I can't help but smile, even if I'm still angry. “You got a lot of fucking nerve.”

She smiles back at me, all confidence. “Isn't that what you always loved about me?”

I make her wait before answering. “Not really,” I finally say.

Her face falls. “What, you saying you didn't love me?”

I stare at her, my head tilted to the side. She needs something from me, but what I need is to tell her the truth. “What I
loved was your passion.”

We're both silent for a while. The wind blows a plastic bag onto the porch and it dances in the air like a balloon.

“You eat lunch yet?” Lucho asks.

When I shake my head she says, “Let me buy you a burger, okay? I got a car now, one that runs. Let's drive up to the A&W like we used to, walk around that pond with all the geese.”

“It's March, they're not even open yet.”

She shrugs. “We'll find something else then. Come on, get your coat.”

“I got a job interview at three. I have to be back.”

“No problem.” She looks at her watch. “How long does it take you to eat a burger?”

I don't answer her right away. I lean against the door frame, letting it hold me up. There was a time, before I went to the ACI, when being with Lucho was all I wanted. I'm not sure why, but she used to make me feel safe—not just from the outside world, but from myself. I lost myself when I was with her. I didn't have to be anybody: not a wife, not a mother, not a failure. I could be whatever I wanted to be. I could be whoever she needed me to be.

I'm standing on the porch looking at her, but what I'm thinking about is how free I felt back then. To be nothing. That was the real high. I can pretend I don't miss it, but that's not the truth. I can pretend I don't need it, but that's not true either. I need to feel that freedom again, even if it's only for a few hours.

I think of my children, my case manager, and my doctor—in that order—and imagine what they'd say if they were standing here right now.

Don't go, Mami.

This is a mistake, Arcelia.

Take care of yourself first.

I hear their voices clearly, but it don't stop me from grabbing my coat and getting into Lucho's car. In the silence of the car I hear my own voice as well.

Trust yourself. Show them how you changed. See how far you can go without getting lost.

I never make it to the job interview. We end up driving down to Iggy's and getting clam cakes and chowder and watching the sunset from Oakland Beach. We sit on the hood of her car to eat, even though it's not even forty degrees outside. The steam from the chowder feels good on my face. For dessert we finish off a box of doughboys, each one as big as my fist. I'm so stuffed I think I'm gonna puke, but I still lick the sugar off my fingertips. It feels good to be full of something.

Once it gets too dark to see each other, we move inside the car. Lucho acts real sweet and says all the right things, like she's been taking lessons in how to be perfect. She lets me pick the radio station. She looks me in the eye when she talks. She doesn't even try to touch me. At first I think I'm not gonna let it get physical—not right away at least—but after being with her for a minute, all my old feelings come back. I want to touch her, and to feel her touching me, so without saying anything I wrap her arm around my shoulder. I let her hold me in the frontseat of her car, just like she used to. I'm so comfortable I almost fall asleep, but when I turn toward her I see the curve of her lip and suddenly I want to taste her. I want her in my mouth like I wanted all that food.

I kiss her hard the first time, like I'm angry, but as we get used to each other again I soften my hold and nibble on her lips like a kitten testing the strength of its own jaw. I trace her mouth with my tongue and taste the oily sweetness of the doughboys on her lips. I grab her head with my hands and bring her to me. The hard spikes of her hair prick my skin like thorns. She lies down on top of me. The weight of her body takes the air out of mine. I lose myself in the dark of the car, in the scent of the leather seats. It feels good to be lost.

I tell her we have to keep all our clothes on. She don't argue. I won't let her hands inside my shirt so she leaves oily fingerprints all over my coat, like she's marking her territory. I give her a hickey like a frustrated teenager, wanting to leave proof that I was there. The taste of her aftershave on my lips
makes me sad 'cause all of a sudden it feels like I went back in time, and things are just like they used to be. I guess that means I really didn't change. Time passes, but nothing changes.

When she drops me off it's late—way past dinnertime. The lights are on in every room of the apartment. Cristo's home. I tell her I can't let her come inside.

“I don't want Cristo getting the wrong idea.”

“Of course, I understand.” She puts the car in park and lets it run. “So, can I see you again?”

I laugh. “What, you wanna go on a date?”

“Sure,” she says. “Whatever you want.”

I zip up my coat. “I don't know what I want.”

“Okay.”

She taps the steering wheel. Her fingernails are bitten short, the cuticles dry and rough like a man's. I used to cut them myself, while she watched football on Sunday afternoons, and then I rubbed them with cocoa butter and laughed when the beer bottle slipped out of her greasy hands. I bet she started biting them as soon as I left.

“No, that's not true,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I want time. And I want you to know something.” I stare at her till she looks me in the eyes. “I'm clean now. For nine months. I stopped everything—except for cigarettes and coffee—and I don't want to start again. You understand?”