When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [34]
Abuela’s house was two stories high and made of cement, with a front garden on which grew medicinal herbs and flowers. She and my grandfather, Don Higinio, lived on the ground floor, and her son Bartolo and his family lived upstairs. Abuela’s Miami windows were draped with white crocheted curtains, as was the glass-topped table, the sofa, the doors to all the rooms, and all the beds and dressers. The tablecloth was bordered with yellow and brown pineapples. Red crocheted roses on bright green petals hemmed the doilies on the side tables.
Abuela fed us sancocho, a vegetable stew thickened with mashed tubers, with cornmeal dumplings floating on top. Papi and I sat at the table, while she drifted in and out of the kitchen bringing us food, water, a chunk of bread, and finally, a steaming cup of sweetened café con leche. As soon as we’d finished eating, Papi stood up from the table and stretched.
“I’d better get going, Mamá. It’s a long way to Macún.”
“But we just came, Papi. It doesn’t take so long to get home....”
“I have to see some people on the way,” he snapped, his back to me. He unhooked his hat from the nail by the door, knelt in front of me, and pushed the hair off my forehead. His eyes had a peculiar expression, as if he were begging. He kissed and hugged me, and in his arms there was a plea. I was confused by the rage that thudded into my stomach like a fist. I was certain that he was not going home to Mami and my sisters and brothers and that somehow I had been used.
I didn’t return his embrace. I stood stiff and solid, swallowing the bitter lump that had formed in my throat, and swore to myself I wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t beg him not to go, wouldn’t even miss him when he left. I pulled out of his arms.
“Now, you be a good girl and do as Abuela tells you,” he said, trying to sound stern. “I’ll come get you next week.”
I sat on the sofa, stuck my legs out in front of me, and studied the scabs on my shins, the brown scars of countless wounds and scrapes. “Sí.”
I felt his eyes on me and knew he knew I knew. He kissed Abuela’s forehead. “Bless me, Mamá,” he said in a near murmur. She touched his shoulder and mumbled softly, “May the Good Lord keep you on your journey, Son, and may He watch over you.” She crossed the air in front of him and, without looking back, he left. She watched him go, her head shaking from side to side as if she felt sorry for him.
“Come, let me show you where you’ll sleep,” she said as she led me to the back of the house.
I followed Abuela into the room next to hers, where she had laid out fresh sheets and a pillow. The bed was large, covered with a crocheted spread on which two peacocks stood beak to beak. The drape covering the blinds also had peacocks on it, only they faced forward, their plumage spread into a thousand blue-green eyes that seemed to watch us.
“Change into something comfortable,” she told me and showed me where to put my belongings. “I have some things to do in the kitchen.”
When she was done, she sat on her rocking chair facing the door, took up a basket of crochet, and began working. She worked quietly. The needle flashed as her fingers flew in, around, and out. I could find nothing to do, so I sat on the sofa and watched, not daring to speak for fear I’d break her concentration. After a long time, she put the work in her basket, covered it with a cloth, and stood up from her chair, knees creaking.
“I’m going to say my prayers,” she said. “If you get hungry, have some crackers from the tin.” She disappeared into her room.
I sat on the stoop and watched the street beyond the garden fence. People came and went, dressed in their Sunday clothes, some looking as if they were going somewhere, others wrinkled and worn, as if they’d already been away and couldn’t wait to get home. Every so often a car or truck rumbled up the hill, chased by scrawny dogs whose barks sounded hoarse and exhausted. Next door was a shack not much better than ours in Macún. My Aunt Generosa lived there with my cousins, most of whom were older than I was. I had met Titi Generosa when we lived