When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [40]
“Of course,” Mami said, “with Pablo gone all the time it’s hard to know ...” Her face darkened again. She looked down at the floor, rubbed circles on her belly. The silence around her was total, not rich and full like Abuela’s when she crocheted, but empty and sad and lonesome.
“Negi,” Abuela said, “go take a shower and get ready so that your mother doesn’t have to wait for you.” I didn’t want to leave Mami, but Abuela’s eyes were stern, and with her head, she signaled in the direction of the bathroom.
I set my glass down and went. Although I leaned against the bathroom door, trying to hear what they said, I only caught snatches: “always been that way ... ,” “upsets the kids ... ,” “think of yourself .. ,” “alone with children ... ,” “make it work ... ,” “don’t know how....” And, in a louder voice, “Negi, why don’t we hear water running?”
I opened the faucets and let cool water wash over me, wishing it could melt away the fear that made the thumps of my heart louder than usual. When I came out, my hair dripping, the tips of my fingers wrinkled, Mami and Abuela still sat across from each other. Abuela’s face was sad, and she looked older, as if years, rather than minutes, had passed since I last saw her. Mami’s rouge was streaked, and her eyes were swollen. She pretended to smile, and I pretended not to see it as I went by wrapped in a towel, stepping lightly, as if the floor would break under my weight.
I dressed to their murmurs in the other room, their voices soft but strained, and I wondered if men ever talked like this, if their sorrows ever spilled into these secret cadences. I combed my hair, put on my socks, buckled my leather shoes. And still they talked, and I couldn’t understand a word they said. But their pain bounced off the walls and crawled under my skin, where it settled like prickly bristles.
It seemed to me then that remaining jamona could not possibly hurt this much. That a woman alone, even if ugly, could not suffer as much as my beautiful mother did. I hated Papi. I sat on the bed in his mother’s house and wished he’d die, but as soon as the thought flashed, I slapped my face for thinking such a thing. I packed my bag and stepped into the room where Mami and Abuela sat. When they looked up at me, it seemed as if we were all thinking the same thing. I would just as soon remain jamona than shed that many tears over a man.
MAMI GETS A JOB
Con el agua al cuello y la marea subiendo
With water to the chin and the tide rising
Te sky fell to the tops of the mountains. The air hung heavy, moist. Birds left the barrio, and insects disappeared into hidden cracks and crevices, taking their songs. A cowboy rounded up the cattle in Lalao’s finca, and on her side of the fence, Doña Ana led her cow to the shack behind her house. The radio said Hurricane Santa Clara was the biggest threat to Puerto Rico since San Felipe had destroyed the island in 1918.
“Papi, why do they name hurricanes after saints?” I asked as I helped him carry a sheet of plywood he was going to nail against the windows of our house.
“I don’t know,” he answered. The hurricane warning must have been serious if Papi couldn’t stop to talk about it.
Mami bundled our clothes, pushed her rocking chair, the table and stools, her sewing machine, and the pots and pans into a corner, tied everything to the socles, pressed it all against the strongest wall of the house, and covered it with a sheet, as if that would keep everything from being blown away.
“Negi, take the kids to Doña Ana’s. We’ll be there in a while.”
I rounded up Delsa, Norma, Hector, Alicia, and Edna. For once I didn’t have to chase them all