When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [73]
“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