When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [74]
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