The things we didnt know, p.14
The Things We Didn't Know, page 14
“Yeah.”
Pablo continued pedaling hard and reached the top of the little hill. He got off his bike and waited for me.
I panted and parked next to him in the middle of the road.
“He comes from Westfield to see her?”
“On his motorcycle. They take off with her on the back.”
We parked our bikes behind bushes, and I led him through shrubs until we came across an open meadow.
“You been here before? How come I’ve never been here?”
“Sally called it Faeries Meadow.”
Pablo walked to the middle of the meadow.
“Wow, another world in here.”
An intense floral aroma flooded the area, and we walked around until we found lilac bushes taller than us.
Pablo sat on the grass.
“Have you seen the clothes Ramón wears?”
I sat in front of him. “Not really.”
“He wears Puerto Rican pants like the stupid ones Papá makes me wear to church.”
I had never thought about those pants, but yes, I had always thought there was something off about the way Puerto Rican men dressed, and Pablo hit it on the head. They all wore dress pants everywhere.
“Like the stupid dresses I have to wear. Princess dresses.”
“I hate that,” Pablo said. “None of the kids wear those. They always wear dungarees. They dress up only when it’s a big deal, like Christmas or Easter. Ramón always wears a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled and dress pants. Thinks it makes him look like a beatnik. But he ain’t no cool teenager. He’s got the boots, the bike, and then you see those pants.”
The river below echoed between shades of light that filtered through the trees. Pablo spread out his legs and reclined on the grass.
“In honor roll, they were talking about college. I want to go. Do you?”
“I don’t know, should I?”
“You said you wanted to be a teacher.”
“I do. I mean, do you think I can?”
“Course you can. You already had better grades before classes ended. See? I told you all you had to do was do your homework. I think I’m going to be a lawyer.”
“Like Perry Mason?”
We laughed.
“Frankie looks at you sometimes in the bus line, you know?”
My heart stopped. I had never noticed Frankie looking at me.
“I can tell he likes you. When your class came into mine with Miss Abbey, you and him singing that song, he looked like he was in love.”
“At recess, he told me he wanted to be my friend.”
“Because we’re just kids. But one day he’s going to say girlfriend instead.” He paused. “You’ve gotta keep up the better grades this year. Perfecta keeps telling Pops to send you back.”
“Do you defend me?”
“Yeah. She says girls should be in the house all the time and cook and serve the men, and school isn’t necessary ’cause they’re going to get pregnant and have to stay home taking care of the kids anyway. Dumbbell Angela doesn’t even go to school, so what do you expect?”
“And what does Papá say? Does he want to get rid of me?”
“Course not. Pops understands us. He says women can work and still come home to cook. You just need to get those better grades, that’s all. Don’t get any C’s. Try to get A’s and B’s.”
“I know, I know. I’m working on it.”
* * *
When Papa found out that Socorro was riding home from Labrek with a guy, he threatened to put her on the next plane to Puerto Rico. “My brother Bartolo is going to lay the blame on me for whatever happens to you.”
Tío Felipe chimed in, “She needs to quitear that job tomorrow. Get something closer.”
Socorro rubbed her hands and cried. “¿Quitear? I came all the way from Puerto Rico for a job. No, I’m not quitting.”
Papá’s eyes flashed in disapproval. “What are the neighbors going to say about you, a señorita alone with a man in a car? That has to stop. Labrek is too far.”
Caridad hugged Socorro, then turned to Felipe.
“Who says she’s doing anything wrong?”
Felipe’s eyebrows gathered.
“I’m not saying she is, but what are people going to say?”
Socorro broke away from Caridad.
“I’m not living my life based on what others say. I’m working to support myself. I won’t be needing anything from you very soon, anyway. I didn’t come to the Unites States to depend on any of you.”
“And who is ese hombre?” Papa asked.
Socorro stood tall and pushed her chest forward.
“Let me tell you who el hombre is. He works in Labrek. I’ve known him for more than three months now. He’s a hard worker, he likes me, and I like him. That’s who he is.”
Felipe laughed with cynicism.
“See? Just what I suspected. It’s not an innocent, friendly ride.”
Caridad stood in the middle of the kitchen.
“What do you expect? She’s not going to be single forever.”
“No, she isn’t,” Papá said. “But if she’s going to live here, she has to do things the right way. Con respeto. El hombre must come here, speak with me, tell me what his intentions are, and if I give permission, he sees her. And for me to give permission, I need to speak with my brother Bartolo.”
Socorro wiped her eyes. “You don’t have to waste time and money making a long-distance phone call to my father. I’ll speak with him. I haven’t told him because I’m still getting to know the man. But you’re not even giving me a chance to get to know him before you’ve married me off.”
Pablo and I were on the porch listening to them. Papá stepped out of the house and stomped down the stairs like he was making thunder with every footstep. We followed. When we walked into our apartment, he was waiting for us in the kitchen.
“Let me tell you something,” he said, pointing at me.
I stared at him while Pablo closed the door.
“The day you find yourself a man that you’re interested in, you bring him here. Am I clear? I don’t care if he’s Black with bembas down to his chin, all I want is that you bring me a Hard. Working. Man. And you bring him here. A mi casa. Before anyone else has to dirty their mouth talking. ¿Entiendes?”
I wanted to say, Don’t worry, no one is going to be interested in me, anyway, and where have you seen someone who has lips like that? But I stood there in obedience, eyes on the ground and quiet.
Papá was angry for days. A few nights later, there was a knock on the door. When he opened, Socorro stepped in with a guy and introduced him. The guy, named Taylor, put his hand out, but Papa didn’t respond. Taylor had the most genuine smile, huge blue eyes, and a respectful attitude. What’s Papá’s problem? I thought.
When Taylor told my father he wanted to marry Socorro and asked if he could put in a word for him at the paper mill, Papá changed. He loved getting people jobs at the mill. Before Taylor left, my father was welcoming him to the family, they were making jokes and laughing their heads off, and Papá was promising to recommend him for an apartment in the company town.
That night, I realized how easily my father could change his mind about something, and how important it was to stand your ground like Socorro had.
It was a few months later, toward the end of summer, when Socorro and Taylor moved into an apartment on our side of the street. Uncle Felipe stopped speaking to her and prohibited Caridad from seeing her.
Papá and Perfecta constantly confronted Socorro about getting married. My cousin was so bothered by the remarks, the questioning, and the talk behind her back that she avoided the family. But she wasn’t the only one being criticized in Woronoco.
eleven
As soon as the ground warmed up in spring, Papá worked on clearing soil to plant a garden behind the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac. Throughout the summer, that garden yielded vegetables for the whole community.
The neighborhood women did most of the weeding, early in the morning after the men left for the paper mill. Their children played around in the dirt as they worked, and it naturally happened that I kept an eye on the small ones. Soon, all the little Puerto Rican kids knew me and looked up to me.
The women chatted, and I often overheard conversations in which I had no interest. They spoke about the foods they cooked and complained that they couldn’t find recao or ajicitos dulces at the bodegas in Springfield. They spoke about missing their relatives and friends in Puerto Rico, and their yearning to return to their homeland.
Often, they sounded like my mother when she’d lived in Woronoco. They didn’t like the gringos. Their main criticism was toward parents like Hannah’s mother, who allowed her teenage daughter Claire to go out on dates and wear pants. In our culture, they said, girls were to be kept indoors and never left alone with males, young or old, a chaperone required at all outings.
Their comments didn’t surprise me and reinforced what I already suspected: Puerto Rican women didn’t like American culture. But their customs were too limiting for me. I had spent too many hours, even whole days, folding clothes that were already neatly folded in drawers just to kill time.
The only gringos the women liked were Kevin Martin’s parents.
“Oh, ese señor, now that is gold.”
“He’s what you call un caballero.”
Since the Martins lived above Emily Belanger’s apartment, they also had a phone. On one occasion they’d allowed my father to make a phone call when someone became ill on a cold winter night. I didn’t know the whole story, probably because I’d slept through it, but these women remembered.
It was in midsummer when Emily came to the garden one morning with a few Barbie dolls. We sat under towering corn plants when I overheard the neighbors talking in Spanish about my family and motioned for Emily to keep quiet.
Doña Delia said my cousin Angela was pregnant.
“I was thinking the same. She looks like she has a barriguita,” Sylvia said.
“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve seen her up on Hill Street with that guy from Westfield,” said another woman.
“Yes, his name is Ramón. And Luis is courting his sister. But that Ramón only works part-time at the bicycle factory in Westfield. He’s just a lazy kid,” Delia said.
The women laughed, but I couldn’t tell who was who and how many were there.
“Perfecta has a glass ceiling over her head. So demanding with everyone but doesn’t see how fragile her own roof is.”
“And that Taylor isn’t marrying Socorro.”
“Why should he? He already has what he wanted.”
Then they laid in on my father.
“Damaris better watch what she’s getting into. That man doesn’t care about anyone,” Delia said.
“Well, she doesn’t have much of a choice. She’s a jamona in her thirties.”
“That man doesn’t even buy clothes for those kids.”
“Buys himself plenty. Always well dressed.”
“Have you seen the way the boy goes to school in the morning? One arm ironed, the other wrinkled. Pobrecito.”
“I think the girl does the ironing.”
“They’re the only kids in the neighborhood that don’t have a dime for a popsicle. You have to be really cheap to not give a kid a dime.”
At this point, I choked up. Emily stroked my hair as a train whistled. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?” she whispered.
I waited for the train to pass and ran out of the garden with the rumble of the train’s wheels on the ground below me. Emily followed. We ran to her house, the last one in the cul-de-sac, and sat on her steps. I hung my head between my knees.
“Why are you so upset? What did they say?”
“They’re saying Angela, my cousin, is pregnant, and her boyfriend isn’t any good, and my cousin Socorro’s boyfriend isn’t any good either, and my fa… father isn’t a good father.”
“Andrea, don’t cry. Jesus. Don’t they have anything good to say? Don’t pay attention to them. Your father is a great father. Everyone knows that.”
I wanted to hide from everyone. Me, the girl abandoned by her mother, the one who doesn’t get good grades, the one who doesn’t do enough at home, and now also the one with a bad father?
I wiped my nose. “I know my father is doing the best he can, and they said Pablo’s shirts aren’t ironed right but… that’s not my dad’s fault, I’m supposed to iron them… it’s my fault.”
True, my brother and I had yearnings for things like better clothes or a dime for ice cream, but in my short eleven years of life, I had learned to distinguish the insignificant and petty from my father’s love.
“Andrea, I wouldn’t know how to iron a shirt. Jesus, if they care so much, why don’t they come help you do it right? I’ve never seen anything wrong with Pablo’s shirts. And let me tell you, my parents admire your father. Everyone does.”
“You think so?”
Emily caressed my hair.
“My mom says so all the time. And my dad says everyone at the paper mill likes Louie. Don’t listen to those ladies. They’re just stupid, that’s all.”
“I don’t want to be Puerto Rican. I’m always doing the wrong thing everywhere—”
Emily tilted her head back.
“You are not. There’s nothing wrong with being Puerto Rican. There are Americans that gossip too. But I know how you feel, because my mother is French Canadian and she didn’t like being French when she first came here, and she told me that she learned, always be proud of who you are.”
Emily was right. Being Puerto Rican was not the problem.
“I’m sure some of the Puerto Ricans here are really good people. I can tell they are. The way they smile, that’s enough for me to tell sometimes.”
“You’re right. Last winter our heater broke down during the holidays, remember? We were freezing and couldn’t use the stove and Matilde came over one morning and invited me and Pablo for breakfast.”
I stared at the railroad tracks and laughed. “Nayda gave me and Pablo Christmas gifts.”
“And who was the one who bought you a popsicle? I was there. That was really nice of her.”
“Elisa. Yeah, she’s sweet. I don’t think any of them were at the garden today, or I would’ve recognized their voices.”
“See? My mom says you can’t let one rotten apple ruin the bushel.”
From then on, I decided to observe the garden from a distance and identified the gossipers. When they were around, I stayed away, but one thing became clear. There were only a few bad apples in that bushel, but they were rotten to the core.
* * *
It was the following Saturday when Pablo and I sat on the steps in front of our house and saw a few teenagers, Hannah’s sister, Claire, and Charles Stolas returning from the clubhouse. Hannah and Emily were with them.
Hannah ran over to us. “You guys should come.”
“For what?” Pablo asked.
“Playing chess.”
Emily ran past us on her way home. “Richard is still over there. I’m having lunch and going back. Are you coming?”
I had a secret crush on Emily’s brother, Richard. He was tall with black hair and blue eyes and was starting high school in the fall. I knew he was too old for me, but I could stare at him forever. He was a model of the guy I wanted to date when I was older, what Frankie Ross would look like in a few years.
Pablo, Hannah, Stephanie, and I decided to wait for Emily to have lunch, then we’d all go to the clubhouse together. I would’ve joined the crowd if my tía Perfecta hadn’t called me to her house.
“Go see what she wants and then come over,” Pablo said.
But when I went to my aunt’s apartment, she just looked at me. I had a feeling my summer would be different from my brother’s.
* * *
Socorro and Caridad were on the sofa making capias. These small, handmade decorations are pinned on the lapels and collars of guests at Puerto Rican weddings. There was a whole production laid out, all over the living room. Socorro and Caridad, who was pregnant, threaded strips of lace that gathered into round circles.
Angela cut strips of satin ribbon that had the names of Angela and Ramón and their wedding date printed in gold. Then she made bows out of the strips and glued them onto the lace circles. My job was to glue two tiny plastic wedding rings into the center of each bow. There were fifty of the little beauties.
Angela, who hardly ever said a word, was busy giving orders.
“I don’t want to see any glue on the edges, just enough so it sticks.”
Socorro looked at her out of the corner of her eyes. “Okay, mija, we’re doing the best we can.”
“Did I tell you Ramón rented an apartment for us in Westfield? He bought a red Formica table with four chairs for the dining room, and a television for the living room. He is so special!”
Socorro didn’t lift her head from her needlework. “Well, that’s the least he can do if you’re getting married. You’ve got to have furniture.”
Caridad nodded. “I hope he’s good to you. That’s the most important.”
I didn’t fully understand what getting pregnant was about and wondered if Angela was, in fact, pregnant as the neighbors had said. She didn’t look any different. And if what the kids at school had told me about sex was true, how could she have done that somewhere outdoors?
A motorcycle revved on the street and Angela ran to the window, screaming, “Ramón! Ramón! ¡Mi amor!” and went flying down the stairs. Before she left, her mother said, “Fifteen minutes and I want you back in here, you’re not married yet.”
But she was out there for more than an hour, and my aunt didn’t say a word.
Every day I had to go up there to work on wedding decorations, and every night Pablo came home talking about the kids at the clubhouse. He was getting good at chess, sometimes beating Kevin Martin, who already was an expert because he had learned from his father.
While we made capias, my aunt sat at her sewing machine working on the wedding gown. Every so often Angela stood up, and she’d measure the dress against her. When we finished the capias, we sewed pearls onto pieces of floral-shaped lace that Perfecta applied to the bodice and veil. We decorated two champagne glasses, a garter, a knife, a tablecloth. We made bows for the church pews.
