The things we didnt know, p.4
The Things We Didn't Know, page 4
Pablo and I looked at each other. I knew Cecilia had not altered my mother’s opinions, and I empathized with my aunt.
Cecilia held onto her for a while, wiped her eyes, and started the jeep. “Help me read the signs, mai. I don’t come here often.”
Mamá shouted out directions as Cecilia headed out of the airport onto Avenida Campo Rico, which was the picture of paradise, outlined with mounds of red hibiscus, pink bougainvillea, and golden trumpets. By the time the evening cooled off, we were on Carretera Número Uno toward Caguas. Pablo and I rested on each other’s shoulders as we rode through the night.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning, thick Caribbean monsoon drops pelted the zinc roof. Pablo slept next to me. Gusts of wind circled the house. Branches scraped against the cement walls. Storm shutters rattled as I stepped out of the bedroom in my underwear.
Rocking chairs creaked on the porch where Mamá and Cecilia spoke in subdued voices. Across from the bedroom there was a small couch with yellow plastic-covered cushions and rusty metal legs. A set of keys, an old black wallet, a bottle of rubbing Alcoholado Superior—green from the herbs added to the bottle—cluttered a side table. Two old rocking chairs were strategically placed to take in the view beyond the porch.
To my right, a red-checkered plastic tablecloth covered a small metal dining table with four matching chairs, one of them missing a cross rail on the back. On the kitchen table, a square tin can of Sultana soda crackers with an image of a woman dressed in a red belly dancer outfit. A bottle of pique, salt, and other spices were bunched up in a corner.
Behind the chairs, an open window with an outdoor sink and faucet attached to a windowsill showed off a dense forest. Leaves whispered in the rain. Next to the door, an old, rusty refrigerator hummed. On top there were bottles and a flyswatter. A rusty machete covered in dried clumps of reddish soil leaned on the side of the refrigerator.
The entire home smelled of coffee and burning wood. Smoke came through the door that led to a shady area outside with a fogón, the wood-burning fire pit where Cecilia cooked.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that Cecilia and my mother were speaking about my father, and I wanted to listen in. When would he arrive? What was my mother’s plan?
“I don’t think it was a good idea for you to just disappear like that,” Cecilia said.
“I left him a letter. What was I supposed to do, stay there forever? Waiting for nothing?”
Cecilia held an old metal cup of coffee between her knees. “Don Luis isn’t going to sit around as if nothing happened.”
Mamá stared at the river for a while. “Everything is so much easier here. You cross the river and the carros públicos are right there. Mija, you have no idea what you have here. There’s no way out of Woronoco unless you have a car. No carros públicos, no buses, nothing. You don’t need a car here. You can go wherever you want without waiting on anyone. That’s what I want. To come and go freely.”
I stood on the porch and slithered along the balusters.
The moment Cecilia saw me she beamed. “Hola, how was your first night in Puerto Rico? Look at her, tan linda. Come, sit with me.” She pointed to her lap. “How did you sleep, were you warm?”
“Go sit with your titi,” Mamá said.
I sat on Cecilia’s lap. She kissed my forehead and stroked my hair. “This blonde hair. They say our grandmother had blonde hair and blue eyes.” She pointed to the trail. “That winds all the way up the mountain. Lots of kids your age live around here.”
There were voices of people walking down the mountain trail. “They’re going to the carros públicos,” Mamá said.
“What’s a carro público?” I asked.
“It’s the same as a taxi, you pay for a ride, and some of them carry five or six passengers. Didn’t you have those in Owroroco?” Cecilia asked.
Mamá laughed. “No, mija. It’s Woronoco. And we lived in a hole deep in the mountains where there was nothing but the factory where Luis works and no way out of there but driving. And I don’t drive, so we were stuck there all the time.”
Cecilia gave her sister a gentle nod as if she was giving her words some thought. Then she patted my back. “Just started raining when we crossed the river last night. I carried you and Pablo to bed. I bet you don’t remember. No way to get back across in that jeep now.”
I stood at the balusters. Below us, a muddy trail ended at a rumbling river that gushed with intensity past the house. Fresh, earthy scents surrounded us. As far as I could see, mounds of giant bamboo bent in the wind and red flamboyán trees spread their flowers onto the riverbanks.
Pablo came out, dragging his feet, and went to the right side of the porch, where the river sounded almost as deafening as a train. “Aren’t those people over there getting wet?”
“Soaking wet,” Cecilia said. “Even though there’s a parada on the side of the road. And how’d you sleep, pai?”
Cars honked before they came around a sharp curve. Mamá sipped on a mug of espresso. “That’s the bus stop, where the carros pick up passengers. This is what I wanted.”
Cecilia stood up in a long, black linen dress. “You must be starving, let’s fill you up.” Then she turned to Mamá. “Everyone has a right to seek happiness. I do it my way, you do it yours. I don’t have to tell you that you can stay here as long as you need. What’s mine is yours. Papito will be happy to see you.”
Cecilia offered to watch over my brother and me so that our mother could go job hunting. They agreed Mamá would go out on the days when Cecilia wasn’t working at the gasoline station on the road to Cidra.
“You’re going to love it here,” she told Pablo and me. “I can already see both of you climbing trees, getting all dirty, having a blast with the other kids.”
Mamá thanked her and they went out to the fogón. Pablo and I sat in the rockers, fascinated by the wilderness around us, the quiet song of coquí frogs and the river. Minutes later, Cecilia came out with a supersize bowl, called us to the table, and fed us yautías majadas, a concoction of mashed taro root with butter and milk.
Mamá served herself more coffee. She laughed and we all stared at her, wondering what was so funny. “Do you remember when they called you Macha in school?” she asked Cecilia. “They called her Macha the Macho, and boy did that make her angry. Oh God, she’d beat up kids and then run home crying.”
“Everyone calls me that now.”
“Really?”
“Well, not Macha, they call me Machi. Ask anyone in Aguas Buenas, and they don’t even know my name is Cecilia unless they went to school with me.”
“Machi? Cucha eso, where did that come from?”
Cecilia snickered. “Someone very dear to my heart called me ‘Machito’ and then shortened it to ‘Machi.’ ” She fed Pablo, scraped the bowl, and held a spoonful in front of my face. “I’m going to fatten these kids up.”
Pablo snorted. I could tell he liked Cecilia as much as I did. She was lovable, fascinating. The twinkle in her eyes, the perfect white teeth, the curly black hair against ebony skin, the deep dimples punctuating a splendid smile that revealed a good-natured heart. She was a character I’d never seen before, and I loved her.
* * *
The next day, Mamá left at sunrise. When my brother woke up he called for her, and when she didn’t show up, he cried.
Cecilia came into the room. “Your mother will be home in a few hours. The rain stopped. Get dressed and let’s go.”
Soon we were being fed a bowl of maicena, a delicious cornstarch pudding with egg yolks, butter, and milk. We spent the day exploring the farm with Cecilia. There were women working in a tobacco shed, workers in a field, neighbors walking down the trail, all of them calling Cecilia “Machi.” It only seemed natural for us to call her Titi Machi from then on. There were chicken pens, goats, and horses. There were tobacco fields, orange trees, plantains, bananas, breadfruit trees, mango trees, guavas, passion fruit vines, and squash vines covering a valley and a hillside.
Just before sunset, bathed and fed, my brother and I waited on the porch for our mother, until we saw the last carro público and watched her cross the river. We called out to her with excitement, jumped and waved from the porch, but she inched her way along with dispirited eyes, her shoes and a loaf of bread in her hands.
The same story went on for weeks. Machi would place a cup of coffee in her hands before asking how the job search had gone, and they’d go to the rocking chairs on the porch. Every day Mamá told a story more depressing than the last. Prices of públicos were higher than she expected, she couldn’t afford lunch, and none of the factories were hiring.
Machi took time off from the gasoline station to take care of us for a few days. But when she returned to work, we were on our own all morning in the empty house. We poured ourselves coffee, helped ourselves to the can of Sultana crackers, and waited on the porch until she showed up at noon and prepared lunch.
It was the last week of June when Mamá told us she’d visited her older sister, Florencia, in Gurabo, who suggested she move there to try her luck in neighboring towns. “I’ve never thought of working as far as Humacao,” she said. “But if I have to, I’m ready and willing. What else can I do? I can’t go much longer without making money.”
“When are we leaving?” Pablo asked.
“Florencia doesn’t have an extra bed, and she’s too old to watch over you. Cecilia has room for you here.”
Pablo clung to her waist, whining. “You’re going for a whole week?”
Mamá raised her arms over her head. “Ay, mijo, don’t be silly, I’m not leaving forever.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Machi told Pablo. “We’re just going to continue having fun on the farm every day, right Andrea? I need you, pai, you’re el jefe now. Help me dig up yautías. Sack is empty.” Machi faced my mother, “He’s a great helper.”
My mother brushed her off with her hand. “They think life is all fun and play.”
“That’s what kids are supposed to do,” Machi said.
The next day the door creaked at the break of dawn, and I ran to the porch. I was disheartened when I saw Mamá on the trail carrying the suitcase. Pablo showed up next to me and called out to her, but she didn’t respond. A neighbor took the suitcase from her, and she crossed the river, which had become a trickling stream. Pablo screamed, “Mamá, take me with you! Mamá, please, don’t leave us here!”
She reached the other side and continued up the riverbank, talking with the guy who carried the suitcase. When they reached the top of the road, he set it down. Pablo whimpered. The middle of my chest grew hollow. My brother called out to her, his voice desperate. I knew she had to hear him, and I couldn’t understand why she didn’t turn around and wave to us, just one last time. Why didn’t she take us with her? We didn’t care if there wasn’t an extra bed, as long as we were together. Sure, Machi was nice, but she wasn’t our mother.
I noticed she wasn’t taking a carro público. Someone waited for her in an old red car. A huge gap opened up inside of me and tears filled my eyes. Who was in the car? Through the woods I saw the door open and a man step out. She put her shoes back on. They embraced. He took the suitcase and placed it in the trunk. The old car screeched when he turned it on. And just before it whizzed away, my mother’s hand came out of the window and she waved. My heart broke as I recognized the skinny hand with long nails painted in her favorite shade of bright coral, a hand I could distinguish from anyone else’s, anywhere in the world.
Pablo screamed, “Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t we run with her?” I huddled into a corner and grabbed my knees.
Machi’s strong arms surrounded me and lifted me from the floor. She lifted Pablo into her other arm, set us on her lap, sat with us in a rocking chair, and squeezed us into her bosom. “Hey, hey, ay, madre mía. My princess, mi jefe, what happened here?”
She whispered calming sounds, her strong heavy hand gliding over our heads in long, gentle strokes. Her soft cologne warmed up a cold place inside of me as my father’s had done before. I breathed into the comfort of her embrace, mistrust breaking away like dust.
After a while, my brother quieted down and all I heard was her heartbeat, her breathing, and the soft rumble of the river where life continued untouched by anything but the calls of the coquí. Pablo perked up and stared at the river.
“Are we doing good now?” Machi asked.
He sniffled.
“Why didn’t she take us?”
“There’s no room for you in Gurabo. Florencia has a tiny house. But you have a nice bed here, and you can wait for her here, with me.”
I rested my head on her shoulder, her strong hand stroking my hair.
“We’ve gotta check on the tobacco ranchón and I’ll need the two of you. Tobacco leaves are way up high, strung together in ensartas. I’ll need you to climb a ladder and take them down so the workers can tear the vines out.” She held us close to her bosom. “Come on, jefe. She’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll bet when she comes for you, you won’t want to go.”
Machi’s embrace momentarily soothed my pain. But nothing changed the feeling of being left with a stranger, and that the sounds of the river, the forest, the animals, were all alien and even scary at times. Nothing shook off my sense of abandonment, and I knew my brother felt the same.
Late at night, when everyone slept, I remembered the stairs in the back of our house in Woronoco where I waited for Sally to come out and ride bikes with me, where Papá met us every day. We had lost our home, our father, our friends. It didn’t matter what explanation anyone gave, I had now lost my mother as well. All I had left was my brother and Titi Machi, the man called Cecilia.
three
There was something magical about finding Machi in the outdoor kitchen every morning wearing her long black dress, the bare ground under her feet. Without saying a word, she would sit me on a bench next to the doorway and brush my hair into a braid. Nebulous heat arose from the ground as the sun evaporated morning dew. The aroma of coffee brewing on her fogón greeted rays of light that snuck through holes in the walls. Trails of smoke from the burning wood dissipated through the windows, followed by the deep fragrance of coffee that threw wisps of toasted nuts and chocolate into the air.
Along the trail to the carros público’s stop, everyone wore muddy shoes and villagers’ voices interrupted sounds of morning critters. Machi’s dark, silent silhouette contrasted against sparks flickering throughout the dimly lit room as she turned coals with a long stick.
One afternoon, she told us someone was coming to watch over us the next day. “I don’t want to leave you two alone, but I can’t miss more days at work.”
“Aww,” Pablo said. “I don’t want anyone watching me.”
Machi chuckled. “I get it, but when this person comes, you’ll be able to go out and play.”
The next day, we heard a rare bird chirping and ran to the porch hoping to find it. Then we opened the door and there he was, eating an orange in the tree above the driveway. A skinny brown kid, not much taller than Pablo. He jumped to the ground, his curly black hair flopping around; his jolly laughter so contagious that we had to laugh with him. He’d pulled our leg with the bird call. “I’m Tito,” he said. “And you’re the kids Machi wants me to watch.”
Tito was one hell of a kid. He taught us how to knock down oranges from the trees using a stick. We scooped them up as they bounced to the ground. Pablo started the slow process of peeling an orange with his index finger. Tito laughed and pulled out a knife for his own, taking off the peel in one long swirl.
We climbed Machi’s mango trees to experience the world from above. Mothers knuckled their kids’ heads and rushed them into públicos. When the trail was muddy, we watched people switch to old shoes and carry their good ones in bags. People argued, not knowing we watched, and one morning, we saw a guy take a piss on the side of the road.
Tito showed us how to bring ensartas down from the walls of the tobacco barn. He used a long pole with a fork on the end, grabbed onto the cord full of dried tobacco leaves, and lifted them from the hooks they hung from. Then he lowered the pole and we took the dry leaves off the cords. We placed the leaves in bushels at the foot of a table where three women cut the center stems out with round knives. Three guys Machi called peones came around the house at noon, dropped off the machetes and pickets they’d used in the field, and set down all sorts of tools next to the shed with the fogón pit. If Machi wasn’t home, they stood around and waited for her until she came and paid them.
When the peones told her about the work we’d done with Tito in the tobacco barn, she put on a big smile, went into her bedroom, and brought out a jar of change. “Here you go, pai,” she said, and gave each of us three cents. Tito jumped up and down with excitement and headed out the door, but she stopped him.
“Nah, nah, nah,” she said. “You know how that goes here, mi jefe. You have to eat lunch first.” And then she cooked and served us viandas con bacalao, a codfish stew with root vegetables that filled us up. After the last bite, Tito led us up the trail.
Pablo ran ahead of me, shouting at Tito in Spanish, “Where we going?”
“Ventorrillo,” Tito responded.
“What’s a ventorillo?” Pablo asked.
“To buy candy.”
We stopped at an old shack on the side of a house and Tito banged his fist on a window shutter. “Doña Carmen!”
Two shutters opened, and a woman with more lines on her face than I’d ever seen on one person smiled at us. “I have limber de coco today. Made it this morning, but it must be frozen by now.”
Pablo whispered at me. “What’s a limber?”
The woman must have noticed that we didn’t know what she was talking about and handed me a freezing plastic cup with something solid inside. “Eat it,” she said in Spanish. Then she looked at Tito. “¿No hablan español?”
