The things we didnt know, p.7
The Things We Didn't Know, page 7
Miss Rivera took a deep breath and leaned on the chalkboard, gripping her Virgen María gold medal and chain. “Dios querido, I have not said anyth—”
“Oh, yes, you have. You told her to stay away from me and she came home crying. Now I understand I’m not the likely person you’d find in here with two kids. Pero te equivocaste.” She pointed a finger straight at the teacher’s face. “What you’ve done without knowing me is uncalled for, Misi.” Machi now looked double in size, her cotton shirt bursting at the seams. “You’d better watch your words.”
Miss Rivera fidgeted with the bottom of her blazer.
Machi walked up closer to her. “Now you do what you’re being paid to do and wash out that filthy mouth, bochinchera. And if there’s a next time, I’m gonna be in your face!”
As we stepped out, we ran into Pablo. A group of mothers at the door sneered and stepped aside.
“What’re you looking at?” Machi said. “Váyanse al carajo and mind your own business.”
They rushed past us into the classroom. Machi pulled my brother and me by our arms and whisked us into the jeep.
Pablo’s eyes were as sharp as darts. “Nobody will want to play with us anymore.”
“Pablo, I hear you and I understand how you feel. Do you remember what it was like when you first came here and you felt nobody liked you because you were different?”
Pablo nodded.
“And now how do you feel? You’ve worked hard to learn and integrate with everyone here, right?”
“Yeah,” Pablo said. “Even with Tito.”
“So that’s the same thing I’ve had to do. I’ve had to do my part so that people accept me. If I hadn’t put that teacher in her place, she would’ve continued making comments about me, maybe in front of others. And tell me something, do you think it’s okay for people to talk bad about any of us because we are, in any way, different?”
“No, Titi.”
“You need to man up. Can’t be afraid to go and put an end to it, pai, or the world will trample over you.”
At bedtime, Pablo was quiet, faced the wall, and wrapped himself in his blanket.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I wish we were with Dad.”
“I do too, but I don’t think he knows where we are.”
“Machi is good to us, but she’s not our mother and she’s not our father and this isn’t where we’re supposed to be.” Pablo sat up in bed. “And other people don’t think she’s normal. I don’t like that. I don’t want to have to argue with people. I want to go with Dad.”
“Well, we can’t go with Dad. And I don’t like it either, but it’s not Machi’s fault.”
I had a hard time falling asleep that night. Words in Spanish and English darted through my mind, a war between languages raging inside of me.
* * *
It must have been a Saturday morning in October when Machi left us with Erasmo and pulled out in the jeep. He pulled out a chair and surprised us with a piece of gooey coconut marrayo candy.
“When I was your age, I had already worked on my father’s farm for over two years carrying water,” he said.
“After school?” I asked.
Erasmo mulled his chewing tobacco around his mouth and spit in the same spot next to the doorstep. “No. I was taken out in first grade.”
“Papá went to second grade,” Pablo said.
Erasmo smiled with a new mouthful. “You’ve already had two and three times more schooling than all of us. The worst thing that can happen to a person is to not have an understanding of letters. The only letters I know are the ones in my name.”
“Do you know how to add and subtract?” I asked.
“Oh, I know the numbers. That I learned. You don’t learn numbers, you can’t do anything in life.”
Erasmo went back to his cigar making while Pablo and I played a game of cards on the bench. When Machi’s jeep rumbled up the road to the side of the house, we ran, eager to see what she had brought from town. A fresh loaf of bread? ¿Pastelillos de guayaba? Mortadella?
As soon as I stepped into the house, she held up a white linen blouse and a white shirt. Then she held up a navy blue trouser and a pleated skirt from another bag. “You have two of each, mis amores. They’ll look better when they’re starched and ironed.” She hung them on the doorknob.
I couldn’t contain my excitement. Everything in my life was marvelous. I could finally look like María and all the other girls in Puerto Rico. Oh, the white blouses, their lace dainty and soft, their buttons like pearls, the most beautiful pieces of clothing I had ever owned. I couldn’t wait to wear them to school.
Machi beamed with happiness.
“Try on these shoes, mi vida,” she said.
“Shoes?” Pablo and I asked in unison.
“Oh, wow, we don’t have to wear the mud shoes to school anymore?” I asked.
Machi opened up a pair of shoes. “No, you don’t. You’re going to look just like everyone else now, from head to toe.”
She set two pairs of brown leather shoes on the floor. “You like them?”
Pablo and I ran to her and clutched onto her legs as hard as we could. We didn’t calm down until we’d tried everything on.
Erasmo came to the door. “You see? That’s how you go to school in Puerto Rico. Marvelous, marvelous. Was it sufficient?” he asked.
“Enough and more,” she said.
The hours couldn’t go by fast enough. All I could think of was wearing my uniform on Monday. Life was the best it had ever been.
Hours later, Erasmo smoked a cigar on the porch, as Machi fed us a serenata. He stared out across the river in silence. Then he came into the doorway and pointed to the river. “Ay Dios, mira. I think that’s Raquel crossing.”
We raced to the porch, and there she was, on the other side of the river with a polka-dot halter that showed off her shoulders, her shoes in her hands. She reached the trail, pulled her shoes on, and waved. Pablo ran and screamed as if the world was ending. As soon as he reached her, he grabbed onto her A-line skirt and wailed. I waited for them to reach the front of the house and hugged her.
Nearing the house, she crouched and pulled our heads in. “You’ve grown so much. And look at your chubby cheeks, you look healthy.”
We wept together. But there was something different about her, a new detachment in her embrace that left me empty. She had been away for almost four months, yet every move she made came across as rushed, when all we wanted was to cry and rejoice because she had returned. “Ya, ya, cálmense,” she said, and I couldn’t understand how she expected us to calm down.
We went in the house, and she embraced Machi. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I started working and was going to come on a weekend and then I lost that job and didn’t want to use up my money on carros públicos.”
“No hay problema, mi hermana, we’ve been doing good,” Machi said.
Mamá brushed off her skirt and sounded nervous as she spoke. “I have another job pending now.” Then she pointed to my brother and me. “I’m taking them with me. Go pack your clothes.”
Behind her, my new white linen blouses that meant the world to me hung from my bedroom doorknob. I wanted to say, Where the hell have you been?
But I was nine years old and knew my mother. Confrontation wasn’t going to work. She had come for us, and nothing would stop her. Did it matter to her that we missed our father, friends, school, our bikes?
The dismay on Machi’s face didn’t encourage me.
“You’re starting a job?”
“I have, you know, something pending.”
“Then why are you taking them today? They’re doing very well in school.”
“I can put them in school in Gurabo.”
“You’re taking them to Gurabo? I don’t think it’s a good idea to move them in the middle of the semester. It hasn’t been easy for them to adapt to school in Spanish. They almost got put back a grade. But we weren’t going to let that happen, right Pablo? You’re getting a B in Spanish now and Andrea has an A.”
“That’s good and I thank you, but there’s a carro público waiting for us.”
“A público? Tell him to leave, I’ll pay him, how much is it? I’ll take you to Gurabo.”
I ran to the door and picked up my uniforms. “Mamá, look. My new uniforms Titi bought. And look, these are for Pablo. We’re wearing them on Monday.”
“Let me give you some money to pay that driver,” Machi said.
Mamá glanced at the uniforms and turned to Machi. “Never mind. He’s a friend, he’s not going to take money. The uniforms are nice, but I’ll get them uniforms in Gurabo. We have to go now.”
And with that I knew there wasn’t anything we could do to change her mind. Something new was in her life and it ruled her. Its presence glared at me.
Machi walked up close to Mamá and spoke in a soft tone. “¿Qué te pasa, chica? Why are you doing this? Florencia doesn’t have space, why would you take them over there?” Machi grabbed our uniforms. “I just picked these up. Let them finish the semester here. It’s only a few weeks. I’ll take them to Gurabo the day after the last day of school.”
Erasmo went to the porch, and I ran after him.
“Do we have to go?”
He tightened his lips and lifted his eyes. “That woman in there is your mother and you will do whatever she says. That’s what is correct.”
I returned to the living room. Mamá and Machi were in the middle of a conversation about my father and a lawyer.
“… if they’re not living with me,” she said.
Machi set a box of matches on the table. “You can explain to the lawyer that they’re in school. You can show him their report cards.”
Mamá looked exasperated. “All right, I understand you took care of them and put them in school, but anyone listening to you might think there aren’t any schools in Gurabo. Por Dios. Florencia lives right in the middle of town. Andrea, go stick your clothes in a bag and let’s go. Pablo, help your sister. We have to leave. That man is out there waiting. I appreciate what you’ve done, and I thank you, but no, you’re not keeping my kids.”
“I’m not trying to keep your kids. I have my own life. But it’s October. You left them here in June. It’s been four months since we last saw you, and they’re in school.”
Erasmo came in from the porch. “Raquel, please. I know you need child support and all that, but please don’t take them over there. Your sister can’t even provide for herself. And you don’t have a job yet. These children will suffer. They require a place where they’re cared for, meals, clothing, school. Cecilia and I have provided. And we’ve done it con gusto.”
My mother placed her hands on her hips. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but I’ve made my decision. Andrea, your clothes. In. A bag. I’m not telling you again. Hurry up, Pablo. Go with your sister and bring. Your. Clothes.”
Machi stepped out to the balcony and slumped onto a rocker. My white blouses blew in the breeze behind her. I had a strong urge to scream at my mother. But I couldn’t bring myself to disobey.
Erasmo ushered my brother and me into our bedroom and gave us two paper bags.
Pablo hugged him and whimpered.
“You do as your mother says and don’t worry. We’ll see each other again.”
Pablo and I gathered our belongings, swallowing tears. Why did she have to interrupt everything that was important to us?
In the living room, Mamá spoke in a low voice.
“Unfair of you… I do appreciate…”
Machi mumbled in what sounded like a disagreement.
“I know that,” Mamá said. “But he’s a good man.”
“He didn’t care for you then, why would he care now that you have two kids and no money? You’re making a mistake.”
Someone shoved a chair. Then my mother yelled, “I’m not asking you to advise me on what to do with my life.”
Machi’s voice shot through the house. “But you’re not being truthful. I went out there, and Florencia told me she hadn’t seen you in weeks. You’re taking them to a slum just to be with that married bum who has nothing to offer you.”
Mamá came into the bedroom.
“Your things. Hurry up, nos vamos.”
We each had a bag in our hands. She grabbed me by one hand, Pablo by the other, and headed for the front door.
Machi had her back to us, facing the sink at the window, and I could tell she was crying.
Mamá called out to her.
“Cecilia, you’re nobody to question what I’m doing. Take a look in the mirror. I may not be the best mother in the world, but you’re no model of perfection. Carry a kid for nine months the way the rest of us do, then maybe you can talk about what somebody else is doing right or wrong with their kids.”
She stopped in front of Erasmo. “Lo siento. Thank you for everything.” Then she led us out the door.
When we stepped outside, we bumped into Tito. “Where you going?” he asked.
Our mother shoved us. “Vámonos.”
Pablo mumbled, “With our mother.”
Mamá ignored Tito, not knowing how much we had learned from that child and how much we loved him. As we crossed the river, he stood in the middle of the trail in his oversize cotton shirt and tan rolled-up pants that exposed his skinny legs, his whole body looking like a question mark. He probably knew we’d never see each other again. He didn’t have his burlap sack with him, which meant we would have spent the day at the river. But that would never happen again. My whole face trembled and tears surfaced. I waved goodbye to Tito, knowing that I was saying goodbye to a whole world that I loved.
When we reached the other side, Pablo screamed out Tito’s name and waved. Tito raised a hand and left it there, without waving. Mamá yanked my shoulder, insisting that I move faster. Pablo swung around and waved again, but I couldn’t. No matter what happened to me for the rest of my life, I would always see Tito standing on that trail with that hand up in the air.
Minutes later, we were immersed in the hot smell of an old red car that had a rabbit tail dangling from the rearview mirror. Thick cigarette smoke made me squeamish. As we sped off, our mother explained to the driver what had taken so long: “She thought she was keeping my kids. I had to fight for them, can you believe that?”
The man chewed gum, cracking tiny bubbles in between puffs of cigarette smoke. Pablo stared at me. Even though he had missed our mother for all those months, I knew this wasn’t what he wanted either. I knew I would never see my mother in the same way, and that the woman from Woronoco was gone.
five
The driver maneuvered around pedestrians on the busy streets of Gurabo and parked in front of a small, dilapidated house at the end of a street. There were people on the street with beers in their hands, faces oily from the sweltering heat.
“They’re waiting to see you,” Mamá said.
But I didn’t see one person in the crowd whom I could possibly be interested in meeting.
The group grew silent as we stepped out of the car. A small, thin, elderly woman laid eyes on me, and I knew at once she was my aunt Florencia. She looked identical to my mother, only much older, with deep furrows around her eyes and mouth. Florencia limped with a hand on her back. Her oily gray hair and shabby housedress added to her worn-out appearance, even when she smiled.
She stroked my hair. “She doesn’t remember me. No hair dye here. Takes after our great-grandmother, used to have blue eyes and blonde hair just like this. And the muchachito, he takes after Don Luis.”
Pablo and I looked around with apprehension while Mamá greeted everyone. Then she excused herself and made her way around them to the doorstep. “Let me get a cafecito.”
Florencia kissed my head. “Last time I saw you, you were taking your first steps, and look at you now, una señorita.” She smiled, showing the few yellow teeth left in her mouth.
I followed my mother into the tiny living space that could hardly be called a house.
“Mamá, when are we having lunch?” I asked.
She opened the refrigerator. “Let me see what I can find here.”
Florencia came in. “Here’s some bread.” She grabbed a bag from the top of the refrigerator.
“Pan sobao. ¿Quieres?”
She broke off a piece of hard, stale bread and gave it to me. “I thought you were going to leave them with Cecilia.”
“The lawyer said to get the benefits they have to live with me.”
“Were they in school?” Florencia asked.
“I can put them in school here.”
“Who’s going to take them? You’re never here.”
“Don’t get started. I have opportunities. Teodoro is helping me.”
“You left a good man and everything you had over there for this bum? He’s not leaving his wife for you.”
“¡Deja el tema! When I get full child support, you won’t recognize me.”
“I thought Don Luis was already sending you money.”
“It’s not enough. The court will make him give me more if I have the kids.”
“Where are they going to sleep? Teodoro’s mother has an extra room, take them over there.”
“No. They’re staying here in the living room. I can’t take them over there.”
Mamá put sugar in a cup of coffee. “Let me take this to him.”
“They’re better off with you over there,” Aunt Florencia said. “Put them in the San Lorenzo school. A bus goes right by Teodoro’s house.” She looked into my eyes and smiled. “I don’t even have enough for myself.”
“I can’t do that. Gonzalo comes next week, doesn’t he? He gives you enough for a few weeks. You’ll be fine until I get back. They don’t need anything. Let me get to that lawyer in Caguas and then we can talk.”
“Gonzalo is no Don Luis. He barely gives me enough to buy a loaf of bread.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. A good hijo de la gran puta is what Luis is. I’ll come by every day if I have to.”
