smiling, slapping me on the shoulder, darker than I’d last seen him. How ya doing, Yunior? You miss me or what?
I’d sit next to him and he’d put his arm around me and we’d listen to Tía telling Mami how well I behaved and all the different things I’d eaten.
3.
The year Papi came for us, the year I was nine, we expected nothing. There were no signs to speak of. Dominican chocolate was not especially in demand that season and the Puerto Rican owners laid off the majority of the employees for a couple of months. Good for the owners, un desastre for us. After that, Mami was around the house all the time. Unlike Rafa, who hid his shit well, I was always in trouble. From punching out Wilfredo to chasing somebody’s chickens until they passed out from exhaustion. Mami wasn’t a hitter; she preferred having me kneel on pebbles with my face against a wall. On the afternoon that the letter arrived, she caught me trying to stab our mango tree with Abuelo’s machete. Back to the corner. Abuelo was supposed to make sure I served my ten minutes but he was too busy whittling to bother. He let me up after three minutes and I hid in the bedroom until he said, OK, in a voice that Mami could hear. Then I went to the smokehouse, rubbing my knees, and Mami looked up from peeling platanos.
You better learn, muchacho, or you’ll be kneeling the rest of your life.
I watched the rain that had been falling all day. No, I won’t, I told her.
You talking back to me?
She whacked me on the nalgas and I ran outside to look for Wilfredo. I found him under the eaves of his house, the wind throwing pieces of rain onto his dark-dark face. We shook hands elaborately. I called him Muhammad Ali and he called me Sinbad; these were our Northamerican names. We were both in shorts; a disintegrating pair of sandals clung to his toes.
What you got? I asked him.
Boats, he said, holding up the paper wedges his father had folded for us. This one’s mine.
What does the winner get?
A gold trophy, about this big.
OK, cabrón, I’m in. Don’t let go before me.
OK, he said, stepping to the other side of the gutter. We had a clear run down to the street corner. No cars were parked on our side, except for a drowned Monarch and there was plenty of room between its tires and the curb for us to navigate through.
We completed five runs before I noticed that somebody had parked their battered motorcycle in front of my house.
Who’s that? Wilfredo asked me, dropping his soggy boat into the water again.
I don’t know, I said.
Go find out.
I was already on my way. The motorcycle driver came out before I could reach our front door. He mounted quickly and was gone in a cloud of exhaust.
Mami and Abuelo were on the back patio, conver-sating. Abuelo was angry and his cane-cutter’s hands were clenched. I hadn’t seen Abuelo bravo in a long time, not since his produce truck had been stolen by two of his old employees.
Go outside, Mami told me.
Who was that?
Did I tell you something?
Was that somebody we know?
Outside, Mami said, her voice a murder about to happen.
What’s wrong? Wilfredo asked me when I rejoined him. His nose was starting to run.
I don’t know, I said.
When Rafa showed himself an hour later, swaggering in from a game of pool, I’d already tried to speak to Mami and Abuelo like five times. The last time, Mami had landed a slap on my neck and Wilfredo told me that he could see the imprints of her fingers on my skin. I told it all to Rafa.
That doesn’t sound good. He threw out his guttering cigarette. You wait here. He went around the back and I heard his voice and then Mami’s. No yelling, no argument.
Come on, he said. She wants us to wait in our room.
Why?
That’s what she said. You want me to tell her no?
Not while she’s mad.
Exactly.
I slapped Wilfredo’s hand and walked in the front door with Rafa. What’s going on?
She got a letter from Papi.
Really? Is there money?
No.
What does it say?
How
I’d sit next to him and he’d put his arm around me and we’d listen to Tía telling Mami how well I behaved and all the different things I’d eaten.
3.
The year Papi came for us, the year I was nine, we expected nothing. There were no signs to speak of. Dominican chocolate was not especially in demand that season and the Puerto Rican owners laid off the majority of the employees for a couple of months. Good for the owners, un desastre for us. After that, Mami was around the house all the time. Unlike Rafa, who hid his shit well, I was always in trouble. From punching out Wilfredo to chasing somebody’s chickens until they passed out from exhaustion. Mami wasn’t a hitter; she preferred having me kneel on pebbles with my face against a wall. On the afternoon that the letter arrived, she caught me trying to stab our mango tree with Abuelo’s machete. Back to the corner. Abuelo was supposed to make sure I served my ten minutes but he was too busy whittling to bother. He let me up after three minutes and I hid in the bedroom until he said, OK, in a voice that Mami could hear. Then I went to the smokehouse, rubbing my knees, and Mami looked up from peeling platanos.
You better learn, muchacho, or you’ll be kneeling the rest of your life.
I watched the rain that had been falling all day. No, I won’t, I told her.
You talking back to me?
She whacked me on the nalgas and I ran outside to look for Wilfredo. I found him under the eaves of his house, the wind throwing pieces of rain onto his dark-dark face. We shook hands elaborately. I called him Muhammad Ali and he called me Sinbad; these were our Northamerican names. We were both in shorts; a disintegrating pair of sandals clung to his toes.
What you got? I asked him.
Boats, he said, holding up the paper wedges his father had folded for us. This one’s mine.
What does the winner get?
A gold trophy, about this big.
OK, cabrón, I’m in. Don’t let go before me.
OK, he said, stepping to the other side of the gutter. We had a clear run down to the street corner. No cars were parked on our side, except for a drowned Monarch and there was plenty of room between its tires and the curb for us to navigate through.
We completed five runs before I noticed that somebody had parked their battered motorcycle in front of my house.
Who’s that? Wilfredo asked me, dropping his soggy boat into the water again.
I don’t know, I said.
Go find out.
I was already on my way. The motorcycle driver came out before I could reach our front door. He mounted quickly and was gone in a cloud of exhaust.
Mami and Abuelo were on the back patio, conver-sating. Abuelo was angry and his cane-cutter’s hands were clenched. I hadn’t seen Abuelo bravo in a long time, not since his produce truck had been stolen by two of his old employees.
Go outside, Mami told me.
Who was that?
Did I tell you something?
Was that somebody we know?
Outside, Mami said, her voice a murder about to happen.
What’s wrong? Wilfredo asked me when I rejoined him. His nose was starting to run.
I don’t know, I said.
When Rafa showed himself an hour later, swaggering in from a game of pool, I’d already tried to speak to Mami and Abuelo like five times. The last time, Mami had landed a slap on my neck and Wilfredo told me that he could see the imprints of her fingers on my skin. I told it all to Rafa.
That doesn’t sound good. He threw out his guttering cigarette. You wait here. He went around the back and I heard his voice and then Mami’s. No yelling, no argument.
Come on, he said. She wants us to wait in our room.
Why?
That’s what she said. You want me to tell her no?
Not while she’s mad.
Exactly.
I slapped Wilfredo’s hand and walked in the front door with Rafa. What’s going on?
She got a letter from Papi.
Really? Is there money?
No.
What does it say?
How
Similar Books
