“She looks just like you,” she heard her mother say.
The year when I turned eight, Isabel said, my real father came and danced with me. My mother and her husband, Umberto Calderón, whom I called Papi until the day he died, had gone to a conference in Spain, and in the evening when I was already in my nightgown in my bed, a large, darkcar pulled up. A door slammed and I heard a low whistle. Without a word, Mercedes let him in.
He wore a suit of camouflage that looked like falling leaves. He said he’d come to dance with me. I had no idea what he meant, but he put a record on the phonograph. It was a marimba band, playing mambos, and he knew the steps very well. Step together one two three he showed me as he took me into his arms. “I want to see,” he said, “if you can follow me.” He pressed me to him and I felt his arms around my waist.
I was a little girl and he twirled me around the room like a mop, my feet sweeping the floor. All the arms that had ever held me were women’s arms—pale, thin. But his were wide and strong. He hummed the music into my ears. He was a delicate dancer and I felt light as a plucked flower in his arms.
He smelled of ashes and rum, but I could see what it must have been like for my mother when she fell in love with him. Then he stopped dancing and told me he had to go away for a while and it might be a long time before he would see me again. “You are my little one,” he told me.
Mi hijita
. “The world is changing. You’ll see. Everything will change. You can join me. Your mother chose not to and that of course was her decision. But I will come back for you and together we will make the world a different place.”
When he left, he touched Mercedes on the arm and I knew she had agreed to let him come. He patted me on the head and said, “Don’t tell your mother I was here tonight. It is our secret.”
I never told my mother. After he went away, I wrote him a letter, which Mercedes promised to mail for me. “When the moon is high, I think you will come and dance with me again. I listen for your whistle, but it is always the wind. Theother day there was a fire and a dog was burned alive. I can still hear him howling. I hope you will come back soon.”
But he never answered my letter. He never came back to dance with me again. I would see him from time to time at official functions and he’d come over and touch me on the head. Sometimes, when Umberto was away, he came to our house and I could hear his voice rumbling in another room. But it would be many years before he tried to see me again. And then only by sending his lawyers to come and claim me.
Not long after his visit, when she was still waiting for his return, Isabel woke and felt a weight on her chest. The room was dark and she could not see, but something heavy lay there. Mercedes told her once that if she ever woke and found a snake in her bed, not to move or breathe. That it was only looking for a warm place to sleep. In the morning it would wake and slither outside again, returning the way it had come.
For the rest of that night Isabel lay on her back, with the snake on her chest, trying not to breathe. She did not know what kind of snake it was but she knew that the Caribe rattler, brought from Africa on slave ships, lived in the moist, sandy woods not far from the house. For hours she lay perfectly still, her breath shallow, afraid the snake would feel the rise and fall of her chest.
In the morning as first light entered the room, Mercedes came in to wake Isabel and she found the girl, immobile, staring at the ceiling with a snake coiled on her chest. Isabel only blinked as Mercedes stopped, cupping her hand over her mouth, then raced out of the room. She returned with a campesino who clutched a machete in his fist, and he nudgedthe snake. Isabel watched as the snake unwound itself, raising its head and writhing on her chest. She heard it rattle.
As the snake hissed and prepared to strike, the man swooshed
The year when I turned eight, Isabel said, my real father came and danced with me. My mother and her husband, Umberto Calderón, whom I called Papi until the day he died, had gone to a conference in Spain, and in the evening when I was already in my nightgown in my bed, a large, darkcar pulled up. A door slammed and I heard a low whistle. Without a word, Mercedes let him in.
He wore a suit of camouflage that looked like falling leaves. He said he’d come to dance with me. I had no idea what he meant, but he put a record on the phonograph. It was a marimba band, playing mambos, and he knew the steps very well. Step together one two three he showed me as he took me into his arms. “I want to see,” he said, “if you can follow me.” He pressed me to him and I felt his arms around my waist.
I was a little girl and he twirled me around the room like a mop, my feet sweeping the floor. All the arms that had ever held me were women’s arms—pale, thin. But his were wide and strong. He hummed the music into my ears. He was a delicate dancer and I felt light as a plucked flower in his arms.
He smelled of ashes and rum, but I could see what it must have been like for my mother when she fell in love with him. Then he stopped dancing and told me he had to go away for a while and it might be a long time before he would see me again. “You are my little one,” he told me.
Mi hijita
. “The world is changing. You’ll see. Everything will change. You can join me. Your mother chose not to and that of course was her decision. But I will come back for you and together we will make the world a different place.”
When he left, he touched Mercedes on the arm and I knew she had agreed to let him come. He patted me on the head and said, “Don’t tell your mother I was here tonight. It is our secret.”
I never told my mother. After he went away, I wrote him a letter, which Mercedes promised to mail for me. “When the moon is high, I think you will come and dance with me again. I listen for your whistle, but it is always the wind. Theother day there was a fire and a dog was burned alive. I can still hear him howling. I hope you will come back soon.”
But he never answered my letter. He never came back to dance with me again. I would see him from time to time at official functions and he’d come over and touch me on the head. Sometimes, when Umberto was away, he came to our house and I could hear his voice rumbling in another room. But it would be many years before he tried to see me again. And then only by sending his lawyers to come and claim me.
Not long after his visit, when she was still waiting for his return, Isabel woke and felt a weight on her chest. The room was dark and she could not see, but something heavy lay there. Mercedes told her once that if she ever woke and found a snake in her bed, not to move or breathe. That it was only looking for a warm place to sleep. In the morning it would wake and slither outside again, returning the way it had come.
For the rest of that night Isabel lay on her back, with the snake on her chest, trying not to breathe. She did not know what kind of snake it was but she knew that the Caribe rattler, brought from Africa on slave ships, lived in the moist, sandy woods not far from the house. For hours she lay perfectly still, her breath shallow, afraid the snake would feel the rise and fall of her chest.
In the morning as first light entered the room, Mercedes came in to wake Isabel and she found the girl, immobile, staring at the ceiling with a snake coiled on her chest. Isabel only blinked as Mercedes stopped, cupping her hand over her mouth, then raced out of the room. She returned with a campesino who clutched a machete in his fist, and he nudgedthe snake. Isabel watched as the snake unwound itself, raising its head and writhing on her chest. She heard it rattle.
As the snake hissed and prepared to strike, the man swooshed
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