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Authors: Rita Moreno
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skewered by my mother’s coy ways. No one could flirt like Rosa Maria: She would actually bat her eyes, tilt her head, and drop her voice to a sexual hush. When men appeared, she was all wonderment and whispered compliments. Of course, with this beguiling style, generous servings of homemade highly spiced food, and her own deep cleavage, she had many admirers. Not to mention the possible impact of love potions.
Soon enough, my new stepfather appeared—strawberry blond, blue-eyed, displaced Cuban Enrique. At this point, my mental time lapse takes effect and I have no memory of his arrival, only his presence for about seven years. “Papo,” as I called him, was a watchmaker. With a loupe to his eye and a steady hand, he repaired the intricate, delicate inner workings of precious timepieces. By necessity, he had developed infinite patience and a gentle touch. This made him an ideal stepfather.
One night, soon after his arrival, I walked into his and Mami’s bedroom and saw a project that he was working on in secret. It was big and covered with a cloth—I think so that I would not see it. I knew I was not supposed to be in the room, not supposed to see what was underneath. Of course I peeked—and I could not believe my eyes.
It was a perfect, beautiful Victorian dollhouse. I had never had such a happy shock. I almost fainted in my delirium. Could he have built this for me? He must have, bless Enrique. It was hisgift to me, this perfect dollhouse, complete with tiny Christmas lights that would flare on and illuminate the miniature rooms and their lavish little furnishings.
My mom walked into the room and caught me. “Aha!”
I turned the color of a tomato, and even now I can still feel that heat scald my face. It was my joy, my shock at the gift, and the embarrassment at being caught. I don’t think I ever blushed again; I used up my entire lifetime supply of blush in that one moment. I vowed never to be caught with a guilty face again.
For the rest of my childhood, I would gaze into the dollhouse, transfixed. In a way, I moved into Enrique’s dollhouse. It was so magical and safe inside. And I could control the tiny family who lived in the house: Mami, Papo, and Little Girl. This new life was beyond what I ever imagined, and for this time interval I believed in Mami again: She had found me a good Papo. She had done the right thing and she had found him—a protector. Once again Mami made me happy, and I could dance and sing and enjoy the miniature perfect world of the dollhouse and the watches Enrique repaired.
A happy home has its own music. The house hummed with Mami’s Singer sewing machine as she worked the foot treadle. This machine was so old, it was not an electric model. All the energy came from Mami, from her foot tapping and rising and falling. It sounded like the roll of a Spanish rrrrrr! As if in accompaniment, I danced in time with its pulsing, while Mami was creating headdresses and costumes for me. All the apprehension that had been in me since we left Juncos began to settle down and at last vanish. In its place came a contentment that was long-running enough to take for granted. All the time, there was so much happy music—not only Mami’s sewing machine, but we also had a windup phonograph that sounded so much like a cat inheat when we wound it that we named it “ La Gatita ”—The Little Cat. Mami would sing along to the songs on the phonograph. She was singing and sewing; I was spinning and dancing. We bought fancier appliances, and Mami dressed them in her handmade slipcovers. Oh, I tell you it was a party again. It even smelled like Juncos—garlic, tomatoes, peppers, cilantro. Those were years filled with flavor and song. In his quiet, gentle way, Enrique had fixed everything.
Even our neighborhood was alive with happy sounds. The streets were filled with peddlers: “I cash clothes!” cried out the rag seller. Only it all ran together like a chant: “Icashclothes.” This
Soon enough, my new stepfather appeared—strawberry blond, blue-eyed, displaced Cuban Enrique. At this point, my mental time lapse takes effect and I have no memory of his arrival, only his presence for about seven years. “Papo,” as I called him, was a watchmaker. With a loupe to his eye and a steady hand, he repaired the intricate, delicate inner workings of precious timepieces. By necessity, he had developed infinite patience and a gentle touch. This made him an ideal stepfather.
One night, soon after his arrival, I walked into his and Mami’s bedroom and saw a project that he was working on in secret. It was big and covered with a cloth—I think so that I would not see it. I knew I was not supposed to be in the room, not supposed to see what was underneath. Of course I peeked—and I could not believe my eyes.
It was a perfect, beautiful Victorian dollhouse. I had never had such a happy shock. I almost fainted in my delirium. Could he have built this for me? He must have, bless Enrique. It was hisgift to me, this perfect dollhouse, complete with tiny Christmas lights that would flare on and illuminate the miniature rooms and their lavish little furnishings.
My mom walked into the room and caught me. “Aha!”
I turned the color of a tomato, and even now I can still feel that heat scald my face. It was my joy, my shock at the gift, and the embarrassment at being caught. I don’t think I ever blushed again; I used up my entire lifetime supply of blush in that one moment. I vowed never to be caught with a guilty face again.
For the rest of my childhood, I would gaze into the dollhouse, transfixed. In a way, I moved into Enrique’s dollhouse. It was so magical and safe inside. And I could control the tiny family who lived in the house: Mami, Papo, and Little Girl. This new life was beyond what I ever imagined, and for this time interval I believed in Mami again: She had found me a good Papo. She had done the right thing and she had found him—a protector. Once again Mami made me happy, and I could dance and sing and enjoy the miniature perfect world of the dollhouse and the watches Enrique repaired.
A happy home has its own music. The house hummed with Mami’s Singer sewing machine as she worked the foot treadle. This machine was so old, it was not an electric model. All the energy came from Mami, from her foot tapping and rising and falling. It sounded like the roll of a Spanish rrrrrr! As if in accompaniment, I danced in time with its pulsing, while Mami was creating headdresses and costumes for me. All the apprehension that had been in me since we left Juncos began to settle down and at last vanish. In its place came a contentment that was long-running enough to take for granted. All the time, there was so much happy music—not only Mami’s sewing machine, but we also had a windup phonograph that sounded so much like a cat inheat when we wound it that we named it “ La Gatita ”—The Little Cat. Mami would sing along to the songs on the phonograph. She was singing and sewing; I was spinning and dancing. We bought fancier appliances, and Mami dressed them in her handmade slipcovers. Oh, I tell you it was a party again. It even smelled like Juncos—garlic, tomatoes, peppers, cilantro. Those were years filled with flavor and song. In his quiet, gentle way, Enrique had fixed everything.
Even our neighborhood was alive with happy sounds. The streets were filled with peddlers: “I cash clothes!” cried out the rag seller. Only it all ran together like a chant: “Icashclothes.” This
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