This Side of Providence (30 page)

“Of course. That's good, that's real good, Celie.” She squeezes my knee gently, leaving her hand there to trace circles on my jeans. “I'm proud of you.”

“It's the hardest shit I ever did. Harder than giving birth or leaving Puerto Rico. Harder than surviving all these years by myself.”

She nods. “I get it,” she says softly. “I wish that could be me.”

I look at her pale skin, see the circles under her eyes. I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “You still partying?”

“Just a few drinks here and there. And some weed to help me sleep—nothing hard.”

“No dope?”

She shakes her head. “Your boy cut me off last summer
when I fell behind with rent. Don't have a contact.”

“Forced to go straight, huh? Not much better than me.” I mean it as a joke but her face is real serious.

“Not half as good as you, Celie.” Her hand taps the steering wheel, real soft like she's playing the piano. “I could never do what you did.”

“Shit, if I can do it any sucker with a pulse can get clean.” I squeeze her hand. “The hard part is wanting to.” I try to let go but she keeps holding me.

“I'm sorry, Celie.”

I want to tell her it's okay, to say I forgive her, but I can't yet. I don't. Instead, I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her dry, pale knuckles one by one. My lipstick leaves a smudge, which I wipe off with my thumb before I slip out of the car.

“Can I call you?” She leans across the frontseat to look at me, almost falling over.

I stare at her twisted face, her upside-down smile. “I don't have a phone.”

“I'll come by then, when your kids aren't around.”

I close the car door without answering.
My kids
. How do I tell her I only have one kid left?

I walk to the house as quick as I can, the cold air burning my skin like fire. I climb the porch steps two at a time, but when I get to the door I stop, waiting for the sound of her car to disappear after she drives away. I don't let myself turn around to watch her leave.

“You forget your key?”

The voice comes from the street. It startles me but for some reason I'm not scared. When I turn around Cristo's old teacher is standing by the curb looking up at me with a fake smile. She hides her body in a coat too warm for the weather. Bright red, a color no
gordita
should wear.

“Nope. Just taking my time. It's a nice night.”

“Nice, huh? You must love it when it snows.” She walks to me real slow, like someone trying to catch a stray cat. “You just getting home from work?” she asks.

“An interview. If I get the job I start next week.” Don't know why I lie.

“Good for you.” She climbs the stairs like an old person, one hand on the railing, one on her purse. “What's the job?”

“It's at a store. A restaurant.” I look down at my hands. “Washing dishes.”

“Oh.”

She comes closer, so I back up against the door. She seems like a giant standing next to me. A giant in high heel shoes.

“Or I could be a waitress and make the same money in half the time.” The lies keep coming out of my mouth. “Then I can be here for the kids.”

“Can't argue with that.” Her breathing is heavy but she tries to hide it.

“You got any kids?” I say, for no real reason.

She shakes her head. “You asked me that last year.”

“Well, sometimes things change.”

We are both quiet for too long.

“How's my girl?” I hate having to ask her about my daughter. I wish the state would give her back to me, but I got to prove I have stable housing and a job before I can start the paperwork.

“She's fine.” Her purse keeps falling off the shoulder of her thick coat. “And Cristo?” She smiles at me, like we're friends.

“How you expect him to be? He misses his sister. She should be home with us.”

She nods. “You're right,” she says.

I try to read the look behind her eyes. I wonder if I can trust her.

“If you want you could go get her right now.”

“It's not my call,” she says, her arms up in the air like she's turning herself in. “The state placed her with me. I have to follow their rules.”

“I don't give a damn about their rules.” I'm pissed so quick I don't know where it comes from. “You're not her mother.”

“I know that.” She starts to stutter. “I'm not trying to be.” For the first time she steps away from me.

“Just making it clear so you don't get me wrong.”

She looks down at the porch. “It's real clear.”

“Cool.” I unlock the door and open it a crack. “Well. Thanks for stopping by.” I stand there, waiting for her to get
the hint but she don't.

She coughs into the sleeve of her jacket. “I actually came to see Cristo.” She steps toward the door now, like just saying his name gives her confidence. I stop her with my hand on the doorknob.

“It's late, you know. He's got school in the morning.”

“Yes, I'm well aware of that. Don't worry, I won't be long. I just want to check in with him.”

“Check in? Like for a flight?” I'm trying to make a joke but she looks real serious. Something about her face makes me bust out laughing, even though I'm still pissed and want to slam the door in her face.

I let go of the doorknob and she walks in front of me like we're in her home and she's the one nice enough to let me in. I call Cristo's name and he yells that he's in his room so I point to the hallway and turn on the light for her.

“Thank you,” she says. I can feel her staring at me, wanting me to say something else but I don't have nothing to say to her.

When she comes out later I'm watching TV. I don't know how long she was in there, but
Jeopardy!
's over already and now I'm thinking about how time never passes on TV. The host looks the same as he did when I first got to New York and used to practice my English by watching game shows every night. She says good-bye to me but I just wave at her, pretending to look at something real interesting on the screen when really I'm just watching my own reflection.

Cristo comes in from the kitchen a few minutes later, eating microwave popcorn straight out of the bag. He asks me if I'm hungry and I say no so he eats the whole bag by himself. He thinks I'm late 'cause I was at a meeting and I don't tell him different. When he asks how it went I say it was actually pretty good. That makes him smile. He sits down next to me so we can watch the TV together but I don't pay attention. My eyes wander around the empty room, looking for something to focus on. The bare walls are a blinding white that makes my eyes hurt. I pull open the blinds and stare out the window but all I see is my own face looking back at me.

“You look different,” Cristo says later, when he's going to
bed. “Like you finally heard something you been waiting a long time to hear. Like it finally makes sense or something.”

I put my arms around him and give him a kiss on the top of his soft, curly head. I don't say anything. No more lies tonight. After he goes to his room, I get out my notebook and start writing a bunch of letters. It's the first time I held a pen since getting out. It feels good to hold something heavy in my hand.

I write to my father and my brothers in Puerto Rico; to Chino, who moved up to Woonsocket looking for work; and to my baby girl, Trini, even though she can't read a word of it. I write to Candy, who should be out by now, and is probably living in her grandmother's house just a few blocks away; and I write to my doctor, telling him how much I hate taking all those pills. I write to my case manager, thanking her for the subsidy so I can live in this apartment, and then I tell her I got real sick today so I had to miss the interview she spent three weeks setting up. I tell her how sorry I am I keep wasting everybody's time. I write letters to all those people, but really I write them for myself 'cause I'm already thinking I won't ever send them.

I never been a person to write things down but I like getting to tell my own truth. There's no yelling in a letter, no fights over who said what, no reason to lie so you don't get punched, and no checking for exits to find the quickest way out. You don't have to soften your words by looking at somebody a certain way or reaching out to touch them, and you don't have to worry about what's gonna happen when it's over, wondering if they're gonna hold you or hit you, or if you'll need to go hide somewhere. The most important thing is that you have a record of what was said—you have proof—and you can reread it as many times as you want and it'll always be the same. A letter is more dependable than most things in my life. That's why I like writing them. That's why I'm never gonna stop, even when I run out of anything good to say.

Miss Valentín

T
here are no streetlights on their end of the block, so I get out of my car cautiously, holding onto the roof to steady myself. I'm wearing high heels (not a super-functional choice) and I move around the car slowly, careful not to trip over anything. I see broken bottles and a mismatched pair of tennis shoes lying in the gutter like the answer to a question no one dares to ask. I should have changed my shoes before coming here, but I made the decision so quickly I didn't have time to think about my outfit. When my students ask why I wear such high heels I tell them I need the extra three inches, so even as they grow they will still have to look up to me.

It's been dark for almost an hour, though it's not late—just past seven o'clock. The park across the street is empty, except for the few lone dog walkers, shadows moving between the maple trees. I look to the horizon to get my bearings. There, above the skyscrapers, I see the first hint of stars twinkling in the night sky, like kernels of corn about to pop in the oily blackness. Something about the silence makes it feel later than it is and I check my watch again, just to make sure.

When I look up, I see her. She's getting out of a green Honda Civic, the passenger side, of course. I've never seen her behind the wheel. She probably doesn't even drive. I recognize her right away because she's so skinny I can see right between her legs. I was expecting to see her outside like this (on the streets, just like in the old neighborhood), but it still makes me sad. I feel sorry for her, and for Cristo—for the whole family,
really—and for a system that thinks you can drop someone into shark-infested water with a bloody foot and expect them to get out alive.

She's not dressed for the weather, which is cold enough to make my hands ache like I've got arthritis, but at least she doesn't look sick. She has a healthy flush to her cheeks, which makes her look a decade younger than last year. If I didn't know, I would never imagine she was HIV positive, or a recovering heroin addict for that matter. Or even an ex-con. If I didn't know her, I would walk by and think she was a teenager home from a date, her voice light and sugary as she flirts with the driver.

“I don't even have a phone,” she says with an innocent smile I didn't think she was capable of. But it's not just her voice, her body seems light too, and she almost skips down the sidewalk as she makes her way to the apartment she shares with her son. Like the last one, this one is on the first floor, but the street is nicer. It's also in one of Snowman's houses, a brick-red Victorian almost a hundred years older than the one on Sophia Street, and solid enough to outlast us all.

I pass the car slowly, cutting my eyes to catch a glimpse of Arcelia's suitor. I can't say I'm surprised by the face I see: Lucho, her black eyes staring through me as she scans the street like a sniper tracking her prey. She must be fearless, reckless, or stupid (or some combination of all three) to show up in Arcelia's life right now. To come back after such a long absence. Perhaps the real addiction they have is to each other, not even their drug of choice. Perhaps their relationship is the drug.

I call to her when she's on the porch, standing frozen in front of the door as if she's not sure it's her home. I must startle her because she drops the keys. I try to be nice so I ask her about her job interview but I can tell by how she answers that she doesn't want to talk about it. Or maybe she just doesn't want to talk to me. She's still angry about Luz coming to live with me, and I can't say I blame her. But come on, it's not like I'm the one that took her daughter away. I wasn't expecting an actual thank-you, but maybe a little gratitude would be nice. Instead she's acting like I snatched her lunch out of her hand
while she was still eating it.

When she opens the door she doesn't invite me in. I have to say, “I'm here to see Cristo,” for her to actually let me into the house. She can't even be bothered to take me to his room. She points down the hall and lets me find it for myself. The first two doors are closed, but I see light coming from the bottom of the last door before the bathroom. I knock twice, soft at first, but then harder.

“What you need, Mami?” Cristo says as he walks toward the door. He stops when he sees me, a small smile creeping across his face. “Hey, Teacher. What are you doing here?” His smile quickly fades. “Is Luz okay?”

“She's fine. I'm actually here to check on you.”

He taps his pencil against his leg. “I'm cool.”

I look around the room. It is bare except for a mattress on the floor and a hard-shelled suitcase he's using as a desk. His shoes are neatly placed at the side of the bed, like how my grandfather used to leave his bedtime slippers.

“I like your room.”

He looks around, like he's never seen it before. “It's kinda empty,” he apologizes. “I'm not used to having a room to myself.”

“You just need a female touch, that's all. Let me take you down to the flea market on Saturday and we can get you some things. Maybe a rug and a dresser?”

“No, thanks. I can wait till Mami's next check.” He sits down on his bed. “You wanna sit?” He moves over to make room for me.

“Umm,” I look around, hoping I just overlooked the chair. I'm five years too old and fifty pounds too heavy to sit on a twin-sized mattress on the floor.

“Or you can sit here,” he says, turning the suitcase on its side. I stare at it skeptically, wondering if it's strong enough to hold me. “Come on, Mami sits here all the time,” he tells me.

Yes, but she's half my size, I want to say. Instead, I hover over the suitcase like it's a dirty toilet seat, my legs holding the bulk of my weight. I'm not sure how long I can keep this up.

“How's she doing, your mother?” I ask him.

“She's good,” he says. “Real good.” He taps his leg with the pencil again.

“Yeah?”

He nods, looking at the closed door as if he can see straight through it and is staring right at her. “I mean it. She's different than she was before. She's better now.”

“That's good.” I rest more weight on the suitcase, hoping it holds me up. “Does she talk about her health with you?”

“Sometimes. But she don't—doesn't—have to say much. I can see in her eyes how she's feeling.”

“And she's feeling good now?”

“Yeah. She's good. She's not sick like she was.”

This surprises me, that he knows she was sick. “She told you? That she was sick?”

“Yeah, when she first got back. She told me she was real sick before, pneumonia and some other stuff. But she's good now, so long as she takes her medicine.”

“And if she doesn't?”

He shakes his head. “She has to. That's why it's my job to remind her.”

“That's a big job.”

He shrugs. “Who else is going to do it?”

I rearrange myself on the suitcase. “Doesn't she have doctors?”

“It's cool. I like to help.” He gets up to close the shades. His shadow looms on the wall as tall as a man's.

“I hope she appreciates how you take care of her.”

“We take care of each other,” he says with his back to me.

“You're a good boy, Cristo.”

“And Mami, she's a good mother.” He turns around to face me. “You guys all think she's not a good mother, but she is. A person can change, you know. They can decide to be different and clean up their act or whatever, and they can have a better life. She's doing that, Mami is doing that, and I just wish everybody would see that and leave her alone.”

“I'm glad she's doing well. That's all I want for her, and for you.”

He comes back over to the bed, but doesn't sit back down.
I stand up, too, grateful to be on my own feet.

“Have you seen Lucho?”

“Lucho?” He says her name like it's a bitter taste he's trying to spit off his tongue. “She's not coming around no more. She's smart enough to stay away.”

“I thought maybe she was helping your mom, taking her to meetings or something.”

“Lucho? Going to meetings? No way. That's a fucking joke.” He stares at me, shaking his head. “Sorry, Teacher, but that's just crazy.”

“Have you asked her?” I keep prodding, wanting him to connect the dots.

‘”I don't need to.”

“But maybe if you—”

“I already told you. She doesn't come around here.” He bites the pencil. “And God help her if she did.”

I hesitate, weighing my options carefully. “Cristo, I want to tell you something about your mother.”

“I don't think I wanna hear it.”

“Maybe not. But I think you should.”

He cuts me off, his voice sharp. “Okay. But first let me tell you something.” I look down, waiting for him to speak. “I know you want to help me. And you think that coming over here and asking me how things are going helps me. But it doesn't.”

“Listen, Cristo—”

“And even if it did,” he says, cutting me off, “well, I don't need your help anymore. Mami is here now and she's going to take care of things.”

“I'm glad. That's how it should be.”

“No, you're not. Stop saying you're happy about anything she does.” He raises his voice and I can see the anger in his eyes. “I know you don't like her. I know you wanted her to get out of prison and fall on her face so you could sweep in like the big hero and save all of us—”

“That's not true—”

“—and I hate to disappoint you, Teacher, but Mami's doing good now and we're gonna get my sisters back home. Maybe then you'll figure out we don't need you anymore.”

I feel the breath leak out of me, slow and thick like blood from an animal carcass.

“I don't need you anymore,” he says, his voice softer now, which somehow makes it worse. That he could say something so hurtful without even a trace of anger. He crosses his arms, rubbing them for warmth.

“That's all,” he says. “Now it's your turn.”

I look at him like he's speaking another language. What could I possibly say to all that? I reach for the doorknob, shaking my head. “It's fine. I've already said enough.”

I walk out of his bedroom and down the dark hallway alone. Arcelia is watching TV when I pass her in the living room. I force myself to say good-bye to her, even though what I really want to do is confront her about Lucho and the job interview and the meetings she's lying to her son about going to. She waves good-bye, too engrossed in the show to even lift her eyes off the screen.

“Good luck,” I whisper under my breath. As if luck has anything to do with it.