This Side of Providence (38 page)

“Lady's got a real thirst,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say, wiping my mouth. “You know how it is.”

He keeps his eyes down as he buttons up his coat. “You thirsty for something else?”

I sneak another sip. “Like what, old man?”

He draws his hand out in a strange gesture, like he's about to take a bow. “Come with me and find out.”

I give him back the bottle. “Thanks for the drink.”

He tips an invisible hat in my direction. “And dance by the light of the moon,” he sings. “Just like the song says.”

I nod and let him walk away. A few minutes later my head is buzzing again and I wish I'd gone with him. I walk halfway down the block to see if he's still around. I don't find him, but I see a pack of teenagers smoking weed on somebody's porch. I wait until a girl's holding the joint and then ask her for a hit. She looks at the guy next to her first and when he shrugs she hands it to me. I take a long hit and pass it back, wishing that girls would pay to have sex as easily as guys will. I thank her and she smiles at me, pretty in exactly the same way I used to be. I wonder how many years she's got left.

I walk back to the liquor store and page Lucho 911. Even though she's working she knows what that means. If there's any way to get out, she will. My legs start to cramp so I walk in circles around the pay phone. I stretch them out one at a time, like I'm about to go for a run. I must look like a lunatic. A car drives by, music blaring. I feel the beat vibrating in my chest. My heart starts to ache. I want to go home and curl up on my bed and cry, but I can't risk missing Lucho's phone call. I curse the fact that I don't have a phone in my house or the money to pay for it. I want a different life. I want something—anything, everything—to change.

The phone finally rings. Lucho says two people called in sick and she can't leave until she's cleaned all the buses for the morning run. She says she'll get off by sunrise probably, and will make it worth the wait. I tell her I can't wait. She tells me to try, but if I get in a jam to call Charley. His shit is spotty but he'll come through in a pinch. She tells me to go home and try to sleep first, try to wait for her. I say I will, but as soon as I hang up the phone I call Charley. He isn't surprised to hear from me.

An hour later he meets me at the park and we drive down under the highway. I try to get away with just giving him a blow job but he says his shit is worth more than that so I have to fuck him. There are three good things about Charley: he comes real quick, he has a wife he wants to keep so he always uses a rubber, and he gives me a ride after, anywhere I want to go.

I snort half a bag while he drives us over to Federal Hill. A few minutes later it hits and life is suddenly good again. I feel normal. He buys me a spinach calzone and two cannolis, but I'm not that hungry by the time we find a parking spot on the bridge. After a few bites I give him the rest of the food. He don't eat it either.

I don't want to look at him, so I look out the window. I watch the city like it's a TV show I used to love. The sky is dark like the bottom of the ocean. There must be stars but I don't see any. Charley points to a construction site below us—a new mall going up by the freeway—and says it's the best gig in town cause they work so much overtime, nights and weekend at double pay. I watch the cranes lift huge steel spikes off the ground and place them gently on top of each other like they're toothpicks. It's hard to believe that one day those toothpicks will turn into a building that holds thousands of people. A building I might visit someday, if it's even open to people like me.

It's almost ten when Charley drops me back home. I snort the second half of the bag, since I don't feel like cleaning my rig. Then I take a long, hot bath. My arms and legs feel heavy in the water and I imagine that I'm an anchor falling to the bottom of the sea. As I start to fall asleep, the last thing I remember thinking is that this is the most comfortable tub I ever passed out in.

Javier

             
San Juan, 4 de abril

             
Querida Arcelia,

             
Tengo que admitir que tu carta ha sido una sorpresa. No la esperaba, y parte de ella ha sido dolorosa de leer. No es que haya pensado que nunca te volverías a comunicar conmigo; yo sabía que lo harías, pero no hubo nada que me indicara que sería ese día, este año. Imagino que no hay manera de prepararnos para algo así.

                  
No importa cuanto tiempo haya pasado, tú sigues siendo mi esposa. Eso es algo de lo que estoy seguro. Eres la madre de mis hijos y la primera mujer que amé. Nada de eso va a cambiar. Pero muchas otras cosas han cambiado. Tanto tú como yo hemos hecho cosas malas, nos hemos herido mutuamente y algunas de esas heridas aún duelen. Sin embargo me hace feliz el saber que ahora estás mejor, que ya no bebes y que te estás cuidando. Quizás cuando salgas podrás ser la madre que siempre quisiste ser, la madre que antes fuiste. Recuerdo muy bien los primeros años, cuando Cristo apenas comenzaba a caminar y Luz colgaba de tu cadera como la alforja de un caballo, y aún me sorprende la cantidad de energía que tenías. Eras una mujer muy fuerte. Creo que nunca te lo dije, otro de mis muchos errores. Lo hacías todo por tus hijos, y es por eso que ellos eran felices y saludables. No sé cuándo cambiaron las cosas
o por qué, pero se que tengo algo de culpa, quizás la mayor parte. No fuí un buen padre y probablemente fuí peor como esposo. Cuánto lo siento. Yo era tan solo un niño cuando nos casamos, y pensaba que el tener una esposa y un hijo a quienes cuidar, y un hogar, me haría hombre. Estaba equivocado, por supuesto. Aún no sé qué hace que un muchacho se convierta en hombre, tal vez las dificultades y las pérdidas, la desilusión y el simple acto de sobrevivir, pero hoy soy un hombre y he tenido que lidiar con todas estas cosas. Es por ello que puedo escribirte esta carta y decirte todo esto luego de tantos años de separación. Por muchos años tuve miedo de mis sentimientos: mi amor, mi odio, mi ira y mi alegría. Pero ya no le temo a esas cosas. Hay muchas otras cosas, cosas reales, a las que temer en este mundo. Temerle a los sentimientos es una pérdida de tiempo.

                  
Tengo una buena vida ahora, un trabajo estable con un buen salario y un hogar acogedor en la parte trasera de la casa de mamá. No estoy feliz, pero estoy contento. Hay un par de ugujeros negros en mi vida, lugares donde perdí algo que una vez amé. Uno es por el béisbol, el otro es por mis hijos. Uno jamás podrá cerrarse, pero quiero hacer algo con respecto al otro: quiero ver a mis hijos. Cuando tenga el dinero quisiera comprarles billetes de avión para que puedan visitarme, y ver a sus abuelos y a todos sus primos que también los extrañan. Ya sé que ahora son norteamericanos, pero Puerto Rico simpre será su hogar, y siempre habrá un lugar para ellos cuando vengan de visita.

                  
No sé qué decir acerca de nosotros. Sólo quiero lo mejor para tí, una buena vida, pero sé que en ella no estoy incluído. Tú y yo tuvimos nuestro momento, a veces bueno, a veces no tan bueno, y creo que cuando se trata de tu primer amor no hay una segunda oportunidad. Algo murió cuando te subiste en ese avión con rumbo a Nueva York, y yo lo enterré junto con el resto de nuestro pasado. Por el tono de tu carta imagino que también tú lo enterraste. Eso está bien, porque nuestro futuro no tiene nada que ver con nosotros, sólo con nuestros hijos. No podemos reparar lo que rompimos. Ya no los conozco, y ellos tampoco me
conocen, pero no tiene por qué ser así. No he sido un padre para ellos, pero no quiero seguir siendo un fantasma. No sé que seré, pero creo que tenemos tiempo para decidirlo. Aún son jovenes y espero que puedan perdonarme por mi larga ausencia. Por favor, déjales saber que pienso en ellos a diario y que siempre los voy a amar. No quiero castigarlos por tus errores, y pienso que tú tampoco debes castigarlos por los mios. Ellos, no tú o yo, son los únicos inocentes.

                  
En tu carta me pides que te perdone. Cuando comencé a escribir esta carta no sabía si ya lo había hecho, o si sería capaz de hacerlo. Pero ahora mismo siento que me he quitado un gran peso de encima. La furia depositada en la boca de mi estómago se ha liberado y se ha ido. Yo ni siquiera sabía que estaba allí. Así que ahí lo tienes. He hecho lo que me has pedido, te he perdonado, pero ¿qué hacemos ahora? Quizás ni tú ni yo somos quienes lo deciden o lo saben. Quizás está en las manos de Dios, y en los corazones de nuestros hijos. Preguntémosles qué quieren, a ellos que nunca tuvieron voz en nada de esto. Déjales decidir cómo quieren seguir adelante, cómo quieren vivir. Confío en que los has criado bien, tan bien como has podido, y sé que a lo sumo están en capacidad de hablar con franqueza. Una de las muchas cualidades que sacaron de tí. Siempre desde que eran muy niños podian pedir lo que querian, incluso cuando tú y yo no estabamos en capacidad de dárselos. Así que pregúntales ahora si quieren venir a Puerto Rico, si quieren verme. Ese poder es lo mínimo que podemos darles luego de haberles quitado tanto.

                  
Escribe o llama cuando puedas y ya veremos cómo seguir adelante. Alguna vez me dijiste que el único lugar que te interesaba era el futuro. No se si aún crees en ello, pero en este caso es todo lo que nos queda. Sinceramente espero que éso sea suficiente.

             
Tu esposo,

             
Javier

Arcelia

I
wake up not knowing where I am. I think it's morning, but it's still dark outside. The water in the tub is cold and my fingers are white with wrinkles. The back of my head is asleep. I try to add more hot water but it's all gone. I stand up and walk into my bedroom. A candle burns on the windowsill, smelling like jasmine. I dry myself off and put on my pajamas. Men's long-sleeved flannel, striped like an old prison uniform. The water from my hair makes a large wet patch on the back of my shirt. Goose bumps run down both arms. I find a decent vein in my hand and use that to boot the second bag. The rush is incredible. I feel it burst inside me like an orgasm. I sit there for a long time, just enjoying it.

When I finally get up, I walk into the kitchen. I bring the candle with me, so I don't have to turn on the light. The curtains are blowing in the wind. I know they are white, but they look yellow in the candlelight. I promise myself that I'll bleach them next time I do the wash. I used to like to wash clothes. As a girl it was my favorite chore. I liked to make things clean. Now I can't remember the last time I went to the Laundromat. The laundry basket is overflowing but I refuse to look at it. I stand in front of the window and look outside instead. There are no cars in the parking lot behind the house. I am alone. I close the window but the curtains keep blowing. There is no wind. My eyes are making them move. I reach out to grab them but touch only the air.

Suddenly I am in the bathroom again. I sit on the toilet
and use a vein in my thigh for the third bag. A lady from detox taught me how to use my toes if I want to hide the needle marks, but I don't care anymore. It's too late for me to hide anything. The pleasure hits me instantly, burning a path straight through my chest and out the top of my head. I close my eyes so I won't lose any of it. I don't want to share this high with anything, even the blank walls of the bathroom.

I sit in front of the TV but the images don't make sense. I find a magazine and read the same article again and again without remembering anything. Eventually, I throw it away. My bookshelf's empty except for the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It's the only book I own. I flip to random pages and read a few lines out loud. The sound of my voice makes me laugh. I put the book on the mantel, next to the letters I didn't mail. I turn it around so I don't have to read the title printed on the spine. I look at the lilacs. The buds are open but I still can't smell them. I start to cry. I bite off a few petals and put them in my mouth. I chew them into a paste and swallow. All I can taste is the snot in the back of my throat. I open my mouth to scream but bite my knuckles instead. I don't stop until I can taste the blood.

I pull a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and go outside in my bedroom slippers. The wind is strong and it dries my eyes in an instant. It's dark and quiet on the street. Somebody on a bicycle rides by, calling out “Be careful!” when I cross at the corner. I walk back to the pay phone and page Lucho again. I can't feel my fingers. I watch them punch in the numbers as if I'm watching someone else's hand. I want to call Chino but I can't remember his phone number. I try different combinations—patterns that seem familiar—but that horrible recording keeps screaming in my ear, telling me I've dialed a number that is no longer in service.

I feel a wave of nausea so strong I fall to the ground. Chills run through my body. I kneel on the sidewalk and puke into the gutter three times. My stomach keeps tightening, even when there's nothing left inside. I'm so cold and tired I can't imagine moving. I want to curl into a ball and sleep under a parked car, but I don't want the cops to find me here. No. The truth is I
don't want Cristo to find me here. I look at my hands under the streetlight. My fingertips are almost blue. They look like the hands of a dead person. Fear floods my body. I touch the pavement, expecting to feel nothing. The gravel scrapes my skin. I can still feel pain. A voice in my head speaks softly.
You can't do this anymore.

I pick up the phone and page Snowman. I don't even try to remember his phone number. It just comes to me. The voicemail picks up after two rings. His voice on the recording makes me want to cry. The sound of something familiar. I punch in the pay phone number and hang up. I close my eyes. The world tilts. I grab onto the phone to keep from falling. The coil's like a noose in my hand.

The pay phone rings. As loud as a siren. I answer it before it can ring again.

“Snowman?”

“What?” He sounds angry.

“I need help,” I say. My voice sounds strange, like I'm talking under water.

“Who is this?”

“It's Arcelia.” I clear my throat but my voice don't change. “I'm in trouble. I fucked up.”

“Arcelia?” His voice softens. “I can't understand you. Slow down.”

“I need help,” I say again. My voice sounds wheezy, like an old lady who smoked two packs a day her whole life. “Help me.” Tears are falling down my cheeks.

“Where are you?”

“At a pay phone.” I close my eyes and lean into the phone booth. “By the liquor store near the Armory.”

“Are you all right? What happened?”

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out. My tongue feels thick like a sock. I wonder if it's possible to forget how to speak.

“I'll be right there, okay?”

I nod my head, as if he can see me. I catch my reflection in the dingy Plexiglas of the phone booth. I don't recognize myself. I blink and the image disappears.

“Arcelia?” I hear something like panic in his voice. “Stay there, okay? Just don't leave.”

I open my mouth again, to tell him I'll be okay. Instead, I watch my breath fog up the glass. It takes everything in me to speak.

“I'm dying, Snowman.”

I hear the line go dead. The silence is deafening. I drop the phone and stumble down the sidewalk. The wind is against me, blowing garbage and leaves into my face. All I want is to go home. To be home.

I tuck my head to my chest and keep walking. I can't see anything. I stretch my arms out in front of me like a blind person. I don't want to be blind. My feet feel heavy like I'm walking through snow. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, to keep going, even though all I want to do is give up.
All you have to do is make it home,
I tell myself,
and then you can rest.

I see the house on Sophia Street—the dull yellow siding, the broken window, the toys scattered in the driveway. The last place I called home. I see my children inside. Cristo eating cold cereal straight from the box. Luz reading a book on the broken loveseat. Trini standing in her underwear over the hot-air vents on cold winter mornings, refusing to get dressed. I see my family. My home. Suddenly I know that's where I have to go. I walk past the park and turn onto Westminster, heading across the freeway to Olneyville Square. My legs ache, but I know I have to keep going. It's worth the pain, to be able to go home again.

I see the outline of Atlantic Mills in the distance. I'm almost there. I walk up Manton slowly. The wind is behind me now, pushing me up the hill. I can't even feel my body. Nothing hurts anymore. My eyes fill with tears. I squint to keep them from falling. Something's different about the old neighborhood. The sidewalks are empty, almost clean. And the houses seem bigger. They stand alone on vacant lots like they're waiting for something. The trees are taller, too. Some even higher than the buildings.

I try to read the street signs but I can't see the words. It's dark, and I wonder what time it is. It feels real late, like
everybody in the city is asleep. A cat brushes my ankle. It stops on the corner to look at me, as if trying to remember my face. I want to smile but I can't figure out how. I nod my head instead, but the cat is already gone. I pass the liquor store and the church so I know I'm getting close.
You're almost home,
I tell myself. Again and again until I believe it. When I see the house I almost cry out with joy.
You're home now. Everything will be all right.

I crawl up the steps on my hands and knees. I am thinking of my children. I picture all three sleeping safely inside. All three together.
You're almost there, Celie, just a few more steps.
I reach for the doorknob but it's locked. I try again. I try to push it open but I don't have the strength. I search my body for keys. My pockets are empty. I'm not carrying anything at all. I ring the doorbell. A pretty sound. I remember how it was always broken. I wonder if the bells are ringing in my head.

Wait. I see now. Other things are different. The porch was painted. The blanket is gone from the window. The broken glass was fixed. I touch the pane to make sure it's real. I knock hard on the glass, like it's made of wood. When I knock again, glass breaks under my knuckles. The sound is beautiful, like icicles falling from the roof.

I see blood on my hand but I can't feel any pain. All I feel is the heat from inside the house. I don't want to be cold anymore. I lean through the window and look into the dark room. There's nothing I recognize. I kick my leg over the windowsill and fall into the darkness. My knees hit the ground first, and then my face. The floors are cold and hard like ice. My cheek goes numb. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. All the cracks have been fixed. This is not my home. I try to move but I can't remember how. It's too late anyway. I know I'll never stand up again.

I close my eyes. The world stops spinning. I hear a bird singing outside, calling my name. I hug the floor. It holds me like I'm floating inside it. I want to lie here forever, held by something that will never break. I feel my muscles twitch as I relax. As I give in. My breathing slows and I feel my body go limp.
You're done,
the voice says.
It's over.

Now you can rest.