The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  Papi was someone I had never seen cry before. It made the sound all the more gut-wrenching when he came home from work to find his baby daughter lying lifelessly in a pool of blood. Dropping to his knees, he cried alongside Mami almost to the point of suffocation. When they finally looked back to where I was still standing it became clear that my parents lost two children that day. Their numbed expression was one of confusion. They didn’t know who I was or what they were going to do with me.

  #

  Doctor calls it tinnitus. I called it Los Ruidos, the Spanish term for noises. Tinnitus is a medical term for permanent ringing in the ears. For me it was the permanent effect of the walloping my head took, courtesy of my mother. When you have tinnitus the world is never truly silent again. The ringing stays with you, alternating with whooshing sounds. It’s there throughout the day and it’s especially loud at night when you’re trying to fall asleep, a ceaseless, unwanted companion that you can’t turn off the way you would a radio or a TV. It became the eternal reminder of the day that shrouded my family with darkness, an evil one-note tune with lyrics that sang, “Los Ruidos estan sonando, Nicky. Your pain is calling. You can’t hide. Your pain is what defines you.”

  There was never any conversation at our apartment during that period. Outside of supper, it was even rare that two of us would be in the same room at the same time. And when we were, we barely ever made any eye contact. The air was thick with inexorable grief. We would never recover. How could we? How could any family? Was it even possible?

  Our priest Father Gallagher did his best to help us come to terms with what had happened. It was a noble attempt on his part but the stench on his clothes from what he’d been drinking the night before made it difficult for any of us to lend him too much credibility. By the time my parents started making half-hearted efforts to reassure me that what happened wasn’t my fault, it was too late. Their effort was forced. They couldn’t even fake it, although I’m sure in their hearts they felt that they tried.

  As we went on with our daily routines, doing our best to function under the same roof as La Familia Negrón, the closeness and the love that once lived within those four walls continued to seep out under the doors and the open windows. Most of my time there I stayed inside my bedroom reading Superman comics while listening to Cousin Brucie on my transistor radio playing the current popular tunes on WABC. In the living room (an ironic term considering that Mami and Papi sat like zombies watching Dean Martin, Red Skelton or some other variety show), the laughter from the TV audience only reinforced how all of the laughter and joy that was in our household had left with Dani.

  A year or so later, Papi had all that he could take. He took off to Puerto Rico leaving us with assurances that he’d call regularly and come back once in a while to visit.

  He did neither.

  For a few months he sent checks back home to help us get by but that stopped as well. Mami tried making a few calls to track him down but in those days long distance calls to Puerto Rico were an expensive luxury that was out of our budget. She soon gave up and we never heard from him again. A buzz went around saying that he had committed suicide somewhere around Pónce but no one was ever able to confirm it.

  We were now on our own, Mami and I, carrying on in the same morbid silence that had by then become a living, breathing part of our home. Even her Hector Lavoe LP’s could do nothing to brighten the mood in our apartment. And with Papi’s checks no longer coming around to lighten the load, Mami had to put herself back together and go back out into the work force.

  In the late 1940’s having just arrived from Puerto Rico, Mami had worked in the garment district like Papi. She was sewing dresses at a shop around the corner from where he worked for Mr. Reinhardt, they met at a sandwich shop that was on the same block; Papi used to go there to order his cubanos. Now it was over a decade and a half later and Papi was gone. Mami was desperate for some help. She put out a call to Mr. Reinhardt, who was obviously aware of our streak of misfortune, and he promptly hired her to get behind one of the sewing machines at the factory.

  Once she was back at work, a different Mami emerged. The job appeared to be just what the doctor ordered. She met new people and her spirits seemed to lift, even if it was just a little bit. Her voice even softened whenever she spoke to me. Until then, her tone towards me always had an icy edge that pushed me deeper into solitude. And though her new tone wasn’t of the Mami that once had an unconditional love for her little Nicky, I at least was feeling less like an unwanted border in the apartment I grew up in.

  For my part, I was burying myself in schoolwork, doing well enough to graduate high school and enroll at Hunter College as a math major. Had Papi been around he might have been proud I’d inherited his adeptness at working with numbers.

  On Tuesday, August 5th, 1969 I rushed back to the apartment after registering for classes so I could catch the first game of the doubleheader the Mets were playing against the Cincinnati Reds. Tom Seaver was pitching and I hated missing any of his starts, but as soon as I flicked on the television I saw that this was one I would have been better off catching the highlights (or should I say lowlights) on the ten o’clock news. The Reds were giving Tom Terrific a thorough ass-kicking.

  That should have told me something.

  Prior to that day I was starting to feel pretty good about things. I was on the verge of adulthood with college offering a host of possibilities that could lead to a path away from the bitter walls that stored our despondency.

  Having seen enough, Mets manager Gil Hodges mercifully came out of the dugout to give his ace pitcher the hook. Shit! I ran all the way home to see this? When the skipper signaled the bullpen to bring in Cal Koonce, I went to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich.

  The refrigerator was pretty lightly stocked. A trip to the supermarket was due. We had a few slices of Boar’s Head ham and a couple of slices of yellow American cheese, none of which there would be any left after I made one of my Nicky specials. Some slices of salami would have been a great addition but it looked like we were all out. There was no mayo either.

  I laid out all the components on the counter, ready to layer them between two slices of Wonder Bread but before the process could begin, the phone on the wall above the toaster rang. I figured it was Mami wanting me to pick up something at the store for dinner.

  “Hello Nicky?” The deep voice on the other end jarred me. It was Mr. Reinhardt. The somberness in his voice immediately alarmed me. I had met Mr. Reinhardt several times in the past at the Christmas parties. He was always very informal and very friendly. I could sense his hesitancy on the other end. Whatever he had to say, he did not want to say it. “Nicky, it’s Walter Reinhardt.”

  I got right to the point. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nicky I’m so sorry but your mother’s in the hospital.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, Nicky. She was fine...” Normally a well-spoken business owner, Mr. Reinhardt struggled in his attempt to convey something that he himself hadn’t totally absorbed yet. “Your mother, she was working and then suddenly she just collapsed.”

  I learned from my parents to love and respect God but at that moment I wondered if He was ever going to cut our family a break. “Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “Nicky, the doctors—”

  “I said where is she?”

  “She’s at St. Joseph’s—”

  “Where at St. Joseph’s?”

  She was in ICU.

  I’m not even sure I hung up the phone. As soon as Reinhardt laid out the details I rushed downtown in the opposite direction of those who were coming home from work. The doctor at the hospital informed me that Mami had fallen into a diabetic coma.

  Diabetic coma!

  I didn’t even know she was diabetic! Apparently neither did she. It had been a couple of years since she’d gone to the doctor for any kind of checkup so she was completely unaware. If she’d known maybe she could have taken some precautio
ns. Instead it had all accumulated to the point where she ended up collapsing at work and going into a seizure. By the time the ambulance got her to the hospital, all consciousness was lost and she remained that way throughout all the tests that were being performed on her.

  I had never given up trying to regain the closeness I once had with Mami. Not even the bitter memory of the pummeling I withstood on the day of Dani’s accident kept me from hoping that connection could once again exist. The doctor’s expression made it clear that the likelihood of that coming to be was all but gone.

  My hesitancy in entering the room was a futile attempt at trying to prepare myself for the sight of my prone mother. One would think that the emotional distance that had developed between us might have softened the blow, but it wasn’t that way at all. I never blamed Mami for anything that happened after the realization that she had lost her daughter. Her heart may have still been functioning biologically, but it had lost all its ability to hold on to those around her.

  I leaned over the bed and took Mami’s hand, barely getting her name out. Not wanting to move anything hooked to the IV, I touched her as lightly as I could. There were no signs of any movement under her eyelids. It gave the strange illusion that she was at some kind of peace. Still denying reality, I nudged her gently to see if I could get her attention.

  Nothing.

  Reinhardt had done his best to prepare me over the telephone, as did the doctor when he walked me in, but even as I absorbed their bleak outlooks, there is nothing that can prepare you for the reality that your mother is slipping away.

  In the end she wound up holding on for about a week. Any fight that she had left in her was probably lost years before. Mami died two months short of her 46th birthday.

  The nagging pitch of my unwelcome guests, Los Ruidos, grew louder. Like any normal human being, I wanted to break out into a wail of frustrated despair but the paralyzing hum that roared between my ears wouldn’t allow me. It was their cruel way of heightening anything I had ever suffered.

  Once again all I could do was stare out into nothing. My own passing would come almost twenty years later. One would think that Los Ruidos would have died right along with me but they didn’t. They’re with me to this day. Apparently Los Ruidos are genetically resistant as well.

  4

  Jimmy likes busting my balls about Veronica. “I know you’re hittin’ that, Georgie. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  There’s a Veronica in every workplace. She’s the one we guys like to step into a corner and share nothing but nasty, lascivious fantasies about. Like Juanita (who’s probably going through a nervous breakdown right now), Veronica Rojas also works for Environmental Services during the night shift.

  One can understand Jimmy’s conclusion about me and Veronica when you consider the fact that she has been quite diligent in trying to lure me to her apartment. It’s been pretty clear that she is very willing to be “hit” by me and his awareness of that, combined with the nightly reminder of Veronica’s undeniable hittability, makes my lack of interest an unfathomable anomaly. Veronica carries a sumptuous medley of curves that any man would love to spend hours navigating his hands through. And though her dark roots betray her dyed-blond hair, it frames her nicely sculpted Mexican features, highlighted by eyes that promise an unforgettable time in the bedroom. On top of that she is also great socially. She is a devoted mother to her two boys and is also very giving to her friends, especially with food. For example; in my case she knows that I love her chíli con cárne so she’s always bringing me leftovers from home. And I gotta say, her chíli con cárne kicks some serious ass.

  So why in the world wouldn’t I be interested? Why wouldn’t any man? For Jimmy it will have to remain a mystery. I obviously can’t share with him the risks someone would face having a sexual relationship with the undead. That being said, I also don’t need the complication, especially with someone like Veronica, who loves to court the attention of other men despite being in a relationship with a trombone player from a local salsa band. She is a woman that feeds on the attention of horny males the way I feed on blood.

  “I bet you had her last night, you dog,” says Jimmy. “Look at her walking in here. She’s got eyes on nothing but you.”

  Veronica’s a safe enough distance away not to hear the lusty details of our conversation. She’s got her ever present plastic Shoprite bag with her Tupperware container in it and Jimmy’s right, her focus is only on me, making it harder for me to deny that there’s anything going on between us. “Jimmy, you’re wasting your envy. I am not sleeping with Veronica.”

  “I don’t believe that shit for a second, but if it’s true, then there’s something wrong with you, bro.”

  Veronica’s playful little sing-song call is that of a woman who knows how to tease. “Hi Georgie baby, guess what I brought for you tonight. Can you smell it?” Can I smell it? I was able to smell her chíli, her Victoria’s Secret perfume, and the fact that she will soon be on her menstrual cycle before she even walked in the hospital.

  “Yeah, I bet you smell what she’s got for you every night,” says Jimmy with a whisper. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout what she’s got in that Shoprite bag. I’m talkin’ ‘bout what she’s got inside her—”

  “Stop Jimmy, she’ll hear you.” My smile as she approaches won’t exactly make a great Facebook profile pic, but it’s the warmest smile a guy who’s been dead for twenty-seven years can give.

  Unintentionally turning Jimmy into an awkward third wheel, Veronica continues to tease. “Ah, you do know what’s in this bag, don’t you?”

  Now Jimmy wants to play. “Hey Veronica, any chance you can maybe one night bring what you got in that bag for me?”

  “Of course, Jimmy. I didn’t know you like chili. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m saying it now. But listen, I want that good chili. The same kind of chili you give Georgie.” Very funny, Jimmy.

  “Oh, you want the special chili I make just for Georgie?” Her little wink at me suggests that she’s in on the joke. “What do you think, Georgie? Should I make it for Jimmy the same way I make it for you?”

  This is getting uncomfortable. “Hey Jimmy, shouldn’t you be patrolling around the ER right now?”

  “Oh, okay, so it’s like that,” says Jimmy, ever-so-slightly backing away. “I guess I’ll, uh, leave you two alone.” It would have happened anyway. Veronica always finds a way to get me to spend some alone time with her. The chili is her usual bait.

  During the night shift, the hospital cafeteria is closed, except for the dining area where the employees take their breaks. I would happily enjoy her chili there amongst the other workers but Veronica likes things to be a little cozier so instead we go to the private waiting area near the Intensive Care Unit. There we can close the door and be solito, assuming Dr. Rothstein isn’t in there doggie-styling Sabrina from radiology. And while that’s what’s probably on Veronica’s radar for the near future, so far all we’ve been doing is eating and talking about her problems, primarily raising two boys on her own and the jealousy of Roberto, her trombone-playing boyfriend.

  It’s actually quite laughable that Veronica can’t seem to comprehend Roberto’s insecurities, considering that she’s been trying to lure me into the sack since the first day I worked here. Not that she’s been waiting inactively, during that time I can count at least four or five men she’s probably slept with—two of them during the time she’s been dating Roberto, which is about a year and a half. And then there’s her sons. Each have different last names and neither of them are the same as hers.

  Yes, we’re talking about a woman with the libido of a major league baseball player on a road trip. It makes her both unpredictable and ridiculously desirable, but definitely not my type; even in my prior existence. If you’re a half-way decent-looking guy at the Los Chicos lounge in downtown Newark, you would stand a shot by getting a couple of drinks in her and playing a little salsa or merengue on the jukebox. Call me old-fashioned
but I, like Roberto, prefer a little more exclusivity.

  I also keep my distance from Veronica for the same reasons I do with Jimmy. A nighttime predator that makes friends only creates problems for himself. Friends want to socialize. They want to see you in the daytime. Then what? How many excuses can you come up with before they realize there’s something off about you?

  The undead slurping of Veronica’s fabulous chili resonates through our little private waiting area. I’d enjoy it a little more if she weren’t waving her wrist in front of my face.

  “¡Mira lo me que hizo ese hijo de puta!” She holds it out, waiting for a reaction.

  Being that I’m devouring her chili the very least I could do is pretend that I give a shit. “Que pasó?”

  “Look what he did to me, Georgie!” It appears that Seňor Roberto got a little rough and took an extra firm grip of Veronica’s wrist—another heated showdown about her weekend activities while he’s out somewhere gigging. “What am I supposed to do?” she says. “Sit at home doing nothing? We’re not married! I’m not his wife!”

  I mumble through a mouthful of chili. “When did this happen?”