Everything Here Is Beautiful

by Mira T. Lee

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Gardening,” she said. She often wore her padded green gardening gloves, even at home. “Where have you been?”

  “Working,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Gardening is a lot of work. I’m tired now.”

  It was snowing out.

  Every evening, I gave Essy her bottle. I rocked her, sang to her, lay her in her bassinet. When she was asleep, I went to the bathroom to take my shower. One night, Susi was there, wearing two towels. One around her waist, the other on her head. Her breasts were full, her nipples wet and stiff. “Oh” was all she said. She blushed. But she didn’t move. I couldn’t resist. I unraveled the towels. She was soft and smooth and smelled like cocoa and rose perfume. I brought her to my room, closed the door. I combed her wet hair with my fingers. She put her mouth around my penis, dug her fingernails into my thighs. I struggled to keep quiet. I rocked my hips, thrusting harder and harder, waiting for her to stop me—but she didn’t, not even when she gagged. And then I no longer worried about Lucia, lying with her banana plants just two floors above, or Esperanza, sleeping miraculously through my cries. I closed my eyes and saw Sheetrock crumbling, collapsing pipes, the splintering of marble tiles. After, Susi massaged my back, my shoulders. She kissed my lips and blew life into my lungs. “Someone needs to take care of you, mi amor,” she said. I immediately straddled her from behind.

  Next day I couldn’t look at her. When she spoke to me shyly I grunted, or pretended not to hear. But I lay awake late, listened for her footsteps, heels clicking on the kitchen floor. She got in after midnight. Smelled like sweat and soap, deep-fry oil and rose perfume. “Come,” I said. I knew it was wrong, but I undressed her quickly. I locked my bedroom door.

  • • •

  One morning, a week later, Lucia came down from her room. Her hair was combed. She wore pink lipstick, silver earrings, a red sweater and white lace gloves.

  “Smells good in here!” she said.

  Hector was making pancakes. She smiled, eyes shiny. “I’m taking Essy to the doctor,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Three-month checkup. Don’t you remember?”

  She scooped Esperanza from her bouncy chair, carried her upstairs. The chair continued to chime. I wanted to kick it. Mozart was getting on my nerves. When she came back into the kitchen, Essy was dressed in a yellow sweater, black-and-white-striped leggings, a yellow bow tied in her hair. “My bumblebee!” Lucia threw a burp cloth over her eyes. “Where’s my bumblebee?” she cooed. Essy pulled it off. And then she smiled. My baby’s first real smile. She looked so much like her mother.

  “Do you want to come?” said Lucia.

  “I have to work,” I said. But I smiled at her as encouragingly as I could. Remembered the first time we went to the Family Practice. Now I was just glad to see Lucia dressed. Maybe she was feeling better at last. I reached over to squeeze her shoulders. She slipped away, hummed.

  I stepped outside to wait for Maurice. Pressed on my eyelids with my fingers. While I waited, I prayed to God. I prayed for Lucia. I prayed for forgiveness. I swore I would never touch Susi again.

  “You’re working hard, Manny,” said Mrs. Gutierrez. She waved to me with her broom.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “You hear about the barbershop?”

  “No.”

  “Burned. No more.” She threw up her hands. “I could smell the smoke in the middle of the night.” Mrs. G always slept with her windows open, even in the dead of winter. In summer we could hear her snore.

  “Jesus Christ. No way.” I sniffed the air, but all I caught were lingering hints of Susi’s sex and rose perfume. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “All okay,” said Mrs. G. “Sure, okay, but completely ruined.”

  That day Maurice brought me to a new house, the biggest one I’d ever seen. Built like a castle, all gray stones with towers and spires. Iron gates opened to a circular driveway and another fountain, this one with naked angels spraying water from their penises.

  “Rich people,” said Maurice.

  “Crazy bastards,” I said. Guilt or no guilt, fire or no fire, I was in a damn good mood.

  Maurice led the way through a maze of long hallways and stairs. We were headed to the guest wing of the house.

  “Another bathroom?” I said.

  “You think there’s something better?” said Maurice.

  I shook my head. I hadn’t meant it like that.

  “One time I did a trailer park demo, found a dead lady buried under her cats. No joke.” He laughed like this was hilarious.

  This bathroom was connected to a bedroom with a bed that was wider than it was long. I figured an entire family could sleep in that bed, including tíos and tías and cousins. Everything in the bathroom was white except for the black marble floor tile. Double porcelain sinks with sleek faucets, white marble countertops, sconce lights that were shaped like flowers. It looked a lot like the one we had just finished installing at the other house, except the other one was purple.

  “This is for updating, too?” I said, confused.

  “No,” said Maurice, slapping the hammer into my hands. “This, my man, is for style.”

  This time it took me only two tries to break open the tub. By late morning, I was ripping up the floor tiles with a crowbar.

  For lunch, we sat on the bed of the truck. I snapped open my carton of rice and beans. It felt good to be outside, even with the chilly wind.

  “You got a girl?” Maurice asked.

  “Yes,” I said. But I was not sure why he would ask. It made me feel suspicious. When he chewed, I could see pieces of meatball in his mouth.

  “How long?”

  “Three months old.”

  Maurice looked at me funny. Then he burst out laughing. “Aw, shit, man. You have a girl, like a kid. I meant girlfriend, chica, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you’re married?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Aw, shit. You knocked her up.”

  I felt hot.

  “Don’t feel bad, kid.” Maurice laughed. “Women know how to get what they want.”

  Late afternoon he came to check on me. I was sweeping up, resealing the plastic on the doorways with blue tape.

  “It’s for you.” He held out his cell phone.

  “What?” I couldn’t imagine who would find me on Maurice’s number. I took the phone from his hand.

  “Mr. Vargas?” It was a woman’s voice. American.

  “This is Mr. Vargas.” I felt strange addressing myself by that name.

  “This is Dr. Vera Wang, from Family Practice.”

  “My baby,” I said. My heart beat faster. “Esperanza.”

  “Esperanza is fine. Perfect. But it’s your wife, Lucia.”

  “She is not my wife.” I could hear the doctor cough, then cover her cough with her hand.

  “Lucia needs help,” she said.

  “Our family helps us. Our cousins.” I thought of Susi. Her dimpled moon face. The curve of her hips. Her heart-shaped ass.

  “Mr. Vargas, I don’t think you understand,” said the doctor. “Lucia is not well. She needs medical attention. Serious attention. The baby is not to be left alone with her.”

  I was silent. My tongue like stone, the phone like a brick. “But where?” I finally said.

  “The emergency room,” she said. “If Lucia does not get proper help I will have to call CPS.”

  “CPS?” I did not understand.

  “Child Protective Services. I’m sorry. It’s the law.” She hung up.

  I still didn’t understand. Couldn’t think straight. I wanted to ask what just happened, where Essy was now, what Lucia had said or done. I knew Child Protective Services could take children away. I didn’t know if t
hey involved police.

  Maurice was outside, checking the debris chute set up at the back of the house. “You look like shit,” he said. My entire body felt rubbery and damp. I sat down on the pavement. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

  He drove fast. I asked him to slow down. When I stepped out of his truck, I knew right away something was wrong at the house. Even from the street, I could see lights on inside. This was never the case, since the windows were kept covered with blankets. I walked up the gravel path to the front entrance. Tapped the door, which we always kept locked. It swung open. “Hello?” I said. I peeked my head in.

  Las cucarachas.

  Cockroaches. They lay everywhere. Scattered by the refrigerator, ringing the sink, clogging the drain, dead on their bellies or flipped onto their backs, spiny legs squirming uselessly in the air. Must’ve been hundreds, all sizes, shiny and fat like beetles, narrow and spindly with long antennae still moving, just barely, so the linoleum floor seemed to writhe. I tiptoed and hopped to avoid their dark, oval bodies; they crunched like crackers under my boots. They’d come out of cupboards, closets, floorboards, walls, come out from hiding to die. From the hallway I peered into the first-floor bathroom. A handful floated in the toilet. A few lay lifeless under the sink. “Jesus,” I said. Essy. I ran to my room. The bassinet was empty, except for the green pacifier we’d brought home from the hospital. I ran three flights of stairs to Lucia’s room. Two of the bugs lay at angles on top of the comforter neatly covering her mattress, as motionless as if they had never lived. I ran downstairs, outside, puked.

  Mrs. Gutierrez had appeared on her front stoop. She sat, broad and bulky from all the layers she wore under her terry cloth robe. When she saw me she smiled and waved excitedly. I walked to her. Saw she held a baby in her arms. My baby. Esperanza, bundled in a yellow blanket, asleep. “You see, I told you I would take care of things,” she said. “I called the Health Department and that asshole Harry finally got the place fumigated. Finally!”

  “Where is Lucia?” I said.

  “No sé.” She shrugged. “She brought Esperanza to me and she left. You want to wait for her? I can make you a cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  I grabbed Esperanza. I would not have my baby staying in that disgusting house. I walked five miles to Betty. Walked five miles back. By then Hector and Susi had come home. Together we swept and mopped and sprayed and wiped. We opened every door, every closet, every drawer in the house. We hunted dead roaches until every last bug was gone.

  Then I remembered about CPS.

  I went upstairs to wait for Lucia. She had covered her television with a batik cloth. I lay on her mattress, looked up at her banana plants. When I woke it was three a.m. I went downstairs. Climbed into bed with Susi. Lucia didn’t come back that night. Or the next night. Or the next.

  I worried. I took out the folded-up piece of notebook paper. It was dirty, creased. I didn’t know what to do. Still, I was reluctant to call.

  “But what if something terrible has happened?” said Susi.

  “She’s an American,” I said.

  “She could be hurt,” said Susi.

  “Maybe she is in Ecuador,” I said, and for a moment I filled with hope. It was possible. It could be true.

  “Or murdered,” said Susi. Her eyes widened.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You watch too much TV.” She could be such a child. But I was afraid. Anything was possible.

  “You must call. If you don’t call, I will call,” said Susi. She grabbed the piece of paper out of my hands, pulled out her brand-new flip phone. “Mi-ran-da Bok,” she said. And then she was no longer a child. She was serious.

  She went into the kitchen. I sat on the mattress. It sagged. I thought about how it had been in this room before I moved in, and before Carlos, Juno, and before Juno, Tina and Roby, and before them, who knew who else. Who knew how long it had been sitting here, with its tired springs and stains, its sad life of its own. Just as I lay down, I heard Susi’s footsteps, marching back.

  “It’s Lucia’s sister,” she said, handing me the phone. “Lucia is in the hospital.”

  • • •

  The words came at me in a stream that hardly made sense. Postpartum and schizo and history—history of this, history of that. “She’s sick.” And then, “None of us want to involve Child Protective Services.”

  CPS. I understood that.

  “Should I go to see her?” I asked.

  There was a long silence.

  “Please take care of Esperanza,” said Lucia’s sister. “I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult situation. I promise I will call when there is more news.”

  The words swirled in my head. All night. All day. Lucia’s past, this history, these behaviors that had complicated names. Night came again, but I couldn’t sleep. I wrapped Essy in a fleece blanket, strapped her to my body in a sling, stepped outside. The wind howled but I felt strangely calm, welcomed the snow on my face. Most of Main Street was closed, dark behind metal gates. The barbershop was boarded up, but the smell of smoke and burned plastic remained. Only the laundromat churned with its bright yellow glare. I stood by the glass door, propped open to let in air, even in the dead of night. I stared for a while, hypnotized by the sounds of thumps and bumps and scrapes, the sizzling hum of fluorescent lights. As I turned to leave, I slipped on a clear patch of ice, nearly fell. Essy didn’t stir. Inside the ice, cigarette butts frozen inside. The sight made my stomach churn. I spotted El Pollo Loco walking on the opposite side of the street. I thought to wave, but when he saw me he stopped, took up private conversation with a parking meter. I walked past the Ecuadorian buffet, the Korean grocery, the Dominican bar playing bachata. Thought to go in, but I liked how the cold air was clearing my head. I felt light, almost empty. Then I felt sad, then guilty, then dizzy with strange relief: I realized I was no longer worrying about Lucia. She had others to take care of her now.

  “Hijita, I will take care of you,” I whispered to Essy. Felt the heat of her cheek on my chest. Her long, dark lashes caught the snow. I zipped up my jacket, shielded her from the wind. I wanted to believe it, that I could be a good father.

  I spent my days with Maurice.

  “How’s the wife?” he asked.

  “Loca,” I said. I bit my cheek. Tasted blood.

  “Aren’t they all?” said Maurice. He laughed like a sick donkey.

  I did my best, but I had more dizzy spells. I kept grinding my teeth. All the time I had dreams I was taken away—by boat, by spaceship, by horse, by donkey. In one dream I was lassoed with a strand of spaghetti and drowned in sand. I worried my baby would end up abandoned on the street. With no father, no mother, what would happen to her? When Hector and Serge asked, I told them Lucia was not feeling well. “She is spending time with her family,” I said. They seemed skeptical, but didn’t say any more.

  Mami called. She said, “When will you ask her?” The words didn’t make sense. But I couldn’t tell her the truth, I was too ashamed. Didn’t even know where to begin. The closest I came, I said, “What if I don’t love her, Mami?” She said, “Ay mi amor, you learn to love.”

  Every day after work I drove Lucia’s car to pick up Essy from Betty’s house. Always I started the engine first, then stepped out to check the signals and lights. I drove exactly the speed limit, no more, no less. When we got home I put Essy to bed. I cooked dinner. Sopa de pollo with cilantro. Rice and beans. I sat in the kitchen watching the small TV, watching the clock, waiting for the hours to pass until Susi would come home from the restaurant. Every night, she would slip off her denim miniskirt, crawl into my bed, reeking of soap and sweat and deep-fry oil and perfume. Some nights we made love. Hot and furious, like wild animals. Some nights we slept, my hands cupping her tetas, the left slightly larger than the right. Many nights the baby woke every two hours, coughing. We too
k turns bouncing her on Lucia’s big green exercise ball; I was always afraid it would burst. Susi laughed. Maybe this was the only time I laughed back. “Why won’t she sleep?” I said. “Is she sick?” My bouncing slowed. My eyelids drooped. “A baby misses her mother,” said Susi. Some nights I wished Esperanza had never been born. Some nights, I bounced and bounced until the weight of her tiny head finally came to rest on my shoulder. My baby, content. It was magical. I felt reassured, knowing I could love her so much it hurt. Yo soy tu papi, I whispered. Mi hijita, mi amor.

  Sleet. Not rain, not snow. I once tried to describe it to Ricky and Juan. Said it was God’s spit. I’d lived through enough winters in New York, but this kind of cold still felt completely foreign, would never sit right in my bones. One morning after I dropped off Essy, I had to drive to a new work site up north. Sleet splattered down, thick and wet, loud like bullets on the windshield. When I got there, Maurice told me to go home. “Waiting on permits,” he said. “Sorry. Don’t worry. Take the day off, man. Relax.”

  I’d never come to this area before. I looked at my map, drove extra carefully. Stopped at a gas station to check all my lights. I decided to visit a coffee shop, ordered toast, read bits and pieces of the local newspaper. Police with new leads on the arsonist. Bingo fund-raiser to help rebuild the church. “Ugly day,” said the waitress. “Can I bring you anything else?” “How about spring,” I said. It was the last day of March. Heart of the wet season at home, and probably why I hadn’t heard from Mami in a while. My coffee tasted good. The waitress was pretty. She flitted from one table to the next. Storm let up, turned to rain. On my way out I even saw a patch of sun. Maybe my surprise caused me to take a wrong turn. I found myself heading into a denser part of town, rather than to Route 9 which would take me back south. I passed a soccer field. A bunch of guys were out, mostly brown, not too organized. I turned around, parked on the street, sat and watched for a while until my calves started to ache. I took off my coat. It was foggy, drizzling again, when I stepped out of the car and walked toward the field. “You play defense?” said a guy in a red sweatshirt who was in charge. I nodded. He pointed to the other team. I spent the next few hours running in the icy rain, muddy, soaked to the bone. I charged, I jumped, I slipped, I swore, I slammed my body into frozen ground. The players were okay, but nobody got any traction. It was a sloppy game. I didn’t care. It felt like heaven.