by Carmen Rita
One of Gabi’s nicknames as a kid was Weeble-Wobble, because life might make her wobble, but nothing could keep her down. Coming from nothing meant she had the equipment to handle nearly anything. And she’d seen how the other half lived. From sixth grade, Gabi was shipped off to boarding school in New Hampshire on a scholarship, the only curly haired, brown-skinned girl in her class, with too much polyester in her wardrobe and not nearly enough polo shirts with animal crests. There was no fitting in for Gabi, but by her second year she was running for student government, breaking records as a class fundraiser, and mingling across cliques. She disdained the rich girls who had made fun of her clothes and her name, but befriended them anyway. She knew what she had to do to survive and, more importantly, to get ahead. Fake it ’til you make it. Just be sure to take names and notes along the way.
But because her husband hadn’t done the same, had failed to rise up and meet his own challenges, Gabi knew she thought less of him. She had so much compassion for others, strangers even, but had little for the father of her child. Disdain was displacing desire. It seeped into her veins like poison. She knew she was also part of the problem.
“Okay, mi amor, let’s get your ‘pee-yammas’ on.” Gabi liked to slip on her mother’s accent when she was doing the mothering. Her son found it funny and comforting.
“Mami,” Max gulped, “can you please sleep with me?”
“Ay, hon, I can’t sleep with you all night. Look at how small your bed is! You barely fit in it anymore, my big boy!”
She managed to coax a proud smile out of Max.
“How about this: I’ll tuck you in, sit next to you, and whisper a story to you until you fall asleep.”
“Oh, yes. Yes!” Maximo led his mother out of the bathroom and climbed into his too-tight toddler bed. It creaked.
With the TV still humming from beyond the door, Gabi told Max a tale of a handsome space explorer and his trusty alien pet who escaped together from a dark planet, only to find a new home in the Milky Way with shooting stars and bubble gum, happiness and fun for all.
Gabi’s head dropped sleepily next to Max’s. She dozed off, too, thinking, Space Man . . . take us with you.
At this four-star franchise hotel bar, no one would know who Magda was. The Jefferson or the Four Seasons, five-star all the way, was definitely a risk, but here she was grateful to be incognito. Anyway, it was just a business drink.
You’re lying. You want your hands on her, and in her, so bad.
“Magda Reveron?”
Talking to her was a thirty-something techie bro in a tie. Great.
“Adam Herzog, FastForward. I saw you speak at the Angel conference a month ago.”
Magda reluctantly released the grip on her sweating tumbler of tequila to shake hands and exchange cool pleasantries with the gent. She gave him a nod.
“So, my firm is working on a new MOOC model. Can I ask for your info to shoot you an invite for a preview?”
“Sure, sure.” She handed him the fattest card he’d have in his wallet for years. Magda knew that her stationery pick was a bit American Psycho, but she enjoyed folks’surprise at the old-school touch.
“Great, thanks. And here’s mine.” He gave her his card, holding it at each corner with two hands. Nice attempt at charm, Magda thought, but she spoke little, nodding again instead.
The man kept trying. “Actually, I’m waiting for a friend who’s running late. Mind if I join you for a bit?” he asked.
“You know, I’m waiting for someone as well,” Magda said as she protectively placed her hand on the stool she was straddling between her legs. “But definitely follow up with me later, okay?” The brush-off, bookended with a promise of tomorrow, was a good way out.
“Oh, sure. Thanks.” Adam blustered a bit, thwarted. “Great to meet you. Have a great night.”
Magda’s hand fell back to where it was meant to be for now, around her glass. She toasted herself with relief as the ice jangled, reminding her of pretty girls’ bracelets.
As she drained the glass, Magda kept Adam in her side view. She noticed that his buddy had shown up. They sat down in the lounge, two tables out—well within range, unfortunately. She’d keep an eye on him all night. She didn’t like anyone knowing her business.
“I see I’ve got some catching up to do.” Paloma had arrived from behind. As she turned, Magda drew in the red dress, still on from their first meeting, the control garment Magda suspected was underneath (a telltale lack of rolls on her curvy frame), and the slight frizz to Paloma’s blown-out bob. This was a grown-ass woman. All realness and rough, frazzled. Magda’s favorite, usually problematic, blend.
They cheek-pecked, Magda’s hand on Paloma’s back. Feeling for the yield of her flesh, her bra, warmth.
“You a tequila fan?” Magda signaled the bartender like a pro.
Paloma smiled and pulled in a breath that made her round chest rise. “Absolutely. I’ll do a clean margarita, on the rocks with salt.”
“Perfect.” Paloma’s use of “clean” made Magda’s mouth wet. The lady in red knew her way around a bar.
Paloma scrunched her handbag into the space between the stool and foot rail. “Thanks for meeting me here. I hope it’s not too out of your way?”
“Not at all. I’m just down the street. Sit, sit.” Magda patted the bar stool between them. “Or would you rather sit in the lounge?”
“I think we may be too late for that.” Paloma pointed to the now-filled seating area.
No matter; bar stools were sexier to Magda anyway. Their temporary feeling, their precariousness, the bustle of the bartender. Some creative people liked to do their business in coffee shops. Magda liked bars.
The ladies developed a quick chemistry and the drinks flowed. Magda punctuated her speech with the hand gestures and arm flailing of a traditional Latin. But her legs were apart like a man’s, occupying as much room as possible on either side of Paloma, enveloping her in a precursory, mildly possessive embrace.
An hour in, Paloma was on her second margarita and Magda had lost count after four gimlets. It was time to shift from business talk to personal. Magda knew she had a tendency to come on strong and that she could lose on this one, but it was an itch that needed scratching.
“I hope you don’t mind, but Kristina mentioned you’re separated?”
Sucking her teeth, Paloma slowly bobbed her head. “Yeah.”
“Are you okay? I mean, is it okay?” Magda wanted to confirm her hunch that she was dealing with an adult, not an immature, clingy maniac.
Paloma’s verbal floodgates opened just enough to reveal the basics of the story—that she’d been wronged—and they closed well before “psycho.” Magda smiled. She wanted to slip in one more little nudge. First, she snuck a glance around the room. Shit—Tech Boy was still there. His gaggle was up to three bros, no ties, one T-shirt. But she was relieved as they were all tipsy and knee-slapping, not looking Magda’s way.
She liked hearing Paloma talk. She had an interesting background. And like Magda, Paloma was the oldest of several daughters in a big Latin family. Dios, she just had to have her, naked and soft.
“Palomita, you okay?” It was almost midnight, nearly five hours after Paloma sat down. They’d blasted through the evening without a moment’s silence, but the lack of a full meal plus too much drink had snuck up on the smaller of the two and was starting to take a toll. Paloma had slipped a bit as she tried to climb back onto the bar stool after a bathroom break.
“Oh, shoot. It’s so late . . .”
Magda flicked her wrist for the check and mouthed La cuenta to the barkeep.
“Wow, it is late.” Magda added a big tip and signed her tab quickly.
“Ay, thank you soooo much,” Paloma slurred as she watched the bartender pick up his payment from Magda. “Sooooo much for everything.”
“What floor are you on? I’ll take you up. You’re a little tipsy there . . .” Magda held on to Paloma’s elbow, supporting her as she dropped from
the bar stool.
“Really? Oh, you don’t have to . . .” Paloma rustled in her purse for her keycard. Her brush-off was less than halfhearted.
Inside the elevator, Paloma went from giggles to a buzzy, happy quiet. Magda savored the anticipation hanging over them like a crystal chandelier. She was still holding Paloma’s arm and Paloma was allowing it, leaning on it. The doors opened and jounced.
“I think I’m this way.” Paloma pointed. The ladies ambled in silence down the hall. It looked a bit like a ceremony of some sort, down an aisle of transformation or, in Paloma’s case, indoctrination. As she inserted the key at her door, Magda stood just behind, her suit jacket grazing the back of the red dress. Magda breathed in the scent of Paloma’s hair, ran her left hand up her arm, placing her free hand on her waist. They both breathed in deeply. The key wasn’t working.
“Here. Let me.” As Magda reached for the key from behind—click—the door’s green light offered them both not only entry, but permission.
The women moved into the room together, slowly. As she closed the door, Magda slid around to the front of Paloma, looked down in the fluorescent light of the foyer, and cupped her heart-shaped face in her hands.
“Tan bella,” Magda whispered, then bent down to take Paloma’s mouth to hers. Years of pent-up, end-of-marriage pressure were set free in Paloma, and her gut-hungry response surprised Magda, setting her appetite alight. Within minutes they were naked and tangled on the white sheets of the bed, clothes thrown aside, having done their job for the day. Paloma let Magda take her. She was thrilled to be ravaged, maybe even more so by a woman. They explored each other for hours, dozing off for a few minutes before the other prompted more with a touch or a nibble.
Just before sunrise, a groggy Magda made her way naked to the bathroom, looking first for her phone. The night-light in the foyer made odd shapes on her lean, muscled belly. Funny, she didn’t remember plugging in her phone, but there it was. Not remembering nights happened more often than Magda liked to admit. As she popped her head out of the bathroom to see her sleeping companion, Paloma’s curved, naked back like an hourglass on its side, Magda noted, well, this one had to be good.
Shit. Back to her cell. She had a conference call in two hours. She ran the tap cold and threw the water on her face and ran wet hands through her hair. She’d take a shower back at her own hotel room.
Grabbing her clothes and dressing, Magda didn’t want to wake Paloma up. She was lovely, and it had been a blast, but really, it was time for business.
Chapter 7
“Niños—don’t run so fast! You’ll trip on the rugs!” Luz’s kids had barely made it through the front door, whipping off their little shoes and throwing them into the entryway bin, before they ran like little drunks down the hall, screaming with pleasure as they bumped into walls and each other.
“Yeah, well, they’re hopped up on the crack that is chocolate-chip pancakes.” Chris placed his stylish loafers neatly on a shoe stand reserved for the adults.
Luz made a face. “I feel the opposite with all that food. I’m sugar-crashing, even after three coffees.”
“Wanna go lie down? You’re on vacation for two weeks! And a well-deserved one, I might add.”
The large colonial house on Martha’s Vineyard had been in Luz’s father’s family for generations. Surrounded by so much wood and history, there was a magical effect on Luz, like a quasi-spiritual vortex she’d been told existed in the deserts of Arizona. She hadn’t felt that kind of peace when she’d sneak out with Gabi or Cat every other year for a couple days of hiking, spa visits, and juicing. Luz enjoyed herself on those trips, but it was more the solace of friendly love, not necessarily a spiritual experience. This place, though, felt like a womb to her. A great-grandmother’s womb. Fiercely safe and warm.
And Luz had hit the jackpot with her husband. Not too many kind, loving, rich, sane men in the tech world. But Luz’s husband had had growing up what she had: a fairly normal immigrant upbringing. First-generation money. Granted, Luz had lucked out in a lotto way when her Dominican mother, whose formal education had stopped at fifteen, married her black-legacy father. Her mother’s dear friend, who lived down the hall from her near the Columbia University campus, had introduced her to a brilliant, well-raised African-American student she had been taking a class with. It was instant love and decades later, Luz still saw the warmth in their eyes. But her mother never let Luz forget the luck of her birth. She often brought Luz and her younger brother back to the old neighborhood when they were kids to stay with her grandparents with their plastic-covered rococo furniture to spend time with her cousins. Cousins who were fed a daily diet of fried plantains and cartoon television. Luz’s home was salad, PBS, and the news.
“I’ll take care of dinner tonight then?” Luz asked.
“Sure, hon.” Chris gave her forehead a smooch. “Okay, kids—I hear ya, but I don’t see ya. I’m coming!” They loved when he played tickle monster. Thankfully, their screams of joy would be confined to the finished basement, with Luz oblivious to the melee, two floors up on her bed.
As she was climbing the creaky stairs to the second level, the hall lined with photos of her various strains of flesh and blood, all kinds in shade and decade, the landline phone rang its charming, retro ring.
“Hon? Can you get that, please?” she called out, still between the floor she had left and the floor she needed to reach to take that much-needed nap. She hesitated as the phone stopped ringing and after a moment her husband called from out of sight downstairs. “It’s your brother, Luz!”
My brother . . . on the landline? “What’s he want? I’m tired!”
“He says it’s urgent,” Chris called back. Now both of them back at the bottom of the main staircase, Chris held the receiver with one hand and blocked the phone’s mouthpiece with the other. “He sounds upset—you should take this.” His round, dark eyes communicated concern.
“Okay. I’m gonna take it upstairs.” Luz swallowed.
Luz had cared for her brother as if she’d birthed him herself. She was only five years older, but since he was a baby she had been like a second mama to him. Her little brown brother, who now towered over her, had been the best Navidad present a little girl could ask for—a sweet, happy baby who rarely cried.
“Hey, man . . .” she said into the phone as she heard the click that signaled that Chris had hung up his end of the line. “Everything okay?”
“I’ve been trying to get you on your cell.” Tomas’s voice was strained.
“I’m unplugging, ya know? Vacation . . . Whassup?”
“Luz, you need to come back to the city. But, I can’t tell you why over the phone.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me why over the phone? Is Mom okay? Is Dad?” Her heart began thumping and her hand reflexively went to her chest.
“No, nooo! They’re just fine.”
“Are you okay?” Luz asked, worst-case scenarios running through her head.
Tomas had been crushed by the breakup of his brief marriage. He interpreted the divorce as failure, and their family did not do failure well, if at all. Luz had been there for him but worried many nights just how late he’d be out; how much he’d drink; that he’d get pulled in by cops who only saw a tall black man, not an Ivy-educated sweetheart. The fact that he’d gone this far in life and had only one run-in with the po-po gave Luz little relief. She assumed that the day would come when the odds stacked against him would take him down, if only briefly. It was just the cloud that hung over a man with black skin—no matter how many diplomas he racked up.
“No, no, I’m fine. Listen, I just need you to get back to the city. I know you just got there, and I know you’re taking a couple weeks off . . .”
“C’mon, what is this?” Luz just had to know what was going on. There had never been a time when her brother wasn’t completely open with her. They were confidants. And family was family. “I can’t just leave Chris and the kids and say—what? That ‘something�
��s up’?”
“I just . . . Please, it’s just important. We have to talk in person.” He was pleading now. Strongly, though—not whining, just firmly entreating. The tone of his voice gave Luz some assurance that whatever he was holding on to, he at least felt in charge somehow. She sighed. She took a full minute to think.
“All right, let me figure this out. You need me today or tomorrow?” Luz was intrigued, but damn if she hadn’t wanted a quiet night with her own family. Maybe even some lovin’ with her man once the kids were down. Something about how cool it could get at night here, the kids far down the hall, a lock on the door, all made Luz look forward to snuggling naked.
“Can you get back by tonight?”
“Let me see, okay? Worst case, I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
After hanging up the phone, Luz paused again. She had a feeling that she’d remember this moment for the rest of her life. There was going to be a before-the-call and an after-the-call. A “B.C.” and “A.C.” She didn’t know if this shift would be good or bad. She just knew that life would be different. And wherever she was headed, a carriage filled with family would be coming with her.
Luz had to prepare herself first, though. Mentally. And she had to make sure her family was set with provisions, that they were safe and feeling cared for by Papi, before she set out to do whatever it was she needed to do. I’ll leave first thing in the morning, she decided.