by Tami Charles
“Beatriz, what’s going on? Seriously, enough of the secrets.”
It’s starting to get late. There’s less movement on the street. People are headed home to get ready for Christmas.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me.” Nasser’s got this caring look in his eyes. “I can handle it.”
“I should go.” I begin to rise from the booth.
“These threats are similar to something my family has been through.”
Now he’s got my attention.
“How so?” I ask, sitting back down.
“Back in Haiti, my dad had a good job working for President Duvalier. But when Duvalier’s military started executing and kidnapping people, my dad quit. Then, Duvalier’s son, Baby Doc, took over and things got real bad. If anyone spoke against his regime, their lives were in danger. That didn’t stop my dad, though. We started getting notes nailed to our door, almost like these”—he gestures to the Polaroids—“but worse, signed in blood. So when I was four, we fled Haiti in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on our back. We left so fast, I didn’t even get a chance to put shoes on.” Nasser stops to take a breath.
I should probably stay and tell Nasser everything. He deserves that much. But there’s this sound going off inside me—a hushed tick, tick, tick—a passage of time that’s making my skin crawl.
“Good story, but really, I have to get out of here.” I mean it this time.
“Whatever it is you’re not telling me, nothing can be worse than what we went through with the Tonton Macoute.”
That last word floats in the air and stays there echoing until it explodes between my ears.
“What?” My body jerks, almost knocking the fries off the table.
“And you have the nerve to accuse me of keeping secrets!” My voice sounds like it’s been electrocuted.
“What? What secrets? Like I owed you my family’s backstory, when you never told me yours?” Nasser’s mad. I’ve never seen him really mad.
The people behind the counter stop working.
“I have to go.” I gather everything up, stuff it all in my bag, and zip up my coat to face the cold.
Nasser is a force. He stops to throw out our trash, and then flies behind me out of the Chicken Shack. “So that’s it? I share a piece of my life with you and somehow I’m in the wrong?”
His words, the Christmas lights, the cars whizzing past lose focus around me. The bus stop is a few hundred feet ahead. I just need to get there.
A swift grasp of my hand halts my speed. My body whips around to face Nasser. Eyes locked, knees pressed against each other, we take turns inhaling and exhaling.
“You’re in a gang, aren’t you? That’s what you’ve been hiding.” His words are an uppercut.
I can’t look him in the eye anymore. Instead, I scan the road for the bus, counting how many lights before it gets to me. Four to go.
My mouth opens but stiffens into the shape of an O. No sound. No words. All stuck inside.
“I—”
“You know what? I don’t even want to know. I’ll tell you this though. You’re better than that. It’s a shame you can’t see it.” Nasser peels away from me and heads in the opposite direction.
Three lights down.
“Says the boy whose dad was a Macoute!” If this were a movie, a bolt of lightning would pierce the sky.
Nasser turns around. “Were you not listening to my story, Beatriz? Do you realize the pain it took for my parents to leave our country and entire family behind? The things I do to make sure their sacrifice was not in vain? And you have the nerve to think I’d ruin my future by being connected to some punk-ass gang?”
He says “ass” with a z at the end. The boy can’t even curse right.
Nasser flails out his arms, waiting for me to say something. And even though I want to believe him, I can’t find the right words to say. Disappointment settles on his face and he walks away once more.
“Go on!” I yell at his back. “I’m used to people leaving me anyway. I’m a Diabla! I don’t need you!” The words slip out bold, fiery, scared.
Nasser turns around, his jawline clenched hard. “You’ve been lying all this time. And I guess your lies include how you felt about us, about me.”
“What? No. That part was real—is real.” My voice softens.
“Was. Past tense. You had it right the first time,” he says.
The bus pulls up, double doors fly open, holiday music pours from the radio.
“You getting on or what?” the driver asks.
My whole body goes limp as I climb on and she closes the door between me and Nasser.
The Macoutes wrecked my family too. I want to tell him this. Make him understand.
I press my fingertips to the glass and close my eyes, imagining Nasser running after me as the bus slowly pulls away. Like they do in the movies when lovers break up to make up. But when I open my eyes, all I see is Nasser pushing through the crowd. He doesn’t look back for me. Not even for a second.
ALMOST HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
THERE’S BARELY ANY passengers on the bus. Just a couple of guys in the front and an old lady dozing off in the back seat. I take a seat in the middle row just as “Jingle Bells” switches to “Another Lonely Christmas” by Prince. Well, ain’t this a trip. As beautiful as that song is—the guitar piercing through my skin, Prince’s voice, like sugar, sweetening up the air—it’s the last thing I want to hear. I don’t need another reminder of what I’m going through. How I’m facing yet another holiday without Junito. And just when I thought I had one thing going right with Nasser, I went and messed that up too.
Broadway is lined with Christmas decorations everywhere. The nighttime sky makes the lights sparkle even brighter. I look out the window and all I see are happy faces, hopes, and Christmas wishes and possibilities. And maybe it’s the sight of it all that makes me think of how I can make things right. For me. For my family. I take a deep breath and make a mental list.
Step 1: Get home to Mami and Abuela and figure out a way to fill our house with the holiday spirit. Invite Ms. Geraldine, her daughters, and Mr. Martin too.
Step 2: Think about how to make things right with Nasser. He’s not a Macoute. And I wasn’t lying about how I feel about him.
Step 3: Quit the Diablos.
In that order. It’s a fairytale vision. But I need something—anything—to hold on to right now and help me forget the threats, the Polaroids, the confusion that’s lived in me since April thirteenth. Soon as I get home, I’ll get the tree out of the closet. Mami, Abuela, and I will put it up and decorate it. Over the weekend, I’ll shop for everyone’s gifts. Come Monday, I’ll make a spread that shows the best that Puerto Rico has to offer. My signature pernil because who doesn’t love pork that falls off the bone? Arroz, pasteles, coquito, and tembleque for dessert.
Abuela and I are gonna tear that kitchen apart! Maybe Mami will even help. Our friends won’t know what hit them.
As the bus gets closer to home, I see flashes of red and blue several blocks ahead. Not in front of the bodega, more at the corner of Grafton, a little farther down.
“Looks like there’s something blocking the next stop, folks,” the bus driver announces. “We’ll have to take a detour.”
She makes a sharp left on Verona, close enough to home but still a bit far away. As I get off the bus with a few other people, she wishes us a Merry Christmas.
The guy in front of me says, “Feliz Navidad.”
I respond too and keep it moving.
Verona is a side street with a couple of apartment buildings and abandoned houses. Two guys from the bus walk so fast they disappear out of sight. I look behind me, and I see a lady dressed up with a huge coat and an oversize scarf and hood on her head, slowly trailing behind. As cold as it is, I almost envy her for looking much warmer than I feel
in my short bomber coat.
When I cross at the light, I notice there’s a road blockade and flashing lights everywhere. My number one objective is to always stay as far away from five-o as I can. So I decide to take the roundabout way and cut through the train tracks.
A spider-walking feeling creeps up my spine, though, and something tells me to look behind me again. When I do, the lady is walking faster, following me toward the tracks. I’m damn near jogging now, moving toward the abandoned buildings behind the bodega. But the closer I get, the farther away home seems. Usually there are folks on the tracks, skipping rocks, making out with their novios, and racing trains. But now there ain’t nobody around.
Straight from a horror movie.
I look back again and see her eyes blazing beneath the moon. She rips off the part of the scarf that covers her mouth, revealing fire-red lips puckering straight at me underneath the streetlamps. My tongue races around my mouth, frantically moving my blade. I slip my fingers in, pull it out, and grip hard. My feet push harder, faster, and my head turns one last time to see she’s running too, whipping off her head wrap, ice-blonde dreads breaking free, beating against her shoulders with every pounce she takes.
I cannot find my voice. I want it, but it’s buried deep inside me. My head is swirling. The girl in the getaway car. The girl who’s been sending me these threats.
Home is not close enough. Not a Diablo in sight. Just me, her, and the moon following us under the cover of the blue-black sky.
“Sispann kouri!” I know she’s speaking Creole, but I don’t know what the hell she just said, and honestly I don’t care. All I know is that if I go harder, faster, stronger, I’ll get to my people, and they’ll handle the rest.
She’s gaining an edge on me. Her breath is so close I can hear it and smell it. A swift punch knocks the wind out of me, sends me crashing to the ground, flinging my blade into the grass.
Flash! Click! I see the blinding light of a Polaroid taking a picture of me lying on the ground.
“Nou pap janm bliye! We’ll never forget what your gang did. I know you ordered the hit on my brothers, both of them!” She towers over me like the Statue of Liberty.
I don’t have time to think. I use my leg to give her a swift kick to the crotch. That makes her throw the camera to the ground, grab her girl parts, and wince in pain. My feet turn to wings, flying up and landing in a full squat. My hands follow, throwing several punches to her gut. All the while I’m screaming with each blow: “I…did…not…order…any…hit!”
Reality unfolds fast and furious. Both Gaston and Clemenceau are this chick’s brothers. Were? DQ ordered the jail hit, even though I told him to wait because I wasn’t sure if I wanted more blood on my hands. Is Clemenceau dead too?
She lunges, knocking me flat against the train tracks. My head hits the iron rail, and I see stars flying high in circles.
I scream. No words, just sounds. Earth-shattering. Loud. My fingers trace the grass, searching for my blade in the darkness. But I am too late.
She slaps. I bite. She rolls. I choke. She squeezes. Kicking, punching, biting, back and forth. We’re two rabid wolves fighting for our packs. She pulls away as I claw my nails at her face. One of her dreadlocks catches in my hand. She lets out a loud “Gahhh!” as the rest of the dreadlocks fall to the ground in a heaping wig pile.
A single light from the freight train draws closer, shining in all of its glory on her face. A familiar image appears. A star pattern of freckles beneath her eye. A dark bob cut brushing against her ears.
It’s the math tutor, the girl who was at Nasser’s house, the one who literally turned herself into Turtle Girl right before my eyes. Quiet. Invisible. Calculating.
She hovers over me and spits in my face. Translation: Yeah it’s me, pendeja!
“You’re the one who’s been stalking me?” My back springs up fast, bringing a world of dizziness inside my head. I whack her jaw, and blood erupts through her clenched teeth. The train chug-a-lugs closer, screams a hoot into the cold air.
She returns the favor, landing an uppercut right under my chin. I hear the cracking inside my head. Two or more teeth make their way out of my mouth and onto the ground.
I’m fighting with everything I have inside me, but she’s not giving up for one second. In the midst of the battle, police lights flash in the distance. There are no crowds to break us up. Everyone must be at the top of Grafton Hill with whatever’s happening that made the bus have to detour.
The train is even closer now, filling our bellies with thunder and our eyes with light. She picks up something. I don’t know what it is, maybe a branch or broken piece of the train track, and delivers one final thwack upside my head.
I don’t see the stars and the birds and the waves immediately, probably because the train’s light is so in my face that all I can think of is hurtling myself away. A few inches too close to death, I pull her with me, and we both go tumbling from the fast-moving train. Our bodies roll and roll until they can move no more.
I lie there, tasting the blood in my mouth, excruciating pain quaking through my head. I try to calculate who will deliver the next blow. But all I hear is the rhythm of our breathing. First fast like a perfect salsa beat, then slow like samba.
I hear her crying before I feel the warmth of my own tears falling.
“He was my brother!” She sobs through every word, each one slamming against me like a ton of bricks.
Just then, I remember her name. Amy Marcel.
“And you don’t think I miss my brother every day? You think that I’ll ever forget the day you drove past my house, followed me and Junito through the alley and waited while Clemenceau killed my brother?” I’m crying too, even though I’m pissed.
“Well, thanks to you, Clem is in the prison hospital right now. Not sure he’s gonna make it. Your brother killed Gaston. My mother goes to bury him in Haiti, comes back to find her other son in jail. Because of the Diablos, half of my family is gone. Done. Wiped out.”
“It wasn’t me.” My chest tightens because technically it was. Guilty by association.
The train is long gone and all that’s left is the sound of us exhaling, flashing lights, and sirens up ahead.
Do tears make noise? Because I swear I can hear hers falling one at a time.
There’s a swirling inside my head. I sit up and feel the earth spin on its axis, and my legs refuse to cooperate.
I look over at her and see blood dripping from a gash in her head. A gash I created. She lies there helplessly. My world is still spinning, but I can move, even if it’s only a little bit. We’re both seriously hurt. If we wait any longer out here near the train tracks in the cold, we won’t make it.
“Come on. We need help.” I gaze at the red-and-blue at the top of the hill, in disbelief that I’m actually looking for the police.
I reach for Amy, but she refuses my hand.
“I’m not going to jail. Not when you’re the one who stepped to me first. Now let’s go. We’ll make something up when they ask what happened. Attack dogs on the loose. Train hit us and kept it moving. Take your pick.” I’m getting pissed now.
“You go get us help,” Amy whispers. “I’ll wait here.”
My legs feel weak as I beg them to give me the strength to stand. But slowly, they find a will to get me up the hill, the lights growing closer and closer. The crowd parts a bit when they see me.
Stares and whispers.
The stars in my head return. I shake it to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. DQ and Julicza bent over the hood of DQ’s car, hands behind their backs, shackled like criminals.
I want to scream and ask what’s going on, but I instead take in the moment. That could be me right now, handcuffed against a car. And where would that leave me? Leave Mami? This is not what Junito wanted. I was supposed to keep the Diablos going. And shut down the Macoutes. But he
re I am looking to get help for one of them.
I failed.
A bolt of lightning blasts in the sky, and I swear it’s almost like Junito sends me a message: No, you haven’t.
Rain comes down softly. The crowd parts some more.
A trickle of blood runs down the open wound in my forehead, landing in my mouth.
“Somebody help her!” a voice finally screams, getting one of the police officers’ attention.
I lock eyes with DQ, face pressed against the hood. His eyes scan the bloody, beaten parts of me. I’m not sure if it was my face that said it or my actual mouth, but the last thing I remember is saying to him, I’m done.
And then my knees crash to the ground.
FELIZ NAVIDAD
HOSPITALS SMELL LIKE ASS. Fried on a hot stone. If I were fully awake, I’d probably say that out loud. But apparently there’s a tube in my mouth, and here I am strapped in a hospital bed. Two hospital visits in one year? I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.
The lights are too bright and everything is white: the walls, the windows, the snow falling outside. I see a shadowy face popping in and out of my half-closed eyes. Smell the Jean Naté perfume and hear the clank of pearls. Mami.
“She’s waking up.”
That voice. My heart wants to leap and do pirouettes when I hear Mami speak a full sentence. It is like the greatest gift.
“Feliz navidad, mi’ja.” Mami smiles, her face hovering over mine. And another guy. Nametag says Dr. Burrowes. Big beak of a nose. Enough hair in each nostril to make two French braids.
“Where’s Amy?” The words muffle through the tube.
Mami looks at Dr. Burrowes, confusion setting in.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Mendez. Incoherent speech can be a common side effect of pain medication.”
I’m not hallucinating, pendejo! Did you guys get Amy?
I want to rip the tube from my mouth, spill out the thoughts trapped inside my head. But my eyes have other plans. Closing in five, four, three…