A Nation of Amor

by Christopher McConnell

  My glass filled, Rey shoos the girl away with a menacing glare. “Christ, Rey, settle down. Can’t we have a drink without a conspiracy theory?”

  “You’re fired!” he declares.

  The light seems to change, and a searing, incessant glare unflatteringly illuminates this lone man; the black, belted trench balloons over his growing paunch, manic eyes are surrounded by folds and purple wells, clenched fists are resignedly thrust into his pockets. I step back and fold my arms across my chest.

  “Not with only eight weeks until the exam date, Rey.”

  “I don’t think you understand the ethos behind El Cuarto Año Schoo—”

  “You can’t say—”

  “Shut up Tom! I’m not running a therapy group for guilty minded liberals.”

  “Precisely. Don’t dare to judge my commitment. Yes. I am committed to those kids. Which is why I won’t lie to them, Rey. I teach them what they need to know. You have no grounds for—”

  “How ’bout I don’t like you?”

  “I don’t like you either, Rey. But that’s irrelevant. Our students must be completely focused these last few weeks. I’m willing to overlook our personal differences to ensure their success. Are you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Then you teach them geometry.”

  I open my mouth to continue, but then, why bother? You want to be a moral authority, but you are the caretaker, Rey. You sweep the broken-down staircase, polish the scratched brass plate of the knocker, protect the worthless possessions of Westtown from your imaginary duns at the door. For what? A lumpy bed and a cup of tea. You’re a tired, aging man, ranting incessantly about respect and admiration you’ve demanded but never received over a bruised lifetime. A moral extortionist, sore feet in crumbling, soleless shoes, pipe empty, belly grumbling. You connive your way into the shabby, junk-filled houses of our students’ psyches. Yet rather than coach them with plaster and paint you whine about the free accommodation; damn that leaky roof, don’t the neighbors look shifty, I’ll need your bed, this one’s too close to the broken window.

  The moral authority of a tramp, another vagrant along Division Street, and when the young people file past on their imminent migration from Westtown, they shall find you bleating at the crossroads. Like refugees, they will scoop your frail body into the caravan, endure your braying denunciations, and grapple with the morality of saving another raving jackal as they mentally weigh the tidbits you will snatch from their children’s mouths.

  Terminate my employment Rey; stand proudly on your matchstick column of didacticism. While the world conspired against you, I taught algebra. While you browbeat students into shadows of humility, I put them in college.

  “Fire me, and no student will pass the exam,” I state.

  “You believe that, don’t you? You fucking racist. You don’t advocate change. You don’t want these kids to challenge authority, you—”

  “Fire me, and you effectively eliminate their chances of passing the test.”

  “I don’t care. I have an obligation.… I can’t allow—”

  “Rey! Listen to yourself.”

  He searches the room, eyes darting from one unconcerned party to another, hopelessly willing an ally to his side. Flaco exchanges a high five with James at the bar. The alderman confirms a lunch date with the Director of Corporate Finance for the First National Bank of Chicago. A chorus of rich voices rings clear and gay across the expansive stage. With the back of his hand Rey clears a shiny streak of perspiration from his forehead. His lower lip quivers, his eyes baste in a glaze of rapidly forming tears.

  “I will resign as of June 17th, Rey. But not until then. Not until every student passes my exam subjects. Accept the deal! Use me, then discard me. But if you vilify me before the students, you sacrifice their education for your personal indignation.”

  But he is burrowing through the crowd with his customary temerity. He flees without saying good-bye to anyone. “See you Monday morning,” I call.

  With his thunderhead presence gone, an element of tension seeps from the room. All that is left is an epilogue, marriage or death, a giddy, sour-sweet buzz of too much champagne too quickly consumed. The dusty dry wine has thickened everyone’s palate, lips smack, tongues adhere to the roofs of mouths, leaving time is upon them. Two open untouched champagne bottles rest in a nickel-plated bucket. James finally finds time for a cigarette. Father hovers near the door, clasping every hand before the guests venture back into the night. The emptying room allows Flaco to move. He strides jauntily across the boards, no longer impeded by the inquisitive audience milling towards the exit.

  “I do good, Teach?” Flaco asks.

  “It’s in the bag, Flaco. In the bag.”

  He grins and nods, turns to the alderman who lobs him a patriarchal wink from across the room.

  Two characters and one plot line remain, Sara and David performing a duet in the bay window, unaware that the curtain has been drawn. In a shared epiphany, they suddenly realize the lights have been turned up, music has ended, the hum of a crowd no longer there to be spoken above. They separate from the ear to mouth clinch that has bound them for the past thirty minutes. James takes his final cue, crossing the room toward David in the loosened affectation of his maitre d’s costume—shirt open, vest unbuttoned, clip on black bowtie suspended from one collar. Sara slips away; David’s longing gaze follows her through the dining room.

  I pause, calculating the seconds of deportment before I can join Sara in the kitchen. The fog has subsided from the windows; I can see moonlit forms passing through my wrought iron gate. A stout Latin silhouette hesitates, waves toward his waiting companions, looks in each direction, then bends quickly to scavenge what I can only assume to be a penny.

  Coppers abound on the sidewalks of Westtown. But the dollar bills rush about us in torrents and eddies, carried on the gusts blown down Division Street, jettisoned through this turf, rare, elusive, and ephemeral. Grab one if you can! Grab two. For every windblown Sara there are one hundred Maris, for every Flaco there are one hundred Manos. And pennies don’t add up to dollars anymore.

  I hurry to the kitchen, take Sara by the wrist, and pull her into the adjoining powder room. Locked safely inside, she suppresses a giggle, tottering for a moment on her high heels.

  How long can this drama run? Plucked from the equivalent of a stool at a soda fountain counter, Sara’s ascension relies not only on my ingenuity and guidance, but in her dogged conviction that under the flash of a bulb her bankable beauty can be captured, but never plumbed. Agreed; yet I possess the script rights, secure the backing, own the stage, am her sole precious, precarious link from Westtown to downtown. I embrace her but she coyly recoils.

  “Tom! People are still here—”

  But I smother her lips with my own, lift her body in an arm-locked hug, and reposition her facing the vanity. I run my hands up the backs of her thighs and slide her short skirt up to her waist.

  “No Tom, not now, please …”

  But she submits to my urgency, grips the deep, white porcelain sink at either side. Her head droops, eyes close. I lower her hose and stare into the mirror before us.

  “Look in the mirror, Sara, see our reflection …”

  MARIZA DEL RIOS

  May 1, at home

  Josie’s crying. Is there any milk?

  Mano’s out on the couch. If I open the door to check she’ll wake him up for real. Why is she up before me this morning? Diapers? Maybe Mano could go get me some? Naaw, he was out last night by the corner, came in late knocking into everything. At least he didn’t wake up Josie. Money too? Aid people won’t give me a check for another three days. Tippy-toe out and get some juice for the bottle, it smells okay, but she won’t take it. I try to cuddle her on my lap.

  I say,

  “Don’t cry little Josie. Please don’t cry little Josie.”

  Mano’s bitchin’, I can hear him, woken up with his eyes small and his head big.

  I say,

>   “Now I got two babies to feed.”

  But he heard me. He’s mad now. Mano rushes at us, chasing me around the table like he wants to clip me even with the baby right here in my arms. Around and around, Josie screamin’ louder cuz I can’t keep a good hold on her.

  Mano says,

  “Shut it up, shut it up!”

  He knocks dishes on the floor but won’t chase me no more because of his bare feet. Why is it no plate or glass be safe in this kitchen? He puts his pants on to leave.

  Mano says,

  “Don’t even know how to take care of a baby right.”

  And the door slams. Bueno, one down, with only Josie crying it’s easier. I find the last diaper to change her. Dios mío! What are these sores on her butt? Big and red like pimples between her legs. She looks like she could pass out from crying so hard. What can I do? The car is gone with him. Try to wipe her down real nice and put powder on her pimples but every time I go near the red parts she freaks. And Mano’s gone. Is it so bad to have something even if it’s shit than to have nothing at all?

  Rey has a car. I check my little jar on the shelf for a quarter. Get out of my nightgown and put on jeans and a top. I look like shit. In the bathroom to try and get washed real quick, but the baby’s cryin’ so I run back to the bedroom.

  I shout,

  “Josie shut up! Shut up!”

  To a little baby, right? Wrap her in the blanket from the bed and then I see the bottles on the back porch. I could get some money for them to buy diapers or milk. But how can I carry bottles with Josie in my arms? Got to wait in line for the phone at the liquor store, but the guy in front of us goes fast, he couldn’t talk much shit with Josie cryin’ so loud. Put my money in, oh shit, I used to know it but I haven’t been to school since … Never thought I’d forget that number! Back to the crib but this is the first time I ever unlocked the door alone with Josie in my arms. Can’t get her balanced on my hip. Can’t lay her down with the dirt and broken glass on the porch. Real quick I throw her on my shoulder, undo the lock and kick the door open. The school number is nowhere and the tears are comin’. Both of us crying now, this is no good. One of us has to stop so I do. Go through my bag real careful until I find the number. Walkin’ back out is easier, if I only had some way to carry those bottles. Balance her in my arms with the phone against my shoulder but Josie’s still crying right into the phone almost. I bet Rey can’t even hear me with her and the traffic goin’ by outside.

  Rey says,

  “Who’s that?”

  I say,

  “It’s me. There’s no milk and I think Josie’s sick.”

  Rey says,

  “Mariza?”

  His voice soundin’ like he’s forgot all about me.

  I say,

  “She won’t stop crying!”

  Rey says,

  “She’s just hungry.”

  I say,

  “No, no she gots pimples and Mano pulled up with the car.”

  Rey says,

  “Pimples? Okay, I’ll be over in a minute.”

  The door’s a piece of candy this time, I guess I must have learned something. She still won’t stop crying. Don’t take any notice, it’s just there, like all the time I was pregnant and then I didn’t notice it for so long and now little Josie is here. One day I’m fat and the next day everything is all different with a baby in my arms. At Cook County Hospital there was all kinds of girls like me, some of ’em only 13 or 14, watchin’ their bodies move, screaming for somebody to help. Nurses with writing boards running around in white suits, no help for girls that never felt so alone.

  The Nurse said,

  “Shut up! Be still! Quiet down! Don’t make such a fuss, do you think you’re the first person to ever have a baby?”

  Didn’t even know our names. The delivery room was only big enough for one girl so they kept us waiting like a traffic jam in the hallway. People passed by, husbands and families screaming at each other, always the girls crying out for something to stop the pain. This one next to me was tiny, nobody could get her quiet, and the nurse made her family leave the hallway cuz her husband shoved a doctor, so the security came and kicked ’em out.

  This girl screamed,

  “You’re gonna kill my baby, you’re gonna kill my baby!”

  My head running wild with feeling Josie inside me ready to leave, okay Josie, okay little Josie, you don’t have to be scared, I’m not scared, you don’t have to be scared. If I was scared it would happen like this girl next to me. How can a baby come into the world if I think I’m going to die?

  This girl screamed,

  “Where’s my mother? I wanna go home!”

  She tried to get off the bed. Sweaty hair stuck down her face, leaning off the side, she fell to the floor then tall doctors and nurses. I dunno, but somebody said her baby died. A man came by with a mop to clean up where she fell. I never did listen to those screams …

  Don’t even see Rey walking in the kitchen, just trying to give Josie a bottle with some juice to get her quiet but she just pushes it away. Rey looks at the mess then he looks at me with the baby.

  Rey says,

  “Why aren’t you feeding her yourself?”

  I say,

  “It don’t work no more.”

  He shakes his head. A nurse showed me how to do it, but at home Mano busted out on me.

  Mano said,

  “That’s why we get bottles, stupid.”

  Laughing at me. The nurse told me I hadta eat, but it hurt and I wanted to lose weight and then my boobs got smaller again and those lines came up on my stomach and butt …

  I try to lay Josie down nice on the bed but she starts again and I remember about the pimples.

  I say,

  “Something’s wrong.”

  I push away the diaper and the pimples are all the way up her chest almost to her neck! Should I tell Rey how much worse they are? What if he thinks I can’t take care of her? He takes Josie in his arms.

  Rey says,

  “Go run a bath for this baby.”

  I clear the make-up and shit from around the sink and stuff a cloth in the drain, but before I’m finished I know it ain’t good enough. Rey crinkles his eyes.

  Rey says,

  “Where’s your baby bath Mariza?”

  I say,

  “I use this or I take her in with me.”

  His lips shake for a second so I take Josie from him while he scrubs the sink real nice and runs some water. When he gets her in the water, oh does she let it loose! My own personal police siren, so loud and crazy Rey takes her out right away. Rey picks up the bar of soap but puts it right back down. Some teacher, he’s doin’ it all himself without even a word for me which must be some kind of record. Back in the bedroom he pours baby oil on the bumps getting gunk all over the only clean sheet I got. If I don’t tell him I’ll be alone again. Josie quiets down some, she looks like she might even fall asleep with little yawns and shit, so we go back in the kitchen.

  I say,

  “It’s worse, the pimples.”

  Rey says,

  “Where the hell is Mano?”

  “The pimples are worse, they were only by her butt before and now …”

  Rey says,

  “When were you supposed to go to the clinic?”

  I say,

  “Last week? But the car wasn’t starting and she was sleeping nice and quiet till today.”

  Rey wants some coffee but we don’t have any, I can’t get used to the taste so all we have is Kool-Aid. Scared, because I need his help, but what does he think of me?

  I say,

  “I can’t find my card either. They won’t take me if I don’t got it.”

  He paces around the kitchen, dirty dishes crunching under his feet.

  Rey says,

  “That baby needs to see a doctor.”

  While Josie sleeps I fake around like I’m looking for my medical card. But she wakes up with a big cry and there’s no more time for pride, re
al quick in my bag in the side pocket I get it from where I always knew it was. At the clinic those nurses look at me funny like at the aid office. I know they want to take Josie from me, then what do I have? No more school, no more Mano, no more mama or my sister. Josie be the only thing left in the world that makes me a person. She’s the only thing I ever done that was beautiful and perfect, and if they take her away from me then I for real failed everything in life. If I only knew what to do when a hug and a cuddle won’t work. Can’t let no nurses or case workers see me lose my cool. I got to take any nastiness they dish up. If I only knew what those pimples are! Could it be real serious? But if it was then Rey would be all crazy, because this guy ain’t known for being no Mr. Cucumber. But what does he know? All I did was love her. How can I love my baby wrong? How can a mother’s love hurt her? Maybe I ain’t enough, like mama was never enough for me. Does Josie know? Can she already start to hate me like I hated mama? I came home from the hospital to three full days of mess.

  Mano said,

  “Who wants to live with a screamin’ brat.”

  He’s gonna pull up on me … Rey talks shit with a nurse, looks like he might slap her, a Matos is a Matos. At the other job I was for real only thinking of myself, never knowing how much different things get with a baby, like it’s some big secret I was always supposed to know about. Everybody stares at me, Mano, Rey, Nurses, like I’m evil for not knowing how to do all the things to take care of Josie. Mano hasn’t been home for real since the baby, always out kickin’ it to some bitch on the corner. I can’t call Rey every time I need milk. It’s Mano’s baby too! Nobody steps to Mano when Josie gets sick. Maybe if I lose weight and be nicer to him?

  Look at me! What can nurses think of a mother if I can’t even take care of myself? How did those pimples get there? I’ll look away and nod my head. Don’t tell them about nobody helping me, they will take Josie away from me for real. Inside the white room, alone again, the nurse talks but I can’t concentrate for keeping my mouth shut so tight.

  The nurse says,

  “Prescription …”

  And then she says,

  “It will go away soon.”

  Josie’s okay. Thankful to go hide in a minute, just gotta get Rey to stop and buy some diapers and milk. But the nurse ain’t gonna let me go without a big lecture, I can feel it coming. She won’t give me Josie back as if I will hurt my little angel. She lays Josie on the table and uncovers her to make me look at those pimples, she starts and then stops cuz she can see I’m hiding somewhere and waits until I come out and face her.