Tarnished Beauty

by Cecilia Samartin

“Because I want you to meet some of my friends,” he said.

  Jamilet felt flush with emotion at the thought of being with Eddie in the real world, almost as though she were actually his girlfriend. But he wanted her to look the part. Long-sleeved Catholic schoolgirl shirts and navy skirts below her knees wouldn’t do.

  Jamilet asked, “What if Pearly finds out?”

  “She’s over me by now,” he said.

  Jamilet contemplated Eddie’s face, the even brown skin and bright eyes swimming with confidence and humor, the full lips forming a smile so charming it could knock you off your feet if you weren’t ready for it. Every time he flashed one of his amazing smiles she had difficulty finding words and correctly stringing them together. She could adore him endlessly.

  “You’re a sweet little girl, aren’t you?” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

  “I don’t think so,” Jamilet said.

  He stopped, his lips close enough to brush hers when he asked, “You don’t think what?”

  “I don’t think she’s over you.”

  Jamilet hovered outside herself. Her body felt foreign, as if her arms and legs were moving like tentacles, all in different directions. Every cell was a hologram reflecting the endless possibilities born of her imagination, and a strange courage possessed her, obliterating familiar fears from which she’d never been weaned, and circumventing all that she knew was real. Was it love that caused this? She’d always heard that love was the greatest power in the world. That it could move mountains, and when it was pure, overcome even death. In its lesser forms it was the magic that misted the eyes and changed the physical shape of things, blurring the hard edges of disfigurement, fading it to nearly nothing. When there was love, the mind would see only what the heart allowed it to see.

  And love required honesty no matter the cost, or it would wither and die. A hopeful seed might poke its tender shoots aboveground, and exalt in having reached the surface, but once the sun found it, death would come quickly. If true love were to grow between them, Jamilet knew that she had to show Eddie the mark.

  She slipped the T-shirt he gave her over her head and pulled it down over her torso. The evening was balmy. Only old ladies wore sweaters on nights like these, and even then they didn’t actually wear them, but kept them neatly folded over one arm in case they got chilly. Jamilet’s freshly washed navy blue sweater was laid out on her bed. While she had every intention of revealing the mark to Eddie on this day, she saw no reason why the revelation should be a vulgar and unnecessarily shocking one. Situations like these needed to be handled delicately, and explained with care so the mind could slowly digest what the eyes struggled to understand.

  Jamilet hadn’t seen the mark herself for several weeks. She’d suspended the nightly ritual once her meetings with Eddie became more frequent, simply forgetting—so light was her mood and complete her preoccupation with the steady progress of their relationship. She convinced herself that dreams could partner with other dreams and encourage each other like good friends. If the dream of capturing Eddie’s love was coming true, then wasn’t it just as possible that the mark would lose its power? Perhaps it was nothing important, like Tía Carmen said. Perhaps it was her mother’s infectious worry that had deepened her misery over it all these years, when it was nothing more than a blemish, a shadow—an illusion.

  Carmen and Louis had gone out for dinner again to a place where Carmen said they served water and beer in fancy glasses, so that you always looked elegant. After dinner, they planned to catch a movie, which meant that Jamilet and Eddie would have plenty of time. Their plan was to meet at the park, as they had been, and then proceed to Eddie’s house where a gathering of friends would be waiting for them. Jamilet planned to show him the mark when they were alone in the park, and no matter what he said, she’d insist on wearing the sweater around his friends, as they weren’t subject to the intoxicating effects of their love, and would see only the mark.

  As Jamilet made her way through the trees she spotted Eddie sitting on their bench, tugging at a loose thread on the inner seam of his jeans. She stopped for a moment to admire him, the broad line of his shoulders, the gleam of his dark hair. When he saw her emerging from the shadows, he stood up slowly to get a good look at her as well. The faint light of dusk made everything look silver and grainy, like a black-and-white photograph taken in the rain. Jamilet felt the mark pulsating beneath her sweater, as if it knew that freedom was near, and that with freedom came the healing sensation of fresh air alive with witnesses, the birds, the squirrels, the trees, everything in the world, including Eddie, of course.

  As Jamilet approached, she tripped on the root of a tree and Eddie cracked a joke about whether she’d started partying early with her aunt. Normally she would have chuckled along with him, but she couldn’t even smile, so intent was her focus on sticking to her plan. She’d rehearsed the words at least fifty times in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that, deciding how to hold her hands, and at what point to remove the sweater. It was as carefully choreographed as it was scripted, and she couldn’t allow him to distract her as he always did.

  “You wore it,” he said, obviously pleased. “But what’s the deal with the sweater? It’s eighty degrees out.” Eddie himself was wearing the male version of Jamilet’s tank top, clean and white against his muscled chest.

  Jamilet took in the sight of him and instantly forgot her lines. She should have been speaking by now, and describing the foolish fears of the backward villagers who thought her to be of the devil. She’d have to start at the beginning because, while she knew everything about Eddie’s childhood, he knew almost nothing about hers. She estimated that it would take, without questions or sidetracking, almost half an hour before the unveiling. By then the twilight would have darkened to a shadowy gray, which was exactly what she wanted, the most forgiving light possible. Gradually, he would be allowed to see more and more of it, his love for her flowing into the stark holes of despair a little at a time, until the full revelation was complete.

  He stepped up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, but it soon became apparent that his intent was not a greeting or a kiss, but to remove her sweater. Jamilet slapped his hand away without thinking, but it wasn’t a playful gesture, and its sting wasn’t lost on Eddie. He looked surprised, but not as surprised as Jamilet, for she was sure that she’d never moved so fast in her life. She took a step back, and tried to remember, but she couldn’t conjure up the words with him looking at her with those wounded eyes. Oh yes, she was to begin by telling him about the day the children threw stones at her. He would be moved and saddened to hear about this. His protective tendencies would become activated and ready to defend her from the evil that could provoke such horrible behavior toward his love. She’d ask him if he’d ever seen a birthmark before and that would lead her to tell him of her appointment with Dr. Martinez, and the true reason she’d come to the north.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Eddie asked. “I just want to see how you look without the sweater.”

  “Not yet,” Jamilet stammered. “I want to explain something first.”

  “You look really cute,” he said, his smile widening. “Even better than I thought you would.” He stepped in closer. “I bet you have nice legs too, but we’ll take it one step at a time.”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain,” Jamilet stammered, and then felt her thoughts evaporate in the heat.

  “Explain what?” He stroked her cheek, and hunched down to peer into her face. “Why are your eyes watering?”

  Jamilet averted her gaze, and felt her knees grow weak and wobbly. She clutched the sweater close around her with both hands, as the reality of what she was about to do hit her all at once. Was she crazy? What kind of insanity could make her believe that Eddie would respond to the mark differently than anyone else had? It was hideous beyond belief, and there was no love in the world that could overcome it. Her own mother hadn’t been able to face it. Trying to do battle with it had surely killed
her.

  She glanced at Eddie. He didn’t seem to know whether to smile or frown, and a nervous twitch tugged at his left eyebrow as he vacillated between the two. “I think I should go home,” Jamilet muttered.

  “Why?”

  “I just think I should…”

  “Is it your aunt?”

  Jamilet shook her head. “I don’t know…I…I should go.” She turned and began walking back toward the trees at a brisk pace. She was within a few feet of them when she heard him running to catch up with her. He stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder, and they stood together on a sunny patch of grass while she clutched her sweater closer.

  Eddie took hold of her shoulders and shook her gently. “Talk to me, dammit. Don’t just walk away.”

  “You won’t understand,” Jamilet said softly.

  “How do you know if you don’t give me a chance?”

  “Because nobody except Tía Carmen understands. She’s the only one who isn’t afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  It was as though another voice responded, and she heard its echo from far away; the words resonated like a chant. The reason, it said. “The reason I always wear long sleeves. The reason I’m not like other girls.”

  Eddie stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Okay…what’s the reason?”

  She was close to the edge, one foot hovering over the void between who she was and who she might be. She stood there poised for several seconds. All at once, she felt her body losing its form, and every part of her being melting into nothingness as she considered stepping across, but hope for a better life was unable to reconstruct her, and she wavered. Her legs grew heavy and the heaviness traveled up to her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Eddie was saying something, asking her questions filled with concern, but he was still on the other side, and she was no longer listening intently. No longer was she trying to fit her brain and her soul into his so that he might wallow in her adoration. No doubt he was missing this feeling, and wondering what was wrong.

  Without another word, she spun on her heel and started running straight toward the trees, her feet pounding the ground with unbelievable speed, her sweater trailing behind her like a cape in the wind, and her hair flapping in front of her face so that, at one point, she was nearly blinded. She didn’t think about Eddie, she could only run as far away from the edge as she could, running as she should have before the rocks hit her so many years ago. But before she could make it to the street, Eddie was on top of her, and they were rolling over each other in the grass, and he was speaking angrily to her, telling her not to run away like a crazy dog. He pinned her down by the wrists, and straddled her. He was panting and flushed, and his perfectly white shirt had become marred across the front with dirt.

  “You can run fast, girl,” he said, and his face moved in closer, as though he might kiss her. “What could be so bad to make you run like that?”

  He wasn’t expecting an answer, so perplexed was he by her sudden transformation. She looked eerily beautiful to him, like a fragile bird, easy to scare into submission, but if he let go for just a second, she’d disappear again.

  Jamilet moved her head from side to side, looking past him, toward the sky, as she tried again to find the words. She’d never spoken about the mark to anyone who didn’t already know about it. Revealing it to the uninitiated was like trying to describe love in three or four words. It was beyond her, and yet it was the essence of who she was, and why she was.

  But when she refocused on his face, his eyes were intent on the curve of her neck beyond the strap of her shirt. During their tussle, her clothes had shifted, and he could see the fine edges of the mark for himself, like delicate fingers curling around her throat. He sat up, still straddling her, his eyes unwavering and steady on the mark.

  “What’s that on your neck?” he asked, concerned that he might have hurt her. He loosened his grip on her wrists, and she flung her arms free. In one smooth movement she pushed him off and onto his back. She scrambled to her feet in a flash, but before she could take another step, Eddie grabbed her foot, knocking her off balance, and she fell hard, on her stomach. He was on top of her again, and she felt her sweater coming off and her new shirt pulled up so that most of the mark was visible. Her hands grabbed fists full of dirt as she waited. The smell of the earth and the fresh air on her skin created such a peaceful sensation that she wondered if she might be dying. She closed her eyes, as though to let death know that she accepted its arrival.

  She imagined his face, round startled eyes, mouth slightly open in shock. He had momentarily lost the ability to speak, but she felt much better nonetheless. This she had lived before. She knew what would come next, and how the scene would unfold, as it had so many times before.

  “It’s a birthmark,” she said, spitting out dirt as she spoke. “And it doesn’t hurt.”

  He was breathing hard, as he hadn’t had the sense to look away. She thought of warning him that the more he looked at the mark, the worse it would get, but she remained quiet. It was almost over.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally asked, but he sounded different, as though humbled by something he couldn’t understand.

  “I never tell anyone,” Jamilet answered. She felt Eddie’s weight lift off her, and he stood up. She stood as well, brushing the dirt from her pants, her stomach, her arms, and her hair, and then giving herself a good shake.

  Eddie watched her, surprised by her ability to move normally after what he’d just seen. “Is it there like…I mean, can you get rid of it?”

  Jamilet felt strangely powerful when she saw the wonder and the fear in his eyes. She could have told him of her plans to see a doctor, and the stash of money she had in her room, but she would sound like a silly child, as though announcing that one day she planned to be a famous movie star. “There’s nothing I can do,” she said, and as she heard herself say these words, for the first time in her life she accepted their truth. Her grandmother had known it. Her aunt in her own way had tried to tell her, and even Dr. Martinez knew, but it was only then, while staring into Eddie’s shrinking face, that she knew she’d live with the mark until the day she died.

  Neither of them made any attempt to leave, although it was almost dark. Eddie started to look around and stomp his feet like a restless horse. He grew still and asked, “Do you want me to walk you home?”

  The tenderness in his eyes fought with his desire to break out in a full run, and get as far away from her as he could. She knew it, as well as the fact that she could hold him for only a moment or two longer in this unsettled trance born of disgust and pity. “I know the way,” she said, and then she released him.

  Later that night, while she lay in bed exhausted, Jamilet decided that it felt good to hate. The feelings packed up inside her made her feel dense and strong, and no longer like the flimsy creature she’d known herself to be who could be carried off by the wind, or shaken by a good cough. And while she was thinking about it, she hated her weak-minded foolishness too, and the wimpy way she agreed with everybody all the time—this cowardice masquerading as kindness made her sick to her stomach. And she hated where she came from and who she was, and the fact that her life was small enough to fit into a shoe box. She was lulled to sleep by her steely resolve to hate. Perhaps hate would put a little meat on her bones.

  26

  WITH BREAKFAST TRAY held high, Jamilet knocked once, then entered before hearing Señor Peregrino give his permission. He was still in bed, which wasn’t surprising because she had arrived earlier than usual. He preferred his breakfast after his shower, but Jamilet decided that it was unreasonable for him to expect her to go up to the fifth floor first thing in the morning, back down, and then up again, just because he liked his coffee hot enough to scald the feathers off a chicken. He’d have to settle for coffee hot enough to dissolve a teaspoon or two of sugar.

  She set the tray on his desk with a thud, and turned to see if the sound had disturbed him, but he hadn’t stirred. She
lifted the tray, set it down again, and then dropped the coffee spoon into the cup, but still, no sign that he’d heard her. She proceeded to the bathroom next. Señor Peregrino had always directed her to tidy the bath after he’d showered, as the lingering steam resulted in mold, and this disgusted him. But Jamilet decided that she’d clean the bathroom while he slept. Why wait until later when the heat of the day would be at its worst?

  She’d already started to wipe down the shower door when she heard him calling for her, his voice confused and still gruff with sleep. Jamilet quickly went to his bedside, her expression set, with chin up and eyes clear. “Yes, Señor?” she said, practically standing at attention.

  “What are you doing here so early?” he asked as he propped himself up on his pillows, his hair standing on end like an enormous white flame.

  “I’m doing my job, Señor. That should be obvious.” She glanced at him to see if her curt reply had produced sufficient shock, and quickly looked away before she could appreciate it in full bloom.

  “Do excuse my feeble mind,” he retorted.

  Jamilet pushed her shoulders back. “And I’ve decided that it’s much more convenient that I bring your breakfast up first thing in the morning instead of waiting until after you shower. It would save me going up and down the stairs so often, which I hate.”

  Señor Peregrino flinched at the word “hate,” not only because she’d never used it before but because of the way she’d said it, as if she wasn’t talking, but was spitting. He sat up more fully to get a better look at her. “You don’t even look like yourself this morning,” he said, squinting. “Did you cut your hair?”

  “I like it short. It’s easier for me.”

  “Turn around,” he commanded. She hesitated, but then did as she was told. “It looks like you chopped it off without looking, as if you did it in the dark.”

  Jamilet hung her head and said nothing. Señor Peregrino got out of bed to get the breakfast tray himself and brought it back to his bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his bare feet shuffling across the floor and back to his bed again. She heard him preparing his coffee and the coarse sound of a buttered knife move across the toast. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re punishing yourself, hoping that self-cruelty will inspire you somehow, and discourage the world.”