by Luis Negron
I pick up the flip-flop and sniff it and it still smells like shit and I don’t know why but I start crying like that motherfucker Botella.
SO MANY
or How the Wagging Tongue Can
Sometimes Cast a Spell
Two worried—extremely worried—neighbors meet on opposite sides of the fence separating their respective homes and set to badmouthing everybody. One is a schoolteacher and she’s well off. Her house has window bars, a solar water heater, a satellite antenna, and a two-car garage. The other lady is on her second marriage and this one is a keeper, God willing, and, if not and they break up or if he lets her down, she’s not going to marry again: live with somebody yes, but no more marriages. She doesn’t live as well as the teacher, but she makes an effort to keep up appearances. The two are worried and, looking around constantly, they broadcast their alarm. Very alarmed and super worried, they unbosom themselves as best they can, and, when you think about it, they should be worried.
Worried Mother:
I’m sorry to say this, but that kid of Alta’s is turning out to be a fag.
Worried Mother Too:
Isn’t he though? I was saying the very same thing to my husband and he told me that we should make sure my Yanielito knows what’s up and if that kid touches him or makes any moves, to give him a good punch and then come and tell us.
WM:
No, and they say it’s not contagious! Kids get confused you know. I’m constantly saying “ick” or “fooey,” “how disgusting,” and “that’s not right,” but Alta acts like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t do a thing to straighten him out.
WMT:
My husband says the same thing, that he’d grab him right away and give him a good hard smack. One day when we were shopping Yanielito suddenly wanted a stuffed animal and my husband hit him. He gave it to him good but usually he never lays a hand on them. I didn’t say a word because after all he’s the one who raised them and has more right than the sonofabitch real father of my kids who never even comes to see them. Every so often he warns me about it: Honey—he calls me honey—if I see anything weird going on with the kid, I’m going to fix him good.
WM:
The other day I was in Alta’s house paying her for some products and the kid started crying because his dad turned off the soap opera on TV. If you could see him, girl, crying like a Magdalene and Alta says to her husband: “Take it easy with the boy, he hasn’t done nothing to you, and if you’re coming home all worked up, don’t go taking it out on him.” … and she goes and turns on the TV again. Goodness gracious, I feel sorry for that man. I bet she married him for the green card.
WMT:
No, those people are like that though.
WM:
But listen to this, I say to her: “Look, Alta, I’m sorry to say this, but you’re overprotective with that kid. He’s a boy and dads have to be firm with them and treat them as if they were men. I know it’s hard because you’re the mom, but that kid of yours, he needs his father more than you right now. I’m sorry for saying this, Alta,” I say to her, “but that kid of yours likes the soap operas way too much and you got to remember that he’s a boy.”
WMT:
And she got mad at you, right? Look, those people, they’re hard workers and all that and it’s true they have it hard in their country, but if you ask me they’ve got inferiority complexes. You can’t say anything to them. That’s why my husband can’t stand them. He even wants to leave Santurce and he was born and raised here.
WM:
But listen to this. She says to me, the ingrate, “Don’t worry, neighbor, that boy is just fine and he’s being brought up without any delusions. And whoever doesn’t like it,” talking real loud so that the husband hears her, “it’s enough that he has a Dominican mother and has to put up with all the prejudice here.” And I said to her: “That’s exactly why I’m telling you, because later on it’s going to be worse for him.”
WMT:
Well said. “Prejudice” my ass.
WM:
No, and she said thanks but she knew what she was doing, that she had a degree in counseling.
WMT:
Probably from Santo Domingo.
WM:
Nena, she got it here. Don’t you know they’re getting all the scholarships? But we’re supposed to keep our mouths shut. I said to her: “Sorry, honey, if I offended you, but that wasn’t my intention.” That’s her problem.
WMT:
Some psychologist, she only got to come here because her husband met her at a pool tournament over there and fell in love and sent for her. My husband tells me that at work there’s one who says she doesn’t get involved with married men because she wants to become a citizen. My husband gets all worked up about this because it’s like he says: they come here and take over absolutely everything. Just go by Barrio Obrero, or Villa Palmeras, or Río Piedras. The farmers market is filled with Dominicans and you can count the people who are actually from here.
WM:
I’m telling you, girl, it really gets me, but that boy is going to suffer a whole lot because people are prejudiced. There was one working at the school as a librarian. We gathered signatures and complained to the school board until they got rid of him. He was cool and the students loved him, but, honey, there are a lot of lawsuits now and, you know, it’s not good for the kids.
WMT:
No, it’s just like my husband says. Now the fags seduce men in broad daylight, right on the street. He tells me that in the men’s room in the Plaza Mall a guy was looking at him and looking right down at it and he punched him so the fag would respect, and then said to him: “Now go call the police ’cause I don’t give a goddamn fuck.” You know how he is.
WM:
They’re filthy! Those pigs. Lord, forgive me, since I have sons, but I tell my students that it’s not natural and even though some say no, I tell them they can get help for that. Yes, honey, in Caguas there’s a church that sends them to Florida and they go to a camp there, and they come back nice and straight. The son of the lady who works for the Department of Public Works was sent to that camp and he already has a fiancée.
WMT:
Yeah, but you can still kinda tell.
WM:
And what do you say about my husband’s brother? He’s that way, that’s why he lives in Philadelphia because people don’t accept that here and when he comes we welcome him with the American and all, but he knows better and they stay in a hotel.
WMT:
My husband tells me about Margot’s son and how he’s like that too, and that everybody knows about it and they’ve seen him come out of one of those clubs with another guy. He tells me if he ever saw him on the street he wouldn’t offer him a ride.
WM:
And the son of the people who own the store too, the fat one, who you could tell right away and is always reading TV Guide and with the poster telling people to vote for Victor, the one on Who’s Got Talent? That one’s a fag. And what do you think about the second son, the cute one? Him too. So handsome and macho-looking. But him too.
WMT:
Ay, Holy Mary Mother of God! So many, right? I’m tellin’ you, my hair stands on end just thinking about it, and we haven’t even mentioned the women.
WM:
Hush, girl! Don’t say another word, the tongue is a witch.
Then there is silence. One woman, the WORRIED MOTHER, has to call Alta to tell her what the WORRIED MOTHER TOO said about her kid. The other one, the WORRIED MOTHER TOO, is going to call her husband on his phone to find out where he has gone all dressed up, because she’s no fool. Each one goes home. We see them from a distance, and we can sense Santurce overflowing with that sweet threat that disturbs all the extremely worried and alarmed mothers. From what we can tell, it’s no small matter.
THE GARDEN
Sharon took advantage of the fact that we were washing the dishes to tell me she had been thinking about the day when Willie, my lover, would no longer be w
ith us.
“I can’t stop thinking about him, Nestito. I always see him so down, getting worse and worse, as if he already sensed he’s going to leave us soon.”
It’s true. He felt it ever since that evening he got the results back and put it in his pants pocket, accepting right away his reality. I met him that very night, at a lesbian party in Miramar. When we were introduced I tried to start a conversation with him but after a few minutes he seemed bored; he excused himself and went over to talk to some girls. He ignored me the whole night. He was blond, with muscular arms and a broad chest. A white boy (how I adored and still adore the white boys). I did what I could to attract his attention, laughing loud, talking in a loud voice, and I even passed around the hors d’oeuvres among the guests, and all he did was look at the plate and shake his head no. At one moment I sat alone and put on a sad face to see if he’d take pity on me, but nothing. Until it was time to go and I said I was leaving, as the last bus came at 11:00 pm. He said then:
“Which direction you going in?”
“Parada 20.”
“I’ll take you.”
When we took the elevator down he told me he was positive. He said it as if insinuating that’s why he had ignored me during the party. I thought twice but then said to him that wasn’t a problem.
“I just found out today,” he added, tapping his side pocket and I understood from that gesture that the paper with the results was there.
“What are you going to do?”
“Take you out to dinner,” he said to me.
We’ve been together since that night. Two years, three months, and eleven days. Willie accuses me of being corny for making such a big deal about dates. He says I’m more and more like Sharon, his sister, who lives with us in Santa Rita.
Sharon’s worry had to do with the fact that Willie got it into his head that we should have a New Year’s Eve party to bid farewell to 1989. He wanted a succulent dinner and good wine. He spent days ordering records for me to pick up at Parada 15. It didn’t bother me to go. Before being with Willie I had lived near Sagrado, where I was studying biology I don’t even know why, now. I felt at home in that neighborhood. In Río Piedras I felt afraid. The farmers market that Sharon loved so much terrified me. Too many crazy people on the streets, too many jewelry stores, too many loudspeakers repeating the same thing over and over again. Only in Willie’s house did I feel comfortable.
“I want flowers,” Willie ordered, again: “Calla lilies for him, gardenias for Sharon, and tulips for me. Bring blue candles for Yemayá, as I am her child, like you and Sharon are too … ”
All three of us were Pisces. Willie said his rising sign was Leo, which was why he was the head of the family. Mine was Taurus, hence I was stubborn, and Sharon’s was also Pisces, and that’s why she was a total disaster. Sharon wrote down the menu, which, of course, Willie dictated from his bed.
Everything was ready for the New Year’s Eve party. There were two nights to go. Willie had sent me to Televideo, where Norma, the girl who always waited on him when he was still able to go, had the movie rentals ready that he had ordered by phone. There were two of them: a Mexican melodrama for Sharon and a musical for me, The Sound of Music, my favorite movie of all time. That and Love Story—which Willie hated because it was so corny.
Which was why Sharon shared her worry with me:
“He’s being very accommodating, Nestito, and you know more than anybody how he likes to do things his way. All this is very strange. Willie is going, Nestito. Don’t you leave me, you stay here, since I’ll die soon too and leave you everything,” she said in full recognition that what she was offering me was a great deal, but it was an honest proposal. “You’re young and can get your life going again when Willie is gone, you know. And if you have a boyfriend, that’s fine too.”
We were in the patio, which Sharon and Willie called the “garden,” as in the movies, attesting to their belonging to a family of academics. Their grandfathers and grandmothers had taught at the university. Their parents had had the opportunity to study in Spain and had returned to teach at the Río Piedras campus. Sharon had never taught but worked for years as an assistant to visiting professors. She was fluent in four languages, besides Esperanto, that lingua franca dreamed up by some old Pole, which Willie disowned as a senseless invention of words that did not resonate with any lived experience whatsoever. Willie went to Columbia and returned with a PhD in art history, with a specialization in film studies. Their last name was legendary at the university, as significant as the bell tower itself. They lived in Santa Rita ever since it was built, way before it was divided into shacks with the sole purpose of making money.
The residence had high ceilings, three bathrooms, four bedrooms, and a garage where Sharon would hide to see her lover of more than twenty years.
“I don’t know why they keep it a secret,” Willie always wondered. “I don’t know why she didn’t marry him when Papá died, or why she receives him there.”
Twenty years was a long time to someone like me who was barely twenty-three. It was a long time for anyone.
“They must have gotten used to it,” I’d say, dying from curiosity to see the aforementioned, but Willie had made me promise that no way would I try to inquire into or find out the lover’s identity, that that would be in bad taste, reminding me with this warning of my origins in low cost tract housing.
It was easy to know the nights when the date with the lover was about to take place in the garage. Sharon would suddenly transform herself, act nervously, try in vain to hide, with certain self-absorbed gestures, her anxiety over not yet having what she wanted. Around nine o’clock, if we were in the garden or in Willie’s room, she would always excuse herself with the same phrase:
“I’m retiring for the night.”
“She’s going off to sin,” Willie would say with a mocking tone, imitating a movie star’s voice.
From the garage we’d hear the faint sound of a radio station that played only boleros. Later, after the visitor was gone, Sharon would sit in the garden and smoke, wrapped in a white robe that seemed silvery in the nocturnal light seeping into the patio. I went out to join her. She smiled at me.
“It’s just a little sin,” she said looking at the cigarette.
She invited me to stroll around the garden and I, deliberately, made us walk near the garage. Once there, I lied pretending that I had twisted my ankle and leaned against the garage wall.
“I’m hurt,” I said to her as in a movie. “Please, Sharon, could you go into the garage and bring out something I can lean on like a crutch.”
At that point we heard Willie’s voice calling to us from his room in the back of the house. I got scared and pretended to quickly recover also as in a movie. Sharon offered me her arm to lean on and said to me:
“Never ever go into that garage. Your life would be in danger.”
Hers was not a common warning, like my sister saying, “I’m gonna kill you, you damn brat.” The danger was something else, beyond her.
“Nestito,” she said with her girlish nasal voice, “I’m going to tell you a secret.”
My heart beat faster, anticipating the pleasure of hearing what she was going to say.
“I am the victim of a kidnapping. For the past twenty years a big shot in the underworld has been forcing me to meet with him in that garage. He’s from the mafia,” she admitted, her eyes open wide so that I would see on her face what a big deal it was.
“Kidnapped? For twenty years?” I asked, obviously in disbelief.
“Yes, even though you don’t believe me. One night twenty years ago, without wanting to, I was his. And I say ‘without wanting to’ because I, really, wasn’t myself. He was handsome, like Sydney Poitier, the black actor in the movies. Identical. At first I confused the two of them. One night he came here and we started talking. I said to him, after a while, let’s go to the garage, and out of pure foolishness I surrendered to him. Obviously I told him that was the last time, but he
threatened to tell Papá all about it and to ask for my hand in marriage. I had no choice but to accept when he told me he was in the hampa mafia. Even though he’s not Chinese, he’s from Haiti, but he knows Chinese. He teaches me. I’m going to learn it well so that you and I can talk without Willie finding out what we’re saying. Nesti, don’t say a word of this to anyone. Our lives are in danger.”
I was speechless, but that was her way of explaining her reality. I felt bad for being indiscreet. Perhaps I had taken her too close to being exposed, and being as classy as she is she preferred to step forward on her own and expose herself directly. In her own way, is what I mean.
Willie called again. We went over to where he was.
“Later I’ll tell you more. ‘I love you so much’ in Chinese is ‘chon chuan’ or ‘chon chun.’ Something like that,” she said to me with convincing pronunciation.
The former living room, where there had once been a piano upon which, according to Willie, Sharon used to massacre poor Chopin, we had equipped to avoid climbing stairs ever since he had gotten worse. We placed the bed facing the big window onto the garden, from where he could see the bougainvilleas. The room was lined with books. Willie was a voracious reader. He’d read Hesse the same as he would read Amy Tan. He didn’t let me take them to the bookstores on Ponce de León to sell them and with that buy others that he wanted. There he was with his glasses on to read, with a book in his hands.
The face he had when I met him was submerged in a new face that I could only identify as his by his expressions. He still acted like the handsome being that he had been. He shouted to his sister: