by Ruth Behar
He makes Mami and Papi laugh out loud with all his stories. I’m jealous I can’t be in the living room, so I call out to Mami to bring me the bedpan.
“Mami, can you bring it now?”
I hear Mami explain to Chicho, “It’s our daughter. She’s in bed with a broken leg.”
“Oh no, pobrecita, why didn’t you tell me?” he says. “Can I meet her?”
“Let me bring her the bedpan first. Then you can meet her,” Mami says.
When Mami comes in with the bedpan, I tell her I changed my mind.
“Ruti, don’t do that again,” she snaps at me. “Call me when you really need the bedpan or I won’t bring it to you anymore.”
She leaves the room and I’m afraid she won’t bring Chicho in after that, but a minute later she leads him in.
“She’s been in bed for over four months,” Mami says to him, as if I can’t talk for myself. “The doctor says she’ll have to be in bed another four.” Then she lifts the covers in one swoop. She lets him gaze at the cast on my legs and at the pole between my ankles. I feel like I’m her freak-show daughter.
But Chicho looks me straight in the eyes and I can tell that he commiserates with me. He rubs the corners of his dark eyes and pushes back his thick black hair that stands on end.
“You want to sign my cast?” I ask him.
“Mi amor, could I make a picture for you instead?”
“Please, yes, a picture!” I say eagerly.
“Okay, just a minute, and I’ll get started.”
He runs to his apartment and brings a wooden box filled with paints in many different colors and a few small jars of water.
“This might take a little while,” he says. He smiles and starts arranging the paints and brushes along the edge of my bed.
“No rush, I’m not going anywhere,” I reply.
He glances at me. “Ay corazón, that’s so sad, it’s funny.”
Chicho sits by the edge of my bed. He starts by painting long green vines that sprout pink and purple flowers. They crawl up my left leg and up my right leg.
Izzie comes back up from playing outside and watches as Chicho paints my cast.
“Wow, you’re good!” Izzie says to Chicho.
“Gracias, niño, gracias,” Chicho replies and continues painting.
And then Izzie gets bored standing around and goes outside again.
I don’t get bored. I love watching Chicho paint. He mixes colors and applies them to my cast as if I were a canvas.
“Are you getting tired yet?” I ask Chicho.
“No, mi amor. But I could use another cup of your mother’s delicious Cuban coffee.”
“Okay, I’ll get it for you.” I yell out, “Mami! Chicho wants more coffee!”
“Coming, coming!” Mami responds and brings the coffee to Chicho in one of her tiny porcelain cups.
He enjoys every sip. “Gracias, Señora Rebeca. ¡Qué rico!”
Then Chicho paints delicate butterflies fluttering with lacy wings and tiny birds with long beaks that he says are hummingbirds. After a long while, he puts down his brushes and smiles.
“Now we have to wait for the paint to dry.”
I look down my cast, trying to see everything that Chicho has painted, but since I can’t sit up, it’s hard for me to take it all in.
“Let me bring you a big mirror,” Chicho says. “So you can see better.”
Again he runs back to his apartment and comes back with a full-length mirror that he holds at my feet. In the mirror I see all the details: the vines, the flowers, the butterflies, and the hummingbirds in lots of colors.
“Thank you, Chicho! It’s so beautiful!”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“You paint in a psychedelic way. My teacher is going to love it,” I tell him, and I’m proud of myself for using that grown-up word.
Chicho laughs and his dark eyes twinkle. “It’s the effect of your mother’s Cuban coffee!”
By the time he’s done painting, it’s nighttime. Mami sets the table for dinner, and Papi invites Chicho to stay and eat with them and Izzie. But Chicho says, “Can I eat in the bedroom with Ruti? That will be fun. An indoor picnic!”
Mami brings him dinner on a tray, just like she brings for me. She gives Chicho a huge helping of black beans and a huge mound of white rice and fried steak smothered with fried onions, and an entire plate of sweet fried plantains.
I have to stay on my diet so I won’t burst out of my cast. I only get a little bit of each thing and not even one fried plantain. But as soon as Mami leaves the room, Chicho gives me one of his. “Eat quickly, ándale, niña,” he says.
“Are you an artist, Chicho?” I ask.
“I wanted to be an artist, but my papá wouldn’t let me. He said it wasn’t a good career for a young man. So I became an engineer. I specialize in bridges. But at night, I take out my paints and make pictures. Just for myself.”
“I’d like to make pictures too,” I tell Chicho. “I used to make pictures with chalk on the sidewalk, to decorate my hopscotch. And I was always drawing and painting when we lived in Cuba. But here I don’t have any supplies. They cost too much.”
He squeezes my hand. “Really? Would you like some paints and paper?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I’ll come tomorrow and bring you all the art supplies you need to get started. ¿Está bien, mi amor?”
“Sí, sí!”
“Ándale, pues. Hasta mañana.”
The next day, Chicho returns with paper, paints, and brushes. He also brings along a special easel he made himself, with wood and hinges. Under his arm he carries two very thick pillows.
“Rest your easel on your belly. That’s it, amorcito. Now get close to the paper. With your head supported by these pillows, you won’t strain your neck.”
“This is perfect, Chicho! Gracias, gracias.”
“Ándale, you don’t have to thank me. We’re neighbors and that’s what neighbors are for, to help each other.”
“Can you show me how to paint, Chicho?”
“I can’t show you how to paint, but I can show you how to use the art supplies. This is how you hold the brush, lightly, between your fingers. Then you dip it in the paint. Don’t feel limited by the primary colors. Make up your own colors. Here are a few plastic cups on this tray, so you can mix up the colors. Experiment! See what happens when you mix blue and yellow, red and white.”
I am happy to have the paints and brushes, but I know Mami isn’t going to want to clean up after me. She already has enough to do taking care of the bedpan routine and having to look after me day after day.
Chicho notices the change in my mood. “Why do you look so sad, amorcito? Are you not excited about being an artist anymore?”
“It’s going to be too messy. You know, I won’t be able to clean the brushes.”
“Don’t worry, niñita, I’ll clean the brushes for you. I’ll make sure everything stays neat and tidy. When you’re done, just leave the brushes in this jar. It has a little water in it, so the brushes won’t dry up. I’ll gather them each day and bring them back, ready for you to paint again.”
“Chicho, this is so nice of you.”
“To tell you the truth, I am being a little selfish, mi cielo. I want you to become the artist I couldn’t be.”
“But you still are an artist, Chicho!”
“Only for myself, and maybe that is enough . . .” He smiles and pushes back his hair, standing on end as usual. “Well, mi niña, shall I leave you alone now, so you can paint? Artists need to be quiet so they can hear the stories inside their hearts.”
“Okay, but before you go, can I tell you something, Chicho? It’s important.”
“Tell me. Do you want to whisper it in my ear?”
“Yes.”
Chicho co
mes closer and brings his face next to mine.
“Tell me. I am ready.”
“The apartment where you live, a family from India used to live there. The mother liked sandalwood incense and the father was always working. And there were two boys. One is named Ramu and he was my friend in school. The other boy, his younger brother, was named Avik. Poor little Avik.”
I start to cry, but quietly, in the way I’ve learned to cry since the accident.
“Ay no. ¿Qué pasó, mi niña?”
“Little Avik . . . He was playing by the window. He fell and he died.”
“How terrible, terrible.”
“And Ramu went back to India with his mother and father. He says they’ll never come back to America . . .”
“Ay no, and he was your friend?”
“He was a friend from when we were both in the dumb class. We were in the dumb class just because we didn’t know English.”
“How unfair.”
“And Ramu gave me this necklace before he left. See? It’s the god Shiva, the dancing god. Ramu told me he’s very powerful.”
“How beautiful of Ramu to give it to you as a souvenir.”
“Chicho!! How did you know to say that word ‘souvenir’? That’s the word Ramu had to be able to spell to get out of the dumb class! And I had to spell the word ‘commiserate.’”
“What wonderful words! Life is full of surprises. Our paths cross in the most unexpected ways. It’s all very mysterious.”
“But, Chicho, why did Avik have to die? He was a good boy.”
“No one can answer that question, mi niña. Some of us come here as shooting stars, to shine brightly for only the briefest moment, and others of us come and overstay our welcome, living to a ripe old age and forgetting our own names.”
I don’t want to be sad any longer. I reach for the brush and the paints.
“Okay, what should I paint, Chicho?”
“I have an idea, mi niña. Will you make a picture of Avik for me? You see, I have an altar in my apartment. It’s a Mexican tradition to have an altar with flowers and candles and pictures of your ancestors and of people who have died whose souls need to find peace and tranquility. Make me a picture of Avik and I will add it to my altar. I will dedicate a special candle to him, to Avik, the little boy who lived in my house before I arrived, and I will burn sandalwood incense for him too. That way we’ll never forget him.”
“Chicho, I will make a picture of Avik for you right now.”
I set the paper on the easel and get to work. It doesn’t take too long before Avik appears, with his wide brown eyes, holding the wind-up elephant in both hands, so it won’t get lost. I look at the picture for a moment before I pass it to Chicho and realize one thing is missing. He needs wings. So I give Avik some wings. That way he can fly as much as he wants in heaven.
Frida, the guardian angel of wounded artists
Now I paint every day.
I make pictures of myself in bed in the cast. I make the cast look different in each picture. I am an Egyptian mummy in one picture. In another picture, I give myself a fish tail like a mermaid. I make a picture where Mami stands next to me with the bedpan. I make a picture of Izzie eating chocolate chip cookies as the tears pour down my face. I make a picture of Papi gathering me in his arms after the accident, my broken leg dangling, and the Oldsmobile bursting into flames behind us. There’s a picture of Baba sitting next to my bed and singing to me and I am smiling. I even make a picture of Zeide holding up a bottle of prune juice as if it were a trophy (ever since that day, I drink a little prune juice every morning, and Zeide was right, it tastes pretty good once you get used to it).
I make a picture of Joy to welcome her back when summer vacation is over. I paint her in her bell-bottom pants and puffy-sleeved blouse with a halo of flowers and a pink peace sign in her hands.
“Thank you, thank you, Ruthie!” she exclaims. “That is the most beautiful portrait anyone has ever made of me.”
“I’m glad you like it, Joy. It’s yours to keep.”
“I will treasure it, Ruthie.”
Again I feel so thankful to have Joy as my teacher. But then I can’t help it, I suddenly feel like I want to cry.
“You are the best teacher in the world. But, Joy, I don’t know—”
“What’s the matter, Ruthie?”
“It’s a whole new school year and I miss going to school. I miss not being with other kids. How will I ever catch up with everyone?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I know it’s difficult being out of school, but believe me, you will be fine one day, and then you will go back to being a regular kid.”
“But I’ve forgotten how to be a regular kid. I don’t know what it’s like to be free to be able to walk to school and play outside. I’m like a turtle now, stuck in its shell.”
“Don’t you worry,” Joy says. “A leg doesn’t stay broken forever. Everything will come naturally as soon as you are healed.”
“I hope that is true,” I tell Joy. “I wish I were as brave as my grandmother, my baba. She had to leave everything behind and took a ship and crossed the ocean all by herself. Baba landed in Cuba and met my grandfather, my zeide, and worked to bring the whole family to Cuba before Hitler could hurt them. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Yes, Ruthie. Very amazing! Your grandmother would have gotten along well with Emma Lazarus. She was also a brave woman.”
“Who’s she?”
“She was a writer and a poet. She wrote a poem that is engraved on the Statue of Liberty that says, ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’”
Joy tells me that Emma Lazarus came from a Jewish family, and that her ancestors were immigrants from many places, and they too lost countries more than once, like in my family.
“Maybe because her family moved around so much, Emma Lazarus fought for the rights of immigrants. She also fought for religious freedom. Even though she herself wasn’t religious. She felt God was in the earth we stand upon, in the trees that give us shade, in the goodness in our hearts.”
“So, Joy, it’s okay that even though I’m Jewish, I sometimes pray to other gods?” I ask her.
“That’s all right, Ruthie. We have freedom of belief here in America. And freedom of expression too.”
“I know. My father is always saying this is a glorious country because it’s a free country.”
“And we have to keep working to make sure it’s free for everyone. But freedom can mean many different things. That’s your homework—I want you to think about what freedom means to you, Ruthie, and then in our next class we’ll have a debate so you can consider all the arguments and why they are significant.”
I love how Joy talks to me like I’m a grown-up. It’s overwhelming sometimes, but she makes me think about important things I would never think about, and then I don’t feel so bad that I’m stuck in bed and can’t go to school like all the regular kids.
Chicho makes me think big, interesting thoughts too. Every night after work he visits me and looks at the pictures I’ve painted.
“This is good. And this is good too. And this one, how beautiful!”
“Chicho, aren’t there any pictures you don’t like?”
“What can I do? I adore them all!” he says. “You remind me of a great Mexican artist. Like you, she was in bed a long time and couldn’t walk. She was in pain always, but she didn’t become her pain. She still made pictures. Her name was Frida Kahlo.”
He shows me some pictures in a Mexican magazine. Frida Kahlo has thick black eyebrows and eyes that can see into your heart.
“Frida turned herself into the subject of her paintings. She made self-portraits.”
One picture shows a column running from Frida’s chin down to her waist. The column is broken and sits in a river of blood. She has white straps encircling her
belly and binding her above and below her chest. That’s the tape that holds her together and keeps her from falling to pieces.
“Frida broke her back in a bus accident,” Chicho explains. “Before that, she had polio. Her right leg was shorter than her left. She wore long skirts to cover her legs. Eventually they had to amputate her right leg.”
“Amputate? What does that mean, Chicho?”
“The leg became infected. The doctors had to cut it off to save her life.”
I can’t help gasping when he says that. I tell Chicho, “I hope the doctor won’t have to cut off my leg.”
Chicho reassures me, “Don’t worry, mi cielo, you’ll be fine. Frida lived in Mexico a long time ago. We are in America. Medicine is very advanced here.”
I know he says that to make me feel better. But I might grow up to be like Frida, one leg shorter than the other. Maybe I’ll lose my leg too and I’ll wear long skirts. But I’ll keep making pictures . . .
Will that make me happy?
Suddenly I change my mind about wanting to be like Frida. I push away the pile of paintings I’ve just shown to Chicho.
“What’s wrong?” Chicho asks.
“Chicho, I want to be an artist, but I also want to be a normal girl. I want to run around and play and go to the bathroom by myself.”
“I know, mi cielo. Don’t despair. Hay más tiempo que vida.”
“What does that mean—‘there’s more time than life’? I don’t get it.”
“You have to be patient. Your time will come. Meanwhile, keep making pictures. Frida is gazing at you from the sky and she’s happy you’re drawing in bed, just like she used to do. She wants you to get well. She knows you are resilient too. Whenever you feel sad, remember you’re not alone. Frida is there to help you. Frida is the guardian angel of all wounded artists and she’ll always be with you.”