This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

  “Hey kid, you all right?”

  A man’s voice, one I recognize but can’t name. I turn to see our landlord strolling down the sidewalk. He’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans even though it’s eighty degrees out, which makes him stand out more than the color of his skin. Snowman, a fitting name.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” I try to walk around him, but he follows me up the driveway.

  “Hey,” he calls after me. “You ever see that kid that got shot?”

  I stop walking and turn to face him, wondering how he even knows about César.

  “You know, that Martinez kid?”

  He gestures with the bag in his hand. It’s from Circuit City. If the gods were kind it would be my birthday present.

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  He steps toward me. “How’s he doing? I heard he was lucky to still be alive.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I say, nodding my head for emphasis.

  He looks at me like he wants me to say more.

  “He’s the same. They’re still waiting for him to wake up.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He wraps the bag around his hand, cutting off his circulation. I didn’t think his skin could get any whiter, but it does.

  “Sometimes it’s worse when they wake up,” he says. “If they find out they can’t walk or whatever.”

  I try to think of something to say to get this guy to leave. Then he hands me the bag.

  “Give him this, will you? When he wakes up.” He steps back from me. “If.”

  I look into the bag. There’s a Sony Discman and a bunch of CDs. Prince and Janet Jackson are the only covers I can see through the plastic.

  “Okay.”

  He reaches into his pocket. “And these. I almost forgot.” He hands me a package of batteries. Kind of makes me wish I was in the hospital.

  “Thanks, kid,” he says. “Appreciate it.”

  I nod and walk into the house. The apartment is hot and stuffy, and it smells like old furniture. I hang the Circuit City bag on the back of the bedroom door. Even if I do give it to him, it’s not gonna be on my birthday. I take off the dress I was wearing and change into an old T-shirt and shorts I’ve had for the last three summers. They’re small, but they still fit good enough to wear. I throw the pumps into the back of the closet and swear I will never wear them again. My braids make me feel pretty so I leave them in. I pretend they are gifts and wrap each end with a purple bow.

  I hear laughter and the annoying jingle of the ice cream truck as it comes down the street. From the window I can see half the neighborhood run outside and chase it down. A girl and her sister run hand-in-hand down the street, jumping over the pothole we use as a sandbox. There is a part of me that wants to join them, to play in the sun and eat ice cream and laugh. But the bigger part, the one I listen to when I can’t hear anything else, tells me to climb into my bed with my book and read in the half-dark, while the rest of the city is lit up like a birthday cake. Not that I’ve seen one of those in a while. But I still remember what one looks like.

  When Cristo gets home he comes into the room without knocking. He stops short when he sees me, obviously startled. He holds his hand over his heart just like our mother used to do.

  “Luz, what the fuck? I thought you were going with Trini today.”

  I keep reading my book. “I didn’t feel like it.”

  “So you’re gonna stay home? On your birthday?”

  “I don’t even like Scottie, or his sister. And I don’t like Waterfire. Who wants to sit around staring at burning logs all night?”

  Cristo shrugs. “Teacher says it’s cool. Like being in church, only you get to listen to music instead of some old guy preaching.” He kicks off his sneakers and throws them into the closet.

  “Church on a Saturday night? No thank you, very much.” I hide my face so he can’t tell I’m lying. Miss March, the librarian, goes all the time and she says the best part is the smell, like the whole city is roasting marshmallows in front of a campfire. The only fire I’ve ever seen was when an old carpet factory burned down on Cranston Avenue, and that smelled like chemicals and death.

  He points to the Circuit City bag. “What’s that? Scottie get you a present?”

  “Please. He never remembered our birthdays when we still lived together.” I jump down from my bed and try to snatch the bag from him, but he holds it away from me and peaks inside.

  “Damn, a Discman? Who’s it from?”

  I hesitate. “Snowman.” I walk into the kitchen, hoping he forgets about it.

  “Shit. I wish it was my birthday,” he calls out from the bedroom.

  The fridge is empty except for some old take-out containers and a few bottles of root beer. I drink the soda and find some peanut butter crackers in the cupboard. I remind myself that when her shift is over, Lucho will bring us something to eat. Sometimes she forgets to come home, but whenever she shows up, she never forgets to bring food. That, if nothing else, can be counted on.

  Miss Valentín comes by at seven to take Cristo to the movies. I’ve heard of Big Brother or Big Sister programs, but I’ve never heard of a Big Teacher program. What teacher would want to spend this much time with a student, especially in the summer? And what’s so great about my brother anyway? You’d think she’d have her own family to hang out with.

  A few minutes after he leaves, while the TV is still warming up and there isn’t even a picture yet, Cristo walks back in the house.

  “Hurry up,” he says, slapping the knob to turn the TV off. “And grab your coat, you know how cold the Showcase gets.” He picks a sweatshirt up off the floor. “Here, wear mine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re gonna miss the previews if you don’t get off your ass.” He hands me the sweatshirt. “Let’s go.”

  I get off the couch slowly. “You sure? I can come?”

  He nods and gestures with his hands. “Vamos, vamos. God, why are girls so slow?” He grabs me by the hand and tries to pull me out the door. I jerk my hand free.

  “Why are boys so pushy?”

  He glares at me and I give him a fake smile, tying the sweatshirt around my waist. I know he’s only being nice to me because it’s my birthday and there’s no one else around who gives a damn. But still, it’s pretty nice of him to drag me along. A few months ago he would’ve left me here without thinking twice, but ever since César got shot he’s afraid to leave me home alone. I guess having one of your friends almost die can make you nicer to your sister.

  I say, “Thanks,” as we walk to the car but I don’t think he can hear me over the sound of an ambulance speeding by. Cristo stares after it, like he’s checking to see if it’s someone we know.

  The movie Miss Valentín takes us to is a cartoon about this Japanese girl who pretends she’s a boy to get into the army and protect her family. It’s pretty good but not very realistic. I don’t know any girl who cares more about her family than she does about herself. But it’s nice to be out of the heat and in a room full of people, even if they’re all strangers. We don’t usually get to go to the movies because my mother doesn’t like big crowds. I like them because you can sit in the dark and forget who you are for a few hours. People think I read a lot because I want to be smart but really it’s because I like to forget who I am. The more I read, the longer I can pretend to be somebody else.

  When I was little, Cristo used to let me sit on his lap for the whole show. He even let me hold the popcorn. Now he holds the bucket on his lap and doesn’t even look over. Every time I take a handful I sneak a look at his face. In the daylight, he never lets me study him like this. A lot of girls think he’s handsome, but I think he’s too thin, and he has these deep circles under his eyes, just like my mother. His eyes are so green they almost look fake, like the contacts dark-skinned women wear so people will notice them. When he laughs I can see his teeth; half are capped in silver thanks to the milk rot that ruined his smile, and they shimmer like
he’s chewing on coins. He looks so young in the dark, and happy, like a little kid. Like how he used to look.

  He probably never thinks about it, but I remember the exact day when Cristo stopped looking like a little kid. It was a few years ago, when Scottie locked us in our bedroom all day. He had worked a night shift and just wanted to come home and go to sleep, but my mother said she had to go out and he had to watch us. We were all pretty little, Trini wasn’t even walking, and they weren’t leaving us alone yet. After my mother left Scottie was sitting on the couch falling asleep and we were running all over the place. Finally he said, “Fuck this,” and told us to go to our room. Cristo tried to run but Scottie picked him up by the shorts and tossed him into the room. When he tried to sneak out between Scottie’s legs, he slapped Cristo across the face.

  Once we were all inside he locked the door from the outside with a bike lock. He told us what he was doing and said if we tried to jump out the window he’d beat us all the way back to Puerto Rico. It was summer and it was hot in that room, so hot that it felt like the oven was on. Trini wouldn’t stop crying, even when I took off my shirt to fan her with it. After a while Cristo started banging on the door, saying he had to use the bathroom, but Scottie just yelled for him to shut up and piss out the window. Cristo pounded on the door and said that he couldn’t, that it was more than that. Chips of paint started to peel off the door where he was hitting it, and the wood began to splinter under his hand. But Scottie didn’t come back. Finally Cristo gave up, and he shut himself in the closet and went to the bathroom on the carpeted floor. I watched Trini pick a paint chip off the ground and put it into her mouth, and even though I shouldn’t have, I let her keep it since it was the only thing that got her to stop crying.

  I didn’t have a book to read, so I picked up a pencil, and when I couldn’t find any paper, I wrote on the wall. Not a story, I just wrote my name over and over again, scratching letters into the white paint like I was holding a knife. After, I moved the dresser in front of it so I wouldn’t have to clean it off, but also because I wanted someone to read it years later and know that I had been there. That I was alive.

  When Cristo came out of the closet he didn’t say anything and he didn’t look at me. He closed the closet door and sat on the floor in front of it. It must have been a hundred degrees in that room but he wrapped his arms around his knees like he was cold. Eventually we all fell asleep, even though it was the middle of the day, and when Scottie opened the door the whole place was dark and the sun had set. I know because I woke up early and watched it set from the window, wondering how I could see anything so pretty on this side of town.

  When Scottie figured out what Cristo did he got all pissed again and forced him to clean it up. Cristo didn’t say anything, didn’t even fight him, he just got the pail from under the sink and an old rag and went to work scrubbing the carpet. Since Trini was still asleep I helped him, working until our knuckles were raw from rug-burn and it was as clean as it was before, which was really not that clean. Then Scottie made him hand wash his underwear and put them back on.

  After that Cristo didn’t really talk to me that much and he started playing with older kids in other houses. He stopped giving me rides on his handlebars and he forgot to save me the gum from his Blow Pops. I used to think he stopped loving me after that day, but now I think he stopped loving himself.

  After the movie Miss Valentín takes us to Newport Creamery for dessert. We order an ice cream cake in the shape of a whale and they sing “Happy Birthday” to me twice, once in English and once in Spanish. The other people in the restaurant think we’re crazy but I don’t care because sometimes it feels good to do what you want and not worry about other people. Before I blow out the candles I wish for César to wake up and for my mother to come home soon and for Cristo to be able to sleep through the night and for Trini to never know what it feels like to be forgotten.

  I don’t make a wish for myself.

  SHE SEES the girl lying in a darkened room. Sunlight shines in from the edge of a drawn curtain. The girl can’t sleep. She no longer trusts the darkness. She’s not safe in this house without her mother. Now it is a house of men: her brothers, her father, the farmer who owns all this land. Even the house they live in. The girl wonders what else he owns. A man crosses the room, his face hidden from view. There is a faint smell of cigarettes and fried pork. The scent of a man who works long hours in a field. The farmer sits down next to her on the bed. He fixes the bow on her dress. Her dress is too small. She closes her eyes. The last thing she sees is her feet on the bed. How small they look, like they belong to a doll. He touches her leg. The girl flinches, as if he had just hit her across the face. The next time he touches her, she doesn’t move.

  Arcelia

  Sometime in July one of the counselors tells me I been clean for forty-five days. I ask her if it still counts, since it’s not by choice. She laughs and says being sober is always a choice, even in prison.

  I thought it might be different, but prison’s just like the streets. You’ve got your good spots and your bad, your cops and your criminals, your teachers and your preachers. You’ve got your addicts and your angels, your doctors and your lawyers, your enemies and your best friends. If you know the right people you can get anything in here—drugs, sex, movies, or jewelry. Hell, they’ll even give you medicine. That’s the real difference between prison and the streets—in here the medicine is free.

  They put me on something called AZT about a month ago, and a few other drugs I can’t pronounce. They’re supposed to help my body fight the HIV. They said I don’t have AIDS yet, just HIV, but I still don’t get the difference. If they both make you sick, what’s it matter what you call it? They told me there’s a Spanish-speaking nurse who works overnights and I can sit down with her sometime if I got anymore questions.

  When the social worker told me I had it, she asked if I was surprised. I said no, ’cause all those pamphlets they gave me made it seem like I was a perfect match. All I wanted to know was if I’m gonna die. When she said not now I figure that’s a good enough answer. Then the nurse came in and started talking about something called my T-cell count, saying how it was 220 and I was on the verge of pneumonia and how I had to get that number up to at least 500. I guess it’s like baseball—the good hitters are in the three or four hundreds, but you know you’re a superstar if you’re batting better than 500. She asked if I had other problems and I told her I get yeast infections all the time. She said that was probably from the virus, too, so now I’m thinking I can blame the HIV for everything—like being broke, shooting dope, and getting locked up for almost a year.

  As soon as I start taking the medicine I have to stand in the med line every morning, instead of going to the rec room after breakfast with all the regular girls. They try to keep it private but all my pills are such crazy colors that any idiot would know I’m not taking Vitamin C. They call it a cocktail, but it don’t look like any mixed drink I ever seen. And I used to get drunk in some fucked-up bars. The worst thing about it is it makes me have to go to the bathroom all the time. It’s real loose, almost like diarrhea and sometimes it burns like I been eating nothing but Chinese food for a week. And bottom line—I’m just not used to shitting that much. Thanks to the dope I was only going a few times a month. I guess I never knew how much money I was saving on toilet paper.

  I see the nurses every day, but once a week the doctor comes out here from some big hospital in Providence to check out my blood and see how my body’s reacting to the drugs. I ain’t seen a doctor this much since I was pregnant—and I missed at least half those appointments. I think a few other girls got it, too, ’cause their pills look pretty much the same as mine and sometimes we fight over the bathroom. We don’t talk about it, though. Nobody in here talks about anything they don’t have to. One time the counselor asked me if I wanted to go to a support group for women with HIV and I said only if they can cure me. What’s the use in talking is how I see it. The damage has already
been done.

  The first people to come visit me here are my cousin Chino and his girlfriend, Kim. Kim’s all right—for a white chick with big hair and a Cranston accent—but she’s one of those people who always hints at things and never just says what’s on her mind. Chino is like a brother to me. He took me in when I showed up in New York with nothing but a baby and a duffel bag and the dream of raising my kids in America.

  We sit at a small table in the visitor’s room—Chino and Kim next to each other, me on the other side. They bring me arroz con gandules and chuletas but the guards take it all at the door, pointing to the sign that says: NO FOOD ALLOWED. The only thing they let them bring in is a calendar with pictures of sunsets from all over the world and a light-blue hooded sweatshirt that says “Little Rhody.” I’m happy to have something warm since nights get pretty cold in this building, and everybody always says I look good in blue. At first I think there’s something wrong with it ’cause it smells weird but then I realize that’s just the smell of something new. I’m a grown woman, but I’m still not used to having anything someone else didn’t have before me.

  Kim talks non-stop—about the weather and her job and how being inside here isn’t as bad as it seems from the outside. I want to say, “Try sleeping here,” but I stop myself. When I ask about my kids Kim finally gets quiet. Chino looks at her before he answers me.

  “They’re all right, they’re fine.” He shrugs. “They’re kids, they’ll bounce back.”

  “How’s Cristo doing with everything?” For some reason, he’s the one I really worry about.

  “He’s fine, Arcelia, he’s the same.”

  “And the girls?”

  “Everybody’s good. Lucho, too.”

  Hearing her name is like a punch in the chest. “How’s she doing?” I cross my arms like I’m hugging myself. “I mean, how are things going?”