Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  “No, I’m in the car on my way downtown.”

  “For what?”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  “I’ll tell you when we get to your place.”

  “I told you I’m not going home.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “To an appointment.”

  “An appointment for what?”

  Now it’s my turn to say, “Okay, how old are we?”

  “Look, Michelle, whatever the hell you’ve got planned, cancel it.”

  I almost run a stop sign. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I mean, I can’t.” I turn onto the entrance ramp of the expressway. “Take me off the speaker, please.”

  Jennifer pauses, debating for a hot second whether to challenge me. “Wait a minute.” Eventually, she returns. “Hello?” Her voice loses that tunnel quality, and the kids sound fainter. “This is an emergency, Michelle. What are you doing that’s so important that you can’t give me a hand here?” I’m a bit peeved that she’s doing this at all, let alone in front of the kids, especially since I know that my sister knows better. She’s the queen arbiter of appropriateness. Then in a strangled whisper, Jennifer says, “I mean, not only did this whole thing start as a favor to you, it went to hell when your research didn’t include the bill Cuevas introduced to rename the damned park.”

  I have no idea what bill she’s talking about, but I’m pissed enough at the suggestion that this is my fault. Since I know that the kids can’t hear me, I say, “This lobbying thing was your idea. I told you I had a bad feeling about it, but you’re the Puerto Rican Hillary Clinton, remember. I have an appointment, and you’re the Mentor Extraordinaire, so you handle this on your own.”

  Just as I hang up on my sister, I swear I see her BMW speed by me on the opposite side of the expressway on the way to my house.

  Chapter 6

  Even though Michelle hangs up on me—which she’s been doing too freakin’ much lately—I still expect her to be home when I get there. Sometimes my sister talks shit to me for no other reason, I think, than to remind me that she’s older than me. But then guilt, sisterly duty, or whatever kicks in, and Michelle eventually tows the line. Of course, she will this time because if I hadn’t done this Power Lunch thing for her, I never would have met these kids, let alone be in this situation.

  When we arrive at the house, no one answers. I use my key to open the gate, and the kids and I wait on the porch. Sure, I can let us into the house—after all, I grew up here, too—but I don’t want to overstep my boundaries. As it is, Michelle is going to be pissed to cancel her appointment and come home. I don’t want to “OD” by not treating the place as if it weren’t her personal space.

  But fifteen minutes come and go, and Cindi sniffles. “I gotta use the bathroom.”

  I figure what the hell. On top of the hellish experience she had at her first attempt at being a citizen advocate, I can’t let the child suffer from a strained bladder. I open the front door. I say to Cindi, “The bathroom’s right down the hall and to your right, sweetie.”

  “Ms. Saez’s house is nice,” says Echo.

  Christian asks, “She lets you have a key to her house?”

  “Actually, this is our parents’ house. When my parents retired to Puerto Rico, she took it over.”

  “Oh, you don’t live here with her?” asks Echo.

  “No, I own an apartment in Manhattan.” Even though I’m peeved at Michelle for not returning home, I refrain from telling the children that she never left this place. It’d probably embarrass her for them to know that.

  Echo asks, “How come y’all don’t live together?”

  “Damn, stop being so nosy,” says Christian. “Just ’cause they’re practically twins doesn’t mean they should be attached at the hip and shit. You see they don’t really get along.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “I went away to college, and Michelle stayed here, so…” When I returned to the city after graduating from college to attend Columbia Law School, it never occurred to me to move back home. Were it not for the fellowships I won, I would have graduated with too much debt to live on my own, never mind buy the co-op. And just because Michelle and I don’t hate each other is no call to revert back to childhood living arrangements.

  Before I can say anything more, Echo swats the brim of Christian’s baseball cap and almost knocks it off his head. “I swear, Christian, you don’t even want to start with me. I can ask Ms. Saez whatever I want, and if she don’t wanna answer, she don’t have to. She knows it’s not gonna bother me none. You just take care of Cindi, okay?” Then Echo turns back to me. “You told us all about law school, Ms. Saez, but you ain’t tell us where you went to college.”

  “I went to Princeton,” I answer. “In New Jersey.”

  “Daaamn, Miss Saez. That’s one of them—what they call ’em—Ivy League schools, right? The tuition’s mad high, they’re like real hard to get into and, like, mostly white people go there, right?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you can say that.” Funny, I’ve always been proud of my Princeton education, but not quite like this.

  Cindi returns from the bathroom, carrying Michelle’s new kitten Cleopatra. Her face is dry, but her eyes and nose are red. I catch Echo elbow Christian in the side. He walks toward Cindi with his arms outstretched, and she places her head against his chest. I like him for doing this, but I like Echo even more for making him do it. The girl has him well-trained, and he’s not even her boyfriend. If anything, Echo’s whipping the guy into shape only for him to wind up with her best friend; I feel a twinge of sadness for her.

  Needing no sympathy from me, Echo says, “I’m thirsty,” and it’s clear she expects me to offer her something to drink.

  “Go find the refrigerator,” I say. I have come to adore Echo, but there can only be one queen in every hive.

  And with neither hesitation nor attitude, Echo walks out of the living room into the kitchen. She says, “If y’all want something, too, you better come ’cause I ain’t your housekeeper.” We follow her into the kitchen. I get some glasses while Echo pulls out a pitcher of homemade limeade.

  “You guys, I’m really sorry about what just happened,” I say. “I had no idea Cuevas would be such an asshole.” Maybe I shouldn’t be using this kind of language with them, but I’m only calling it as they already witnessed it for themselves. Besides, Michelle’s not there.

  “It’s okay, Ms. Saez,” Cindi finally says. After taking a long sip, she lets Cleopatra lick a drop of limeade off her fingertip. “It’s not like you knew how he was gonna be.”

  “Please call me Jen,” I say. “After what we’ve been through together, you’ve earned that. And know that most politicians are usually more…political.”

  “How does a guy like that stay in office?” asks Christian. “I mean, no way we’re the first people he’s treated that way. And if Cuevas is like that with the people who can vote for or against him, imagine how he is with people he has any control over. Like the people who have to work for him.”

  Cindi sniffs. “Poor Ryan.”

  “What you mean poor Ryan?”

  Echo shoots Christian a look that screams Shut up! She asks, “Jen, is it true all the things he said?”

  “I didn’t even understand half of what he said,” says Cindi.

  “Unfortunately, it is. Electoral politics is a very complicated thing with many shades of gray. Cuevas probably did lose a committee chair position because he stood up to the speaker of the City Council,” I say. “But don’t feel too sorry for him. He probably made an additional ten grand per year for chairing that committee. And you’ve seen his record. Cuevas didn’t really do anything meaningful with that power. He’s only upset because his pay was cut.”

  “How much does a councilperson make?” asks Echo.

  “As of now? About ninety thousand dollars each year.”

  “What?” asks Christian.
“I wanna be on the City Council.”

  Cindi says, “Me, too.”

  I laugh and say, “And that’s for what’s theoretically a part-time job.”

  “For real?”

  “Many council members have other jobs or businesses. Many are lawyers, like I am, who have their own practice. And some are the executive directors of nonprofits that they founded,” I explain. “But if you ask me, a really good councilperson should treat it as a full-time job. With that kind of salary and with so many people counting on you, there’s plenty of work to do and more than enough money for you to devote yourself to it.”

  “You would make a great councilwoman, Jen,” Echo says. “You should run against that fool Cuevas. I’d vote for you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Me, too.”

  I smile and say, “Too bad for me you can’t.”

  “But my mother can,” says Echo. “My brother can. Mi tio, mi abuela, mi madrina, I would get all of them to vote you. Shoo, I can make my whole block vote for you.”

  And Echo being the sparkplug she is, I believe her.

  Chapter 7

  As Greg launches into a complex lending formula, I realize what a mistake it was to invite him. I watch as he bores the five kids I manage to drag off MySpace to attend this week’s Power Lunch. Two boys are asleep, the third is staring out the window, and the two girls are passing each other notes. Since I forced them to participate, I have no right to demand they pay attention.

  And Greg. What was I thinking inviting him to present to the kids? I barely know him. I thought it’d be a good opportunity to solidify our relationship to make him do this. He followed my instructions to the letter so the fault is all mine. The bizarre thing is that Greg would be a hit in a roomful of adults. He defines acceleration clauses and loan-to-value ratios with confidence and clarity. He wears the navy pinstripe suit and parts his hair on the opposite side just like I insisted. Every so often he cracks a joke that would floor anyone who knows what it’s like to scrape together enough money to pay a real bill—a car note, school tuition, rent. The biggest expense these kids have, however, is refilling the pay-as-you-go accounts they opened for cellular phone service, so Greg’s jokes sail over their heads.

  And where’s Echo? And Cindi and Christian? Why aren’t they here? Since it’s the middle of the workday, they can’t be with Jennifer. Are they upset with me for not coming home after the Cuevas fiasco? I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Admit it, Michelle, you deserve the cold shoulder. You didn’t come home when they needed you because you wanted to punish them for choosing Jennifer over you.

  Even though we have an hour left in the seminar, I signal Greg to wrap it up. He stops dead in the middle of his explanation of escrow and says, “And that concludes my presentation.” Then he says not another word.

  The girls who were passing notes notice that he’s stopped speaking. Believing that he’s resorted to that old teacher’s trick of halting the lecture until the side conversations cease, they turn away from each other, lean back in their seats and fix their eyes on the front of the room. Not a peep from Greg, and they start to exchange scared looks.

  I ask, “Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Adler?” One of the boys lets out a vicious snore, and the two girls giggle. “Then that concludes today’s Power Lunch.”

  As one girl jostles the boys awake, the other checks her watch. “For real?” she asks me.

  “Yes, please show Mr. Adler your appreciation and enjoy the rest of your day.” The kids weakly applaud Greg and then jump out of their seats and race for the door, grabbing one last slice of cold pizza or a handful of pretzel nuggets on the way. I avoid Greg’s gaze and begin to clean the room.

  He slowly makes his way to me. “How did I do?” His eyes blink with desperation for my approval.

  You were great, I think. It’s not your fault that you were overly prepared because I told you that you couldn’t be too specific. You bored them to death, and I’m the one to blame because even though you’re confident, charming, and accessible, you just weren’t the right speaker for this crowd. I’m so sorry I twisted your arm into coming here.

  Stop it, Michelle. Remember your training. You are never wrong.

  I turn to Greg, look him in the eye and say, “I’m very disappointed in your presentation.”

  “But I did exactly as you asked me.” Although he sounds confused, Greg’s eyes flutter with excitement. “I followed your—”

  “No backtalk!” I shout. “You were barely adequate.” Okay, that was pathetic, Michelle. I really need to work on this. I’m supposed to humiliate him, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Even though this is exactly what Greg wants me to do, it’s still hard for me let him have it. How do I salvage this scene?

  I look at the wastebasket in my hand and shove it toward him. “Clean this mess,” I say. “The utility closet is over there, and you’ll find everything you need to sweep and mop this floor after you’ve cleared out this garbage.” Good, Michelle, good! I never mop the floor. The library has a custodian who does that.

  Even though Greg immediately takes the wastebasket from me, he says, “But I have to be back in my office for a—”

  “That is of no concern to me,” I say. “And if it’s of no concern to me, it’s of no concern to you, Gregory. You will return to your office if and when I grant you the permission to return to your office. Now clean this mess.”

  Greg hurries to remove his jacket and drape it across a seat. Then he rushes to toss stray cups and crumpled napkins into the wastebasket. As I watch him, I realize that I’m really doing this. I’m dominating him, and we’re not even at the club! Queen Josephine and Lady Lash were right. Damn, this feels so good!

  As I make my way to the door, I say, “You are to stay in here with the door locked until this room is spotless.” I mean, I can’t have Elaine walk in on my guest speaker mopping the floor. “This evening you are to report to the club at exactly eight-twenty for your punishment. Don’t you dare be late and force me to make it worse than it’s already going to be. Do I make myself clear, Gregory?”

  “Yes, Madame Michelina.”

  What a rush! I let myself out of the room, locking the door behind me. Now that Greg can no longer see me, I dance a jig in the hallway. Then my groove is disrupted by the last voice I expect to hear at the library in the middle of the day.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Jennifer! What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you at work?”

  My sister moves for the knob on the conference room door. “Let’s go in here and I’ll tell you everything.” She tries the knob but it doesn’t turn.

  I grab her arm and say, “We can’t go in there. It’s locked.”

  “I can see that.”

  “The floor’s wet,” I say as I pull her down the hallway toward my office. “I just finished mopping in there.”

  “Oh.”

  We reach my office and, thanks to God, Elaine is out to lunch. I sit down, but Jennifer remains standing. She comes here unannounced in the middle of the workday, and now she won’t sit down. This is big. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve decided to run for City Council.”

  “Jen, that’s great!” It was only a matter of time before my sister would do something like this. I think she’d make a fantastic representative, or, at the very least an effective politician. “Wow, isn’t the deadline for the primary right around the corner?”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of work to do,” says Jennifer. “I’m really going to need your support.”

  “Absolutely.” I reach into my bottom desk drawer, pull out my pocketbook and search for my checkbook. “What’s the maximum contribution I can make?”

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to do that….” she says.

  Yeah, right. “I’m your sister. I should be the first to do it. C’mon, what’s the max?”

  Jennifer squints at me through her eyeglasses. “Three thousand.” I scribble out the check, tea
r it out of the book and hand it to her. She stares at it. “Can you really afford this, ’Chelle?”

  “I wouldn’t offer it if I couldn’t,” I say. I stand up and open my arms. “I can’t believe it! My sister, member of the City Council!” Jennifer gives a little shriek and jumps into my arms. As we hug, I say, “Councilwoman Jennifer Saez, representing the eighth district of Manhattan.”

  My sister pulls away from me and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Actually, I’m not running in East Harlem. I’m going up against Cuevas for his seat right here. The eighteenth district.”

  “You what?”

  “I mean, between having grown up here and the research you just did to help us prepare for the lobbying visit, I know this community so much more intimately than where I currently live. Besides, I haven’t lived in El Barrio that long at all.” For a minute Jennifer sounds like she’s rehearsing her response to a question posed by a debate moderator rather than speaking to her own sister. “I’ve been so busy at the firm, I really haven’t gotten involved in East Harlem politics, so it’s much more strategic for me to move back to Soundview and run here.”

  Strategic?

  “And besides, this community deserves better than Cuevas.”

  That may be true, but I’m only willing to sacrifice so much to be rid of him. “You’re just going to put your co-op on the market and move back to Soundview?” I ask. “Not that long ago you were telling me what a coup it was to buy property in East Harlem now that it’s become prime real estate.”

  “I want this, Michelle,” Jennifer says in that decisive tone of hers. “You know me. I wouldn’t take this lightly for all the reasons you’re stating. But I really want this. I want this seat more than any co-op. And I need your help.”

  What more could my sister want from me than a campaign contribution and some volunteer hours? Then it hits me. “You want to move back into the house.”

  “Of course I do. I have to,” Jennifer says. I catch a rare glimpse of rejection in her face. “You say that as if you don’t want me there.”