Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  Because I don’t. I’m positive that the reason why my sister and I get along as well as we do—and it’s only well enough to put us in get-along-well territory—is precisely because we don’t live together. And now I have a cat. A second job. A whole new world. There’s just no room for my sister.

  The hurt look on Jennifer’s face morphs quickly into her usual confident demeanor. “Look, ’Chelly, I know what you’re thinking, and I truly understand. We’re both grown women who haven’t lived together in years. We lead very different lives and need our own spaces. So I promise you that the move’s just temporary. Once I swipe the seat out from under Cuevas, I’ll go find my own place, so we’re only talking about a few months here. What do you say?”

  One thing I do appreciate about my sister is that she’s reasonable. Maybe that’s because besides our striking resemblance, it’s one of the few qualities we share. And the truth is, I really can’t say no to Jen. The house still belongs to my parents so I’m really in no position to say that she can’t move back. But even though I’m still a bit uncomfortable with the situation, I do believe Jennifer truly understands and respects my feelings. Of course she does. She would feel the same way if the shoe was on the other foot. And I want to support Jennifer in this exciting new venture like a good sister should. I really don’t want to see people attacking my sister for moving into the neighborhood to run for Cuevas’s seat, so if allowing her to reclaim her old address can reduce the likelihood of that, so be it.

  I open my arms and say, “Welcome back to the neighborhood, sis!”

  “Oh, thank you, ’Chelle!” Jennifer throws her arms around me. “Trust me, the time’s going to go by really fast because we have so much work to do. When we’re knee-deep in the campaign, you’ll be so happy I’m under the same roof. First thing we have to think about is planning a fundraiser ASAP. Now I was—”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I say, waving my arms to flag down my sister. “You’re going off and coming at me as if I were your campaign manager.”

  Jennifer laughs. “What do you want? An official invitation? Okay, Michelle, you’re going to be my campaign manager. And when I win, naturally you’ll be my chief of staff.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, c’mon, what more do you want me to say?”

  “No, Jennifer, I don’t want you to ask me to be your campaign manager,” I say. “I can’t be your campaign manager.”

  My sister says, “What do you mean you can’t be my campaign manager?”

  “What do you mean what do I mean?” I yell. I remember where I am and lower my voice. “Jennifer, if I could do it, I would. But I can’t do it.”

  “Can’t,” says Jennifer, “or won’t?”

  I don’t like the way she asks me that, but I don’t want to escalate this conflict. So I merely repeat, “I can volunteer a few hours per week, but I can’t take on the responsibility of running your campaign. I just don’t have the time.”

  But leave it to my sister to take it there. “What do you mean you don’t have the time? You work here during the day, and…that’s it. Are you doing something with the kids? I mean, they’re all volunteering on my campaign right through the general election anyway.”

  It’s such a wrap. “Jennifer, I am thirty years old, and my mother is living on a tropical island enjoying her retirement by watching telenovelas and tending to her vegetable garden. In other words, I do not answer to anyone let alone my arrogant, younger sister. Listen to me carefully because I will not say this again. I just gave you a three thousand dollar check. I can offer you ten hours every week. I will allow you to move back into our house. But I am not going to be your campaign manager. Get it?”

  Jennifer and I stand off, huffing at one another like two rams about to butt horns. Then my sister spins on her heel and heads for my office door. “Got it,” she yells, and slams the door behind her.

  Although I feel that my sister went too far and I did the right thing, that didn’t feel anywhere near as good as dominating Greg. Not even close. I don’t think all the domme training in the world is going to ever make it fun to speak to my sister like that.

  Chapter 8

  Rocco beats me to Serafina’s. When I walk through the door and toward the table, he gives me this twisted face, so I can’t tell if he’s happy or anxious to see me. I don’t get it. He wanted to leave me. You’d think the moron would show me some appreciation for making it easy on him.

  A little over five months ago he walks into the kitchen while I’m reading through the transcript of a deposition and says, “Jennifer, this isn’t working out.”

  I saw this coming, and I meant to save him the anguish. Then the case I was trying to settle went into litigation, and he beat me to it. Oh, be real with yourself, Jen. You got blindsided by the sexcapade that occurred the night before the chickenshit called it quits, and thought there was one last chance for you two.

  When Rocco finally summoned the courage to say what we both knew for a long time, I didn’t want to drag out the inevitable.

  “So leave,” I said. Then I went back to my transcript.

  “C’mon, Jen, don’t be like that….”

  “I’m not being like anything. You’re unhappy. I’m unhappy. I own this apartment. There’s nothing more to say.”

  Not that Rocco didn’t harass me for “closure.” After he moved out, he sent me countless e-mails and phone calls begging for me to talk to him if not meet with him. I answered him once. I sent Rocco a single e-mail where I clearly delineated that I knew the separation was for the best, that I harbored no ill will toward him, and that other than to arrange the logistics of his moving out, there really was no need to rehash what went wrong with the relationship. I never mentioned the loan, taking it as a loss.

  So when I finally called Rocco and asked him to meet me for lunch, he presumed that I was finally ready to have the Conversation. I let him think that. If Rocco had any idea why I really wanted to see him, he never would have agreed to lunch at Serafina’s.

  Rocco stands up when he sees me. “Hi.”

  “Hello.”

  He walks around the table to pull out my chair. I chuckle to myself, remembering how long it took me to train him to do that. His next girlfriend should thank me. The man wasn’t a Neanderthal when I met him. Far from it. It was that he was pretty spoiled, and therefore completely self-absorbed. It didn’t bother me much because the fact that he had his own interests allowed me to pursue mine. That is, until he confused me for his damned mother.

  “You look good,” Rocco says. He means it. Whether he likes it or not, it’s the truth. I look great.

  “So do you,” I lie. Rocco’s one of those guys who thinks he’s good-looking enough to ignore his appearance. He is, but that’s beside the point. We’re talking principle here. When he worked at the law firm, his Taryn Rose shoes were always scuffed and his Burberry ties always had coffee stains.

  Now Rocco’s into the starving artist thing with torn jeans, a wrinkled T-shirt, and “mandals.” How did I ever fall for this man?

  “How’s the artistic life treating you?” I ask, even though I really don’t care. Of course, I hope the man is not literally starving, but as long as I don’t have to feed him, I have greater concerns.

  “Awesome!” he says, his eyes lighting up. “The band just landed a gig at Crash Mansion.” Rocco digs into the outside pocket of his Ferragamo messenger bag and pulls out a stack of glossy postcards. He hands me one: a flyer listing a calendar of performances for the band he created called Homeland Security. Rocco refers to it as “folk hip hop.” I don’t know how accurate that label is because I could barely stand to listen to it. I had no problem with the music or lyrics or anything like that. I just couldn’t get past the notion of a trust fund baby rapping about gentrification, school shootings, and the prison industrial complex. The fact that Rocco’s family emigrated from Buenos Aires to the Upper West Side where he attended the Trinity School before studying at the London School of Economics
hardly qualifies him for street cred. “When are you going to come hear us play?” he asks.

  If he begged me, maybe I would go, but it’s obviously a rhetorical question. Yes, it would surprise and even please him if I were to show up at one of his gigs. But Rocco and I both know that not only do I not give a shit about his music but also that he doesn’t give a shit if I like his music.

  I could lie again and tell him that I’d really like to, but what’s the point? “I don’t have the time,” I say. “I’m running for City Council.”

  Rocco’s eyes flare. “No way!”

  I nod then prop my hand on my chin. “I had an encounter with my local representative and decided that the district needed better.”

  “But I thought you liked Councilwoman Mendoza. You even voted for her.” Rocco squints in confusion and then leans forward so that no one can overhear him. “I remember you threatening to not give me any for a month if I didn’t vote for her, too.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I’m not running for the East Harlem seat. I’m moving back to the Bronx and running against Raul Cuevas.”

  Rocco scoffs. “I’m shocked at you, Jennifer. And quite a bit disappointed.”

  “What are you talking about? You always said I’d make a great politician. You encouraged me to run in the last election.”

  “But you’re carpetbagging!”

  I crumple up my napkin and toss it on the table. “Oh, that’s bullshit. Save for the few years since I graduated high school, I’ve lived in that district all my life. And quite frankly, it hasn’t changed a lick since I left.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Rocco asks. “Things haven’t deteriorated.”

  “Things are not supposed to just not deteriorate,” I snap. “They’re supposed to get better.”

  Rocco throws up his hands. “Okay, okay, okay.” Then he places his hands over mine. “I do think you’d make a fantastic local official, and I wish you all the best with your campaign. Tell me what I can do to support you.”

  “Glad you asked,” I say. “I need you to repay me the five grand I loaned you.”

  “What?”

  Rocco had quit the law firm for two reasons. One, to be with me. I insisted on it. I wasn’t about to put both my heart and career on the line by dating someone at work. Two, to pursue his musical career. By the time he moved in with me, the money he’d saved had run out, and he was a long way off from getting his hands on his trust fund. I can’t stand Rocco’s mother because she couldn’t stand me. That salty Latigringa—that’s the name ’Chelle and I give to Latinos who would bleach their blood free of its African and Native American DNA if they could—never approved of her favorite offspring wanting to marry a Boricua trigueñita from a working-class family whose hair crinkled at the first hint of moisture. But the one thing I’ll hand to that old bitch is that she knew her son and how to keep him in check. By her decree, Rocco doesn’t get his trust fund until he turns thirty-five or gets married, whichever comes first.

  I explain, “Yes, I’m entering the race at the last minute, but I can work that to my advantage. But I need money to raise money, Rocco. I’m going up against the political machine’s favorite son. When this moron is finally forced out by term limits, the Bronx Democratic Committee already plans to hand the seat over to his son. Can you believe that?”

  “Yeah, I can. It happens everywhere,” says Rocco. “You know, my bassist lives in Brooklyn, and he told me—”

  “So I’m going to need the money by the end of the month.” While I’m happy Rocco understands my dilemma and sympathizes with me, I didn’t come here to consult with him on strategy. I should be having those discussions with Michelle, but she wants to pretend she has a life. Her check for three grand is still sitting in my wallet, and I have no intention of cashing it. Instead I have every intention of making Rocco repay this loan as soon as possible. “I’m going to use the money you repay me to organize a fund-raiser, and hopefully I can flip that five grand into at least twenty. Meanwhile, I just submitted my application for public matching funds, which means I’ll get four bucks for every one I raise.” The formula is a bit more complex than that, but like I said, I don’t want to talk politics with my ex-boyfriend.

  “Jennifer, I want to help you, but I can’t do it,” Rocco says. I’m really starting to hate that damned word. First my sister, now my ex. You’d think I wasn’t self-sufficient and always begging them for help. On the contrary, it’s hard for me to do this, and both of them should know me well enough to know this. “I’m more than happy to repay you the money,” says Rocco. “But there’s just no way I can scrape up five grand by the end of the month.”

  I already had a response to that, too, because I know Rocco doesn’t have the money on hand. Until he gains access to his trust fund, he has to earn his keep like the rest of us, which is eventually why he needed to borrow the five grand in the first place. Except the rest of us do not get a new Ducati motorcycle on our birthdays or a check for a thousand dollars tucked in a “Just Thinking of You” card. No matter where she happens to be in the world with her boy toy of the month, Latigringa never fails to dote on her boy. “Sure, you have it,” I say. “Either sell something or ask your mother for it.”

  Rocco jolts in his seat as if my words contain two thousand volts. “Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t throw a tantrum.”

  “Where do you come off—” I dig the tip of my Carmen Marc Valvo slingbacks into the front of Rocco’s ankle. “Ouch!” He reaches down and grabs it.

  “I told you to calm down,” I say.

  Rocco grabs his messenger bag and almost knocks over his glass of water. “I’m not taking this from you, Jennifer.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and limps toward the door. I allow him to make it to the street before I drop some cash on the table and follow him.

  “Rocco!” I call. He shoots a frightened look over his shoulder and hobbles faster, like a terrible actress in a bad horror flick. He reaches the curb and hails frantically for a cab. By the time one pulls over for him, I’m by his side. I open the door for him. Rocco groans but climbs into the backseat. I follow him, and he groans again. I don’t say anything. His whining has never fazed me. “You owe me this money, Rocco, and you know I wouldn’t ask for it if I didn’t need it. I took a leave of absence from the firm to launch this campaign, and I won’t see the money from the sale of my co-op in time. You really think I would go so far as to suggest that you borrow it from your mother if I didn’t need it?”

  Rocco breaks my gaze and stares out his window. When he wanted to quit the firm to focus on his music, I supported him. In fact, my enthusiasm for the idea surprised him. He expected me to react just as his mother had. Despite the frequent gifts, Latigringa offered him no moral support and always asked him when he thought he might be done with this “artistic phase.” I, on the other hand, allowed Rocco to move in with me when his savings ran low.

  But I had conditions. If Rocco was going to devote himself to his music, I wanted to see progress. I wanted to read new songs in his notebook (even if I did find the lyrics a bit disingenuous) and to hear new melodies emanating from his guitar. I wanted to come home to notes on the refrigerator that read At the studio, be home at nine, and to stories about auditions and jam sessions. And because I had become the sole breadwinner and worked longer hours to support us both, I expected Rocco to manage the house. Groceries in the refrigerator, clean laundry in the basket, a hot meal on the stove, an empty bag in the garbage, and yes, a ready body under the comforter. I was lucky if I got a fresh roll by the toilet. Rocco turned my place into a Dumpster and had not one recorded song or paying gig to show for it.

  Although he failed to carry his weight, he had the audacity to call me domineering. “So I’m domineering because I don’t let you treat me like your housekeeper,” I said. “You don’t think I have the right to demand that you do your share around here?”

  “That’s just it, Jennifer,” he said. “Yes, we both know you have th
e right. So why be so demanding? Fine, it annoys you when I forget to clean the shower or pay the bills late. You don’t have to punish me for it.”

  “Punish you? How do I punish you? I’m the one who’s getting punished when you don’t earn your keep.”

  “Last night you made me sleep on the couch just because I forgot to take out the garbage!”

  “It was a recycling night!” I said. “Now we’re stuck with all that paper for another week.”

  “The point is,” Rocco said, “that was an extreme reaction to a little mistake.”

  “You know, Rocco, sometimes I think you do these things because you want me to get on your ass,” I said. “Your mother allowed you to get away with anything and everything. Oh, you pretended to enjoy the freedom. But deep down inside, it bothered you that she didn’t care enough to put you in check.”

  “You fuckin’ bitch!”

  I slapped him across the face and was hauling back for el revés when Rocco tackled me onto the sofa. We tumbled onto the carpet, tearing at one another’s clothes. I commanded him to eat me until I came, and he did. Rocco begged for me to return the favor, but I refused. Instead I teased him until the point of no return and then I kneeled over him and ordered him to finish himself off while I watched. When he was done, Rocco kissed my hand, told me he loved me and wanted to marry me no matter what his mother said. We had never gone at it like that before, and I thought we had embarked on an exciting new path in our relationship.

  The next day the wuss shuffled into the kitchen. “We need to talk.”

  Now, in the cab, Rocco finally turns away from the window and looks at me. “Okay, I’ll ask my mother for the money, but on one condition.”

  Great. “What?”

  “Homeland Security gets to play at your fund-raiser.”

  He’s got to be fucking kidding! But that glow across his face tells me he’s dead serious. Rocco intends to hold out for this. Why can’t the man just do what I ask of him? This is why we can’t be together.