by Iris Gomez
Why didn’t you call me?
I was too scared of Pablo bashing Manolo’s head in, Tío. Too scared of my father coming home and bashing us all.
The police are more trouble than help.
But they saved Manolo, didn’t they, Tío? Didn’t they take the hammer away?
They took Pablo away.
I hadn’t saved anyone.
Worn out by defeat, I left Pablo’s plate out on the counter and went to my parents’ bathroom. My father’s lamp illuminated the black-inked pages he’d left strewn across his bed. I locked the bathroom door behind me, put the toilet seat down, dropped my head on my arms, and sobbed. Why did everyone expect me to get it all right? Why wasn’t anyone ever there to help me?
[ TWENTY-THREE ]
PABLO WOULDN’T TALK TO ME. He acted as if we’d never been allies against our strange, sad family. My only comfort came from El Chino setting Tío Paco straight about juvenile delinquencies not causing deportation. The juvy court gave Pablo a probationary dismissal and assigned him to Tuttle Park cleanup with other juvy kids.
Mami picked up a few peoples’ vacation schedules at the Palacio, to keep from getting too depressed over the start of Pablo’s juvy career, I guessed, as well as her own humiliating follow-up appointment with Miss Lucy Prado in Protective Services. Despite Mami’s entreaties, Manolo refused to replace the deformed door. The splintered hole gaped grotesquely every time I walked by it.
As for my father, he was quietly composing another exegesis to a bank. I saw the letter one morning before work on his make-believe desk: pages of block print generically addressed to Chase Manhattan Bank, New York. He’d been mum on his old check theory since the day Pablo hit him, so I was no longer certain how we would get our millions—his letter would tell me soon enough.
August brought windy, tropical rain.
Fátima and her family had gone camping in it, somewhere in the Keys. Lara and the girls had rented a bungalow in rainy Naples. Even the cashier from my bookstore was sailing through the rain on a Norwegian cruise ship out of Biscayne Bay.
Inside the bookstore, you hardly knew weather existed. The mall had its whirring noise that shut the world out completely. I put price-stickers on books, shelved them, and filed invoices. The only words I absolutely had to speak were “yes” and “no” to the temporary cashier and “left” or “next aisle” to customers.
Some nights, the rain woke me when it tapped my window in bumpy syncopation, its natural rhythm thrown off by an unpredictable Caribbean wind.
Other nights, the rain purred softly, like the voice of the English lady who led the reading hour at our store.
Sometimes, the rain went by without a sound, like a dream I didn’t have a chance to remember or a form of love that no one told me existed and that slipped away.
One night, I stayed up to listen. The rain dripped from the awnings and I began composing my own letter, one with no salutation, no addressee, no “Sincerely yours” at the end. No end, really. It was just an anonymous stream-of-consciousness running over with feelings that didn’t amount to much or mean anything. Meaning itself was so wide and vague a thing that I would never reach it.
The next day at work, I treated myself to a book so I could cheer up. The one I bought was called Solitude, and when I got home that afternoon I lay on my belly to read it and found a poem that made me feel as if there might be some meaning left in the world:
Young Girl: Annam by Padraic Colum
I am a young girl;
I live here alone:
I write long letters
But there is no one
For me to send them to. My heart
Teaches me loving words to use,
But I can repeat them only
In the garden, to the tall bamboos.
Expectantly, I stand beside the door. I raise
The hanging mat. I,
The letter folded, gaze out
And see the shadows of the passers-by.
In the garden, the fire-flies
Quench and kindle their soft glow:
I am one separated,
But from whom I do not know.
How separated I was too—from everyone except her. I shut my eyes to picture her, and drops of the August rain trickled out. Around me, air whistled through the culms of the three bamboos: the girl, my father, and me, each gripping our letters that we couldn’t send.
Labor Day neared, and my spirits lifted at last. Mami’s announcement that Tía Consuelo was coming to visit us cheered me the most.
When my job ended, I spent the Friday before school’s reopening cleaning the house to surprise my mother. “¡Ay mi’jita!” she exclaimed after seeing it all and coming into my room. “Everything looks so nice!” Her hair in a towel, she sat down beside me and asked how things had gone. As she undid the towel and started drying her hair, the gray roots showed that it was time to call Tía Rita to repaint.
I reported that there had been no trouble with my father and handed over my last paycheck.
“Thank you, mi’jita.” Mami sighed as she slipped it into her pocket. “I’ll be glad when Gladys comes back, though I’m grateful for the extra cash. I wished we’d fixed the roof when your father was working with that contractor. I’m afraid after all the rain, it might cave in.”
“Maybe I’ll get a better job this year,” I offered.
With a smile, she patted my feet. A little breeze sauntered in through my window.
“Mami,” I broached hesitantly, pulling my knees up to my chest. “There was something I was going to tell you—about school.”
“Already?”
“No. It happened before. Last year, in Geography, I had to write this essay. The thing is, it was a contest. That I won.”
“How nice, mi’jita. Did they just write you about it?”
“Not exactly. But, well, instead of a regular prize, the winners get something special.”
“What?”
I pulled my legs closer. “The kids who won second place, they only got a plaque. But the kids who won first place, our prize was… is… a trip. A really expensive trip that they pay for, with teachers and chaperones—”
“A trip?” Mami stopped drying her hair. “Where?”
“Well, everyone goes to the United Nations first, in New York. You know, they get to meet officials and everything.”
My mother was silent, so I forged ahead. “And then they take you on a special trip to a very important historical site in,” I took a quick breath, “Egypt.”
“¿Egipto?”
“Yes, Mami.” I sat up very straight. “It’s to teach us to get along with people from different backgrounds. You can’t learn that if you don’t have a chance to meet them first.”
“There are plenty of people right here in Miami,” she said, frowning.
“Yeah, but you know what? There are kids going from all over. Hundreds. It’s a big honor. The principal wants me to represent our school.”
“Let him send his own daughter!”
“She didn’t win the prize, Mami! I did.” My voice quivered.
“Why don’t they give your family a prize? Like an air conditioner, so you can study without suffocating?”
“Mami! I thought you wanted me to do well! But then when I do, you don’t even care!”
“I do care. Who brought you into this world? Why did your father and I make so many sacrifices?”
“ I’m the sacrifice! I’m the one who’s supposed to roll over and die!”
My mother stood. Haughtily, she went to the door and turned, pointing a finger at me. “That’s what public schools teach. To prance around thinking you’re better than everyone and can fly off without your family. Well, take those ideas out of your head, señorita, there’s no room for them here.”
As I watched her go, I felt completely demoralized. Would there be any point in Lara even trying to talk sense into her? How could Lara dislodge my mother’s rock-hard views?
All I’d real
ly wanted was for things to go back to how they used to be before I’d called the police—when my family still believed in me sometimes.
When Pablo heard me crying, he came and stood in my doorway. “You shouldn’t argue, Gabi,” he said. “It makes her more stubborn.”
“I can’t help it,” I admitted, gratified that he was speaking to me at last. “It’s hard to just listen.”
“I know what you mean.” He smiled. “Hey, I didn’t know you won a prize. That’s cool.”
“Thanks, Pablo.”
After that, things weren’t exactly the same between us, but at least he continued to talk to me. Afraid of jinxing it, I refused to have anything to do with the forms Probation required from my mother. “Do them yourself,” I told her, leaving the papers on the table.
That Sunday morning, Mami woke me with the surprise announcement that she was coming to church. No one but me had gone to St. Stephen’s in a long while, and my own attendance had been spotty since the adventures with David.
The weather was sticky when she and I headed down the street. The only other person out and about was Jorge Cabrera, who’d bought the Andersons’ house and was repainting everything a bright papaya.
On the bus, Mami informed me of the reason for her spiritual renewal. “We’re going to ask the priest for help.”
“With what?” I asked.
“Everything. Our situation. Your brother. You.”
“Me?”
She nodded grimly, and we rode the rest of the way in silence.
When we arrived at St. Stephen’s, the church was still refilling. Eventually, the Spanish Mass began. Unlike English services I attended, there were no lay people participating in this one, no guitars or youth groups singing folk songs. A single altar boy helped the bald-headed Cuban priest with black glasses who recited, in a stern voice, more Latin liturgy than I thought was required anymore. He seemed to be leading a one-man rebellion against every positive change brought about by Vatican II.
After Mass, we got into a line of families waiting to greet Padre Felipe. When our turn came, he smiled blankly, taking my mother’s hands as she introduced herself. Quietly, she asked to discuss a pequeño problemita—a little problem—in private. He gave me a sharp look and motioned us toward the rectory. I hoped he didn’t think I’d disgraced myself in some way.
The rectory office was small and windowless. Dark, grim-faced paintings of male saints covered the wall behind Padre Felipe’s desk. He offered us worn chairs and sat facing us. A dim lamp emphasized the contrast between this dark office and the intense brightness of the church. Even priests needed a place to retreat from God, I guessed.
“Bueno,” he said, folding his hands.
My mother edged forward. “Father, I’m not sure where to begin. Ever since we came to Miami, we’ve had so many problems. First, my husband lost his work….”
I waited for her to enlighten him about my father’s nervios and the legal woes he’d created, but she went straight to the bills, the roof, the end of her overtime pay, and—before the priest had a chance to open his mouth—The Difficulties of Raising Children. “And my younger son, Father, has brought me such anguish lately! He needs discipline, but without a father’s guidance—”
Padre Felipe held up a hand. “Does your husband drink?”
“Oh no!” my mother protested. “Es un hombre recto.” A correct man. “No, Father. He has—a sickness.”
“Is that why he isn’t with you?”
My mother looked down. “Yes, Father.”
“His sickness is in his head,” I blurted.
“Is that true?” the priest asked Mami.
“Sí, Padre,” she said, quietly. It was the closest she’d ever come to an admission that my father was a mental case. I felt victorious but pitied her all the same.
The priest considered a moment. “And how can we help you?” he asked, more kindly.
My mother took out a package of papers fastened with rubber bands. She unloaded the contents onto Padre Felipe’s desk—check stubs, phone and gas receipts, bank statements, and a recent estimate from the roofer—while orally subtracting bill balances from the amounts on her stubs. It was a litany I’d heard virtually every day of my adolescence, but in front of another person—how embarrassing! Why did she have to go into those details? I stared at the paintings on his wall while searching in vain for the symbols that told you who each saint was until I realized at last that they weren’t saints at all, just popes!
“If we could place my son here with the Sisters,” Mami continued, “for a short time, until he learns better discipline, but the program here costs so much, Father, and you see I earn so little.”
“How old is your son?”
“Fourteen, Father.”
“And the other children?”
“Only two, Father. My son who’s fifteen, I haven’t any problems with him, gracias a Dios.” She nodded toward me. “And my daughter is sixteen.”
The priest examined me, his thick lenses magnifying his eyes. I didn’t like the way he stared at me while interrogating Mami as if she were a witness testifying against me in this courtroom. “Does your daughter help?” he asked, as if he’d already entered judgment.
“Oh yes, Father,” Mami answered. “All summer she worked. And faithfully brought home her paycheck.”
“Does she help with your husband?”
Help, help, help. I was sick of being the Auxiliadora!
“Oh yes,” my mother said. “And she studies.”
“Of course,” he answered, enlarged eyes sentencing me anew. “But in two more years, she’ll be finished with her studies. Then she can dedicate herself to these matters.”
I opened my mouth to object, but thought better of it. This priest couldn’t care less if my life became una miseria.
“Yes, Father,” Mami repeated. “But in the meantime—”
“In the meantime, the Church will assist. But we cannot solve everything. You must find the way—with your family’s help and God’s guidance, of course—to arrive at a solution.”
My mother nodded.
The priest rifled through a box and found our parishioner’s card from when we’d joined. After writing a note on it, he explained to my mother that the Church would provide a tuition waiver for Pablo to attend St. Stephen’s for one year.
Pablo? Whose favorite class at Flagler Junior was detention hall? Boy, were the Little Sisters of St. Stephen’s in for a treat.
Padre Felipe removed a gray card from his top drawer. “This voucher you can give to Sister Teresa on Tuesday,” he told Mami. Then he wrote out a check. “For your roof,” he said, handing her both items. The deformed eyes absorbed me again. “You must help your mother,” he decreed. “Her burdens are too much for her.”
Her burdens? I tried to look neutral.
“Of course she will, Father,” Mami replied, tucking the check and voucher securely into her purse.
The priest stood.
Quickly, my mother gathered up her bills. “Thank you, Father,” she said, then hesitated. “It’s not the same in public schools. I wish it were possible to place all my children here, especially my daughter.” She nodded reproachingly in my direction. “The ideas they put into their heads, you can’t imagine! Leaving home… even leaving the country! And without one’s family! I don’t know how those teachers come up with such things.”
I glared at her. Why was she bringing that up?
“A daughter’s place is with her family,” the priest quoted, holding out his hand.
“With her family,” Mami echoed before thanking him again for the tuition waiver, the check, and his wise guidance.
As he ushered us out to await the next devotees, I didn’t say a word.
On the way home, while my mother obsessed about how to purchase Pablo’s new uniform by Tuesday and find someone to cover her shift, I tried to quell my fury. That reptile priest had invoked the power of the Church to banish me to permanent servitude! And Mami
had simply used me to win more sympathy!
By the time the bus dropped us off, I was seething. As we began the final walking stretch of our journey home, the sweltering humidity had me by the legs like a ball-and-chain while the sun lashed me from above. I felt like I might suffocate in all my synthetic fiber. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned on her. “Why didn’t you tell the priest to find us a doctor so Papi won’t strangle you to death someday? Why didn’t you ask him to get you a better job than cleaning disgusting bathrooms?”
Mami was taken aback. “Who told you I did that?” she sputtered, the turquoise umbrella swinging awkwardly on her wrist. “You have no right to talk that way!”
I marched ahead, my legs freed by defiance, until we arrived home. Then I slammed my door shut and threw myself on the bed, the linens crumpling under my sweat and tears.
That horrible priest was prepared to let me waste away. Everyone had decided everything was my responsibility. And if, God forbid, I should make a mistake while trying to solve a problem, like with my brothers’ fight, I would be blamed for whatever had gone wrong in the first place! Why had I even been born?
Who made me? The words of my first catechism text lit up like a tiny neon billboard in my brain.
The textbook answer, God made me, was a complete sentence but incomplete in meaning. As my entire Catholic education had been, right from the time Mami left me to walk alone up a never-ending stairway to that alien classroom on the fourth floor of the United States.
As I cried now with my hot face in the pillow, I struggled to unravel the God the Father mystery all over again. While my human father had worked to take care of us, God the Father had only waited around, ever-present, for horrible crises and bad deeds to occur. My human father had punished us, but his belt had been more threat than weapon back then, and he’d given us chances: one, two, two-and-a-half, two-and-three-quarters, the fractions getting smaller as he neared ten because he believed in our ability to be good. Not like God the Father, the All-Powerful One who’d saved mankind only by sacrificing his own Son.