Roachkiller and Other Stories

by R. Narvaez

  “Juan. It’s me.”

  “Why you calling me?”

  “What happened? Where have you been?”

  “Don’t call me here. Don’t ever call me.”

  “You got a daughter here who loves you and misses you. And you got a son on the way.”

  “Don’t call me.”

  And then he hung up.

  “Juan!” Iris took a big drag on her cigarette. “Come mierda,” she said, but she collapsed, crying, into the chair.

  On the day of Nancy’s Christmas pageant, the little girl cried when she saw that her father wasn’t there. She threw herself on the floor and refused to sing.

  * * *

  It had been snowing. Every day Nancy asked her where her father was, and Iris had to lie, had to say he would be coming soon. She knew that no matter what she said her daughter’s heart was breaking every day. Christmas was around the corner, at least, and Iris was happy—after a few weeks with her bolita, with some people hitting now and then, she was doing pretty well.

  She dropped her daughter off at school then picked up the Daily News at Negron’s in the morning and came home. Because of the snow, Yonkers was closed. The track handle that day came from Tampa Bay. The number was 731.

  “Oh shit,” Iris said.

  Yesterday Mrs. Killian said she was feeling lucky and had played two dollars on her favorite number.

  “Coño,” Iris said.

  Iris got up slowly—the baby was due any day. She went into the cabinet and got out the pitcher from the high shelf. She put it on the table and got out the roll of money. Something looked wrong.

  She didn’t want to think about it. She took off the rubber band and it snapped on her hand. “Coño!” It left a red mark. She counted the money. Then she counted it again.

  “Coño,” Iris said. Mrs. Killian’s hit meant she won twelve hundred dollars. The last time Iris had looked at her money, there was more than thirteen hundred dollars. Now there was less than seven hundred. Had she bought something? Did she put it somewhere else? She couldn’t seem to remember right.

  The phone rang.

  “Iris! Good morning.” Mrs. Killian. “It is a good morning.”

  “Hola. Cómo estás?!”

  “I am esta muy boo-eno, Iris. 731 hit! I hit!”

  “Congratulations,” Iris said. She could think of nothing else to say.

  “So when you coming ’round with the premio? I could use it this month, with the holidays and all. You coming at lunch? After work? You want me to come get it?”

  “No, no, I’ll bring it to you,” Iris said. “But I may not get a chance today. The baby . . .”

  “Don’t tell me that, Miss Iris. I need that money. Don’t make me come get it now,” Mrs. Killian said and she laughed. But it was not a funny laugh.

  “I’ll bring it to you. Don’t worry.”

  Iris hung up and went to the window and looked out at the big elm and the backyard. Before she came to New York, she had never seen snow. During her first snowfall, she thought it was pretty, the way it covered the dark, low brown buildings of Brooklyn, the way it seemed to turn the neighborhood into something from a fairy tale.

  She turned, put on her coat and went to Negron’s store. She just needed to talk to him, to understand what to do next.

  The snow blew in her face, and it was hard to see ahead more than a few feet. But as she crossed the street it looked like Negron’s door was open. Snow was mounding in the entrance. For the second time that day, Iris felt something wrong.

  Iris went to cross the street. A car sped right toward her and swerved to the right, spraying gray slush, to avoid hitting her. She did not hear its driver screaming at her.

  Inside the store, Iris was shocked. Negron was on the floor in front of the counter, facedown. She was shocked first to see him out of place, to see his whole body, laid out on the wooden floor. Then there was blood. It was dark red and leaked from under him.

  “Negron!” she called.

  “Negron!” the parrot called from behind the counter. For a crazy moment, Iris thought the parrot sounded worried.

  She got on her knees and touched his shoulder. Then she bent and moved him. He groaned. She turned him over.

  “Negron!” the parrot called.

  “Buenos dias,” Negron said.

  “Que paso?”

  “And it’s near Christmas,” he said.

  Blood poured from a big gash in his head and was all over his shirt and face, but he was conscious. “It was Benny,” he said. Benny and another man he didn’t know had come in while he was cleaning. The man pulled a gun. Negron was going to laugh. “Sin verguenza,” Negron had said, looking at Benny, shameless. But then that man had laughed at him and pulled the trigger.

  She called an ambulance and then Negron’s nephew, who worked in the neighborhood.

  When the ambulance came, she asked them if Negron would live. They didn’t know. His nephew told her to go, that he would wait for the cops, if they ever arrived. While the nephew was busy, Iris made a decision. She moved to the back of the counter and got the .38. She put it under her coat. “Dios te vendiga,” she said to no one in particular and then left.

  She went to the corner and called a car service.

  * * *

  The car service took her to an address in East New York. Iris told the car service driver to wait.

  She was not surprised when a woman answered the door, keeping it barely open. From what Iris could see, the woman was pretty, a little on the heavy side, and very young. She looked familiar.

  “May I help you?” the lady said.

  Iris considered pulling the gun in the lady’s face to make her open the door. But then she looked down—and saw that the woman was pregnant, too.

  “I’m here to see Juan,” Iris said.

  The woman said nothing. She stepped back and opened the door. The house was cold—Iris couldn’t hear the radiators working. She stepped in and for a second the two women faced each other, big bellies pointing forward. Then Iris followed the woman’s turning gaze to an inner door.

  As she moved past the woman, Iris realized what was familiar about the lady’s face. She looked like the crazy gypsy lady from the cover of the dream book. Iris did not want to turn her back on her. But the door was in front of her and she opened it. It was dark inside.

  “Juan,” she said softly, and then louder.

  Something rustled in sheets in the darkness.

  She reached over and turned on the light.

  Juan was in bed, lying facedown. He looked up at her, his jet-black hair a mess.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I never seen where you live, Juan. I wanted to see it.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I always knew. I just never had a reason to come over. You never invited me.”

  “You’re crazy. If this is about her . . .”

  “It’s not about that. It’s about business.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Well, you told me pregnant women are crazy. Your little friend must be crazy then,” Iris said, then moved closer to the bed. “I want my five hundred dollars.”

  “What five hundred dollars?”

  He remained on his stomach, not bothering to turn to look at her. Iris figured he was naked under the sheets. She knew he liked to sleep that way. She took a step closer to the bed and took out the old .38 and touched it to his left foot, then she moved it up his leg slowly till she got to his butt cheeks.

  “This could do a lot of damage, Juan. I can’t imagine how long it would take to clean the sheets.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I want my money.”

  He moved and she backed away.

  “Careful, I may be slow but a bullet is very fast.”

  He opened a drawer and took out his wallet. He gave her a messy wad of bills.

  She took them and counted. “There’s only three hundred dollars here.”

  �
��That’s not my money. That’s Benny’s money. He’s going to come for you.”

  She thought of Negron and said, “Let him.”

  She put the gun right over where his testicles would be. For a second, she thought she would really pull the trigger. She saw it in her head, Juan screaming, the blood flowing like the wave in her dream. He deserved to have his balls shot off. The wound would probably kill him. And then she would really be rid of him.

  But then she thought of Nancy. The little girl’s father would be dead, her mother in jail. Iris knew that she would continue to suffer with Juan around, but her daughter would suffer more without him.

  Iris put the money in her purse. “Fine. Come visit your daughter. She loves you. I can’t stop that. But a girl should know her father, good or bad.”

  “You’re crazy, Iris.”

  “See you for Christmas then,” she said, picking up the gun then bringing it down to smack him in the balls.

  “Ayyyy,” he squealed, fully looking at her now for the first time. She aimed the gun at his face. “Okay, okay,” he said.

  As she left, the young girl stood against the stove. She had a large knife in her hand. She said nothing but her eyes were full of fear and hate. Iris thought about making the girl’s head disappear but figured the poor thing was headed for enough trouble already.

  As soon as the door slammed behind her, Iris felt the weight of everything she’d just done, like a demon hunched on her back. Tears fell down her face, flowing fast, making her taste salt. A gun. Benny’s money? Juan. God forgive her. God help her. She was more scared than she had ever been in her life, and at the same time more excited than she had ever been. She waddled slowly to the elevator, and then she realized something else was happening to her, and she knew she had to hurry.

  * * *

  There was blood everywhere. It flowed like a river and covered the backseat of the car service car.

  “Avanca!” Iris screamed.

  The driver talked too fast for her to understand. Her water had broken in the car, and the liquid pooled dark and red and viscous at the bottom of her feet. She would make it, she told herself. She was a survivor. The car made slow progress through the snow-covered streets. Iris saw whiteness covering the windows, smothering the car. And then all she saw was black.

  Later, in the hospital, she opened her eyes and saw Nancy.

  “Hija,” Iris said.

  “Titi Maribel brought me.”

  Maribel’s voice came from somewhere to her left. “Your son is fine. I saw him. He’s beautiful. A full head of hair!”

  Iris stroked her daughter’s face. The girl put something in her hand. Iris looked—it was a roll of money. The girl giggled. “It’s ours, you said.”

  Juracán

  There was another dead dog on the side of the road. Tongue hanging out. Guts. Blood. I’d never seen so many dead dogs on the road anywhere. The strays must go out of their way to commit suicide. Or maybe they just don’t like dogs in Puerto Rico. I was in this cramped rental car, driving my three aunts to my cousin’s wedding in Ponce. It was a ten-minute ride, and I’d already counted four dead dogs. It took some of the buzz off.

  I asked my aunt about it. “Qué pasó con los jodio peros en la highway?” I said.

  “Se dice perrrrros,” my Titi Juana said.

  “Perrrrrros,” I tried.

  “Perros,” Titi Gloria said.

  Then Tía Nidia said, “No sé, mi amor. Toda la gente manejan como loco aquí.”

  I could see what they meant. The roads in PR could drive anyone crazy. Everyone seemed to drive with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. There was never a traffic light where you needed it. And a lot of the blacktop curved around mountains and were crazy narrow, so if you threw a cigarette out the window it took a thousand-foot drop into nothing but jungle.

  But no one honked. That was nice. They might not like dogs around PR, but they sure as hell were polite.

  “Por favor, mi amor, maneja más rápido,” Titi Juana said. Then my aunts giggled about something. I didn’t follow. But I could tell by the way they laughed it was something dirty.

  The church was dark, big. Polished pews. Bleeding Christ. The ceremony in Spanish. I spent the time shifting my weight from one foot to the other, wondering if the reception would have an open bar.

  * * *

  The drinks weren’t free, so when the bartender poured, I told him, “Más. Chin más,” and put my hand under the back of the bottle.

  At the table, my aunts gossiped, and I tried to listen, nodded a lot, and laughed when I thought I was supposed to. I knew everyone at our table, except this one lady. She had black hair cut straight across the forehead. Dark copper skin, cheeks high and broad, lips dark and full. She seemed to be alone, except for a bright green gift bag in the seat next to her. It had the typical “¡Bienvenidos a la Isla del Encanto!” on it, over a coqui frog wearing a straw hat. I got up and walked around to her side.

  “Quieres que yo lo puse esto con los otros regalos?” I said, standing over her.

  “Qué dices?” she said, looking up with her eyes, moving her head.

  I gestured to show what I meant. Gift bag. Gift table.

  “Grácias, pero es algo diferente,” she said and looked down at her manicure.

  “No sweat,” I said and took a seat next to her. “Me manejó aquí esta noche y vióo una cosa . . . rara. Vió, como, cuatro perros en la highway—muertos. It was crazy.”

  She laughed, covering her teeth like some women do, then shook her head to herself. I hadn’t been trying to be funny. She looked completely away from me. I got the hint and so I bounced and went back to the bar.

  Some people gave some speeches. I went outside for a smoke. It was cooler than I expected. Hanging over the palm trees, the moon looked like my grandmother’s glaucoma eye. It smelled good out there, green, wet, sweet. The trees and the sounds of tree frogs all around, doing their little whistles. I’d never seen a coqui up close before, so while I puffed I walked around to see if I could spot one. Then I heard a woman talking in a loud voice. I looked up and saw a silhouette. A lady talking on a cell phone. I couldn’t catch all of it. Something like, How can you do this to me. Then some bad cursing.

  I got closer. It was the woman from the table. She was framed in the light coming from the reception hall. She was carrying that big gift bag.

  When she hung up, she saw me standing there. “Estás perdido?” she said.

  I wasn’t lost. “Qué noche bella,” I said.

  “Qué noche fea,” she said and walked past me.

  “Frio, you mean,” I said to her back.

  I finished my cigarette and considered calling Julie. I had a vision of her tight freckled body in a bikini. I checked my watch. It wasn’t a good time. So I just went inside.

  A band was playing, and Tía Lidia wanted to know when I would ask her to dance. So I danced with her and then my other aunts and then with every female relative I had. As one salsa finished another aunt would come up, and so it went. I had a couple more drinks. Then I danced with the bride, my cousin Carmen. She was a good egg—a doctor now married to another doctor.

  I asked her who the dark woman was. “Una amiga de colegio. Se llame Itaba,” she said. “That’s funny, Papo, because she asked me about you.”

  My cousin was small, thin-hipped, dark-haired. She was tiny in my arms. At six-four, I towered over her.

  “Oh really? What did you tell her?”

  That you were divorced. That you were having a hard time. Not too much.”

  I guess that was the nicest way of saying I’d been unemployed and unemployable for almost a year. “Okay,” I said.

  “I can’t wait to get to Mexico,” she said. “This humidity is killing me. Is my hair okay?”

  “How’s mine?” I said, and we laughed. “Leave it to you to get married during hurricane season.”

  After Carmen, I danced another salsa with Titi Juana. I felt good, energized, buzzed. I figured I’d g
ive that dark lady another shot.

  But then I saw my grandmother. She wore a black dress with fluffy edges and sat on the edge of her chair. I could tell she wanted to dance.

  “Abuela. Vamos a bailar,” I said. She smiled up at me with shiny false teeth. I took her velvet-soft hand and led her to the dance floor. She put her white-haired head against my chest.

  When the dance ended, she smiled at me again then said, “Coco Duro,” the nickname she had for me as a kid. Then she smacked me in the arm because she couldn’t reach my head anymore.

  When I got back to the table the dark woman was gone.

  Maybe she’d gone to make a phone call again. I was walking to the door, caught myself in the mirror and put up a hand to fix my hair, when this guy bumped into me. Dark, wraparound shades covered his eyes. I never liked not being able to see a guy’s eyes. You can’t see a guy’s eyes, you can’t see if you can trust him. Dark guy, jet-black hair, combed back. Funny thing was the guy’s forehead—it was kind of deformed. Flat like a plate from his eyebrows to his hairline. And there were thin scars up and down his cheeks. The guy caught me looking, his shades turned toward me, but he said nothing, so I said nothing, and that was it.

  I went back to my hair, making sure the pointed peak on top was just right. The gel was holding fine.

  Outside there was no sign of the lady. Her loss.

  The rest of my night I drank enough to feel good, then I drove my aunts back to my aunt’s house, where I was staying. There was a light rain, making the dark road shiny and slick. I saw four more dead dogs. More guts. More tongues. Or maybe they were the same dogs. The women talked the whole time in the car—what a nice ceremony, what nice music, the food could’ve been better.

  In the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, I got up and went to the living room, found a bottle of dark rum, and filled a glass with it. I heard nails scraping on the floor and saw Titi Juana’s little lapdog peek around a corner to look at me. “Cheers, Romeo,” I said to the dog. “Stay off the streets.” I tipped my head back, drained the glass, burped, and went back to bed.