Bodega Dreams

by Ernesto B. Quinonez

  “All right, you win! You want to know everything,” I said, holding up the ring. “You win! You win, Blanca. When I give this back to your aunt you just come with me, cuz he’ll be there.”

  “Who’ll be there?”

  “Bodega. Thass who. He is this Izzy, the same guy your aunt really wanted to marry. And if you want to ask him anything, anything, any damned thing, then you go ahead.” Blanca fell silent.

  That was the day I knew Blanca would leave if she found out all that had been happening. So I had no choice but to throw Bodega at her, knowing he wouldn’t tell her everything and it was just as well. Stupidly, I was hoping for the best. As if things left alone can fix themselves. I hoped things would bury themselves, like reverse evolution, creation going backward. I hoped that everything would just take care of itself, that the hurtful things Blanca and I had said would be forgotten when the baby came along. The baby would make us allies again because the baby was more important than either of us and we had to be together to fight all those horrible things the world had in store for our kid.

  Afterward, after the yelling, the apartment took on a sinister hue. Blanca did everything in her power not to speak to me and I did the same. When we both needed the bathroom we had to say a few words to each other. Small, polite words that meant no more than when you brushed a stranger in the street and apologized.

  I walked out of the apartment fed up with all of them: Blanca, Negra, Victor, Bodega, Vera. All of them.

  •

  AFTER CLASS I decided to wander around the neighborhood and look for Sapo’s car. I didn’t see it and asked around. No one seemed to know anything. I had to leave it alone because it was obvious something was being covered up and I didn’t want to look like some idiot who didn’t get the picture. So that night, I kept walking amid sounds of fire engines and the smell of smoke. But the night sky looked calm and the concrete beneath me was no different than before, covered with gum wrappers, tinfoil, plastic bags, and other garbage. It was a good night to walk and think. What worried me was Negra. I needed to talk to her about Bodega. I needed to find out what Negra knew about Salazar. Because if Negra knew everything, I didn’t want her telling Blanca. Unlike Negra, Blanca would go to the police and then they’d be closer to Sapo.

  I really didn’t want to ask Negra why Victor had beaten her up; I wasn’t their marriage counselor. And there was no way I was going to ask Bodega to beat Victor up. I had my problems, Negra had hers, Bodega had his.

  But it was too late for visiting hours at Metropolitan Hospital, so my talk with Negra would have to wait for another day.

  I didn’t want to go home with Blanca still angry at me. I decided that just this once, I would go and meet her at her church. Maybe that would lighten her up, get me back on her good side.

  So I ate a slice and killed some time reading until it was time for church.

  LA CASE Bethel Pentecostal, Blanca’s church, was filled to capacity that night. Many Pentecostals from neighboring temples had come to see and hear for themselves the seventeen-year-old anointed, Roberto Vega. He who was supposedly anointed by God and would rule with Christ for a thousand years. I couldn’t have picked a better night to show up and make up with Blanca. I arrived a bit late, but when I went inside the temple, anyone that caught my eye smiled knowingly at me, as if they were saving me. They were always looking out for new converts. Knowing I was Blanca’s husband, one brother ushered me to the row where she was sitting. Blanca was really into the sermon, and only when she saw it was me sitting next to her did she smile and squeeze my hand. She quietly introduced me to the stocky, short woman with beautiful black hair sitting on the other side of her. It was Claudia, the girl from Colombia that Blanca was trying to help. After that, Blanca just held my hand and her eyes returned to the figure standing alone behind a lectern on the platform.

  “There was once a slave girl,” the tall, handsome, and very young Roberto Vega said calmly in Spanish. “And she was bought at a huge price by a king who transformed her into a princess, me oyen? And she was given laws and riches, me oyen? And out of all the princesses she was the most beautiful because her king blessed her, me oyen? And he treated her with respect, kindness, and love.” Someone yelled “Alleluia!” “He treated her like she was his flesh. Like she was gold, silver, and jewels. Me oyen? Ustedes me oyen?” Yes, we hear you, the congregation murmured in unison. Blanca and Claudia were hanging on this kid’s every word, like he was telling them a love story.

  “And he loved her. And she, and she—don’t tell me you don’t know what she did. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she later left to fornicate with other kings. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she left her king and went with others, and don’t tell me you don’t know this princess was called Israel. And she went with other gods and slept with many idols. You still don’t know what she did?” Alleluia! Tell us, tell us, sí dinos, the congregation begged him. Roberto’s speech was picking up speed. He talked faster and faster but he knew exactly when to apply the brakes and give the people time to contemplate what he was saying. “I’ll tell you what she became. You all know what she became, don’t tell me you all don’t know what she became. She became a harlot!”

  Alleluia!

  “A whore!”

  Alleluia!

  “A prostitute!”

  Alleluia!

  “A slave girl to the nations again!” Roberto’s words rushed one after another, like a Catholic reciting the rosary. “And you know who her king was. Don’t tell me you don’t know who her king was. He was the Lord Jehovah who bought her, paid highly for her! She was a slave in Egypt. And He broke her chains, sending her to Moses to free her. And the Lord treated her like a queen. Treated her like gold, silver, jewels.”

  Now Roberto Vega was bouncing his head as if jazz were being played somewhere not far away and the congregation was coiling slowly like a snake, waiting for the Holy Spirit to strike. Roberto’s arms waved in the air like windmills and his face was no longer that of a boy but of a prophet baptized by fire.

  “But she forgot who saved her! Who took care of her! Who brought her out of bondage. And to punish her, to punish her, to punish her, you know what happened? Don’t tell me you don’t know what happened. I know you know what happened.” Although they know, they beg for the answer. They can feel the Lord in their midst. Their souls are swollen with excitement, just waiting to erupt. They will soon fly with angel wings and He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, nor will mourning or strife or pain. “To punish her He made her walk in sand for forty years. And she returned to her king, the Lord, and He loved her and sent her David!”

  Alleluia!

  “But when David died, she returned to her immoral ways!”

  Alleluia! Cristo salva!

  “And He sent her Isaiah!”

  Alleluia!

  “Sent her Jeremiah, to make her quit being a whore!”

  Gloria a Dios!

  “A prostitute!”

  Alleluia!

  “Sent her Ezekiel! And she didn’t repent!”

  Cristo salva!

  “Sent Daniel! And she didn’t repent!”

  Bendito sea el Señor!

  “Sent her Zechariah, Malachi, but she didn’t repent!” The congregation was growing angry because Roberto had imbued them with outrage. When was the Holy Spirit going to strike? How could the nation of Israel have done this to their Lord, who treated her so kindly? “And then He sent them the ultimate prophet! Don’t tell me you don’t know who that is. Don’t tell me you forgot who delivered you. Don’t tell me you forgot who took you out of slavery. Who is your savior? Cristo! Cristo is your savior and He carried your sins! And He healed you! And He—! And He—! And He—!”

  “He saved me!” someone cried, leaping from her seat. “He saved me, He saved me.”

  On the platform Roberto Vega wiped his forehead, pointed at the sister in tears. “Yes, yes, He saved you! And He paid a price for you. He gave His l
ife for you. He was nailed for you. He became a man for you.”

  “He delivered me!” another person confessed, joyfully bouncing up and down.

  “Yes, for you too! He died for you! For who else, for who else?”

  “Gloria a Dios!” someone from the back shouted.

  “For who! For who!” It had started. The Holy Spirit had invaded. I was thinking, Please, Blanca, don’t freak on me. Please, I’ve never seen you like this ever, I know you do this but please, not in front of me.

  “He saved me!” Claudia shouted. Her thick torso and hips were shaking, her eyes watering, her small hands pounding at her heart.

  Roberto pointed at Claudia. “Yes, He saved you. Before, you were a slave. A prostitute! A whore! A harlot to the ways of the world. But now He has delivered you!” Claudia began to wail as if someone close to her had died.

  “He saved me! Cristo salva!” some brother cried, poking at his eyes as if he was in torment; as if he was Oedipus about to rip his eyes out. Blanca smiled an enlightened smile as tears poured down her face. Her eyes glowed as if she could see the kingdom of God. It was a strange glow, lighting eyes all over the room. Blanca’s face didn’t look hysterical, just a little transfigured. She had been there, in paradise. Had seen it for herself and it was all true.

  “And He carried your sicknesses! Your sins! Forgave your transgressions! Your imperfections!”

  Alleluia!

  Alleluia!

  Alleluia!

  It was infecting every corner, spreading in all directions, resonating from wall to wall. A palace of vibrations praising Jehovah.

  In a church full of Latinos with tear-stained cheeks, young and old had gathered together to hold hands, rough hands, soft hands, and pray and reach out to the Lord. They had waited for the Holy Spirit to arrive and take over their bodies. And now, that joyous moment was at hand. I felt strange and wished I could believe like they did. But I couldn’t. Blanca’s hand was sweaty and hot in mine. Her heart beat just as fast. The congregation was about to sing, to make a joyful noise to the Lord. Roberto Vega was leading them, making them see the promised land. Even though they lived here, in this concrete desert, tonight they would go home, walking the streets of Spanish Harlem fearing no evil, for the Lord was with them.

  Now Roberto was telling them love stories. About God in love with mankind. Of Jehovah being the personification of love. It was a love song he was yelling, although only I could hear him yell, to the rest he was whispering.

  “Owing to the fact that I have found you precious in my eyes,” Roberto read quietly from the book of Isaiah, “you have been considered honorable and I myself have grown to love you. And I shall give men in place of you! And nations in place for your soul!” The Holy Spirit was calmed, like an ocean after a storm. Many people had returned to their seats. Roberto had calmed them, calmed the Spirit of God. He now spoke softly; I could feel the young girls start to swoon. The older women shut their eyes and returned to their past; the older men envied Roberto. Blanca for a moment was in love with the figure standing alone on a bare platform with only the American and Puerto Rican flags keeping him company.

  It was a humble place, made up of rows of folding chairs and walls of Sheetrock covered by cheap wood paneling. A dirty red carpet, with huge gum-stained circles as big as cherries covered the floor. The ceiling had two fiberboard panels missing, exposing the electrical wires. The room provided no distractions. Perfect for those like Roberto Vega who wished to have all eyes, ears, and hearts tuned to their words.

  “My brothers and sisters, never leave the truth,” Roberto pleaded. “Never turn from the light. The darkness will enslave you, like before, before the Lord saved you. Our Lord Christ will never turn His back on us. Even if we leave Him, He will never leave us.”

  Then what’s the point, I was thinking. If He would stay with me anyway, why should I pay Him all this attention?

  “He suffered for us. He was crucified, nailed for us.”

  I agreed. They nailed his left hand to Spanish Harlem, his right to Watts, his feet to Overtown, Miami. The slums were full of his followers. His words were all over the neighborhood, murals screaming at you in the street, that He was your Lord and Savior. His spirit was all over El Barrio, but I didn’t see Him living among us. You wouldn’t catch Christ, in the flesh, living in the projects.

  “Please, now,” Roberto said, his voice lifting again, “join me in song.” The congregation rose. Blanca reached for her tambourine. Some brother put a record on an old player and music began booming from the loudspeaker. Four sisters joined Roberto at the head of the platform to clap their hands and pound their tambourines. It was a privilege to praise the Lord on the platform, to lead the congregation in song. Once, before she married me, it was Blanca up there, and it still pained her to have lost such a privilege. But that night I knew she was happy. Like the rest, she was high on Roberto Vega’s words. They had seen the coming of the Lord. He was coming soon, maybe even that very night. Roberto Vega had told them so. The kingdom of God would arrive, and they would all go to heaven, to the penthouse in the sky. Until then, they would go back home to the rats and roaches.

  “Arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva! Arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva,” they sang. Blanca, her heavy body, baby and all, joined in the song. The sounds of feet stomping, hands clapping, tambourines shaking, and the sobbing of both men and women filled the room. Whole families were worshiping: aisles full of husbands; wives near the broken piano, babies asleep in their arms, as if angels were covering their tiny ears so they wouldn’t wake up as everyone praised the Lord at full volume. “Hoy se ven todas las señates! El fin está cerca, arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva!”

  Afterward, Roberto said a prayer, and when he had finished everyone murmured Amen. The church now had its feet back on the ground. Everyone was back on planet Earth, the Holy Spirit had left the building, and casual conversations started up.

  Blanca hugged me. “I’m so happy you came,” she said.

  “I’m happy you’re happy,” I replied. From the corner of my eye I saw Roberto Vega join his parents and hug them. Others came up to shake his hand, congratulating him on such a great sermon.

  “So you’re Claudia. I’ve heard all these good things about you,” I said in Spanish to Blanca’s sister in faith, but she didn’t acknowledge my presence. Her eyes were still on Roberto Vega.

  “She’s in love with him,” Blanca whispered as Claudia left to go to Roberto’s side. He was the Lord’s stud, swarmed by sisters in Christ who all hoped to be his chosen.

  “Let’s go meet him.” Blanca took my hand and led me toward him. I was just happy that the fight we’d had earlier seemed to be forgotten.

  “That was beautiful. As if Paradise was there in front of me,” a teenager gushed to Roberto.

  “All praise be to my Lord, Jesus Christ. We are all but vessels for Him to use,” Roberto said modestly. Sweat streamed down his face and his shirt was drenched. His mother was holding his hand, his father standing tall because his family had been touched by God.

  “When he was just nine years old,” his mother told the brothers and sisters that surrounded them, me and Blanca among them, “I remember I was cooking. I was making pasteles and Robertito walked into the kitchen. He had the most beautiful expression you can imagine. His face was always handsome but that day his face was so beautiful that I knew something had happened. So I asked him—”

  “Mami, please, not again—” Roberto protested, half joking.

  “Just one more time, Robertito.… He walked into my kitchen,” she continued, “and his face was like a fire. And he said, ‘Mami, I want to get baptized.’ I said, ‘You are too young to get baptized. You have to study more about the Bible before you can make a commitment like that.’ But his face was still aflame, and that’s when he told me, ‘Mami, last night, He came and spoke to me, Christ spoke to me.’ And it was his face that made me believe him.”

  “So he too
k his Bible studies,” his father interrupted, to his wife’s annoyance, “and got baptized at nine years old.”

  “And later,” his mother jumped back in, “later he told us that the Holy Spirit had told his soul he had been anointed.” No one questioned them. No one doubted for a second. Who would after that speech? I wouldn’t. If that kid was going to heaven to rule with Christ, then I just hoped he wouldn’t forget the little people and would put in a good word for me and Blanca.

  Claudia extended a nervous hand toward him and introduced herself. He smiled and asked her where she was from. Blanca butted in and invited Roberto, his family, and Claudia over for dinner. I knew what she was up to. Fortunately, they politely declined her offer. That’s when Pastor Miguel Vasquez joined us.

  Pastor Vasquez was in his late fifties. He always wore polyester suits, even during the summer. He was from Ponce but had grown up in the neighborhood, and when he gave his sermons he’d stress how Christ had saved him from a life of petty street crime. I had seen him in action a couple of times, when his church picked a corner and, using the electricity from a lamppost, plugged in a mike and some electric guitars and preached the hell out of the neighborhood. You could hear them blocks away. “Cristo salva! Alleluia! Ven regresa al Señor!” They’d hand out leaflets and later jam their church salsa, with the guitars and tambourines and a drum set. All that church music bounced off project walls, circling its way around the neighborhood. I had seen Blanca join in those sessions, but I had always avoided the chosen corners.

  “Julio, qué bueno verte, muchacho!” Pastor Vasquez called out. He always spoke in Spanish, though he understood and could speak English when he needed or wanted to. My parents are the same way.

  “Estoy tan ansioso de cenar con ustedes este viemes.” As soon as Roberto’s mother heard that Pastor Vasquez was coming for dinner on Friday, she had a change of heart.

  “Of course we’ll have dinner with you, Hermana Mercado,” Roberto’s mother told Blanca. Claudia’s face lit up.