by Laura Resau
More boys ask me to dance, but before I can answer, Niño Carlitos barks, “No.” And then the Doctorita says how silly he’s being and then he yells at her and she says he’s embarrassing her and they argue some more.
Under Niño Carlitos’s gaze, I fume. This is my life: waiting and watching other people have fun and go to school and dance together. Always watching, but never allowed to join in. Reading and dancing in secret, alone in the house, living a life in dreams and fantasies. Around me, the music and lights and colors whirl and pulse. Inside me, dark shadows gather, like the somber procession of the dead.
I’ve heard that some fathers can be overprotective, that this is how they show love. Is this Niño Carlitos’s idea of fatherly love? But there’s something more, a crazy intensity to his gaze. Something like jealousy.
chapter 19
FOR HIS FOURTH BIRTHDAY, Andrecito gets a set of colored letter magnets that you can arrange on the refrigerator to spell words. If the magnets come close to metal, they stick and won’t let go until you pry them off. But if you try to move two magnets close together, they jump away from each other. In Understanding Our Universe, I read that a magnet’s north pole attracts another magnet’s south pole, but it repels another magnet’s north pole.
Slowly, I begin to notice that whenever Niño Carlitos and I are alone in the house, a magnetic force seems to pull his hands toward my body. At first he begins touching my shoulder more often, and then lets his hand linger there, longer each time. Then he starts finding any excuse to hug me. Oh, m’hija, you’re such a good cook. M’hija, thank you for cleaning up so well. You’re so smart, m’hija. So beautiful. I’m so lucky to have you.… Words I’ve always dreamed of hearing from my own father. For a little while, I glow in his attention.
But then he starts coming home from school earlier than the Doctorita, creeping up behind me and wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pressing against my back. And I feel myself moving away, as though his north pole is approaching my north pole.
I squirm out of his grasp, laughing nervously. “I have to work, Niño Carlitos,” I say. “I’m busy.” I whiz around the kitchen with fast, jumpy movements, avoiding his hands.
He doesn’t want the Doctorita to see him touching me, that is obvious. When he hears her key in the lock, he jumps away and walks quickly into the living room. Is he afraid she’ll feel jealous of him treating me like a daughter? Is he treating me like a daughter? Is this how fathers treat their daughters? On TV, daughters sometimes sit on their fathers’ laps and the fathers pat their backs and kiss their cheeks. Maybe this is what Niño Carlitos is trying to do, to treat me like a daughter. Maybe the reason it makes me nervous is that I’m not used to it. Maybe I just have to get used to it.
There’s a full moon, and it’s late at night, and I’m peering out my window at Niño Carlitos, who is drunk and banging on the front door. He hardly ever drinks, only at fiestas, or sometimes with his friends at a bar, like tonight. The rule is that I have to answer the door if the Doctorita is asleep, so I pad down the hallway in my nightgown, groggy. On the way downstairs, the shock of the cold tile on my feet wakes me up, makes me suddenly scared. I rub my goose-bumped arms and open the door.
Niño Carlitos sways there, his eyes droopy and red, giving me a strange look. It’s the look of a hungry dog salivating over food. His voice creeps out, low and guttural. “Come here, m’hija.”
I turn to run back upstairs but he grabs my arm, pushes me hard against the wall. He presses his body close to mine and rubs his hands over my bare arms. His face moves toward mine. I turn my head and he kisses my cheek, leaving a slobbery wet spot. I try to push him away but he’s too strong. Finally, I manage to duck beneath his arms and run outside, into the shadows behind the truck in the driveway. The yard is thick with trees and bushes, and surrounded by a tall metal fence. The gate at the end of the driveway is always locked with a key at night.
“Virginia!” Niño Carlitos yells. Luckily, he’s drunk enough that it takes him a moment to follow me. “Come here! I order you to come here.”
Terrified, I crouch behind the truck’s tire. Maybe he forgot to lock the gate tonight. Maybe I can make a run for it.
“Virginia,” he says, his voice growing closer. He’s on the other side of the truck, just a few meters away. I see his shoes. I can either run for the gate and hope it’s unlocked, or try to stay hidden.
“The gate’s locked,” he calls out, as if he’s read my mind. “I know you’re here somewhere.”
I slide underneath the truck, shaking, my face pressed to the concrete driveway that smells of motor oil. I try not to make any noise as I cry. Even as drunk as he is, it’s only a matter of time before he looks under the truck.
“Virginia!” he shouts. “I want a glass of water! I order you to serve me water!”
I press my hand to my mouth and bite my thumb, stifling my sobs.
Then the Doctorita’s voice breaks the night, faint, from inside the house. “What’s going on?”
Niño Carlitos’s voice is slurred. “This longa doesn’t want to serve me water.”
He has never called me a longa before.
“Virginia!” the Doctorita yells. “Get Carlos his water.”
Reluctantly, I emerge from under the truck, into the moonlight. Niño Carlitos watches me, furious. I dart past him. He follows me inside, and to my relief, the Doctorita is standing in the hallway, hands on her hips. “Come to bed, you drunk!” she says, pushing Niño Carlitos up the stairs. “Get him his water,” she calls to me over her shoulder.
I grab a glass of water from the kitchen and carry it to their room. Niño Carlitos watches me through squinty, half-closed eyelids as I place the glass on the bedside table. I hurry down the hall and close my door, then scan the room for the heaviest piece of furniture I can move. There’s the sewing machine table that they store in here. I push it in front of the door and sit on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress.
In fifteen minutes he’s knocking on my door. “Open up!” he growls in a loud whisper.
I stand up, ready to hurl all my weight against the table. What will the Doctorita say if she wakes up and sees this? Somehow, she’ll blame me.
More knocking. “Open the door! I order you.”
The knob turns and the door inches forward. I push on the table with every last bit of strength.
After what feels like forever, he stops, and I hear his uneven footsteps as he staggers down the hall to his bedroom. All night I lie awake with my body tensed, ready to leap up at the slightest noise.
If this is how fathers treat their daughters, I don’t want one after all.
“Can I please have some more eggs, m’hija?” Niño Carlitos asks the next morning at breakfast.
I scoop more eggs onto his plate, keeping as far from him as possible.
“Thank you, m’hija. Rrriquísimo. Really delicious.” He looks tired and worn, yet he’s treating me as if last night never happened. Have I overreacted? Am I the crazy one?
A few days later, on the way to cut alfalfa for the guinea pigs, I spot Doña Mercedes feeding her chickens. Seeing her always lifts my spirits. “Hello, Doña Mercedes.”
“Hello, Virginia.” She speaks in a mild, pleasant way and smells like rose-scented soap. She’s the one person in town who never gossips or says bad things about people. “Pretty day, isn’t it, dear?”
I nod. We talk a bit about the weather and the chickens and Marina’s crush on Chayanne.
Doña Mercedes scatters the last of the corn kernels and then studies my face. “Are you all right, Virginia?”
“Mmm,” I say.
“You look … troubled about something.” If only she were my mother.
I take a deep breath, still staring at the chickens, unable to meet her eyes. “Doña Mercedes, tell me, how do fathers show love for their daughters?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Well, for example, can fathers grab their daughters here? Or here? Can
they touch them like this?”
Doña Mercedes sinks down onto a tree stump, puts her hand over her mouth.
I keep talking, because once I start talking, it feels good. “Can fathers hug them a lot and press against them a lot?”
Doña Mercedes stares at me long and hard. “Who’s doing this to you, Virginia?”
“Oh, no one,” I say casually, keeping my gaze on the chickens. “I was just wondering.”
“Virginia?” She takes my hand. “Don Carlos isn’t doing this to you, is he?”
I hesitate. Finally, I say, “No. No, no, no. No, he’s not doing this to me.”
“Why don’t you talk with the Doctorita about this?”
“No!” I loosen my hand from hers. “Please, Doña Mercedes, just answer my question.” My lip is quivering. “Tell me how fathers show love to their daughters.”
She sighs. “Well, fathers love them and respect them. But fathers can’t touch them like that. Don’t let anyone touch you like that, Virginia. Understand?”
“Yes, well, I was just wondering. Thank you, Doña Mercedes.” And off I run at top speed.
The next time Niño Carlitos comes up behind me like a magnet, I duck away and run to my room and shut the door. Again, I think about telling the Doctorita, but I know she’ll find a way to make it my fault. I’m the one with something to lose. Not Niño Carlitos.
I’ll have to handle this on my own.
* * *
Whenever you’re in a tricky situation, it’s a good idea to ask yourself, What would MacGyver do?
I’m pondering this question as I sweep the Doctorita’s waiting room, near the front door, where dirt from patients’ shoes always builds up.
The answer is easy: he would carefully observe his environment to see what materials he could use to make a simple machine, like a pulley or a lever. For instance, in rocky terrain, he would wedge a branch under a heavy stone and make it roll down a mountain toward his enemies. In the jungle, he’d rig up vines to drop coconuts on his enemies’ heads.
And just like that, I see the solution play out in my mind, complete with the MacGyver sound track: Niño Carlitos walks through the doorway, eager to press against me, but this time I’m ready. I pull a rope and—bam!—a rock falls onto his head, smack onto his bald spot. He staggers, dizzy, and then falls, right onto his face. When he comes to, I say, Try to touch me again, buddy, and there’s another rock with your name on it. He rubs his head and begs, Forgive me, m’hija. I’ll never bother you again. After that, he transforms back into the old Niño Carlitos, the simple, sweet, stuttering one who used to build toys for Jaimito and me.
Perfect plan. But a rock could get me in trouble. It might even kill him. And no coconuts grow in Kunu Yaku. I look around the room for a substitute. Spider plants and rhododendrons hang from the ceiling, dangling their leaves. Conveniently, one plant hangs just inside the doorway, its vines trailing all around the room.
I glance at the clock: 12:45. He’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Excited, I toss aside the broom and run to the kitchen for some twine that will blend in with the vines. I stand on a chair and tie the twine to the plant’s hook. Then I lay the rope over the ceiling hook, pull it taut, and fasten it to the leg of a nearby chair. I survey my work. The plant is in a plastic pot, not a ceramic one, and only medium-sized, not so heavy that it will actually kill Niño Carlitos. Hopefully it will just knock him out for a little while.
I sit on the waiting-room chair with the twine tied onto its leg, watching the clock. The broom, my alibi, leans against my knees. When footsteps sound on the path and a key rattles in the lock, I untie the twine from the chair and hold it, the weight of the plant pulling at it. The door swings open and I let go of the rope. The plant crashes to the floor.
Just behind Niño Carlitos.
I jump.
He jumps. “What the—!”
I drop the broom and act shocked, which isn’t hard because the crash was very loud and sent my heart racing. “Oh no!”
He stands by his schoolbag, shaken and confused, looking up at the ceiling and down at the overturned plant in a pile of dirt. “La Negra and her stupid houseplants! What if I’d been a patient?” And he stomps upstairs, cursing the Doctorita.
Not exactly what I envisioned, but not bad. Not bad at all. With a secret, smug smile, I remove the rope from the scene of the crime and clean up the dirt, patting it carefully around the plant. Only a few leaves were crushed, and the roots are fine. No injuries serious enough to interfere with photosynthesis and respiration, I hope. I give the plant some water and whisper it an apology.
That afternoon Niño Carlitos does not try to hug me or touch me. Even though the plant didn’t crash onto his bald spot, I consider my plan a success. And there’s an unexpected bonus: when the Doctorita comes home from school with the boys, he yells at her about her stupid houseplants.
Later, after our chicken and lentil dinner, Niño Carlitos says, “Thank you, m’hija. That was rrriquísimo.”
The Doctorita pushes away her empty plate and eyes me suspiciously. “Did you make that plant fall, Virginia?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it was just a coincidence you were there when it happened?”
“I guess.” I start clearing the table. She is on to me. And although this fact dampens my armpits with nervous sweat, it feels good to know she realizes I’m more than just a simple servant girl.
Niño Carlitos steps to my defense, just like the old days, when he was my bodyguard. “Negra, don’t try to blame this on la Virginia. It was your dumb idea to hang a plant over the door. An accident waiting to happen. Any fool could have seen that.”
Once he leaves the table, the Doctorita looks at me doubtfully. “No more MacGyver for you,” she hisses. “That’s where you get these ideas, isn’t it?”
Standing straight, keeping my chin high, I meet her gaze. For a stretched-out moment, our eyes lock. Hers are wary, almost nervous, and finally flicker away to the window. There’s the tiniest tremble in her voice as she says, “You’re not the innocent little victim that Carlos makes you out to be.”
* * *
Now I can only watch MacGyver in secret, when the Doctorita isn’t around. And now that the show is forbidden, an extra thrill runs through me at the theme song. Triumphant music that assures you MacGyver will always win in the end. All along you know this, but still, in the middle of the show when he’s tied up and a bomb is about to explode, you hold your breath and dig your fingernails into your palms. Then, just before the bomb explodes, he cuts himself loose and dives for cover, and you breathe out and nearly cry with relief.
Then he is happy and everything is good … until next week.
The flowerpot incident doesn’t exactly solve the problem of Niño Carlitos, but it does make me feel stronger and smarter. I become an expert at finding ways to avoid being alone with him. In the afternoons, I watch for him through the window, and if I see him walking home alone from school, I dash out on an errand. If the Doctorita goes to bed early, leaving me by myself to wash the dishes, I just pile them in the sink for the next morning and go straight to my room and shut the door.
Still, it’s tiring to always be on guard, always peering out the window, looking over my shoulder. How much longer can I keep this up? It’s only a matter of time before he catches me alone, before he comes home late at night drunk again. But as any MacGyver episode will show you, when things look bleakest, that’s about the time you turn a corner.
chapter 20
ONE AFTERNOON, I’m pasturing the cow on the colegio grounds, walking along the concrete wall of the school. I turn the corner, and suddenly I’m face to face with a boy.
“Ay!” I jump back.
He has brown eyes, not as dark as mine. The color of coffee with a little cream swirled in. Or those delicious caramel milk candies. He looks surprised, in a happy way. He tucks a strand of wavy hair behind his ear, only to have it slip out again and hang over his cheek. I smile a littl
e at that, and then he smiles a little, and then I keep walking, my heart pounding. I feel him watch me go.
After that, I notice him whenever I pasture the cow or cut grass for the guinea pigs near the colegio. He hangs out there, under the avocado trees, with a group of guys my age. Most of them are students who have chatted with the Doctorita and Niño Carlitos and me before. When I pass them, I blush, but I don’t change my route.
I notice that he’s usually talking with Leo, one of the Doctorita’s students, a lanky, friendly guy. But I don’t recognize this boy as a student at the colegio. As I pass, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s always watching me, too.
I walk slowly, memorizing his slim waist, his muscled arms, the small, charming ponytail at the base of his neck. I like the way he moves, kind of swaying along like a branch in the breeze, at ease in the world. Sometimes he picks a piece of grass and sticks it in his mouth and chews on it thoughtfully as he looks at me. When I come close, he sits up straighter and tucks loose strands of hair behind his ears.
As I pass him, I grow very conscious of the frayed rope in my hand leading the cow, and the rhythm of my ponytail swinging back and forth behind me. I start sneaking a little gel into my hair before my walks, making it smooth and shiny, and secretly wearing the Doctorita’s lip gloss.
I hope we run into each other again, because next time, maybe I won’t pull back. Maybe I’ll let myself fall into him.
A few weeks after running into the boy, I’m on my way to the store to buy eggs, walking quickly, weaving around slower people crowding the sidewalk. As always, the Doctorita has given me the same warning. “Five minutes. Don’t talk with anyone. If you see someone you know, buenos días, and come right back.”
I’m zipping along when I spot him half a block in front of me, heading my way. I slow my pace and move my eyes straight ahead so he won’t think I’m staring.
“Hola, guapa,” he says as he draws nearer. Hello, beautiful. No boy has ever called me beautiful before. His eyes dance and I can’t help smiling. Heat rises to my face, and suddenly I feel embarrassed. I force my feet to keep walking.