Call Me Maria

by Judith Ortiz Cofer

  “Two hundred bucks, no less.” Whoopee is a shoe collector herself, mostly thrift store finds, so she knows expensive footwear when she sees it, especially in front of her nose.

  “I have heard that there are some Latino men who can make women do anything they want.”

  “Whaddaya mean, they use voodoo or something?” Whoopee’s parents run the botánica in our barrio. It is a sort of magic store and drugstore combined. They sell everything from scented alcohol that is good for headaches and for driving away evil spirits to Vicks VapoRub and throat lozenges. Whoopee claims she does not believe in any of it although she has a collection of candles in her room with a spell for everything you can think of written on them: para el dinero, para el amor, para hacer desaparecer sus enemigos. For decoration only, she has told me.

  “No, I think it is a talent they develop. They have to learn to be Latin Lovers, I think.”

  “What kind of talents?”

  “How to look at a girl like she is the most beautiful woman in the world. How to say the right thing. I think it helps if they can sing and play the guitar.”

  “Like your father?”

  “I don’t think of my father that way. Bueno, he can be that way sometimes. I’m really talking about guys like Ricky Moreno. I think he is a Latin Lover apprentice. Look.”

  We both climbed on my desk and peeked up. There, sitting on somebody’s car, were the papi-lindo and two of his friends. They were practicing a song in Spanish. But when they saw a girl coming (pink high heels, skirt so short we could not see the hem from the half-view we had of her), they would stop so the papi-lindo could go into his Romeo act.

  “Mamacita, you are a work of art. Mi amor, slow down, por favor. Let me at least have a good look at what heaven must be like.”

  “Gross, that’s sick. She ain’t gonna fall for that crap,” Whoopee hisses.

  “Take a look.”

  We watch as Miss Pink Heels takes slower and slower steps. We hear Ricky tell his buddies to take a long walk. Then we see the two pink high heels and the two shiny black Italian shoes meet like two couples about to dance.

  “Who is that?”

  At first, I think Whoopee is asking who is the girl Ricky has snared with his Spanish love song he throws out like Spider-Man, wrapping her in a cocoon of amor, Mamacita, ven, ven, ven. But what Whoopee hears is the sound of someone sobbing. We both know it is Uma, who watches the street all the time for a glimpse of her love. She too has seen the action in front of our building. That is when I decide I need to have a talk with Ricky.

  When I tell Whoopee, she says I should arm myself before I confront the powers of evil. I have to laugh at how dramatic she can get sometimes.

  “Arm myself? How, Whoopee? Will you lend me your laser sword?”

  “I’ll be right back.” She runs up the stairs with a look of fierceness on her face that reminds me of Xena, Warrior Princess.

  I decide it is now or never. I will tell Ricky that he has to tell Uma that he does not love her and release her from his papi-lindo spell. Or else. Or else? By the time I climb the steps up to the street, my chest is beating like Ricky Ricardo banging on that drum on an old I Love Lucy rerun. I see him holding Miss Pink Heels against somebody’s car. The girl has legs up to her earlobes. I recognize her as one of the cheerleaders at our school, Miss School Spirit. Everything she says has an exclamation point at the end. Ricky is rocking her in his arms and humming a tune I think I recognize. America the Beautiful? I heard that some vampire bats use ultrasonic waves to hypnotize and confuse their prey, and then they sink their fangs into their necks, no struggle.

  “Hey, Ricardo!” I get his attention right away like I knew I would because only his parents use his full name; he is programmed to stand at attention when he hears it. The girl in the pink heels almost loses her balance when he pushes off the car hood where he’s been lounging with her in his arms.

  When he sees it’s just me, he puts on an attitude again, but I’ve already seen his scared mama’s-boy face.

  “What? Whatcha yellin’ out my name for, girl? It’d better be fire in the building, or is your old man needin’ a little help with the pipes and the ladies today?”

  “I need to talk to you. ALONE.” I am using my best assertive voice. I have been taking lessons from Whoopee on how to make myself be heard. I run up the front steps and into the lobby before he can ask any more questions. I watch through the glass as he kisses the girl and sends her off, looking a little wobbly on her feet — she got off easy from her encounter with the papi-lindo — she could have ended up wrapped up in a sticky little love-cocoon, hanging over a bottomless pit by a silk thread.

  I see him hike up his pants, then bend down to rub one of his shoes. The streetlight comes on suddenly as dark clouds cover the sky. He seems to be standing in a spotlight. His black hair reflects blue sparks like a mirror. He stands still for a few seconds as if he knows that he has an audience. Lightning splits the sky, beams of light from his fingertips as he combs back his hair. My scalp prickles; I feel hairs standing straight up on the back of my neck. I feel the floor tremble under me. Roll of thunder, sheets of rain, and quickly he is coming into the small entryway to our building, moving closer to me, too close.

  “Ricardo. I just have one thing to say to you. Stop hurting Uma. Tell her you do not really love her … stop.”

  He corners me. I am against the wall, his arms above me, his silk shirt covering me like a red tent. I say stop at least three times before he presses his chest to my ear. I can smell the ocean now, I can taste the salt on my lips, I begin to hear music. You will think I am crazy when I tell you this — it was coming from inside his chest. I feel his mouth on my hair, his lips moving. I stand real still because I know that he is singing the words to a song I should know. I think it is my favorite Rubén Blades canción, “Piensa en mí.” How did he know, how could he know what these words do to me? And where is that music coming from?

  “María,” I hear him say my name and it sounds far away as a dream, “María.” I know that soon I will remember all the words to my favorite song and I will want to hear him sing it to me, so before he starts the second verse, right after the refrain, piensa en mí, piensa en mí, piensa en mí, I say, “You have to stop….”

  To my surprise, he does let go of me, but only because he has heard footsteps descending the stairs. It is blind Doña Segura being led down by her granddaughter, a thirteen-year-old who already wears red lipstick and streaks her hair purple. The old woman hesitates halfway.

  “Qué cosa,” she says. “I thought I smelled the ocean. It must be the rain. Is it still raining, Jessica?”

  “Sí, Abuelita.” Jessica looks at me, then at Ricky, and grins like the devil. “I thought I smelled a week in Jamaica myself.” She winks at Ricky, who does his hike-up-pants-smooth-back-hair-sneer routine for her.

  “Is that you, Ricardito?” Doña Segura walks slowly but seems to know exactly where he is standing. She puts a hand on his cheek. He brings her wrinkly palm to his lips and kisses it. “Ay, hijo,” she says, “you remind me of every summer day I have known. And I have known many. Dios te bendiga.”

  “Amen,” answers Ricardo, in his best imitation of an altar boy.

  By the time Doña Segura and Jessica have opened their giant red umbrella and left the building, I think that I have snapped out of my papi-lindo trance; but the papi-lindo disagrees, he thinks he can hypnotize me again. He turns on his tractor beams full power in my direction.

  “Piensa en mí,” he says, “imagine you and me in another place, María. A place where you have never been. Ven, ven, ven, María.”

  The way he says my name. María, María, I just met a girl … just like the song in West Side Story, it sounds like a song, like a prayer. Again, I start to feel like the law of gravity has been suspended. Then, suddenly, Whoopee’s Tarzan yell makes us both jump. She is standing at the top of the landing. She does it again, only louder. It’s either her glass-shattering voice or the t
hunder that makes the glass rattle. Whatever it is, I can see that Ricardo has had enough. He pretends he has not really jumped out of his skin. He pulls away from where he had me glued to the wall. He looks at me as he smooths back his wet hair and tucks his designer shirt into his designer pants. He leans down to wipe a drop of water off his designer shoes. He looks me over with a sarcastic smile as he turns to go.

  Finally, he looks disapprovingly at Whoopee in her canary-yellow fisherman’s coat, her combat boots, her wild dreadlocks sticking out of her head like accusing fingers, and he just shakes his head. He only loses his cool a little when Whoopee starts coming down the steps two at a time. Her combat boots make a menacing sound as she lets each foot drop like a hammer. Her mouth is about to open when she is halfway down. Ricardo pushes the front door open. He looks back at me and whispers, “Call me when you grow up, María, María.” I hear him running down the street. His silk shirt will be ruined by the pouring rain.

  Whoopee grabs my hand. “Wanna go for a walk, girlfriend?”

  * * *

  It is many weeks later that I finally ask Uma.

  It was the henna tree blossoming outside my window when I was a child in India that I smelled on his skin, the sparrow’s song I listened for when he held me close.

  An exclamatory sentence is a strong emotion expressed in

  words. It begins with a capital letter and ends with an

  exclamation mark.

  These are exclamatory sentences:

  Mr. Golden is a musician!

  Mr. Golden is a singer!

  He thinks I am a good writer!

  I wrote a poem!

  He wrote music for my words!

  He wants to sing it at the last assembly!

  Querida Mami,

  Remember when I was little, and we lived in a little house, in front of a huge ocean, on our little Island? Remember, Mami? You would tell me to sit across from you at the kitchen table, and you would pour me thick orange juice you and I had squeezed ourselves, hot bread we walked to get every morning at 6:00 from the panadería, and then you’d make café con leche for yourself, the smell of it so sweet that you said it could raise los muertos. Then we would go over our plans for after school. From the time I can remember there was some religion class I had to take at our parish church.

  “Hija, I will be waiting for you to take you to Sister María Josefa’s catechism class today. Have you memorized your lesson?”

  “Yes. But don’t make me say it,” I would answer. I found the repetitious nature of the pamphlets I had to take home to memorize too simple. It was all “Do you believe in God? Yes, I believe in God. Do you believe in the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church? Yes, I believe in the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church.” And so on, until the droning of the old nun’s monotone voice and the chorus of bored children would be stuck like a record in my head. ¡Sí, sí, sí! I believe, I believe, I believe!

  Mami, you always waited patiently until I said my lesson, going to the next one only when I had recited the last. It was a standoff — if I played my part just right, the time left before you walked me to school was mine to play or read for pleasure.

  And so I learned the trade-off: pay now, fly later.

  That is what I feel I am doing repeating the English lessons so I can live in this cold city, Mami. Once I dare to walk outside this little island called the barrio, that is. If you were with me it would be an adventure, like on the day we explored Old San Juan together. We got lost in the old part, but we followed the ancient cobblestone road right down to the ocean and then walked on the beach until we found ourselves back in familiar territory. You said to me, “Ojo abierto, hija.” Keep your eyes open and you will always find your way back home. Remember, Mami?

  Today I will go downtown by myself. I will practice English with real people and try to learn more about the world outside this block so that one day I will stop feeling lost in the world. Maybe I can learn to think of this city as home.

  Mami, I think you are learning to live without us. I do not believe you will ever leave your Isla to come live in this cave, as you call the place I now think of as home. You need the tropical sun, and el azul much more than I do.

  * * *

  I will not send you this letter so you will not worry that I am getting too triste. I will put it in my poetry notebook and make a poem from it someday.

  The minute I step through the electric eye, the drugstore’s alarm goes off and several pairs of eyes freeze me inside the cage of their suspicion. I stand on the spiky plastic Welcome mat, waiting for someone to release me, to say “Go on, it is all a mistake.” The rotund manager, propelling down the center aisle toward me like a nuclear submarine in his too-tight steel-gray suit, his pudgy finger aimed at me, orders me in a loud voice to come back and empty my purse on the counter. I protest, put my hands up. I have not done anything. But his face — folds of hardened rubbery flesh, mouth curling into a tight smile of scorn, eyes almost slits — tells me to expect no pity. He informs me that he will call security if I do not obey. I turn over my bag on the glass case that displays cheap watches, their plastic faces impassively watching me through safety glass — a jury box of Timex ladies’ and men’s, alarms ready to go off when I am found guilty, none of them showing the right time.

  Without touching any of my things, as if I carried the bubonic plague in my handbag, he inspects its contents, poking around inside with a pen he has pulled out of his pocket, letters scrolled in gold on its side: We value our customers. This is what he finds: half a roll of breath mints (tropical flavors), two lipsticks (Brown Sugar Babe and Hot Spice Girl), hairbrush, pink sunglasses with slightly scratched lenses, envelope with a letter I am still writing to my mother, small mirror in the shape of red lips; two five-dollar bills, three quarters, two dimes, one nickel, and seven pennies — money I was going to spend on beauty products. He takes his time, looking up, raised eyebrows, after tapping each item with his pen. I know he is acting for the security camera. Finally, finding nothing that looks like his merchandise, he looks me over as if I were hiding something in my clothing or maybe hidden deep within my bushy foreign hair. I stand like a statue while he stares. His cheeks begin to quiver a little bit. He rubs his eyes, squints. I turn my five jacket pockets inside out for him; leave their linty insides hanging out. I lean over, grab the hem of my skirt, pretending I am going to lift it up for his inspection. His eyes grow almost round in outrage. He gives me a hateful look, makes a sweeping motion with his plump hand, Get out of my store. Case dismissed due to lack of hard evidence; not lack of guilt, his mocking smile tells me. He will get me next time.

  He maneuvers his huge body, almost stuck between counter and wall, toward our audience of three customers, his sarcastic smile ugly and mean as the crack on the sidewalk that trips you. We know she’s guilty, right, friends? He nods as he passes the elderly couple, and nods again at the girl with blonde dreadlocks, who have waited, maybe hoping for the entertainment of their day to end with cops and handcuffs. But they act as if they too feel cheated. The girl walks out without buying anything, tossing back those heavy yellow ropes of hair. The old people return to the magazine they had been flipping through. I watch as the king of these thirteen aisles of beauty products, two of cough and cold, and one of pain relief goes back through his secret panel at the rear wall of his store, to his office behind the two-way mirror.

  I put everything slowly back into my bag, taking my time. I sort the coins and put them into the change pocket. I put my makeup in the middle section, zip it up; slide the sunglasses into the outside pocket so they will not be scratched again. I reapply Brown Sugar Babe using the mirror on the beauty side of the jewelry, electronics, and beauty aids counter. I run the brush through my hair. It gets stuck in a tough curl and I have to spend a few minutes working it out.

  This is what I leave on the glass countertop, above the Timex watches, all telling the wrong time: half a roll of mints (the green one on top broken in three place
s and a little bit dusty), several strands of coarse black hair I have carefully shaped into a question mark, and a ticket stub from the movie American Beauty, which I really didn’t like all that much.

  A Poem by María

  It begins

  with your second last name

  gone missing from your mailbox,

  school ID, and learner’s permit.

  It is hard to explain to your relatives

  back on the Island.

  Your mother says,

  you had it

  when you left home,

  where is it now?

  You cannot claim

  to have misplaced

  your mother’s surname.

  Your Abuela suggests

  that you retrace your steps.

  Instead, you decide

  to just tell everyone

  to call you María.

  “Just call me María,” you say.

  It’s much simpler this way.

  Then, before you know it,

  your baby fat is somehow lifted

  right from under your very nose.

  Where did it go?

  Whoever took it

  left a couple of bumps

  and a few curves

  in its place.

  You think it may be

  someone you know.

  Another day

  you wake up,

  say a few words

  and suddenly

  you notice, every day

  your accent is less thick

  than the day before!

  Not too long ago

  you sounded like this: I speek

  leetle Eenguish. The next,

  you are singing I can articulate, I can articulate,