“You’re always going away,” he snaps, angrily. “It’s no use calling you our sister anymore.”
“It won’t be for long, and you will join me there someday, Oscar.”
“That’s what you said about Uyuni.”
“I never lied to you about Uyuni.”
Angel hugs me and gives me a big kiss. “I will come; let Oscar stays here if he wants to.”
I muss his hair and pull Oscar towards me. “You know I love you and I will never, ever abandon you, so don’t get mad at me. It might be a while before we see each other, let’s not part this way. Be happy for me.”
He lets me hug him, but he doesn’t reciprocate. His body is stiff and his eyes cold.
“Walk me to the bus; I need to talk to you, Oscar.”
He complies and I promise him that everyone’s situation is going to change.
“But I thought you were through with all that,” he says, angrily. “I thought you were staying with Aunt Sonia.”
“I was but things changed, and this is better, believe me.”
He lowers his head and I notice he’s crying.
“I’m afraid,” he says. “Things were really rough when you went to Uyuni, mother is much happier when you’re around.”
“It’s for the best,” I say holding his chin and forcing him to look at me. “You have always been the man of the house, Oscar. I’m counting on you to continue that role, please don’t fail me now when I need you more than ever.”
He blows his nose. “I’ll try.”
The bus comes and I must pull away but I hate to see his face awash in tears, his small frame shivering in the wind. Why must we pay a price for everything we do in this world? He is the brother of my heart, yet I’m always hurting him. I have been too excited to feel sad, but a deep loneliness and sadness descends on me like a dark cloud, and I find myself crying. What does the future hold in store for me? Will I ever see him again? If only the family didn’t have to be split, if only all of us could go to America my joy would know no limits.
~~~
November 15 comes, and I wake up with a heavy heart. I had wanted to do this with all my heart and soul, I had tried to commit suicide over it, but now I have mixed feelings. I feel weepy and confused but put up a good front, and after a quick breakfast, it’s time to say goodbye to my uncle. We go to the terrace where we spent so many happy hours, and as I watch him standing there with a kind smile, I think of how much I’m going to miss him and my eyes well with tears. He gives me a big hug and pats me on the back forcefully.
“Make us proud,” he says with a grin. “Step in America with a firm foot, Vicky, Marilyn was just a little waif like you and look how far she went. Learn from the gringos in America, Vicky, they are and will always be the gods of the world.”
“Oh, Uncle Berto,” I say letting my tears flow. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’ll come to see you soon, in the meantime take advantage of every opportunity extended to you in that great country, time is precious and it goes very quickly. Look at me; I’m already an old man,” he says giving me his handkerchief.
“You’re not old,” I say crying like a fool. “You’re not old.”
He holds my hand and slips me a hundred dollars. “For your expenses, don’t let your aunt see it. I want you to get a good start in America. I want you to go with money in your pocket and feel like a true Yankee.”
I have rehearsed a goodbye speech all night long but the lump in my throat won’t let me talk. He seems to know what’s in my heart despite my clumsiness because he kisses my forehead and says:
“Get out of here now, I have to get ready for the office.”
The cab is already downstairs and before boarding it I turn around and watch him waving at me from the terrace. I never want to forget his face, the kind eyes, the creases in his cheeks, the silver hair that covers his whole head, the once straight posture now a little bent by the years.
“We have to hurry,” says my aunt with impatience. “We still have to go get your mother.”
I can’t stop crying, this is a lot tougher than I had anticipated and sobs convulse my chest.
“I don’t blame you,” says my aunt, gently. “He is a good man and he has been magnificent to you. You should cry because he is unique; they don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Oh, Aunt Sonia I couldn’t even thank him properly.”
“You didn’t have to; some things don’t need to be said.”
We ride in silence and when we approach the stop where we’ll pick up mother, my aunt says she hopes mother won’t make a big scene at the airport because she won’t be able to take it. Mom is already at the corner as planned and she looks devastated, her eyes red from crying and her frame smaller, as though she had shrunk overnight.
“Oscar cried all night too,” she says drying her eyes. “None of us got any sleep.”
“It’s not a funeral,” says my aunt, harshly. “It’s a great thing, it’s time for rejoicing. She’s going to have opportunities you never had. She is going to have a great life.”
Mother doesn’t answer her, her tears are flowing and she keeps drying her face with her handkerchief. I’m sitting next to her, holding and comforting her for the last time.
“I guess it was inevitable,” says my aunt softly. “But in the long run this will be the best thing that ever happened to you, María.”
“So many things could go wrong,” says mother. “I could get sick, look at Laura.”
“Nothing is going to happen. We need to give her strength, not undermine her. What she’s doing is hard enough, don’t you think?”
Mom assents, closes her eyes and covers her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a scream.
“I know it’s hard but you have to fill yourself with courage, María, that’s what I do when confronted with a difficult situation.”
‘I know,” she says struggling to stop crying. “I know.”
“She’s going to do it for you, Maria,” says my aunt extending her hand to her compassionately. “She is going to do everything you wanted to do in your life and never could. Your sacrifice won’t be in vain, I know it, I feel it in my heart.”
She clutches her hand desperately. “I pray that’s the case, Sonia. I pray that’s the case with all my heart.”
Climbing through steep streets covered with fog, we finally get to the airport and get out of the car in a hurry. I’m only taking one small piece of luggage that contains very few clothes and my favorite books, and while my aunt pays the cab driver with her back turned to us, I give mother the money my uncle gave me. She tries to protest but I cover her mouth with my fingers.
“What’s going on there,” says my aunt. “Nothing,” I say, reacting quickly. “I gave her a poem.”
Amused, she smiles and says, “Good.”
Time has passed so quickly, we barely have time to say goodbye before boarding the area where only passengers are allowed, and as mother cries on my shoulder, I tell her I love her and I’ll come for her. She kisses me and makes the sign of the cross over me to bless me the way she did when I went to Uyuni, and again I’m speechless, there are so many loving words I want to shower her with but all I can mouth to her is “I love you” before passing through the gate that will take me to another world.
The plane is already fully loaded and I take my seat by a window in the back struggling to control my tears. I don’t know how long I sit there weeping before the solicitous and kind Braniff attendants ask me if everything is alright. Mother and I have endured separations before, but this one feels final and I can’t stop crying. Her words that she’ll never see me again keep ringing in my ears, and the dream she had where she had seen me climbing a hill alone while she stayed at the bottom, fills me with foreboding.
Dreams are a big thing with Mom because she has prophetic powers. She had dreamed about the death of her marriage and the death of her mother, but the dream about Uncle Mario, is the most horrifying of all. A hood
ed figure had appeared in front of her wanting to grab her arm, and on bended knees she had pleaded for more time to raise her children and the hideous figure had grabbed Uncle Mario instead. She had woken up screaming but the full significance of the dream hadn’t become apparent till Uncle Mario was killed by a stray bullet shortly thereafter, and that’s when mother had started living with the awareness of death all the time, realizing that she had won a reprieve once, but how long will it last? She knew she was on borrowed time and the next time there would be no bargains with death.
I hated the fact that I didn’t tell her what a wonderful person she was, how fully I realized the tremendous sacrifice she was making on my behalf. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was I never stood up for her, how I had always longed to tell the world “this is my mother and you will respect her” but never really could.
The flight is long but uneventful; I stop crying and concentrate on the magic of flying for the first time in my life. I wonder if pilots take it all for granted or if the experience of daring the skies never becomes routine because they realize that man is nothing but an insect against the powerful forces of nature. Thick clouds cushion the jet and rock it like a toy – marvelous sunsets rise above the clouds and I watch the exchanges of light and dark, soft and rough currents, with the ever capricious moods of the sky, in utter fascination. Flying is an awesome, humbling experience, never is a person more vulnerable to the elements, never more aware of the proximity of God and his universe.
We finally land in New York City, and I follow the crowd to the baggage area thinking of the Braniff flight attendants, how sharp and neat they look in their spiffy uniforms. I think the job would be ideal for my restless nature and already imagine myself in the uniform, looking pretty and glamorous like they do, but what appeals to me most of all is the opportunity to fly all over the world. I stand in line for immigration feeling very confident in my English, but when the tall, dark African man with gleaming white teeth keeps asking me questions, I can’t understand a word he says, necessitating the assistance of an interpreter. A short, Cuban fellow comes to my rescue and asks me in Spanish if anyone is picking me up. Feeling embarrassed and foolish at not being able to answer a simple question, I tell him my uncle is outside and he lets me go with a smile. I had spent so many hours practicing with my tapes at home, translating the lyrics to the Beatles for my brother who was crazy about them. I had shown off with my friends and Aunt Sonia who thought I was a genius for learning so fast, how they would laugh at me now.
Uncle Jorge is already outside waiting for me and we embrace warmly. He has gained weight but still looks handsome in black pants, black parka and a white scarf. It is freezing outside and I start shivering in my thin jacket.
“Los inviernos son de madre aquí,” [“We have the mother of all winters here”] he says escorting me to his car. “We’ll have to get you a new coat immediately, Felicia will take care of it; she takes care of everything for me.”
I smile remembering another voyage and another time in my life, which now seems a hundred years away. The weather is gray and raw and snow has been predicted. My uncle takes off his scarf and gives it to me for warmth. I recall with amusement that he could never tolerate too many clothes, and was always wearing light things even in the cold nights back home, but he has conceded to the frigid weather here by bundling up. His neck looks thicker than usual but he stills has that head of unruly, wavy brown hair that always made him look leonine. His forehead looks enormous and his face broader, more defined by lines around his forehead and eyes, but he’s still a good looking man.
We talk about mother and he says she wrote him desperate letters, begging him to look after me properly. I say nothing, bitterly remembering that he never really helped us, a small amount of money sent regularly would have alleviated her load immensely but he never did it. He had never sent money to his kids and ex-wife either, obviously deciding to live only for himself and his new baby. He keeps talking as he drives, but I’m no longer listening, I’m too busy taking in the sights and sounds of my new city.
The house is located in a quiet, residential area of Jackson Heights, Queens, where all the houses are attached and look similar. At the sound of the car, Felicia comes out to greet us. She is a short, slim and vivacious woman with a high pitched voice, brown hair, small, dancing brown eyes and a wide smile that shows a lot of gum. I notice right away how keenly she resembles Geraldine Chapin, and wonder if she is aware of it.
“Did you hit traffic?” she asks my uncle in a loud, shrill and nasal voice. “I thought you were never going to get home.”
“I got lost, Licia, you know me; I get lost driving around the corner.”
“Good, at least Vicky got some sightseeing in free of charge.”
After they show me the spare room I will be using, they take me to take a peek at the baby who is peacefully sleeping in his crib. He is a chubby, red looking baby who appears pampered and well cared for, in a room filled with flowery wallpaper and stimulating toys.
“This is Ricardo,” she whispers. “But we call him Ricky which your uncle hates,” she pauses, bursting with pride. “Isn’t he beautiful?”
“How old is he now?” I ask, as she closes the door gently behind him.
“Eleven months, but you were supposed to get here a lot sooner than you did. We couldn’t understand what took you so long and when they told us, oh, well….we almost didn’t bring you. I mean…I had to think of my baby first.”
“Licia” says my uncle with annoyance. “She is cleared of everything, why bring this up now?”
“Why hide it? She had a problem with the blood test, and we all knew it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong in saying it.”
“You’ll find that my wife isn’t the most tactful person in the world,” says my uncle taking me to my room by the arm. “Don’t take offense at anything she says, she’s really a nice person but she has a big mouth.”
She shows me how to feed and change little Ricky the next day, and having taken care of my younger brothers, I feel I’m up to the task. An elderly woman they call “Grandma Helen” who lives on the top floor of the house had assumed his care till I got here, and Felicia is saddened to let her go but for financial reasons, she has no choice. They have to pay Grandma Helen a weekly salary for taking care of the baby, but my payment will be strictly room and board. Felicia stays with me a few days to show me the ropes but I can see she has a lot of misgivings and fears.
“I wish your uncle made enough money so I wouldn’t have to work,” she wails as Monday approaches. “But we would starve to death on his salary, besides; he’s always getting fired from his jobs so I’m forced to work. I felt so confident with Grandma Helen…. I mean, she raised an entire family by herself, but you, you’re still a child; you won’t let anything happen to my baby, will you?”
I reassure her again but she’s tearful and upset, and begs Grandma Helen to help me, at least in the beginning. Grandma Helen is a tall, stocky woman with white hair and thick glasses who tells her not to worry; she will supervise and let her know of any problems. Felicia thanks her and repeats that if her financial situation weren’t so precarious, she would have never taken her charge away from her. Grandma Helen smiles and tells her there are no hard feelings, the extra money came in handy but she understands Felicia had no choice in the matter.
“I’ll be here any time I’m needed,” she says giving the baby a kiss. “I’m going to miss the little fellow.”
~~~
Monday morning comes and Feticia’s face is tense and somber. She wears a black coat and Russian white hat with minimum make up. I have little Ricky in my arms and she kisses him over and over, unable to let him go.
“Stop making it such a tragedy, will you, Felicia?” snaps my uncle, angrily. “Vicky knows what she’s doing; she is not going to kill the baby.”
“Call me at the office anytime you need to,” she says, still clinging to her baby. “And see Grandma Helen for guidance, don�
�t forget.”
They get in the car and she waves to us tearfully. I close the door, ready to assume my new post. The first floor apartment they rent is spacious with three bedrooms, a large kitchen and a big living room. The couches are soft and flowery, and my uncle, who is an artist of sorts, has painted all kinds of interesting abstract pictures for the walls. I don’t understand his work but I like it, it’s colorful, vibrant and different. He has also made some beautiful white lamps for each side of the room and I wonder when he has time to do all this creative work, but I gather by Felicia’s unflattering remark, that it is when he is in between jobs.
I head for their bedroom and there is a yellow bedspread over the queen size bed and a big picture of Felicia, the baby and my uncle by the dresser. She is smiling from ear to ear, her hair is pulled back and her expression joyful. She is not an unattractive woman but she seems determined to look plain and dowdy. She seems to stick to dull colors, preferring brown, black and occasionally white, hardly the image of a femme fatale, yet she has broken up a home and created a lot of pain for my uncle’s first wife and children.
I put the baby in the playpen and look out of the window. It has begun to snow heavily and I watch the white blanket covering the city in fascination.
“My first snow storm,” I tell little Ricky excitedly. “Isn’t that great?”
It’s a brand new experience for me and I’m excited, at home we never saw snow except in the mountains, and the closest thing to it on the ground was icy rain and hail. I want to come out and touch it, let it run through my fingers but I don’t have a proper coat yet, and I’m afraid to leave little Ricky unattended. I sense Felicia has told Grandma Helen to spy on me and to report to her immediately if she hears the baby crying.
The trees are pristine white in no time at all and I press my face to the window, loving the way they look. The apartment is toasty warm and I think of how lucky people are here to have heat in their houses, at home you had to be rich and live in Sopocachi; because even my aunt who lived better than most people could not afford to have heat installed in her house and had to rely on the fireplace to warm up the house during the more frigid nights.
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 35