The Book of Unknown Americans: A novel

by Cristina Henriquez

  Rafael said, “Okay, let’s try this.” He opened the back door. “Alma, you get in first. Then Celia, you get in next to Alma.”

  “Who’s sitting in the front?” Celia asked.

  “I’ll sit in the front,” Mayor volunteered.

  “Arturo can ride in the front with me,” Rafael said to Celia. “He’s bigger than you.”

  Celia looked Arturo up and down, then motioned for him to come over to where she was.

  “Stand there,” she said. She turned so the two of them were back to back. She was a finger width taller than him.

  “I think it’s you, Arturo,” Rafael said.

  But Celia wagged her finger. “No. I’m taller than him.”

  Rafael massaged his temples, as if the whole thing was giving him a headache. “Bueno. You sit in the front. Arturo, please get in next to your wife. Mayor, you go on the other side.”

  “What about Maribel?” Mayor asked.

  “She can sit on her father’s lap.”

  Arturo and I were the only ones in the car so far. “Come here, Mari,” Arturo said, patting his thighs. “Let’s see if you can fit.”

  Maribel stuck one of her legs into the car and backed her rear end in through the door, ducking her head to clear the opening. But when she lowered herself onto Arturo’s lap, even with one of her legs still outside of the car, she was too high to uncurl her back and neck.

  “¡Por favor! She can’t sit like that!” Celia said from outside.

  “Come back out,” Rafael said, extending his hand.

  “She can sit on my lap,” Mayor offered. “We’re both skinny.” And when no one said anything, he shrugged and climbed into the car on the other side of me.

  Rafael stood, looking at the people and the spaces, as if the whole thing were an elaborate puzzle that he could solve if only he could find the right piece.

  “This is ridiculous,” Celia finally said. “Maribel, would you mind sitting on Mayor’s lap? It’s only for a few miles. I’ll sit in the front, and Rafa, you drive.”

  Silently, Maribel walked around the car and climbed in on top of Mayor, the rhinestone butterflies on the back pockets of her jeans resting on his thighs.

  Arturo looked at me.

  “It’s okay,” I said, even though I was worried, too, about letting her ride like this. Here the roads seemed clear, but what if farther on they were still icy? I reached over and locked Mayor’s door. I clutched Maribel’s forearm as if somehow that would protect her in the case of an accident.

  Rafael had to rev the engine a few times to get it to start in the cold, and just after it did, someone called from the balcony.

  Rafael cranked the window down.

  “Is everything all right?” I heard a voice yell. Quisqueya. She said, “I heard some commotion, so I came out to check.”

  “We’re fine,” Rafael shouted back.

  Quisqueya bent down to peer between the balcony bars. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s the Riveras and us,” Rafa called. “We’re headed to the park to take the kids skating.” I caught a glimpse of her face, which betrayed disappointment mixed with a flash of envy.

  Rafael said, “Celia will call you later,” and I saw Quisqueya give him a doubtful look as he raised the window.

  “I don’t need—” she started to say, but the window closed before she finished.

  “Why did you tell her I would call her later?” Celia asked.

  “Just to get her off our back. What does she care what we’re doing?”

  “But now I have to call her later!”

  Rafael put the car in reverse. “Vidajena, that woman,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” Mayor asked.

  “A nosy person,” Rafael said. “Always interfering.” He started to pull out. “Okay, enough of this. If we wait much longer, the ice is going to melt. Vámonos.”

  THERE MUST HAVE BEEN a hundred children at the marsh. As we walked toward the frozen pond, we saw them flailing their arms and squealing as they cast their bodies across the surface, half squatting to steady themselves.

  “Will it break?” I asked. “With all those children on top of it?”

  “I don’t know how it works,” Arturo said.

  We walked over the brittle grass and when we came to the pond, Maribel crouched down and laid her hand against the surface.

  “You can skate on it,” Celia said. “See all the kids?”

  “Go ahead,” Arturo said. “Let’s see if you can stand on ice. That’s not something any of your friends in Pátzcuaro can say.”

  We all waited for her to do something, but Maribel simply squatted with her feet rooted to the ground, staring back at us through her sunglasses.

  “Come on, Maribel,” I said. I meant to sound encouraging, but it came out shrill.

  Arturo glared at me, and I looked away from him, embarrassed by my impatience.

  “Don’t you want to try it?” Mayor asked. He jumped onto the ice and slid with his arms out to the sides. “See? It’s fun.”

  Maribel stood and took a step toward the ice, and Mayor hurried back to help her down. He walked slowly, pulling her along. I held my breath, watching her every step, worried that she might fall. But she was walking on her own before long, one foot carefully in front of the other, and I looked at Arturo and smiled.

  “She’s doing it,” I said.

  Rafael and Celia glided out into the middle of the pond together, and cautiously, with his hands in his coat pockets, Arturo stepped onto the ice and twisted his boots in small Z’s, staring at his feet.

  “How does it feel?” I asked.

  “It’s like a floor,” he said. “Come try it.”

  Arturo skated backwards on the soles of his boots, looking over his shoulder as he moved to make sure he wasn’t about to bump into anyone. I stood on the bank of the marsh and watched him, the way he wobbled and twitched.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something. I jerked my head around. The boy, I thought. But when I turned, no one was there. Had he been there? I felt sure of it all of a sudden, sure that he was watching us, waiting for his chance. I looked back to where Maribel had been standing with Mayor, but I didn’t see her. I didn’t see her or Mayor. I scanned the marsh, raking my eyes through all the bodies moving across the ice, the children in their bright coats and wool hats, shrieking and laughing. “Maribel?” I said out loud. “Mari!”

  The next thing I knew, Arturo was in front of me again, at the edge of the bank. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Where did she go?” I said. “Maribel!”

  Arturo whipped around. “Mar—” he began to shout. Then he stopped. “She’s right there, Alma. She’s standing with Mayor.”

  I tried to focus on where he was pointing. “I don’t see her.”

  “She’s right there.”

  And then: her dark hair, her thin, coltish legs in her slim jeans, her big coat. I blinked and took a long breath, trying to loosen the fist around my heart.

  “I didn’t see her,” I said.

  Arturo shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

  “I lost track of her.”

  Arturo stepped off the ice and onto the bank where I was. “No,” he said. “It’s something else. I don’t just mean now.”

  And for one compact second, for no real reason, I considered telling him about the boy. It was nothing more than a block of words, I thought, that I could hand him, like a gift. But what would he think of me now, knowing that I’d been keeping so much from him for so long? The boy coming to the apartment, me going to Capitol Oaks, finding the boy with Maribel that day. Besides, before we left México I had promised him I would handle everything here. I had promised myself I wouldn’t burden him with one more thing. And now here it was: one more thing.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “You’re lying.”

  I shook my head, afraid to open my mouth.

  “So it’s just my imaginatio
n, then? Am I going crazy?”

  “You’re not going crazy.”

  “So there is something?”

  “It’s just the usual things—you being out of work, and the money. Maybe I’m homesick.”

  “That’s not it,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth!”

  “Come on, Alma! You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t breathe you and dream you every single day of my life? You think I haven’t been inside you? I know when you’re lying to me. There’s something else.”

  And again, for the briefest moment, I thought, How easy it would be. To say, Here. I’ve been holding on to this all this time, but here, if you want it you can have it. When I look back on it now, I see that I should have done it. In that split second, telling him might have changed our fates.

  “There’s nothing else,” I said.

  I gazed out across the pond, to the treeline and the soft wash of sky. I kept my eyes on Maribel, watching her with Mayor, the way she smiled when she was with him, the way he talked to her without judgment or expectation, how at ease she seemed when he was around. I was grateful for those things.

  “Look at her,” I said.

  Arturo turned, and together we watched as Maribel drew out a strand of hair that had blown into her mouth. Mayor said something, and she laughed.

  Arturo walked to the edge of the frozen grass and stepped onto the ice again, tapping his boots against its marbled surface. He looked at me with a gentle expression.

  “Come on,” he said, offering his hand.

  I didn’t move.

  “I’m here,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I took his hand, feeling his rough, warm skin against mine.

  “I’m right here,” he said.

  I lowered one foot onto the ice. He tugged gently, walking his fingers up to my elbows, easing me down. I picked up my other foot and planted it next to the first as I clung to Arturo’s coat sleeves. And then I was standing on the ice, which I was astonished to find felt as firm as the ground, all of me braced in Arturo’s arms.

  THE SUNDAY AFTER we went skating, Arturo asked to borrow the Toros’ radio and we took it home with us after eating lunch at their apartment. Arturo set it on the kitchen table and tuned it to a station playing nothing but the Beatles, which had been his favorite band since he was a boy. He raised the volume and sang along with words he had memorized from a lifetime of listening—“La la la la life goes on!”—smiling wide and clapping. “¡Va!” he shouted sometimes, at me or at Maribel, and he drummed his hands on the table, on the walls, on our rear ends. The Beatles sang in their English accents about the sun coming out after the winter. We sang along, even though we didn’t know what some of the words meant. “Little darling … It’s all right.”

  And then, in the middle of the revelry, we heard a knock at the door.

  “What was that?” Arturo asked.

  “What?” I said.

  A knock sounded again.

  Arturo walked past me to the door and when he returned, he was trailed by Quisqueya.

  “Alma,” she said, when she saw me. “Buenas.”

  “Quisqueya says she needs to talk to us,” Arturo said.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you something? A water?”

  “Do you have coffee?”

  I started to shake my head—we’d bought neither coffee nor tea in weeks—but then she said, “Oh, don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. I mean, if you have some made …” She craned her neck to scan the countertop for evidence of a coffeepot while she lowered herself into an empty chair.

  “I’ll get you water,” I said. If it had been anyone else, I would have been embarrassed by not having something more to offer, but there was something strangely pleasurable about having to disappoint someone like Quisqueya.

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Quisqueya said, folding her small hands in her lap.

  I took a glass from the cabinet and turned on the tap.

  “Maribel, come say hello,” Arturo instructed, turning off the music and summoning her from the living room.

  Dutifully, Maribel walked over, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  “Say hello,” Arturo urged.

  Maribel stayed quiet.

  “It’s fine,” Quisqueya said. “I understand.”

  Arturo tightened his jaw. “She’s shy,” he said.

  “Maribel, we need to talk to Quisqueya for a few minutes. Do you want to wait in the bedroom?” I asked.

  After she left, Arturo settled himself across from Quisqueya at the kitchen table. I placed the glass of water in front of her. She took a sip and pushed it to the middle of the table. Then she sat, squeezing her fingers in her lap.

  Arturo raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head, as puzzled as him.

  “Well,” Quisqueya began, “I hate to say anything.”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “With me? I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” She fidgeted while Arturo and I waited.

  “Well,” she began again, “I was on my way out to the hospital one afternoon. Did you know that I volunteer there? It’s nothing, really. I change bedpans and prop up pillows and deliver lunches. Sometimes the patients mistake me for a nurse, but I tell them, please! Nurses do important work. I simply come and do chores. It’s nothing. Of course, we are all doing God’s work. That’s what I think. Even if we contribute in only small ways.” She stopped and looked at us.

  “What you do is important,” I offered, even though I didn’t know where this was headed.

  “Yes,” Quisqueya agreed. She reached for the water glass again, but thought better of it and drew her hand back to her lap.

  “I was on my way out a few weeks ago. And you know that the Toros bought a car? I haven’t had a chance yet to ride in it myself but … oh, of course you know. They took you for a drive, didn’t they? Last week? Did you see me? On the balcony? Rafael can be so rude sometimes. And do you know that Celia never called me after that? I hardly see her anymore. It seems she always has plans with other people”—and here, Quisqueya looked pointedly at me—“so there’s never really a good time to catch her anymore. It’s such a shame. She and I used to be very close.”

  Arturo looked at me, confused.

  “I saw them sitting in the car together,” Quisqueya said suddenly.

  “Who?” Arturo asked.

  “Mayor Toro. And your daughter. They were together in the car.”

  Quisqueya cast a quick glance down the hallway, then leaned toward us. “They were kissing,” she said.

  “When?” I asked.

  “It was a few weeks ago.”

  “Kissing?” Arturo said.

  “Yes, they were kissing. Mayor Toro and your daughter, Maribel.”

  “You’re sure it was them?” Arturo asked.

  “I’m positive. In Rafael’s car.”

  When had they been in Rafael’s car? They knew the rule. They had to be here or at the Toros’ apartment.

  “They spend a lot of time together,” Quisqueya said.

  “They’re friends,” Arturo said. I could tell he was upset, but he didn’t want to give Quisqueya the satisfaction of knowing it.

  “I think they’re more than friends.”

  “Okay,” Arturo said. “Is that what you came here to tell us?”

  Quisqueya looked momentarily defeated. I could see it in her face. She had been eager to deliver this news. She had been looking forward to see what impact it would make, and now that she saw that it hardly left a dent, she was disappointed.

  “No,” she said slowly. “There’s more.”

  When she didn’t offer anything else, sitting there with her mouth pinched, Arturo said, “And? What is it?”

  “It only started with a kiss,” Quisqueya said. “But then Mayor put his hand on her leg. I could see them through the windsh
ield. They were kissing and then Mayor leaned toward her. And he put his hand on her leg, and … it was hard to see everything they were doing, but a few minutes later when Mayor stepped out of the car, his pants were … wet.”

  Arturo pushed himself back from the table and stood.

  Quisqueya stopped talking, her eyes wide, her face nearly as red as her hair.

  I didn’t know what to think. It was too much.

  “You’re making this up,” Arturo said.

  “I’m sorry,” Quisqueya said, “but I thought you should know. Especially considering …”

  “Arturo, sit down,” I said.

  He was pacing in small circles.

  “I know how boys can be,” Quisqueya said. “Boys Mayor’s age—you can’t be too careful. Of course Celia always tells me he’s so good, but I was over there recently and you should have heard how he talked to me. Very disrespectful. If that’s how he treats me, I started to think … Well, I was worried about Maribel.”

  Arturo looked at me as if to ask, Do you believe her?

  I don’t know, I told him with my eyes. Maybe. I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t ready to take any chances, either. If there was even a possibility …

  “I should go now,” Quisqueya said. “Thank you for the water.” She waited, as if she expected one of us to escort her to the door. When neither Arturo nor I moved, Quisqueya walked out herself, the click of her shoes echoing down the hall.

  Mayor

  Late in February, my dad came home from work one night and said, “It’s over.”

  I was on my way to the kitchen, but I knew enough to tell when I should stay out of his way. A few years ago Enrique and I had devised an alert system where we’d hold up a certain number of fingers to each other to indicate how far up the scale of volatility my dad was. If Enrique had been there that day, I would have rated this a level four, the second-highest possible, which meant “Radioactive. Steer clear.” The day he’d grounded me had probably been a level six, off the charts.

  From the hallway, I listened as my mom scurried out to meet him. I heard muffled voices. And then, for a long minute, I heard nothing.