He looked at his wife, her dark hair falling to her waist, arms crossed over her chest, her brown eyes frightened.
“The day Evita died, he came to see you when he knew I was en la finca.”
“You know I don’t like to remember that day.”
Vicente said, “You were alone with him.”
“And the children.”
“They were babies.”
Valentina sat to put on her shoes. “Why ask me this now, Vicente? After all this time?”
“Why? Why did he come see you?”
“I don’t remember, Vicente. It was so long ago—and then—”
The sounds of guitar playing came from the Puerto Rican camp; the party had begun.
“The way my father looked at you,” Vicente said. “I should have known he was up to no good.”
“We were having such a lovely time, Vicente. Why do you have to go spoil it?”
“Did you let my father fuck you?”
Valentina turned to look at him. “All these years you thought—”
“It was in the back of my mind but I didn’t know it.” He didn’t take his gaze from her face.
She stood up and smoothed down her dress.
Vicente reached for her hand. “You know my father.”
“And you know me.” Valentina pulled her hand away. “I’m going to the party. You can stay here with your suspicions.”
He watched her run until she was only a flash of white.
La gente were sure to gossip about Valentina at the party by herself on the day her husband came home from jail; los puertorriqueños liked a good bochinche. Valentina would be with the women talking, maybe even drinking. She did what she wanted here in Hawaii, though she couldn’t dance with another man without Vicente’s permission, not when he was around, anyway: although she might be willing, no man would take such a risk. He made his way to the party because it was, after all, a fiesta held partly in his honor. Besides, why shouldn’t he go to the party and enjoy himself? He hadn’t done anything wrong. The breeze wafted the sweet smell of sugarcane, which he could live without smelling. He plucked a red orchid from a bush and touched the red petals with the tip of his fingers; it was delicate and soft the way Valentina had been when he first knew her. But now she was strong; she’d had to be. He had to forget whatever might have happened with his father. And he would. He just needed her to say just once—that there was nothing to tell.
He smelled the freshly cut grass before he saw it. That morning, the older boys in the Puerto Rican camp had cut the grass with machetes to prepare it for dancing.
There she was, his wife, talking and laughing with the other women. She didn’t bother to look in his direction. Somebody passed him a jug of okolehao and asked him about jail. What had the malditos americanos done to him? He told them about the chain gang.
“We’re men, not cattle,” somebody said.
Vicente smiled, remembering Valentina thinking it was “cow.” Eugenio passed him a cigarette, the first cigarette Vicente had had since Puerto Rico because he had promised Valentina not to charge anything that wasn’t a necessity at the plantation store. He held the cigarette in the palm of his hand and marveled that something of such scant weight could bring such pleasure.
“We’re screwed and the Americans know it,” somebody said. “There isn’t anything we can do about it.”
“We can refuse to cut cane.” Vicente rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “We can go on strike.”
“¿Huelga? ¡Huelga!” passed from man to man.
“We can set down our machetes,” Vicente said.
“Huelga,” Eugenio said.
“We’re men, not cattle,” Vicente said. “No man has the right to raise his whip to us.”
The men drank.
“Promises were made,” Vicente said. “We must demand that they be kept.”
“Huelga,” Eugenio said again.
“Huelga.” The men drank.
“We need to get together with the Japanese,” Vicente said.
“The Japanese?”
“We’ll organize with the Japanese in the other camp,” Vicente said. “We’ll strike together, then we’ll have more bargaining power with los americanos.”
“We don’t know anything about the Japanese,” Eugenio said.
“We’ll learn.”
“Do we even know any Japanese?” Eugenio refilled Vicente’s glass.
“We will.”
“Japanese and Puerto Ricans working together,” Eugenio said. “Can it be done?”
“We didn’t come from the other side of the world to become slaves in this one,” Vicente said. “We have to try.”
They drank as they considered it.
“The Hawaiian Sugar Planters’ Association won’t want the cane to rot in the fields,” Vicente said. “We have that in our favor.”
“But they have guns,” Eugenio said.
They drank as they thought about guns.
“They wouldn’t be able to arrest all of us,” Vicente said. “Or kill all of us. They need us to cut the cane.”
“But nobody talks Japanese,” Eugenio said.
“That’s a problem,” Vicente said.
Somebody began to play the cuatro guitar, Valentina’s favorite, then a woman took up a güiro, another shook el shekere. Somebody sang. People began to pair off. When her husband asked her to dance, Valentina walked away, and everyone watched him follow her.
“I don’t want to dance with you,” Valentina said.
“I don’t want to dance with you, either,” Vicente said.
They stood next to the Portuguese oven. On its roof was a milk jug of Hawaiian moonshine. She took a slug of the okolehao; Vicente noticed that Valentina didn’t cough the way she had the first time.
“You drink okolehao como nada,” he said.
She ignored him.
“Did you dance while I was gone? Without my permission?”
“How was I supposed to get it? You were in jail.”
“I hope that you didn’t wander off with your partner under the stars.”
Valentina looked at him. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m the one who should be angry,” Vicente said.
“You’ve no right to be angry.” She put the jug back on top of the oven.
“But Valentina, my father—”
“Hombre, I’ve spent the last two months hoe hana and I’m not taking mierda from anyone.” Valentina placed her hands on her hips.
“I’m not anyone,” Vicente said. “I’m your husband.”
“You, either,” Valentina said.
They watched their friends laughing and dancing to the normally sedate vals; the music and the beautiful night enticed them to shake their hips a little, as they wouldn’t have back home.
“I don’t want to fight,” Valentina said.
“I don’t want to fight, either.” Vicente moved closer to her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said.
“You’re different,” Vicente said.
“Hoe hana will do that to you,” Valentina said.
“I don’t mean that.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I don’t know. Different.”
He leaned in to kiss her; she kissed him back and he tasted the sweetness of okolehao on her tongue.
“We won’t stay here forever,” he said.
“The sooner we leave, the better.”
“First we have to pay off the debt to the plantation store.”
“We’ll both work. That way we can pay it off quicker,” Valentina said.
“No, I will work—”
“We could use the extra money,” Valentina said. “Sonia will help.”
“Even in my nightmares, I never saw my own wife working like a peona.” Vicente held her tight.
“I was a peona en Puerto Rico,” Valentina said. “Now I’m a peona in Hawaii.”
He gasped as if she’d stabbed him, and he let go of h
er.
“I never wanted it like that, Valentina, I did my best.”
“Who says you didn’t?”
Valentina reached for the jug and took another drink of okolehao. “You want to know about your father? I’ll tell you, but then I don’t ever want you to ask me about it again.”
So she told him. All these years later, she told him. But she didn’t cry because there were worse things to cry about, and she wouldn’t cry over those things, not with all their friends watching, not with the little girls running around with their friends, she would save her crying for some other time.
If only she’d told him, he said, if only she’d told him about the first time when his father had approached her. Then he could have—what—what would he have done? Something. He would have done something, he hoped so anyway.
He took the jug from her, then took a drink before setting it back on the Portuguese oven. He noticed for the first time that the moonshine had a hint of pineapple.
“I was afraid, afraid that you’d say that I’d enticed him somehow,” Valentina said. “I thought I was protecting you, from what you might do.”
“Querida—”
“I was so young, I thought it would cause so much trouble—”
“Querida—”
“And then when Evita died, I thought—that it was my fault—that you would be right to blame me—”
“Blame you? I wouldn’t have! It wasn’t your fault—”
“I only want to forget,” Valentina said.
“We can’t forget. Ever. Not Evita or Javiercito. We wouldn’t want to forget them.” Vicente held her close. “We can’t forget Raulito or my mother or your sister Elena or your parents or even Puerto Rico.”
“Or Inés and Gloria.”
He held out his hand. “Will you dance with me?”
They joined their friends on the grass and danced under the stars until dawn.
The stars twinkled, Love, love.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
SISTER
They stopped to rest on their way back from getting water from the stream.
“You ride Vicente like he’s a horse and you have to win the race.” Sonia brushed the red dirt from Valentina’s sleeve. It was impossible to keep their clothes clean, what with the wind.
“You shouldn’t pay attention to what I do with my husband.” Valentina retied the kerchief in her hair that had come undone.
“Do you mind my talking about it?” Sonia sat down on the grass.
“Mujer, after everything that I’ve gone through, there is very little that I mind.” Valentina brushed her skirt, wondering why she even bothered.
“When he sucks your tetas, I want to pull down my blouse and give him one of my mine.” Sonia pulled her dress down.
Valentina examined her friend’s plump breast.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Valentina sat down next to her.
“No? You once said that we’d share everything.” Sonia smiled at her friend.
Valentina laughed. “It’s one thing to share food and a floor to sleep on, but my husband has only so much energy after working in the cane all day.”
“Maybe one night, if you’re too tired?” Sonia tucked her breast back in her dress.
“Look for someplace else to stay,” Valentina said, “if you’re going to be a nuisance.”
Sonia clutched Valentina’s arm. “Lo siento, it’s just that I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant? ¡Ay bendito! That explains your big tetas.” Valentina feigned surprise, as if she hadn’t suspected for months.
“I get very horny when I’m pregnant,” Sonia said.
“Doesn’t every woman?” Valentina remembered how she would throw herself at Vicente the minute he came home from la finca.
“Will you help me, Valentina?” Sonia picked at the blades of grass.
“I already told you—”
“With the baby,” Sonia said.
“Do you want to keep it? I can make a concoction of herbs—”
“Have you ever—”
“No, but we’ll have to do it soon.” Valentina had learned a lot of home remedies from both Gloria and Doña Angelina.
“I want the baby, I hope he’s a boy.”
“You’ll sleep on our bedding until the baby comes.”
“With Vicente?” Sonia winked.
“Find yourself one of the single men from the barracks who can keep his mouth shut,” Valentina said. “I’d bet there are one or two.”
“My Pedro always said that I was tan jugosa when I was pregnant,” Sonia said. “I hope your husband can control himself.”
“How about when Vicente sucks my tits, you pretend they’re yours.” Valentina stood and offered her friend a hand up. “Would you like that?”
“Thank you.” Sonia took her hand.
Sonia didn’t draw men to her with the heady scent of sex and the heavy breasts of a healthy woman. Valentina worried that her sickly, sallow pallor came from la anemia.
One morning, Valentina handed Vicente his lunch. “I’m going to take Sonia to the plantation doctor.”
“You speak two words of English,” Vicente said. “What good can come of seeing the doctor?”
“He’s an idiot if he can’t recognize a sick woman,” Valentina said.
The doctor came once a month for a few days and worked in a one-room infirmary not far from both the manager’s office and the plantation store. Valentina and Sonia waited their turn with Puerto Ricans and some Japanese from the camp next door. They heard a boy’s scream and turned to each other in horror. Later they would learn that the boy had been strapped to a chair while the doctor removed an infected toenail without anesthesia.
Inside a man took notes at a desk stacked with jars of different-colored pills. Valentina pantomimed a big belly and cradled an imaginary baby.
“Don’t let him touch me.” Sonia hid her face in Valentina’s shoulder.
“Tontita, you wanted a man to touch you, didn’t you?” Valentina was glad for her friend’s smile, however weak.
The doctor checked Sonia’s pulse, then pointed to his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Sonia gagged from the wooden stick down her throat. The doctor called out to the man at the desk, who scooped up blue pills from a jar and wrapped them in brown paper. Next thing they knew, the women were outside.
They saw Ramón Solis, one of the cane workers, talking to someone waiting in line.
“The luna’s presents.” Ramón lifted his shirt to show blistered welts on his back. “The doctor gave me pills for the infection and said, ‘Hana! Hana!’ ”
They stared at the blue pills in Ramón’s palm.
“¡Mierda! The doctor gave Sonia the same pills!” Valentina examined them.
“¡Coño carajo! ¡Maldito cabrón!” Ramón Solis threw his handful of pills on the ground.
“I’m going to die.” Sonia covered her face with her hands.
“I won’t let you.” Valentina hugged her, careful of Sonia’s slight bump. She was seven months pregnant and the baby should have been much bigger.
Vicente and Valentina walked up the hill, as they sometimes did in the evening. It was the only way that the pair could speak without everyone knowing their business—Sonia, the girls, the neighbors, and anyone who passed by the hovels.
“Sonia worries me.” Valentina held her husband’s hand. “We have to give her better food, vegetables and meat. We’ll have to put it on credit.”
“Do it.”
Valentina rewarded him with a kiss.
“Querida, let’s make a baby.” He maneuvered her against the trunk of a tree.
“We can’t.” Valentina placed her hands against his chest.
“We can.” Vicente pulled up her dress.
“Let’s talk about it another time.” Valentina pulled down her dress.
“Why talk?” As he leaned in to kiss her neck, they heard Lourdes calling out for help.
Sonia was in labor, two months early. Valentina took S
onia’s hand in hers and told Vicente to get the doctor and to hurry back before the plantation siren. Sonia screamed and the little girls screamed. The neighbors next door called out through the wattle, ¿Qué pasa? What could they do to help the mother? Valentina said, Boil some water, bring me a sharp knife, and clean cloths.
Valentina sent the girls to stay with Dolores. She lit another candle and knelt by her friend.
“Did you have a doctor deliver your baby in Puerto Rico?” She wiped Sonia’s face with a cool cloth.
Sonia gave a weak laugh. “Claro, que no. Did you?”
“Las damas delivered my babies.” Valentina helped her take off her dress.
“Babies? I thought you only had Lourdes.” Sonia was so fragile in her thin cotton sheath of a slip that Valentina had to stop herself from wincing.
“I lost two of my children.” Valentina searched her memory for what las damas had done for her.
“Ay bendito, lo siento. I forgot . . . your son . . . the boat.” Sonia took her hand and gave it a weak squeeze.
Valentina looked into her friend’s eyes, willing her to believe what she hoped would be true. “I don’t want you to worry. We will birth this baby together and everything will be fine.”
“Échame la bendición,” Sonia said.
Valentina made the sign of the cross on her friend’s forehead and blessed her.
The baby came in one fast swoosh. He was a tiny thing, all scrunched up and covered in blood, but with Sonia’s mouth and nose.
“It’s a boy.” The baby’s bluish tinge filled Valentina with dread.
“Pedro wanted a boy.” Sonia closed her eyes in exhaustion. “Does he have all of his fingers and toes?”
“All of them.” Valentina touched the perfect toes.
Valentina cradled the baby with one arm while she got the knife the neighbor had brought and passed the blade through the candle’s flame. She sliced the umbilical cord with the tip. One, two. Done. Valentina tied the stump of the umbilical cord with a string and wished she had some copaiba oil to dress it the way the midwives did in Puerto Rico. Tomorrow she would ask around if anyone had some. For now, she could clean it with ashes from el fogón. Valentina’s hands were gentle as she dried the baby and wrapped him in a piece of cloth.
“He’s beautiful, Sonia.” She placed him in his mother’s arms.
The Taste of Sugar Page 27