The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez

by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  Mmm, spiced cinnamon.

  After changing into some clothes that were a bit more comfortable, I sat down, turned on my study light, and smiled. A proud feeling came over me as I thought about my younger brothers and sister. I realized I was like one of those trekkers in the forest, hacking my way through thick brush with a machete; and while it had certainly been tough for me, mis hermanos y hermana would have a clearly marked road to follow and a much easier time getting through, now that I was almost done. Sure, the twins were babies, but babies grow up, and I wanted them to have a good life with the good opportunities education offered.

  And don’t think I wasn’t going to bust Oscar’s and Miguel’s butts either. Sure, they were out playing tonight, but next week, I was determined to pound them like a crazy person about school. In El Norte, escuela matters.

  Forty-five minutes later I finished the packet of math. Thirty minutes after that I completed the science section. Then I got a bug up my butt to take a break and I went to the old computer mi papi had been given by his white boss when they did their technology upgrade last year, unplugged the home phone line, and jammed it into to the side of the tan machine so that I could go online and check my e-mail. I was hoping that Maria had gotten the sign language book I had sent.

  Though my Internet connection was as slow as ketchup being poured out of a bottle, I finally got online, and sure enough, there was an e-mail from Maria.

  Hola pocha,

  Got the book…awesome gift! (And of course, no offense taken.)

  Isabella seems to be a natural at sign language. She’s already learned how to say milk, bath and banana. Seems Abuelita knows some sign lang. too.

  This week she taught Isabella how to give someone the middle finger. Abuelita says it’s because folks can be cruel in this world, and a deaf baby is going to need to know how to tell a person to fuck off.

  I must say, I kind of agree with her.

  Am I a bad mother for allowing my daughter to learn that?

  How’s school, Rigo, the rest of the family, and, most important, your mysterious love life, which you never tell me about? Anytime you get the urge to do the in-and-out, remember, there’s a caballero down here who would drive across three borders to be your partner. :-)

  Miss you, hug you, love you!!

  Maria

  p.s. Come visit soon—we’ll bathe like mermaids again. LOL!

  I couldn’t help but smile. Though it had been a while, mi prima and I were still connected like two peas in a pod and I wondered when the next time I could visit would be. I figured I’d run the idea by mi ama in the morning and type a reply to Maria after I had an answer. Truly, I couldn’t wait to head back to Abuelita’s and take wee-wees with bullfrogs the size of buffalo.

  There’s just something about the place that gets under your skin. In a good way, though.

  I returned to the table, sat back down under my study light, and opened the next packet. Break time was over. Suddenly I heard a noise.

  “Hola,” I called out.

  It sounded like a key turning the lock. There was no reply.

  “¿Quien es?"l said, asking “Who’s there?’

  The door slammed open, and a moment later my dirty, greasy drunkle stumbled through the front door.

  No, he hadn’t escaped from prison. He’s too stupid to pull off anything like that. The jails simply set him free due to overcrowding. It’s called the catch-and-release program. In California, with so many inmates and not enough cells to keep everyone who’s been convicted of a crime locked up, “minor” offenses (and in Los Angeles, “minor” means anything less than first-degree serial murder with a chain saw) are let out of jail to free up prison beds. Due to recent budget cuts and overpopulation, the cell doors of almost thirteen hundred inmates had been let open to make room for the next wave of prisoners. So-called “minor” offenders like my drunkle got released with time served. Even illegals set for deportation hearings were set free. My drunkle had served twenty-two days of a thirty-one-month sentence and been given a sheet of paper with a citation to appear in front of an immigration committee to determine whether or not he would be allowed to stay in this country.

  And yes, it was pink.

  His hearing had been set for four months from now. My drunkle crumpled the sheet of paper and laughed.

  “Adivina quién regresssssssó?” he asked with a bit of flair for the dramatic. In English it translated as, “Guess who’s baaaaack?”

  He was drunk. I was wearing only a nightgown. He looked around, saw that I was alone, and began to walk toward me. I froze with terror.

  chapter treinta y cinco

  “You’ve been teasing me,” he said in Spanish. “For too long. But I know you feel our attraction.”

  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was hungry, very hungry, but for something other than food. Fireworks from the celebration exploded outside. He moved closer.

  “Es una fiesta,” he said with glowing, bloodshot eyes. “And tonight will be ours.”

  He violently grabbed me, pulled me close. My drunkle was a strong man, and I knew instantly that I was no match for him physically. And emotionally, I had no will to fight. Deep in my heart it was my worst fear coming to life. I could do nada, nothing, other than watch it happen, as if it were a movie and I was viewing the horrifying drama of someone else.

  A part of me always knew that this day would come. And a part of me also knew that my voice would fail me when it did. I didn’t scream for help. Instead, like a coward, I submitted.

  He began to take off my nightgown. I wished for the ability to do something, but I couldn’t. Terror had frozen me, stolen my ability to act. I was his puppet and my drunkle knew it.

  He reached for my top button. Then the second. Then the third. Though I was wearing a bra, it was low cut and my breasts were partially exposed. He smiled. I could tell that he liked what he saw very much.

  My drunkle paused and took a moment to enjoy the sick pleasure of it all. A few hours earlier he’d been locked in a cage like a beast and now he was in mi casa, about to enjoy the pleasures of my young flesh. The tip of his tongue slithered from his mouth like a snake, and he licked his lips as if preparing for a delicious meal. Ready to continue on, his oily, black fingernails reached for the bottom of my nightgown. His filthy hand lightly brushed against the skin of my naked thigh. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

  I thought again about fighting back. I wanted to fight back. I wished for the ability to fight back, but still I was too afraid. It was as if the practically-an-adult Sonia had completely vanished and all that was left was the itty-bitty-girl Sonia, the one who was horribly freaked out and too scared to move. Yes, I wanted to act heroically, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Fear had swallowed me like that whale Moby Dick in the famous book. I just didn’t have the courage to defend myself.

  His finger started to work its way up my leg. My heart beat a thousand miles a minute. I felt the heat of his body as he stepped closer.

  Suddenly the front door flew open with a crash. My drunkle and I turned our heads at the same time.

  It was Geraldo.

  “There will be no more,” he said. “No más.”

  It turns out that after I first broke up with Geraldo, he’d spent night after night watching me through the cheap drapes of my front window. Though he never made himself known, he often looked at me by the light of my study lamp with great longing. But after a while, he gave up his long bus rides across the city to stare at me like a stalker in the night. However, today was May fifth, and once upon a time I had made a promise to him about my lips being his birthday present.

  He’d come to collect. Months may have passed, but his love for me still burned like a roaring flame.

  My drunkle, when he realized who the boy was, pushed me away like a rag doll.

  “You fucking Central,” my drunkle said in disbelief that Geraldo had had the nerve to enter his house. Geraldo didn’t respond with words. Instead he balled
up his fists. The two of them lunged at each other.

  The battle was no match at all. My drunkle had learned how to fight dirty in prison and in a matter of moments he had punched Geraldo in the balls, thumbed him in the eye, and put him in a staggering, choking headlock. A pair of scissors lay on the table. A second later they were in my drunkle’s hand, then at Geraldo’s throat, my drunkle preparing to slash Geraldo’s neckline ear to ear.

  “Now I’m going to slice you like the cerote pig you are,” he said with a growl. It sounded like a threat from the devil himself.

  My drunkle raised the blade.

  “No!” I shouted. Somehow, my voice had returned. “Please. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want.”

  My drunkle looked up. To prove I was serious, I lowered the nightgown off my shoulder.

  “And I will do it over and over,” I said. “Have me now. Have me tomorrow. Have me whenever you want. You can have me for years, I swear, I’ll never tell anyone. Just please, don’t.”

  I looked up at Geraldo, whose face was turning red from a lack of oxygen.

  “Don’t,” I repeated. “Please.”

  My drunkle paused. Geraldo’s eyes glared at me with wild desperation. The look on his face was clear: No, don’t do it, Sonia. NO!

  I ignored Geraldo. A wicked smile slowly crept over my drunkle’s face.

  “Hear that, cerote pig? You need a girl to save you.”

  Sfffftt! My drunkle slashed a half-inch slice behind Geraldo’s ear. Blood squirted on the floor.

  “As a reminder,” my drunkle said, and then he grabbed a candlestick and punched Geraldo in the head with it.

  It didn’t kill him, but my drunkle had knocked him unconscious. Geraldo fell to the floor like a bag of bricks.

  Suddenly the house fell eerily quiet. Fiesta music and dancing could be heard outside. Laughter echoed from the streets. My drunkle stood, crossed the room, and turned off the study light so that no one else would be able to see inside.

  Click. The lamp went out.

  “I always knew you wanted me,” my drunkle said in Spanish as he closed the front door. “Ven aquí,” he ordered. “Come here.”

  I lowered my eyes and did what he asked. My feet shuffled closer. When I got next to him, though, he didn’t touch me; my drunkle just stared, waiting for me to do what I had promised. Slowly, I reached back to unhook my bra, but in my heart I knew I was lying.

  Yes, my drunkle could have me right then, but that would be it. In my mind I’d always feared this day would come, which was why I had stolen so many of mi ama’s pills. I had a stash of seventeen of them wrapped inside a piece of tissue paper, hidden underneath the kitchen sink. With a warm bath and a little tequila to wash them down, it would all end.

  I became numb, eyes without any light, a body without a soul. In a state of total emptiness, I surrendered.

  “¿Qué pasa?” came a voice.

  I turned. It was Papi. He was dressed like a Mexican nobleman in traditional charro clothing. The green jewels on his cowboy jacket sparkled, his boots shined, and he wore a gigantic sombrero, which sat proudly on his head. With his furry mustache and a squint in his eye, mi papi looked handsome, elegant, and fierce. It was like I was staring at a beautiful illusion.

  “Dije,¿ qué pasa?” he asked again, and then he turned on the light. The gym still hadn’t had enough Mexicans to operate so they had decided to turn the evening into Navidad number two and wax the racquetball courts. Mi papi had come to take me, whether I wanted to or not, for a study break, for nieve de fresa before he joined his compadres on horseback in the parade.

  I was too numb to say anything. Dream world and reality had crossed over too many times.

  “I caught this cerote pig in your house,” my drunkle quickly responded. “He was about to take advantage of your daughter.”

  Mi papi paused and studied the situation.

  “This boy?” he asked after a long moment of just staring.

  “Si,” said my drunkle. “This Central.”

  Papi looked at me. I was paralyzed, unable to speak.

  “Lift his head,” mi papi ordered.

  My drunkle paused, not comprehending. Papi turned and went to his closet.

  “I said, lift his head,” mi papi repeated. A moment later my father stepped out of the closet, holding his Roberto Clemente baseball bat.

  My drunkle smiled. Once again he had outsmarted his estúpido brother-in-law.

  My drunkle crossed the room, got down on his knees, and lifted the unconscious head of Geraldo so that mi papi could smash him with the baseball bat.

  “Buena,” said mi papi as he lined up his swing. “Hold him right there.”

  I started to panic, but still I was too stricken with fear to get any words out of my mouth. Mi papi reached back.

  Use your voice, Sonia, I said to myself. Use your voice.

  I needed to say something.

  Now! I screamed inside my head. Use your voice! My father began to swing with full force.

  USE YOUR . ..

  But I was too late. My voice didn’t come.

  SMASH! Mi papi blasted his target. The Roberto Clemente bat broke in two. My drunkle fell to the ground like a sack of beans.

  “¡Mentiroso!” shouted mi papi. “Liar!!”

  SMASH! Mi papi bashed my drunkle a second time with the broken half of the bat he still held in his hand. Mi papi then started beating him with anything he could grab.

  “¡Bastardo!” screamed mi papi as he kicked my drunkle in the ribs. Desperate to get away, my drunkle crawled out the front door of our house and stumbled into the street.

  “I’ll kill you!” Papi shouted as he ripped a guitar from the hands of a passing mariachi player and smashed it over my drunkle’s back. Suddenly the streets fell silent, and a circle formed around mi papi as he began beating my drunkle in the center of the street. With the música stopped, the crowd grew bigger to watch.

  “You think I’m a fool?” shouted mi papi in Spanish. “You dare to touch my daughter?”

  My father kicked my drunkle again, this time in the face. There was a loud thump. Blood squirted onto mi pap’s boots, and my drunkle groaned in pain.

  Word quickly spread throughout the crowd as to why this beating was taking place. Normally folks would have interfered, they would have stepped in to break up the fight, but when la gente gained a sense of why mi papi, a man with a reputation of great restraint, was involved in this action, no one dared move forward to halt him. The crowd just watched. It was justicia. Justice. Nothing was more sacred than familia.

  My father stripped off his belt.

  “You dare to touch my little girl?”

  My drunkle lay there beaten, bleeding, and defenseless. He had taken too many blows to the head and though he tried to put his hands up, there was no fight left in him. Mi papi stepped behind him, cinched his belt around my drunkle’s neck, and began to squeeze.

  And squeeze.

  My drunkle started to turn red. Then blue. Oxygen was being cut off from his brain and though his hands tried to grab on to the leather strap around his neck, there was nothing he could do to stop from being choked.

  Mi papi yanked the belt tighter and tighter and even though there were at least 150 witnesses, no one would have said anything to the policía about how my drunkle had died. Some things were sacred in our community, and my drunkle had gone too far.

  Too far.

  His eyes began to bulge. His face turned from blue to purple. A few more seconds and my drunkle would die. I stepped through the crowd.

  “No, Papi,” I said in a soft voice.

  My father looked up.

  “No,” I repeated. “Do not stoop to that level.”

  Papi paused. A moment later a soft look came to his eyes. He knew I was right. A second later he released the belt. My drunkle dropped to the ground like a hunk of meat and sucked in a breath of air.

  I stepped forward and hugged my father. Mi papi squeezed me back.

&nb
sp; “Te quiero, Papi,” I said. A tear came to his eyes.

  “I love you too, tortuguita.”

  Papi dropped the belt. It was over. It was all over.

  I looked up, and mi ama’s face appeared through the crowd. She exchanged looks with my father and lowered her eyes in shame. A moment after that Tía Luna appeared with her mouth open, ready to shout something when she saw the state of my drunkle. Then, when her eyes met my father’s, she too lowered her gaze. The fierceness of his glare had frightened both of them into instant submission.

  “Return, you die,” Papi said to my drunkle. My drunkle stumbled to his feet and scampered off like a beaten, bloody dog, never to be seen again. Hugging me, mi papi walked us through the silent and stunned crowd and we went back inside our casa.

  chapter treinta y seis

  After mi papi and I had taken Geraldo to the emergency room and sent him home, we returned to our house.

  Mi papi picked up the broken handle of what was left of his Roberto Clemente bat and looked around at the mess. Everyone in la casa had returned home after having heard about what had happened. Bad news like this made its way around a Latino community quicker than cold cheese melted on a hot enchilada.

  Rodrigo, mi ama, Oscar, me, Tía Luna, Miguel, Hernando, even the twins, sat in the living room and waited, not knowing what Papi was going to do.

  He picked up a glass of water and took a long, slow sip. Then smash! he threw the glass down in the center of the room where it exploded into a thousand pieces. Everyone jumped back in fear.

  “You,” he said, as he pointed the tip of the broken baseball bat at Rodrigo, “will get a job. That is, after you get down on your hands and knees and wash the blood and clean the glass off this floor.”

  Mi papi breathed deeply, his nostrils going in and out like an angry bull.

  “I always believed actions spoke louder than palabras,” he continued. “But I was wrong. Words are now needed in this casa, too.”

  Rodrigo looked up in shock.

  “You don’t like it?” mi papi said. “There’s the door. You can follow your piece-of-shit uncle.”