When it did, Lucho cheered along with Pedro, and kissed both of his children before turning to Ana. She kissed him just long enough to feel the soft flesh of his inner lip. She emptied her champagne glass, but didn’t eat a grape with each stroke of midnight, as was the custom. Instead, she went around the room, wishing each person, even Valeria, a year of health and happiness. She refilled glasses as Lucho took their children into the kitchen to call his mother.
No one noticed that little Jorge Lazarte was in the room until he nearly crashed his plate of cold, uneaten food into Betty’s chest. Ernesto scolded him for not eating his dinner.
“He’s tired,” said Betty, as the boy buried his face in her chest.
“I’m talking to my son,” said Ernesto as he stood up. By then, the champagne, the beer, the pisco sours, were coursing through his legs and feet. He steadied himself on the recliner, but Jorge ran back to Michael’s bedroom. “You see. That’s what happens when you don’t have a man to discipline these kids. My father would have knocked a tooth out of my mouth.”
“We’re not in Peru, Ernesto,” said Valeria. “You can go to prison for doing something like that here.”
“I’m not raising un maricón,” he replied. “Better I do it now than someone else do it later.”
“Is that what you did when you were younger, Cuñadito?” asked Betty. “Beat up the gays at the club?”
“I kept them all out,” he said. “Los gays, los negros. None of them got past me.”
Valeria snickered. “I see the club owners kept the serranos out of the brothel by making them work the door.”
Carla sat up straight. “Ernesto was born in Lima.”
“But his mother is from Cuzco,” replied Valeria.
“My grandmother was from la sierra too,” said Rubén. “De Huaraz. I still have family there, but I haven’t been since I was about Jorge’s age.”
“In any case,” slurred Ernesto, “I’m raising a man. That kid is lucky I haven’t given him a beating yet.”
Betty blinked repeatedly, her eyes already glassy from the alcohol. “I guess no one ever beat you, Cuñado,” she said, “since you’re running your mouth like you are.”
“I think Ernesto always runs his mouth when he drinks,” joked Lucho.
“Now, me and Ana,” Betty continued, “we know beatings. Maybe if you ever had a good one, you’d think twice about hitting your son.”
“I know enough,” said Ernesto. “Besides, I don’t want my kid blown up because some asshole thinks he’s a degenerate.”
“There’s no MRTA here,” said Valeria. “And we are far from any revolution.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he said, his eyes sharpening as he turned once again to Betty. “Just remember, Cuñada, I have two sons and only one daughter.”
Betty forced a smile then went into the kitchen. Ana quickly followed her, but Betty already had the bottle of rum in her hand when she walked in. “Hijo de puta,” she mumbled as she poured the liquor into her cup and took a shot. “He thinks he’s a father. What does he know about being a father?”
“Betty, he is very traditional—”
“Es un machista,” she gritted. “He wants me to remember that he has two sons and a daughter. What about him?”
“Please lower your voice.”
“You’re right, you know,” she said. “What were you supposed to do? Leave your kids back in Peru like they did? So that someone else can raise them?”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Ana. “They did what they thought was best.”
“You know one year he forgot it was Jorge’s birthday,” said Betty. “They both forgot. He waited all day for their call. He didn’t care about the cake or his presents. He just wanted to talk to his parents. You know when those idiots called? Two days later. Two days! They didn’t even apologize. They think a four-year-old is too stupid to realize when his parents forget his birthday.”
“I’m sure they didn’t mean to—”
“They think sending money every month to the niñera made them parents.” She poured more rum into her cup. “Because that’s all I was, right? That’s all I still am. The fucking nanny.”
Ana grabbed Betty’s forearm before she could take another gulp. “Cálmate.”
“You see why I hate living with them, don’t you?” she said. “I love my niece and nephews. And my sister is my sister. I can’t do much about that. But that idiot she married.” She threw back her cup, and nearly choked when she realized Carla was in the room.
“That idiot paid for your flight here,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here without him.”
Betty pounded her chest as she cleared her throat. “It wasn’t a gift, Sister. I’m working to pay him back.” She grabbed the bottle of rum. “You know what? It’s a new year. I’m not going to let any of you ruin it for me.” She went back into the living room, her arms raised and her step a beat behind the salsa that blared from the stereo.
Ana tried to follow but Carla held her back. “Anita, wait,” she said. “I didn’t want to ask in front of everyone, but tell me, how’d it go with the apartment? It’s a good one, right?”
Ana nodded and smiled. “We haven’t signed yet, but we’re taking it.”
“You see, Ana!” she said, taking a hold of Ana’s arm. “I told you. I know Sully’s strange, but he’s been a good landlord, I don’t care what Betty says. He does most of the work on his buildings himself so if you ever have any trouble with anything, you can just give him a call. Lucho should double-check the work, just in case, but Sully’s better than most. And you’ll be close to the school, to work, to me.” She beamed. “We can even throw our own parties and not invite these pitucos,” she joked.
When they were back in the living room, it was Betty and Rubén who took over the dance floor. He held her hand and swayed his hips as she spun around, slower than what the music called for. Ana glanced at Valeria, who was eyeing the pair. She approached Lucho and suggested he ask his cousin to dance. But when he did, Valeria refused. “That food isn’t sitting too well with me,” she said, and her eyes stayed on Betty and Rubén.
Ana grew anxious. She went back to the kitchen to retrieve the crema volteada and arroz con leche she had prepared for dessert. She passed Betty each time, and each time, she asked her for help, but Betty kept dancing. Finally, when the deejay cut the music short, Ana grabbed her by the arm. “Your nails,” Betty protested as Ana shoved her into the kitchen.
“What is wrong with you?” she said. “Why are you flirting with him?”
“With Rubén?” asked Betty. “There are only two other men I could dance with and Lucho doesn’t look like he’s in the mood. And I’m certainly not going to dance with Ernesto.”
“Then ask Valeria! You know she’s the jealous type. You don’t think anyone noticed how comfortable you were with him out there? You don’t think she noticed?”
“I don’t care what Valeria thinks.”
“Well, you should. She got those cigarettes for you, didn’t she? And you might have to live with Ernesto, but I have to live with her.” She opened the cabinet and took out plastic containers, tossing them on the counter and slamming the drawers as she searched for something to scoop up the food.
“What are you doing?” asked Betty.
“Getting people’s food ready. The party is over. Everyone’s already drunk, and I don’t want any more problems with her.” She found a measuring cup and began to pound the remaining rice into each container. “Can you please help me? I need the potatoes from the table. If I wanted someone to just hang around like an ornament, I would’ve asked Valeria for help.”
“I’m a guest here, Ana, not the help.” She was about to walk out when Ana lurched forward. She steadied herself on the counter, then bolted into the hallway.
“¿Qué pasó?” she heard someone say as she slammed the bathroom door closed and vomited into the toilet. Purple. The Chicha, she thought, and vomited some more. She splashed cold
water on her face as her throat burned. Her tongue tasted sour.
She stepped out of the bathroom, and Lucho and Ernesto were waiting in the hallway. She said she was fine, and she heard Valeria say something about the food. “There’s Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet,” she called out.
“She just needs to lie down,” said Betty. She and Lucho took the coats and handbags off the bed. Betty held on to her pocketbook. Rubén came in with a glass of water. She was in the middle of packing the leftovers, Betty told them as she recounted what happened just before Ana dashed out of the kitchen. She suggested that Lucho finish packing up the food. He agreed—it was time to call it a night—and when the two were alone, Betty sat beside Ana on the bed.
“I have something for you,” she told her. She took a small, plastic bag from her pocketbook. Inside it were several white, hexagonal pills.
Ana sat up, squinting as she tried to focus on what Betty was saying.
Start with three, she heard her say. Just three. You don’t want to bleed to death. Then again every couple of hours, three at a time. “Don’t put them in there,” she said, pointing toward Ana’s crotch. “I heard of a girl in Chorrillos who did that and ended up burning her uterus.”
Ana held the plastic bag, rolling the pills between her fingertips.
“Start tomorrow if you can,” said Betty. “The sooner you start, the sooner you can forget.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, ANA TUCKED THE PILLS INSIDE THE FRONT POCKET OF her jeans so she could feel them each time she moved. They poked her as she cleaned up around the apartment, then as she prepared a lunch of leftovers. They bulked in the crux of her hip when she sat down to eat with her children. She was constantly reminded that she needed la regla—to regulate her body, get it under control. Tonight, the first day of a New Year, she’d get it back on track.
She waited until the children were asleep, then until Valeria and Rubén retreated to their bedroom. She wanted a shower. She let the water hit her, and for a brief moment beneath the spatter of the showerhead, standing in the steam and in the pool of foam that had collected around her ankles, she wondered what if. What if she threw the pills in the toilet? She thought of her mother then.
She wrapped her head in a towel, covered her body in mango-scented lotion, and sat on the toilet seat, sipping a bottle of Malta. She put each pill underneath her tongue and chased them with the drink because she remembered hearing somewhere that it helped the blood come faster. In the early morning, under the fog of another sleepless night, she did it again, putting the pills beneath her tongue when she normally burned it with tea while sitting at the table and fiddling with her address book. She chased these pills with another bottle of Malta. The third time was just before Lucho came home. She did not lock the bathroom door, and was startled when Pedro walked in, crying because he woke up and she wasn’t beside him. She went back to bed with him, curled into herself, and was in some pain by the time Lucho came home.
Her period, she told him.
He placed a hot towel on her abdomen and made her chamomile tea, but Ana refused any pain killers. He woke the children, fed them, dressed them, told them she was unwell and that they should stay in the living room or Michael’s bedroom while she rested. But Pedro still snuck into their room, asking her where it hurt. “Ya pasó, Mami, ya pasó,” he assured her, holding her hand and kissing her forehead before he and Victoria went back to school that morning. Lucho napped in the lower bunk of the bed, while she laid on theirs, cringing occasionally and making regular trips to the bathroom. It was a bad cycle, she told him, and she’d had a very long week. She found herself touching her mother’s prayer card and asking her to please let it pass. She wasn’t lying about her period. That’s what was coming down, she told herself.
As it came, she did not know what to expect. She didn’t know how she’d feel. All she knew was that she couldn’t look, but she bore the labor of it with relief.
12
FOR TWO DAYS, ANA PRETENDED TO BE IN MORE PAIN THAN SHE WAS actually in. The bleeding subsided, so had the cramping, and even though she could have stepped outside her bedroom door to cook, clean, spend time with the children, she secluded herself inside her room. She slept for longer stretches than she had in months, cuddled with Victoria or Pedro whenever they came into bed, reading whatever newspaper or magazine Lucho brought her, getting up only to eat and for intermittent trips to the bathroom. She let herself be sick, because that’s what she was. It’s what happens to a woman when she gets her period. Se enferma, she told herself, and she had finally gotten sick.
She spent three days at home, two of which were work days. On that final day, she got out of bed, stumbled through the morning chaos of a calamitous breakfast and sloppy bickering as she got the children ready for school. Rubén dropped them off, as he did every morning, then came back to the apartment to pick up Valeria before they headed to the body shop.
Lucho slept until noon, and when he woke up, she handed him a grocery list. He could find most of the items at a supermarket, but he’d have to venture out to the more nuanced parts of Queens for the purple corn, the pineapple, and cheap dried apricots that made their way onto her list. She had a craving for purple pudding, she told him. The list was long enough to keep him out for at least a couple of hours. She was rarely at home alone during the day. She wanted, more than anything, to eat something without interruption in front of the television screen and pump her mind with nonsense for once.
When he left, she ate two bowls of the leftover pork from New Year’s Eve and downed a can of beer. Valeria, no doubt, would notice it was missing. She’d seen her only once since she was in bed, the morning of New Year’s Day, when Valeria came into the bedroom to see how she was feeling. She insisted that Ana see a doctor, in case she needed antibiotics, but Ana assured her it was bad menstrual cramps, that’s all, from her fibroids. “Carla’s been calling,” she told her. “I told her you were fine. Lucho said you’re moving out. I’m glad, Ana. Hay que seguir adelante.”
“Adelante,” Ana had mumbled, as she drifted back to sleep.
Outside of her room, nothing in unit 4D had changed. Stacks of unopened mail were still piled on top of the table. Plastic bags, a towel, and a stained T-shirt hung on the chairs, and the sink was filled with tea-stained mugs and food-crusted plates. Life at Lexar Tower continued as usual, and this gave her comfort. She managed to fix a problem that threatened her ordinary, quiet life, and she had done so without the world noticing. She imagined that she too would soon forget.
She lathered up the sponge and, one by one, scraped away the crust on the forks and knives, scrubbed away at the stains on the plates and the brown circles on the inside of the mugs. It’d all be worth it when she had her own place to live, she told herself. When her children were in college; when she could go back, shine as brightly as Doña Filomena underneath her living room chandelier; when she could take Tía Ofelia out to dinner in Miraflores; when she opened the doors to her own restaurant. She could even go back to Santa Clara, back to her mother’s grave to tell her all she’d managed to do with that one lesson: do things for love, even if it hurts you.
If she hadn’t made the blood come, then what? All the years and sacrifice would be for nothing. They couldn’t stay in New York, not with another mouth to feed. And if they did stay with three children, then what? She could provide three children with a mediocre future at best. The restaurant would remain a dream. Now, Victoria and Pedro had a better shot. So did she. Had she not made the blood come, she would’ve preferred to go back. Going back would’ve been easier than staying and knowing that her dream would’ve been possible had it not been for that decision. Now, they could keep moving forward.
Adelante, she told herself.
After she cleaned up the kitchen, she peeled herself an orange and took it, along with a glass of water, into the living room. The fruit wasn’t hers, but there was no one in unit 4D to tell her to stop eating it.
She was halfway through wa
tching a talk show when she heard keys rattling the door. She expected to see Lucho, but immediately straightened when she heard Valeria grunting by the door.
“Ah!” she exclaimed as she walked into the living room and unwrapped her scarf. “I see you’re feeling better.” The shock on Ana’s face was obvious. “I decided to come home early,” Valeria explained. “That’s the good thing about having your own business. Sometimes—not always—but sometimes you can say ‘no’ to work.” She took off her wrap coat. Beneath it, she wore a plum wool turtleneck and a smoky A-line skirt. Her sheer black pantyhose glistened. She didn’t need to dress up for the body shop, but Doña Filomena had spoken the truth about her niece. She wanted to look like the professional she was. She didn’t need that get-up to fix mufflers, but she was La Dueña and made sure she looked the part.
She took off her wet boots and slipped into a pair of garnet slippers. She went into the kitchen, then came back to the living room with a glass of orange juice that Ana suspected had a splash of vodka in it.
“You do look well,” she said as she sat on the recliner. “I used to get terrible backaches. Migraines.” She sipped her drink. “But I don’t get sick anymore, so it’s one less thing to worry about.”
“Since when?” asked Ana, shocked that Valeria would reveal something so intimate.
“Since the summer. Just before you moved in.” She picked up the remote control. “Do you mind if we talk?” she said, turning off the television before Ana could reply. “I know you weren’t expecting me, but I really needed a break.”
The Affairs of the Falcóns Page 15