“I can’t keep doing this.” I say this more to myself than to him. “There’s got to be a better way. This path I’m on goes nowhere.”
“Did you find what you were looking for on your trip?”
I shake my head. “No one can save me. Not even the Ashé Ryders.”
There is a long pause. “Maybe you are right. No one person holds the key to this life. But there are families who are worse off than you and me, and they are waiting for us to change the game.”
“I can’t change anything. This leader is getting her people taken or iced,” I say. “I have no power.”
Books stands. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a papi chulo who works at a boydega,” he says. “I have watched LMCs take whole crews down. One misguided family doesn’t seem much. It just takes determination.”
He walks away and heads to his room. I let his words sink in. If I listen to Santo and Déesse, I will stay underground. A nobody. If I resist this story, then maybe there is hope for me. I don’t know. I am so lost.
After a while I enter the room where Truck is. She is asleep. Hector washes his hands at the boat-shaped sink. He tells me she’ll be fine. There’s blood loss, and she will be weak. The stitches should hold.
“Unless you are about to throw down,” he says, “she should heal.”
“I’ve no sueños to offer. I have this.” I hand him a Codigo. It is the only thing of value. Hector takes it.
There’s no way around it. We have to move Truck. Although the Luna Club is losing customers, the place will inevitably see action. Doña will not stand for us converting her boydega into a healing room for much longer.
“I suggest you head to the Rumberos,” Hector says. “Tell them I sent you.”
The Rumberos. No one will look for us there.
“You didn’t hear this from me. Doña has a cart out in the alley,” Hector says. “She uses it to move clients who are too high on sueños.”
Smiley doesn’t wait for him to finish. She’s on it. We prepare to move Truck out of here.
I thank Hector again. Shi searches with the papis for clothes to change into. The closet in the nautical room only has sailor outfits. I find a blue robe and gently drape it over Truck.
CHAPTER 28
REDEMPTION SONGS
Not everyone heads to the courtyard to see the amateur throwdown. For the first time I notice families choosing to stay away, more than I would have ever imagined. We walk past them as Smiley pushes Truck, who lies slumped in the cart. The blue robe keeps her covered.
A couple plays a game of catch with their daughter. She must be about nine or ten years old. When the mother sees us, she tries to block my view of the child. She is nervous we will take her away to a training camp. It is obvious the girl is way past due to join. Recruitments start at seven. This family is willfully going against Déesse’s orders. How many try to buck the system? Hide their daughters to avoid the camps?
Any other time and I would have dragged the daughter from the mother’s arms. Déesse would have surely given me props for delivering a potential soldier to her.
The father looks down. He defers to me. This also has been my upbringing, seeing men cower whenever I appear. Old-timers feared us, too, as they should. We were stronger. Youth before everything. I feel a sense of shame.
There are toilers enjoying the cool evening air. There is an unsettling quiet, one I am not accustomed to. Silence is a signal that evil lurks around the corner. For these people, it is a moment to cherish. With most of Mega City attending the throwdown, the streets are alive with another type of energy. This is the part of the city I’ve ignored. It took me leaving Mega to finally see.
“How do we do this?” Shi asks. Her voice is soft. Her bangs practically reach her nose.
“We beg,” I say.
A low rumbling sound from distant congas can be heard. The music is not as intense as the last time we were here. Perhaps the players are attending the throwdown. How did Hector know about the Rumberos? As a healer, he must have been taught his craft. Perhaps he learned it in this tent with these people. Nothing is black-and-white.
I stop the girls. The throwdown will end and soon the streets will be overrun with people. We need a place to crash, and this may be our only hope. I absentmindedly rub the azabache in my pocket. I can feel the carved “AR.” There are two Rumberos situated at the entrance. An old-timer and a younger woman. They both wear traditional blue tunics. The old-timer gives me a nod and glances over to the sleeping Truck.
“I’m Chief Rocka and we’re the LMCs,” I say. “We’re looking for sanctuary for our fallen sister.”
“Take her to the healing center by the Towers,” she says. “It’s where people who can afford it go. Aren’t you one of the beloved crews?”
I shake my head. There is a distant roar. The throwdowns. I want off these streets.
“Hector sent us here. Hector the healer at the Luna Club.”
The Rumbero rubs her hands together. She purses her lips. “Hector’s friends aren’t soldiers,” she says.
If I’m going to get anywhere, I can’t continue to play mind games or find ways to force my way in. The Rumberos are on a whole other level, and for once I must respect their house.
“Hector helped Truck.” I point to my girls. “My soldiers.”
The old-timer rolls her eyes. She doesn’t care for crews or soldiers. I try again.
“My friend got knifed because of my failure to see the truth. Now we are on Déesse’s wrong side. They need a safe place to hide,” I say. “Please take them. I will bounce.”
The old-timer ponders this. I hear a rush of people coming from the direction of the courtyard. The throwdown is done. We need to get inside.
The other Rumbero moves forward. Her expression is serious. I hold her stare and try not to blink. She eyeballs me hard enough that I form fists. No one comes for me unless they want to start a fight.
“There is no room for your anger here,” she says. “This is a place to heal and pray. You can’t seek the Rumberos whenever one of your friends is hurt. The hate you are living in is what will cause your death and theirs.”
I take in what she says. Where is the lie? I unfurl my hands. The old-timer places hers on the woman’s shoulder.
“They are young. They can learn. You did,” she says. “Let them in.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
We follow the old-timer as she leads us inside the large tent. There is a group of women sitting in a circle. I can’t understand what they are chanting. The old-timer walks us to another tent. This one is smaller. There are beds on the floor. She directs Smiley and Shi to place Truck on one of the beds. They do so as gently as possible. Truck doesn’t stir. The old-timer lifts Truck’s robe to see the stitches.
“Hector did a fine job.” she says. “The others will be here soon. Leave her be. You three, out.”
“What if they find her?” I say. “Who will protect her?”
“I’ll stay with her,” Shi offers.
The old-timer relents. She leads us back to the big tent. There are people streaming in with their congas on their backs. This is not a joyous occasion. Perhaps they lost a bet. We watch as they come in. The ladies continue to pray. They are joined by the conga players as they line the edges of the tents in a single row.
“I was there when Destiny hit you with the baton,” the old-timer says. “I go to the throwdowns to call the spirit. A soltar los caballos. To let the horses free. I pounded on the skin of the conga to pray you were taken care of. I did the same for Destiny. For all the girls.”
Why pray for the person about to destroy me? Is it a trick?
“I don’t understand.”
She motions for Smiley and me to take two seats placed next to the praying mothers. I don’t want to be so close to them. I don’t want to be on display unless I’m thrashing in the middle of a courtyard. I follow her wishes even though I want to hide.
“We are connected. Men. Wome
n. Children. Déesse. Destiny. Your friend in the tent,” she says. “Mega City is not the Towers or the underground stations. It’s the people, and it stretches outside these borders.”
The old-timer walks to the conga players. She sits in front of a conga and plays. Smiley doesn’t smile her gold grin. Instead she is lost in the prayers the women are reciting. I don’t want this feeling. More people enter the tent. They take up space.
I believed the conga players at the throwdowns were just part of the chaos. A way for people to join in on the fun. I see now it was more than music. This goes beyond that. It is powerful. What does praying or playing drums have to do with family? My family was torn apart because of Déesse and her rules. Books tells me to fight. So does Zentrica. I’m too scared.
When Smiley turns to me, she has tears in her eyes. “I’m tired, Chief Rocka,” she says. “I mean, why can’t we be on our own like the couple we met in Cemi Territory? They didn’t bother anybody. Nobody seemed to bother them.”
There is no way I can reassure her with promises I can no longer keep. I don’t have the answer. It’s not possible for me to pretend I do.
Rumberos begin to dance to the beat of the congas. There is a sadness to their movements. Not joyful or freeing. While the rest of the city enjoys the same entertainment found in the boydegas and in the Towers, those in this tent lament. I, too, feel a heavy grief. The immensity of moving forward seems insurmountable when there is little left to aim for.
I watch the women play the congas. I allow myself to fall into the music. The prayers become hypnotic. This city doesn’t exist unless we are completely in it together. My sisters are with me. Truck and Shi and Smiley. So are the Rumberos who prayed over me when I entered the throwdown. And so are Books and the papi chulos. I have been blind to what the city truly is. It is the people within it that count, not the Towers. It’s on me to make this city my own. Not Déesse or Santo.
I loved to proclaim how much the LMCs owned the streets of Mega City. With every throwdown, another notch was added to my skin, ensuring my rank. The embedded number only demonstrated how much of a cog I was. I thought if I kept fighting, moving up rank, I would be rewarded. Déesse dangles such dazzling prizes—the Towers, papi chulos. I was even hypnotized by the deadly choker. How easy it is for people who have little hope to think she was doing them a favor. I was just incurring debt for Déesse to later collect on. I can highlight the words she repeated in the speeches she gave before the throwdowns—“unity,” “together,” “our city.” “We did this,” she would say. That was probably the only truthful statement she has ever uttered. The residents of a city should not be beholden to one person. The city is ours. These streets are ours. How do we take them back without the need to trample one another in the process?
I look around. There are more dancers, both young and old. I don’t have answers. Not yet.
“We will figure it out,” I tell Smiley. “We will.”
I’ve called Mega City my home for so long. I thought home needed to be tall and luminous, a glowing building with a luxurious setting. Status. What I failed to understand is home is not where I place my head down at night or the color of my furniture. Home is the people I surround myself with, the ones I break bread with. The keepers of my secrets and my fears. It is to be loved and to give love without inhibitions. I won’t let Déesse dictate my actions. The fear Déesse has is real. She should be afraid because the change is on me and on my people. Change is going to come, and I can see this just as surely as I feel this pulsating rhythm.
“We’re going to be all right, Smiley,” I say. “This is the truth.”
The dancers swirl and move. Prayers continue throughout the night. Smiley and I remain seated for hours. The music envelops us. I watch the old-timer slap the conga with a force unimaginable.
Santo is wrong about me and the toilers. We are more than his family’s plans. We deserve more.
If I repeat this as a prayer, then surely it will form into reality.
CHAPTER 29
COME TO YOUR RIVER
The Rumberos are on the move. Tents are being dismantled and packed away. They move quickly. They’ve done this many times before. No garbage is left behind. No trace of life.
It is early morning. Tomasa, the old-timer, has instructed me to take care of one of the smaller tents. Most Rumberos do not live in the tents. They come nightly to pray and sing. They have their underground stations and work to tend to during the day. There is a core group who maintain the tents. For the past couple of days, we have been with this group.
“Make sure you have enough rope,” Tomasa says. “We don’t want the poles to go missing.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Also, don’t forget to fold the tent the way I taught you,” she says. “It’s the only way it will fit in the backpack.” She goes off to explain to another how they will cart away the medicinal plants.
“Does she ever stop barking orders?” Truck mutters beside me. It’s been a couple of days since the Rumberos let us in to hide among them. During that time Truck has gotten better. She’s not 100 percent. Although Truck wants to help, she can’t afford to have her stitches rip open. Instead, her task is simple. She holds the rope for me while I do the rest.
The other night Déesse’s soldiers paid the Rumberos a visit. There is a network of sympathizers across the city. From the boydegas to the factories, a slew of toilers communicate with each other through graffiti. Tags on the wall tiny enough to be ignored by most. I’ve never noticed them before. These people are no fans of Déesse. We were alerted to the raid an hour before it happened. We hid in a nearby station. The soldiers found only chanting. They left empty-handed. To make their search harder, the Rumberos are relocating. I reiterated to Tomasa that we will soon leave. Our stay is a threat.
“Do you need help?” A disheveled man appears. I shake my head.
I made a mistake in calling him an ANT the other day. He came to the Rumberos to get clean. When I called him an ANT, Tomasa had heated words for me. “ANT” is a derogatory term used to debase a human. To turn them into an insect. “He has a name,” she said. “Find out what it is it and use it.”
Sueño addicts are welcome to stay with the Rumberos if they are willing to try to kick the habit. It’s not an easy transition. There are addicts who don’t have the strength to stop. They leave only to return a couple of days later in anguish. The Rumberos don’t have a simple solution to break the dependence. They use other drugs, an herbal and chemical mixture. Tomasa has shown me the plants. I can see why Miguel found sanctuary with the Rumberos.
“I’m almost done,” I say. I fold the tent and place it in a backpack. The blue tunics we wear are not exactly my favorite. I’m so used to wearing my armor. Our clothes are back in the D, where they will probably stay forever. Nena surely has given Déesse the directions on how to find our station. One day I’ll re-create our altar elsewhere.
They do not say aloud what their destination will be. Only a handful is privy to the information. We walk in a straight line alongside the shore. Since Truck is unable to lift anything heavy, Smiley is forced to carry both loads. There is one woman whose legs are not in good condition. She uses the cart we stole from Doña Chela as her private transportation. Shi pushes the cart.
I am grateful for the hoodie attached to the blue tunic. Smiley and Shi are too. We don’t see people along our walk. Tomasa says Mega City residents are too busy trying to survive to have time to worry about spiritual zealots. Still, I am nervous. Déesse wants our heads. The longer we stay with the Rumberos, the more my fear of being discovered increases.
“You holding up okay?” I ask. Truck nods. There are times when she grunts from the pain. Only a couple more days and the stitches will be taken out. Then I’ll feel secure in leaving.
When I told Truck it was Sule who helped us escape, she couldn’t believe it. Her words exactly: “The fea actually moved a muscle for us.” Truck wishes she had seen Nena’s face when Sule stu
nned her. After she said that we both stopped talking. The betrayal runs deep. I hate Nena for what she did. I also understand it. I can’t blame her for taking a chance. If it were me, I probably would have done the same thing. Well, the old me would have. Now I am not so sure.
Perhaps Nena learned a thing or two from her time spent with OG. They were both finding ways to align themselves with power. They were both making bloody moves with Déesse. When Truck first woke up, she wanted to immediately head over to the Towers to find Nena. The anger eventually subsided. Staying with the Rumberos has a way of making you see how frivolous it is to waste energy on hate.
A little girl tosses a rock to the ocean. She has been skipping for most of the trek.
“Agua es vida, right, Marisol?” Tomasa says.
“Yes, water is life.” She tosses another rock.
The girl is Tomasa’s granddaughter Marisol. She is the child I met the night we were searching for Miguel. The vessel is what she is known for, a type of messenger. Tomasa explained there are those who are born with the gift of sight. She believes Marisol has such a gift. I’ve seen her transform when she dances. It’s becoming harder and harder not to believe in the spiritual bachata.
Next year Marisol will be seven, the age when she is meant to go to the camps. Tomasa will never let that happen. Her options are limited. Keep Marisol hidden for as long as she can. Or leave Mega City altogether. Marisol’s visions are never about herself. She can see only what will happen to others. Here she is only a kid enjoying herself.
“That girl will save everyone,” Tomasa says. She has such love for her granddaughter. Her own daughter works making sueños. She comes on the weekends to visit.
From the Towers Déesse must be able to see the blue of the ocean. Never once has she been seen near the water. Her life is mainly lived perched in her guarded fortress. Because Déesse never gives this part of the city any attention, the residents never venture here for themselves. If Déesse doesn’t love getting her toes wet, then we must follow suit. I think there is more to Déesse’s reluctance to block the Rumberos from setting up near the ocean. The only excuse I can come up with is she’s afraid.
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