by Alisa Valdes
I creep out of the closet and see those Tupperware containers piled on the counter with yellow masking tape labels on them: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Ed’s sister Mary comes over on weekends to do his laundry and cook. She’s a graphic designer, but does this, like it’s her duty. She leaves chicken enchiladas, menudo, tamales, pinto beans, and red rice for every meal, and exits without a smile. She had a better job offer in Chicago, but stayed in New York to be near her hermano. What is he, six? I asked him about it, and he said they were raised poor and traditional by a single mom who was not afraid to use a belt, so he and Mary got really close. Mary stares me down, refuses to talk when I try to make conversation, solely because I’m her brother’s fiancée. That’s plain weird. I’m not sure I want to know how close those two got, okay? Cooks for him. Washes his dirty Calvin Klein briefs. Irons the gold toes.
I tiptoe to the half-closed bedroom door, stepping over Lola’s stained, lemon-yellow bra as I go. It’s as cheap and sleazy as her plastic shoes. I can hear the springs on his Ethan Allen sleigh bed. My blood is ice, and I can’t breathe right. I stop and listen for a good full minute and try to remember why I love this man.
He proposed New Year’s Eve, at a fancy hotel in downtown San Antonio, as his mom cried into her holly-sprigged table napkin. It was a big dinner-dance champagne thing and his whole family was there. He made a big deal out of it, getting down on his knee and giving me that cheap ring with such drama that everyone stopped what they were doing and clapped for him, a bunch of total strangers, all of them with big Texan heads. I was happy for about an hour, while we danced to the bad Huey Lewis cover band, blew on rolled-up paper whistles and got confetti in our hair. Then we went to our room, and consummated the engagement, so to speak. Suddenly he was different. He was rough and started speaking Spanish—something he never does. “Tu eres mi puta?” he growled, eyes crazed—are you my whore? Are you my little whore all opened up like that just for me? Are you my bitch?
When I asked him about it later, he apologized and said that his first sexual experience had tainted him forever. It occurred in a little town just over the Mexican border, where his uncles took him to a whorehouse to teach him to be a man when he was thirteen. They drank tequila and he went to a Pepto-Bismol pink sewer-smelling room with a pregnant prostitute. When he came out, his uncles gave him pats on the back and a bunch of cash in a shoebox. They piled into Uncle Chuy’s Crown Victoria and sang corridos all the way back to San Antonio. Like I said, I shoulda known then. But I chose to see the glass, well, you know—half full. What I didn’t know was it was half full, all right, but half full of bile.
Not surprisingly, he pants identical insults all over little miss Lola as I muster the courage to stand in the bedroom doorway. “Are you my slut, my little stupid whore, all opened up there just for me?”
Only she says, “Sí.”
Sí, Papi, soy tu putita estúpida, dámelo duro papi, dámelo duro, así de duro, chíngame, si quieres, meteme por detrás. Con ganas, mi amor, rómpeme.
His hairy brown ass pumps up and down, khaki chinos accordioned around his knees, the belt buckle clanking. He still wears his starched white shirt and tie. All I see of Lola are little feet with dirty pink toenails, still encased in the cheesy sandals, bouncing around by his ears. Rómpeme, she repeats. Break me.
Time moves slowly. I see myself grab the brass bowl where he keeps all his shiny cuff links and tiepins, including the new American flag ones; I hurl it at that big brown moon. It hits him square on. He yelps like the dog he is. I hear Lola scream, but it’s far away, a high-pitched echo. I grab other things from his dresser, desk, and shelves. Picture frames, bottles of cologne, books, a computer keyboard, a pair of scissors, a golfing Snoopy paperweight, the phone shaped like a football, everything I can, and send them raining down over these people.
Ed pushes Lola up in front of him like a shield. His face is terrified for a moment, red, sweaty, and ugly. His mouth is open, teeth bared. Snarling. I see her perfect little brown body, legs spread wide open as she struggles to gain her balance. She shrieks, breaks free of his grip, and clomps in those stupid shoes to the bathroom. She looks petite, perfect, and scared—and young. She can’t be more than eighteen. Where would he meet a woman like that?
“It’s not what you think,” Ed says, the fear replaced by a charming grin, hands in front, palms up. He shuffles toward me with khakis like prison chains around his ankles.
“Bastard!” I scream. I attack him with my fists, knees, and feet. “You son of a bitch! How dare you! How could you!”
He grabs my wrists.
“Stop it,” he says, “you’re bleeding. Let’s take care of that cut before you get an infection.” He clicks his tongue as if I were a child who’d broken the cookie jar, patronizing.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “You’re the infection.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Lauren. You know I love you. I just had to get it out of my system. That’s how we men are. Better now than after the wedding, right?”
“Oh, my God!” I scratch at his eyes, spit in his face. “I hate you!”
He backs away and I see the blue condom dangling sticky on the end of his lost erection. I smell the girl’s cheap perfume on his skin, her musky adolescent perspiration. He says, “You know I love you. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Let’s talk about this.”
“Are you insane? There’s a little girl in your bathroom.”
“Her? Nah. She’s nothing to me.” He pulls his pants up and shrugs. “You’re the one I love.”
I stare, jaw on the floor. I almost reply, but think better of it. Instead, I turn to leave.
“Wait, baby,” he calls, strolling after me. “What about Valentine’s in Tahoe? You still coming? Let’s talk about this.”
I open the front door.
“The ski trip with my buddies and their girls? I paid a lot of money for that trip! I can’t cancel it now!”
I face him one last time.
“Take Lola.”
I slam the door, and trip my way down the stairs to the street. I was going to throw the ring at him, but figure I’ll pawn it and get something I can use, like a ballpoint pen. I feel like killing myself. I stop at the corner Korean market and buy a bag of Hot Cheetos, a carton of powdered sugar donuts, three chocolate bars, and a can of Pringles, then hail a cab. I eat every last salty, sugary crumb on the way to the airport.
After we reach our cruising altitude, I lock myself in the airplane bathroom and stick my finger down my throat over the puny metal toilet. When I exit, I ask the flight attendant for some chilled white wine. By the time the plane touches down in Boston the sun has begun to set, and I’m feeling pretty bad/good.
I call Usnavys from an airport pay phone, tell her what happened. She tells me her doctor blew her off, too.
“Men suck, m’ija,” she says.
“Got that right. (Hic.) Menschuckbad.”
“You been drinking?”
“(Hic.) Who me? No. What makes you ask that? (Hic.)”
“I’m glad you don’t have a car, m’ija. I’ll pick you up. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Let’s go have some fun.”
USNAVYS TAKES ME to a real ‘hood rat bar over near Dudley Square. The projects where she grew up are near here, in the middle of boarded-up buildings and bodegas with yellow awnings. The DJ spins “both” kinds of music, salsa and merengue, to appeal to “both” kinds of people: Puerto Rican and Dominican. Usnavys talks. I drink. I talk. She sips red wine.
I’m angry. Sure I am. We both are. Angry and disappointed. We talk about our respective situations and offer advice. Mine to her: Give Juan a chance and quit worrying about the kind of car and shoes he has. Hers to me: Give it some time, wait for a good guy to come along, and make sure he has a lot of money next time.
“Nah,” I say, downing my third Long Island Iced Tea. “You know what I’monna do?”
“What?”
I look around this dump, at the Dominican boys wit
h strong faces, short-cropped Afros, full mouths, and baggy designer clothes. It’s unnatural the way their hips move when they dance, like metronomes. They lick their lips all the time, in the same way. I spot one much more handsome than all the others. Strong jaw, long eyelashes, full lips, perfect nose, broad shoulders, and a tasteful outfit. He could be a Ralph Lauren model. You know who he looks like? The host of Soul Train, the black soap opera star. He has intelligent eyes. Why does that surprise me? I want to hear his story. To taste his salt.
I tip my cup toward him. “Navi,” I slur. “I, my dear, am going to go home with that man right there.”
“Which one?”
“The cute one in the dark green plaid shirt and the Warner Brothers leather jacket.”
She looks at him and shakes her head. “Ay, m’ija,” she says, squinting. She waves her hand in front of her nose as if a bad smell just wafted in. “He’s not worth it.”
“Yes, I am. Tonight.”
“Ay, Dios mío. ‘Tas loca, you know that? ‘Tas muy loca, m’ija.” She puts her hand over the new drink the bartender has just delivered to me. “You’ve had enough of these. I know you’re hurt, m’ija, but let’s just go home, okay? Let’s don’t be stupid. I know that guy. He’s no good.”
“Of course he’s good. Look at him.” I push her hand out of the way and guzzle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when I’m finished. “I’m serious. He’s beautiful. He looks like a revolutionary, a warrior.” He notices me looking, smiles at me. It’s like in those cartoons when the little flash pops up off of someone’s teeth—ping! My heart flops like a broken toad.
“He is a drug dealer, like Rebecca said. Trust your sucias. You have to quit being drawn to men like that.”
I don’t see how in the world there’s any similarity between this attractive young Dominican and the uptight puta-loving Ed. So I get defensive. “Oh, and I suppose your sleazy doctor is better?”
Below the belt, and it hurts her.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just I want him. I want him!” I pound a fist on the table. “What Lauren want, Lauren get, waa, waa.”
“Ya, basta,” she says, taking my drink away. “That’s enough.”
“He’s hot, girl. Look at him. He’s on fire.”
Usnavys makes a face like someone just asked her to eat ground mouse. She fishes in her shiny black handbag for the Bobbi Brown compact. “I don’t think so, m’ija. You can do better. Be patient.”
“I don’t want better. I had better, remember? Better is screwing a kid in Frederick’s of Hollywood crotchless panties right now. Better blew you off tonight. Better ain’t better, you see what I’m getting at here?”
Usnavys powders her nose, her pinky out. She laughs dramatically, checking to make sure someone, anyone, is watching her have a great time, even though she’s, like, not. I look at the pretty boy again and see two young, bouncy things hitting on him. They have flat chests and ponytails on top of their heads. Teenagers. More teenagers. I have the urge to actually go and beat the crap out of them, until I notice he doesn’t seem interested. He keeps looking my way.
I snatch the cup from Usnavys and down the rest of the drink in two swift chugs before she can take it away. Then, just to spite her, I down her wine, too. Feeling invincible, I slide off my barstool and traipse toward him. Usnavys rolls her eyes and doesn’t try to stop me. She knows me well enough by now to know there’s no point.
He’s standing in a group of other young men. They joke around and speak fast, slangy Spanish. Most of them have a gold hoop in each of their ears. I catch a few words here and there. I pretend to be headed somewhere else, but smile at him as I walk by. He says hello in English, or rather “hahlo,” and smiles. His friends look at me and shift around uncomfortably. I guess they don’t get too many people like me in this place. I’m not wearing what the other females here wear, which is cheesy little clingy minidresses or hot pants and heels. I’m suddenly very self-conscious. I’m wearing baggy wool pants from the Gap, plaid, and a matching brown turtleneck. Oh, and my glasses. Not exactly sexy. And my hair is up in a twist because it was too much work after the day I had to blow it out. My makeup is different from theirs, too. They have dark lips and very little makeup on their eyes. I have light lips and heavier makeup on my eyes.
“Lauren Fernández, her casa is your casa, Boston,” the pretty boy says, bouncing up and down on his heels like a happy little boy. Oh, right. The billboards. They recognize me from the stupid billboards. “You more white,” he says. “You look more morena in the ads.” No kidding.
I’m not sure what to do. The friends have all turned their backs to me, I’m not sure why. Pretty boy is staring into my eyes, licking his lips, just like I imagined, his hands crossed over his crotch as he leans against the bar. “You got anumba?” he asks, point-blank. His English is tainted with both a Spanish accent and a street Boston accent. I remember how fat, stupid, and unattractive I am, and turn to see if his question is aimed at some thinner, prettier, better-dressed being. It is not. He is talking to moi.
Could it really be that easy? Is that what his world is like? No beating around the bush, no telling me about his degree or investment portfolio. The room twirls. Blood surges to my pelvis. I feel hot and sweaty and fat and ugly and stupid and cheated and sad and curious, all at once. Could a man this handsome really be interested in little old me? I’m already down to a size eight, I’m sure of it, but not yet a six.
“Yes,” I say. He takes a pen and a little address book out of his jacket pocket and opens it to “F,” for Fernández. I give him the number.
“You so beautiful,” he says in his weird English. “You so pretty, baby. I loves you.”
Loves me? I look over at Usnavys. She’s watching me, shielding her eyes the way someone might while witnessing a nasty car accident. She’s curious, but doesn’t want to see what happens next.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jesus,” he says. His friends laugh. Not sure why. Then he says, “Not Jesus. It’s Tito. Yeah. Tito Rojas.” His friends laugh again. Then, “It’s Amaury.” No laugh.
“Where are you from?”
“Santo Domingo.”
“What do you do?”
“Limpieza.”
He’s a janitor. That’s noble enough.
“So call me,” I say. The floor shifts beneath me and I have to grab his arm to keep from falling. I’m drunk. I point at him and say, “Tonight.” I start to walk away, yelling, “Call me tonight. I love you too.”
The friends raise their eyebrows and Amaury looks embarrassed. I return to Usnavys and say, “You see? He’s not a drug dealer, like you said. He’s a janitor. Limpieza.” I stick my tongue out at her.
“His name Amaury?” she asks, all miss smarty-pants. I nod. “He from Santo Domingo?” I nod again. “He tell you about his kids?” I shake my head. I can’t tell if she’s joking. She is laughing out loud. “Ay, m’ija. You have a lot to learn about Latinos.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Na’. Olvídalo.”
“You don’t think I’m a Latina? Why, just because I’m light? You think you have to grow up in the projects to be a Latina?”
“No, you are, technically. But you have, like, some serious issues from your white side. You trip me out, girl.”
“My Latina side is white, remember? We come in all colors?”
“Don’t start writing one of your columns at me right now, okay?” She pantomimes a bored yawn. “I’m not in the mood. Plus, you know what I mean.”
“Shut up.”
“Como quieras, m’ija.”
I’m not even going to touch that one, not tonight.
“He’s going to call me tonight,” I brag. “When I get home. I want him. After today, girl, I deserve him. Taste him, eat him up, throw him out. That’s how they do it, so that’s how I’m doing it from now on.”
Usnavys shrugs. “I can’t stop you then,” s
he says. “All I’m saying, m’ija, is be careful. I mean really careful. I’ve known his family for a long time. And he ain’t never touched no mop in his life, okay, sucia? Believe me. Ese tipo no sirve pa’na’.”
Rough translation: That dude ain’t good for nothing.
No good, huh?
Sounds like a perfect match for me.
AMAURY CALLS AFTER I get home, just like he said he would. He asks for my address. Against my better judgment, I give it to him.
“I there fifteen minute,” he says in crippled English. “You be ready me, baby.”
I hang up, sit stunned on my floral Bauer sofa, the one I got at the discount furniture place in the basement of Jordan Marsh. I look at the colorful pile of photo scraps heaped on the center of my glass coffee table. I destroyed them all, every relic of Ed. Us at the outdoor Botero exhibit in Manhattan last year? Rip! Us skiing in New Hampshire? Rip! Ed in a chef’s hat, smiling over a pan of burned, dishwashing-liquid-tasting lasagna, his only attempt to cook anything for anyone? Rip, rip. My Ana Gabriel CD wails in the background. I wail along until my geriatric upstairs neighbor pounds his floor.
I ate two pints of ice cream while I tore up the photos, purged, ate some more, drank a couple of beers, purged again, then drank some more. And I cried. Like a moron. I mean, why cry if you’re ridding yourself of a dumb ugly Texican like Ed before you’ve actually gotten hitched to him? For the same reason Cuban exiles talk about Cuba all the time. The Cuba they left doesn’t exist anymore. You cry because you mourn the dream, not the real place—or person. The loss of the person you thought he was, not the one he is. There is no Santa Claus. There is no Ed in my future, teaching our son to put the hose away.
