by Rita Indiana
When I open my eyes again, my mouth is full of Count Chocula and milk and I’m drooling. I’m naked and sitting at the dining room table while the sun continues to filter in through the balcony. Mami scrubs my arm with a sponge and reminds me: They called this morning; they killed your father.
I can’t see my mom’s face, it’s just a pink blur, like milk colored by those little marshmallow ghosts in Count Chocula, Franken Berry, and Boo-Berry. I cry and I don’t even know why. Oh, cuz your dad died, that’s why, the stain reminded me every time I opened my eyes. It was a marshmallow stain, and it said, They shot him in the head. And then the marshmallow would cry too.
The marshmallows carried me to my mom’s bed cuz I couldn’t even walk. You need mourning clothes, they said, and then they brought me a black Ocean Pacific T-shirt, but it had an orange and red landscape on the back, a Hawaiian beach. They tried to put it on me but my arms were as slippery as water, as loose as Muppet arms and I was worried the T-shirt would get marshmallow all over it. Somebody else was putting pants and shoes on me. I could hear myself starting to cry and I asked myself why and Mami, who was sitting at her dresser and putting on her pantyhose, would get up and run towards me with the pantyhose only halfway up her legs, the amber jar in her hand, and throw three more blue pills in my mouth.
They taste like crap.
When I finally got it together and was able to get up, we went to the beauty salon. Your dad doesn’t like scarecrows, Mami tells me, but there was already a tear in her eye as she fumbled around in her purse for the little jar and took a pill with a chug from a bottle. Before we even went in the beauty salon, Mami said, Don’t make a scene. So I swallow the last bits of pill clinging to one of my molars and enter the AC and the smells of hair spray and shampoo and burnt hair give me strength. Dominga, the salon owner, a fat woman with gold teeth and trucker hands and an enormous butt that looks like a marshmallow under that blue uniform, took me first. She declared she would take care of each of Papi’s daughters without charging a fee and without appointment. A couple of girls with hair straighteners in their hands just got up and left. Women in wet smocks were coming left and right to get their highlights and dye and wax jobs. I was under the hair dryer and when I opened my eyes again Mami was with another stylist while she was getting her toenails done, surely talking about life and the drug trade. She chose a color for her toenails, lifting each little bottle from a tray and placing it next to her hand to compare her skin color and the polish.
When I opened my eyes again, we were on the highway and Mami was driving very slowly behind a giant truck. Its plates said 1952–789 and it was red. The truck was loaded with cassava and there were Haitians sitting in back, on the very edges of the truck, one wearing a red cap and the other, who was shirtless, holding on with one hand and using the other to keep himself from the cold, but he couldn’t.
Mami opened the glove compartment and two or three things fell to the floor between my feet. One at a time. The first was a mini-vacuum that Mami never uses to clean the car seats. The other two were a rotten banana and newsletter number twenty-five from Carola de Goya’s collection of esoteric notebooks, the edition in which she personally and directly translated Maestro Damlo Vetranbashe Praputi, who counseled from the fourteenth dimension how celestial armies should be utilized when it came time to dispatch a disembodied soul to seventh heaven or beyond.
Mami had used a yellow highlighter to mark the lines she wanted me to read aloud, which she had specifically requested. I read her Carola’s instructions inspired by Vetranbashe himself, who suggested the following:
When the coffin comes into the enclosure, the initiate should stand close to it, but not too close, looking east and repeating:
Cut and undo, cut and undo, cut and undo, cut and undo.
Repeat while visualizing a blue light and a court of blue angels descending and arranging themselves around the coffin, using the blue swords in their fists to cut the ties (also blue) that join the coffin to the bodies of those present. In order to do this, first, we must visualize those present and the blue ribbons like umbilical cords that tie the coffin to those present. Those present are those in attendance at that moment, not everyone in this world, many are invisible and ethereal, which the initiate, no longer living, should visualize.
When I open my eyes again we are already in Papi’s hometown. I recognize it cuz there’s a World War II plane at the entrance with a shark’s mouth painted on it. We stopped at a convenience store to buy crackers. Mami got out and when she game back she took off her sunglasses for the first time. What is the name of that illness that gives people black circles like charcoal under their eyes? Well, Mami had that.
I turn on the radio and I hear my tía Leysi with a chorus in the background screaming:
Oh they killed him, oh they killed him.
Oh my brother, oh they killed him.
Oh kill me.
They’re so evil, they’re so evil.
They shot him.
Mami changes the station with the same hand with which she’s holding the little jar but China’s screaming on the next station:
Guay, guay, guay, guay, guay, guay, take me with you, take me with you.
Mami’s so frenetic when she changes the station that the little jar of pills falls and she stops the car next to the ditch and starts swallowing the pills that fell on the floor and tells me it’s so they won’t go to waste. And then, on another station, Cilí says:
My son, goddammit, my son, three bullets like the three nails that went into Christ.
When she’s finished the DJ says I’ll be there soon, live and in person, and in the background you can still hear the guay guay.
Mami can’t take it anymore. She throws the empty jar out the window and crashes the car at the bottom of the ditch, which is dry cuz it hasn’t rained in a long time. People are sitting outside their homes along the old highway and I don’t know if they’re waiting for rain or the funeral march.
When we get to the house in which Papi was born, it’s already been turned into a museum. Mami makes her way through the line of tourists holding little balloons with Papi’s portrait on them. When we’re finally in front of the ticket office, Mami knocks hard on the glass, drooling, her lids as heavy as mine, which feel like stone. Mami grabs me, cuz my legs are no longer responding, and we make our way to the house, which is already full of Japanese blonds taking photos next to the golden potty that Papi supposedly used as a boy. I know this is not the house where Papi was born, cuz Papi was born in a house with a dirt floor.
Mami lets herself fall on the marble floor, and placing her head on a tourist’s loafer as if it were a pillow, she asks, Where is Milly, where is Leysi, where is everybody?
When I open my eyes again, an old man is jostling me, a very tall man, dark skinned with very white hair and wearing a museum guard uniform with a name tag that says Pérez on his chest. He throws Mami over his shoulder and pulls me by the hand as we run towards a jeep. He explains: I’m your tío Fonso, I’m Fonso. Your abuela Cilí’s brother. The funeral isn’t here; this museum thing is to raise funds to pay for the funeral. We drive for a while on a side street with cracked red dirt, the red poinciana branches like match heads above the roof of the jeep. Fonso explains: We’re going to the little house where your father was born, the little house with the dirt floor.
From afar we see a mob of people, a grill, and a cloud of smoke. But there’s no little house. Leafy branches rise like buildings and the sun’s rays cut through them to the smoke, like in a cigarette ad. There are groups of people sitting under trees, standing around drinking coffee, peasants with their donkeys and mules and bunches of green plantains like in a rum ad. The musicians from the local perico ripiao hold their instruments in silence while a group of paleros bring their offerings and are in turn offered a pair of chairs by a neighbor. Several women serve coffee in trays, each cup from a different china set. There are wooden chairs, plastic chairs, metal chairs here and there on th
e grass. Rocking chairs. A man burns cashew nuts and gives them to a group of kids. People look at me but they go on with what they were doing.
There’s a pile of rocks under a mango tree, the only thing left of the little house where Cilí had her kids. Cilí, who’s not crying, is sitting in a chair made of balsa wood, dressed in black and lilac, her hands on her knees. China and Leysi stand on either side of Cilí, hitting their chests with such force that with each blow little drops of blood fall from their eyes like lemon juice on anyone who comes near.
They’re waiting for the body, Fonso tells me. The mothers of Papi’s children make a circle around the little pile of rocks and extend their hands to touch Cilí, to console her, but Cilí doesn’t even look at them, she doesn’t do anything so the mothers say, in very loud voices, what a strong woman. Their children are dressed in mourning clothes.
When Cilí opens her eyes she see me and spreads her arms and I run towards her through the crowd that recognizes me now and wants to touch me and hug me while crying, and crying out, Little orphan girl, little orphan girl. Fonso protects me from the mob using Mami’s body as a shield. She is still asleep and when we finally reach Cilí, Fonso puts Mami on the floor and I put her sunglasses back on. Cilí hugs me and says, My tears are dry. And then one, two, three, four or five buses from Onatrate arrive with more people and Fonso commands: More coffee.
People started burning up around one, when the sun was scorching and shone a blinding light on everything white, on every metal surface, and even on the black rags. You had to cover up with something. Go under the trees. The rays snuck through the leaves and pinched like a sulfur hail.
The crying continued but it was more of a humming commentary about the heat and the time and the dryness on everyone’s lips. Somebody passed around some skin lotion cuz it was a cancerous sun. A live pig could be seen rooting in the distance and a couple of men were going crazy cuz they wanted to fry it up.
Cilí asked for water and some of the mothers of Papi’s children ran to get it from a well about a hundred meters away but the water would evaporate in the glass on the return so they raced back. The well eventually went dry and they asked Fonso to go to the city and get a water tank.
It was a great shame. All this dry crying was a great shame and very noisy, so much so that Mami finally woke up, lifting her head from a rock, as confused as a cat, her hand going through her hair, surveying her surroundings with a look of satisfaction as if she’d just awoken in a five-star hotel. She checked the burned skin on her arms and said, Oh good, I got a little sun. Then she got up and realized where she was and started pushing little blue pills into her eyes. If she’d actually teared up, we would’ve drunk her tears. There was not a drop of rum left, or of coffee, or of anything, and Fonso was nowhere in sight. A troop of boy scouts left with a nun to see if they could find a river and they came back with two bags of white rocks so we could entertain ourselves painting faces on them with nail polish. The musicians wrung their shirts so they could drink their own sweat. The women fanned themselves until a dizzy spell caused them to tumble to the floor, one leg shaking.
At about four, we started to see extraterrestrials, diamonds, ovals, shiny dots in the blue sky that people would spot and point to with their fingers, about ten per second. They were made of silver. No—mercury, gold. They were flying saucers. They’re here, they’re here, said China, writing Welcome with coffee grounds on the ground. They’ve come for us, they’ve come for us, said Leysi, opening her arms and smiling with her lips sealed, writing Hallelujah on her eyelids. Cilí put her hand over her eyes to shield them and bit her lower lip. That’s when Fonso arrived and parked the minivan. He got out and scratched his head cuz there were so many people on their knees, with their arms raised, pointing and shading their eyes at the same time. He looked up and told me: Those are American planes, spraying the clouds so it’ll rain.
The planes disappeared and small clouds began to gather in the middle of the sky, clouds that looked like camels, like Fred Flintstone, like a boat with oars. The bigger clouds looked like Miss Piggy and Bart Simpson, and one little cloud looked like a coffee maker at first and then like a Jet Ski and then like a house with a chimney and then I don’t know what, cuz the sky got as white as Styrofoam and a breeze raised dust and dry leaves, a crash of thunder split our eardrums once, then twice, and then everybody was really on their knees, getting up and falling on their knees again, forgetting about the dead man, about the funeral, about Cilí, about everything. They opened their mouths to catch the first drops. And some did.
Now we were all looking at the white screen of the sky, waiting for the rain as if it were the movie of our lives. And again: that sound like the opening and closing of steel gates that precedes lightning, and then the great cloud finally released its load. A cobalt-blue container with a parachute descended through the air and raised a cloud of dust when it finally landed. There was not a single cloud left in the sky, not one.
People started getting up and going towards it. Leysi opened her eyes with a half smile while Mami dried the pills as best she could so she could get a good look at the container, which now screeched and vibrated like an electric generator. One of the container’s sides dropped and a ramp jutted out like a tongue. A kind of wheeled platform came down the ramp and rolled until it got to where Papi’s birthplace had once been; there was a pearl-gray coffin on the platform. Mechanical arms popped out of a compartment and unfolded a tarpaulin, a great white tent that went over the coffin. There were five chairs, each with a name: Cilí, Leysi, China, Mami, and Me and a sign on each that said Reserved. Then a black woman who looked about forty years old came down from the container; she was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the name Etelvina and she pushed a cart with a thermos full of coffee and a stack of little paper cups. Behind her came two olive-skinned women dressed in black, their naps all matted, asking those present for the name of the deceased so they could start to wail. Behind them came the wreaths; one of the mothers of Papi’s children took care to cover the banners with dedications. Then came the candles, the candelabras, and various business associates of Papi’s who just looked at the ground and gave Cilí a pat on the shoulder, saying: I know, ma’am, I know. China got the nerve to go up to the coffin, tore the tag off one of the handles and read:
This package includes a dead body. A coffin. Various single and five candle candelabras. A box of candles. Five floral wreaths, all plastic so they will last. Silicone dew drops for the flowers are optional. Two wailers. Two coffee servers. One water fountain. The cadaver is guaranteed to rot in the next forty-eight hours. The cadaver will experience all of the states of decomposition once it leaves the packaging. Two shovels. One eulogy written by Gabriel García Márquez. There is no need for instructions, no need for an operator—simply lift the top and rest in peace.
China looks at the tag as if it’s the calling card of a new friend named Rockefeller and, not realizing what she’s doing, opens the box.
This is not him. This is his body. This is his body. They do the embalming in Miami. That is not my dad. You have to see, just look. You have to look at him. I don’t wanna see him. That’s not him. Just look, just look. That’s his body. Touch him, yeah, touch it. That’s just his body. Oh they killed him, oh they shot him. It’s a robot. Thirty-six years old. He’s rotting by remote control. It’s his body, it’s him. If your car is damaged, will I think it’s you who’s hurt? Oh take me with you. Guay. Guay. It’s a robot. Close his eyes. Put a medal of the Virgin of Altagracia on him. It’s a robot. Bring her over. No, I don’t want to. Leave me alone, leave her alone. It’s a robot. Look at him. Bring her over. Oh they killed him. Careful with her hair cuz she’s pulling it. Tie her down, don’t let her undress. She has to look. Open her eyes. It’s a robot, it’s a robot. It’s his body. Yes, but just the body. It’s a robot. It smells already. Science is so advanced. Bring some bayrum. It’s a robot. He’s alive. His eyelid moved. He smells. Close the coffin. Dissolve it in water. Clos
e his eyes. Tell it to science. It’s a robot, it’s a robot. It’s my dad, it’s a pig, it’s a souvenir. Put on some more coffee. My mouth tastes like shit. Stay at my house. That’s your dad, see, give him a kiss. Who is breathing. S’okay. It’s a doll. Swallow it. Don’t bury him, he’s not dead. It’s a robot. It’s a Christmas gift. Cuz he was an asshole, cuz he was handsome. Touch him, yeah, make her touch him. It’s a robot, it’s sleeping. Oh they killed him.
Oh little girl, now you got no dad.
The funeral continues. The women pull their hair out. When they don’t have any left on their heads, they start in on their coochies. The kids draw doodles with charcoal on the ground and play with a piece of wet newspaper. The men serve the coffee cuz the women are busy tearing their hair out. At night we sleep right there, under the stars, and they close the coffin so the body won’t get wet from the dew. Everyone gets cozy in their cars, on the buses, or walking fifty paces one way, then back, their arms wrapped around themselves.
I don’t sleep, I stay awake, I sit on a tree trunk and swat the fruit flies until someone comes up and talks to me about Papi. I light my way in the dark with a lighter so I won’t sit on an anthill. The only lights are the two-hundred-watt spots on the tent over the coffin. When nobody’s looking, and when the watchman guarding the tent is busy under a guava tree with a girl, I go up to the coffin and open it. It’s the perfect replica, almost. The reddened skin around the chin is exactly like Papi’s, the nails and cuticles on his hands are impeccable. But I can’t be fooled, this isn’t Papi. I’ve told everybody’s it a robot, but nobody believes me.
The manufacturers have taken care to add stitches to his forehead where the bullets supposedly entered. It’s a masterpiece. Even I would have been fooled, if not for. This isn’t Papi, it’s not even his body. This isn’t even a dead body. It’s a robot. I touch it. Hard and dry. It’s a robot. Nobody can fool me. No robot designed by Soviet Americans is gonna tell me . . . goddammit. It’s a robot. It’s a robot. I’m convinced. It’s a robot. When I take a plastic fork I’ve been hiding since breakfast and stick it in the stitches on the forehead, there’s no blood, only the smell of rust and rotten wood. It’s a robot. Then I open an eye and I nail the fork in it. I open the mouth, and the smell of rust is the smell of a rusty garbage can. I open the mouth, I look inside. The manufacturers have taken care to copy his teeth, the cavities, the fillings, one by one. I know Papi has a false tooth and the robot knows too; I take it and look at it. I keep it. I put it in my pocket. Trumpets start to play, harps, Jericho.
