Salt

by Mara White

  “Fuck!” He raked his hands down his face, leaned back against the brick wall and lit a cigarette. No wonder she didn’t want a reminder of being raped. The pregnancy wasn’t a mistake, it was a crime committed against Salana and her body. Tiago had been with girls when he was so fucked up that he couldn’t think or see straight, but he’d never forced himself on a partner. Even during his moments of worst judgment, he hadn’t even been pushy. He threw down his cigarette and crushed it with his toe, cracked his knuckles, cracked his neck and threw a hasty punch at the brick wall. His fist busted open nicely, pulpy and raw. They ought to have some antiseptic inside, a Band-Aid, and some gauze.

  He eventually found her in another waiting room, now clad in a gown. She was shivering and pale, looking around like birds of prey were circling the room. He walked over to where she was and she smiled weakly when she looked up at him. Tiago dropped down to crouch front of her, took her hand, and looked her squarely in the eyes.

  “Salana Livingston, as your current partner, I support whatever you’re doing. I don’t judge you or your decision. I’m just here to be useful. Tell me what I can do to help you.” No sooner had he finished speaking than Salt flung herself into his arms. They stayed embracing like that, kneeling on the floor, while heavy and overwhelming things transpired around them—they hugged and synced their hearts. Right up until her name was called they stayed in that embrace and when Salana walked into the operating theatre, she had a look of peace on her face.

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Ten years later…

  TIAGO

  Heidi, that’s who she looked like. Not that he could see much. His vision was doubled and blurry. A wisp of hair escaped from her blue cap, but her mouth was hidden behind a surgical mask. Her eyes were bright blue and her hair wasn’t the kind you get in a salon, but the kind you inherit from your ancestors who looked like they did because of where they were from. Not from around here, that’s for fucking sure.

  Here. The word acted like a trigger. Where was here? Where was home for that matter? Did he get shot? Jumped? He hadn’t showered, probably looked like shit and smelled bad to top it off.

  He tried to sit up and protest the fuss, wanted to go home and get his swagger back on. Lying down on his back wasn’t a good look. Where were his shades? They were new and fucking cost three hundred dollars, he didn’t want the lenses scratched up. His head swam when he moved and then a black pain descended into his head, the pressure so much it felt on the verge of exploding. Whatever was wrong, it was serious, and it wasn’t over yet.

  “Lie down.” She pushed him back with only a flash for eye contact. She was busy. It felt cold-hearted, the way in which she wouldn’t look at him. Maybe she found him disgusting.

  “Fuck,” he responded and tried to grip the side of the gurney with his hands to pull himself up. Blinked his eyes over and over trying to adjust to the bright lights and clear his vision enough to see. But the world swam from clear to blurry and nausea rolled through him like a wave, enough to make him gag audibly.

  “Hold still!” she barked. He froze. “I’m trying to insert a central line. Don’t move.” She was all business, still refusing to look at him.

  He took in the curtain separating him from patients who were right on the other side. Fucking welfare hospital probably. Brought him here so he could die. He didn’t have insurance, so he gagged again at the thought of a hospital bill. They’d shake down his grandmother for his cremation money. What a cruel, ruthless world.

  “Pump your fist to give me a vein,” she told him. He noticed her lashes, her eyebrows. He pumped his fist for her, eyeing the tattoos that snaked up his arm, most of it shitty work he’d had done on the fly. Dragon that looked like a Rorschach blotch, a rosary that wrapped around the back of his hand, his street number, 172nd, a girl’s name, Soraya, no idea what even happened to her, some gang shit that didn’t matter anymore, probably never did. He could focus on the tattoos, either that or he just remembered what they looked like. Either way, it made him feel better. He was a fucking mess, sweating but freezing, mouth thick with saliva and a chemical taste that made his blood run cold. In front of this mean nurse, in the packed ER he could sense just from the noise level, he felt the vulnerability profoundly. He grabbed his neck with his free hand, which was also tattooed and impossible to cover up. Maybe with a giant fucking scarf, like Where’s Waldo? Santiago didn’t do turtlenecks. The effort it took to form thoughts, move his hands, was painful.

  “Can I get some water?” His voice was naturally rough, but not that rough. What came out was a scratch. Raspy and weak. What the fuck had happened that he couldn’t even remember? Was anybody dead? Hopefully he hadn’t put some sorry motherfucker six feet under. Jesus Christ. He could still go to jail if he did.

  She looked familiar. His head hurt. His brain swam in some toxic combination of unusual influences. Pain killers? Morphine? He tried to wiggle his toes to make sure his legs were still intact. Fuck being paralyzed. He knew a guy in his building who was, had been shot in his lower back.

  “I’ll ask the nurse to bring you some,” she said. He wanted her to pull the needle out and press the painful spot with a cotton ball. But she was stealing his blood. Felt like all of it. Fucking vampire. The shit was staying in the crook of his arm whether he liked it or not. She unenthusiastically rolled over the stand that held bags of clear fluids which presumably would drip into his body via the vein she just butchered. She wrapped surgical tape around the siphon like she was going to town on Christmas presents. Not exactly a soft touch.

  “Who the fuck are you then?” he asked her, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I’m your doctor,” she stated coldly. She wouldn’t even look at him. She was inspecting files on a clipboard, no longer interested in him. He’d gone and insulted her.

  “Not cause you’re a chick. I swear to fucking God. I mean, I know there are male nurses.”

  “A chick, huh?” She shot him a dirty look, a really dirty look.

  “’Cause I thought nurses did the needles and shit. Fuck. Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t really that sorry. If she was so sensitive, Heidi could go fuck herself.

  Heidi’s eyes looked like Salana’s except tired and older.

  Salana.

  Soft, blonde, passionate, tender and loyal.

  He took in what he could see. Height. Eyelashes and eyebrows. That wisp of hair sticking out of her scrubs cap.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  Fucking Salt became a doctor, just like her father, not a professional equestrian like he’d always pictured her. When he thought of her, which wasn’t often any more, he liked to imagine her on the back of a horse, jumping those fences and galloping into a wide open field.

  “We’re short-staffed. Friday night, full moon, temperatures near a hundred today. Know what that means?” She was typing info into a computer; she wouldn’t even look at him.

  She rubbed him the wrong way, this woman. She couldn’t be Salt. Condescending, that’s what it was. She was pretending to be busy too, entering data on the rolling computer station like an ice pick attacking a frozen block. Wasn’t that an administrator’s job to do? She thought she was better than him. She sure didn’t feel that way when she was riding his dick when she needed him. How long ago had it been? Ten years? A dozen? It had to be her, he was nearly sure of it.

  “You turn into a fucking werewolf?” he said. And he saw it, maybe it was just a tiny little flash, but it was there—the humor, the good-naturedness. He could tell she was trying to hide it. Pushing down the smile that used to reside almost permanently on her face. He could sense the grin under the mask even though he couldn’t see it. Wasn’t a home run, but he’d take it.

  She’d grown bitter. Must not be happy being a doctor.

  “Funny,” she said. “It means the ER floods to capacity before we even hit midnight.” She sure was going to town with the tape; it looked like he wouldn’t be going home any time soon. “Alcatraz,” she said, glanci
ng down at his bracelet. Now it was his turn to stifle the laugh.

  “Alcázar,” he corrected her.

  “Any family you want us to call or notify for you, Alcázar?” she said it slowly, carefully, and he liked how it sounded on her lips, like a foreign language she couldn’t quite get a hold of. She didn’t fucking remember him and he liked it that way.

  Fine, bitch!

  Sure time had passed and he did look different. He’d grown his hair out and wore it in braids, gotten enough tattoos to cover a full cement wall by the train tracks. Threatening. Some gold in his grill. He was much taller, had filled out and gained muscle. But fine, whatever, Salt. You do your thing. He wouldn’t give her the privilege of remembering that he’d been there for her when they were kids—when she truly needed him. A time when she couldn’t get enough of him, physically, sexually.

  Go ahead, Salt, erase all the bad things. Me included if it makes you feel better.

  “Family?”

  “Nah, s’aight,” he said, looking away from her. His ma couldn’t get here. She could barely get out of the house without his help. Salt moved to leave and go on to her next patient. “Wait a second, did I get shot or stabbed or did I just take a beating?” He was surveying his body for pain and simultaneously trying to untangle his memory. He didn’t see any blood or any bruises, nothing obvious to a quick scan.

  “Neither. You ODed,” she replied. Her answer stunned him. Some asshole gave him dirty shit. Somebody was gonna pay for that mistake.

  “Are you fucking serious right now?” he asked her, still completely surprised. His reputation was good, spotless even, people knew not to fuck with him.

  “I don’t joke about drugs. You’re lucky someone brought you in, you could have easily not made it this time.”

  Please, baby, please. A lecture, just what he needed—and from a white girl, oh wait sorry, a doctor. Bitch, fucking please, please, please. Don’t have turned into this, Salt. A stuck-up white girl with a superiority complex.

  “Fuck you and your ‘this time.’ I don’t do drugs, lady. I just got to check sometimes if stuff is all right, make sure it’s clean, you know what I’m saying?” Like it was any of her business. Like he owed her an explanation. He was insulted that she wouldn’t open her fucking eyes and see him. Gone was the innocent girl who didn’t judge, who needed him so badly.

  “Oh, so you deal drugs? Pardon my mistake. That’s better. So the other people get sick and die, not you. We settled?” Hands on her hips. Ugly white sneakers. He kind of hated her now, this lady wasn’t the sweet Salana he remembered.

  “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”

  She let out a sigh. A long dramatic exaggerated sigh.

  “The fuck?” he muttered. They really weren’t getting along and it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes tops. Maybe it wasn’t even her, just another woman who stole her face and added some years onto it. They all looked alike anyway. He took in what he could see—the Cartier bracelets, the modest but costly Rolex. He knew the type, was well-versed in their ways. Prep school, fancy college, the whole path fully financed by mom and dad. The perfect daughter. Horseback riding, sailing—shit they did in the movies. If it wasn’t her, she was just another clone of Salt—those people were all the same. Wouldn’t last a minute in the real world. Bitches like her would be dead if they tried to walk a mile in his shoes. He needed a real woman anyway.

  “I’m out of here now, actually,” she said, glancing at her watch. “You’re my last patient. Good luck, Alca—”

  “Alcázar,” he corrected her, yelling. Doesn’t even fucking remember me. His vision was blurred, but hers wasn’t. What a fucking witch. He wished he’d never met her. That’s what he meant to her, huh?

  Nothing.

  And now he was gonna get a bill in the mail in exchange for her making him feel like shit.

  She left the curtain open when she exited, the scent of her shampoo or maybe body lotion lingering in the small space. He wondered if he could have ever become a doctor had his childhood been a fraction of what hers was. If he was ever caught in scrubs it would be because he got a job at the fucking hospital laundry. Tiago wished he could wipe away the unpleasant memories from his past as readily as she seemed to.

  Get over it. Salt needed you once and now she doesn’t even remember you.

  Chapter 9

  Tiago

  Bitch better have my money

  It repeated in his head like a mantra when he went in for a pick-up, his own work anthem. Fork it over, put it in a paper bag, hand it over to fifteen or so contacts. He marched passed a fried chicken joint that smelled so strong in the heat that it felt like walking by it alone would contaminate your clothes and face with the grease. Handshakes were not a problem, a few on every corner. His kicks were white, his hair braided back without a single fly-away, edges perfect; he kept a comb in his pocket. Stealth shit. Facial hair was finely crafted into a perfect candado. Shades, two chains, both gold with medallions of Christ and the Virgin. He wasn’t particularly religious, didn’t regularly go to church, but his grandmother burned candles, said prayers and talked to God wherever she was. He talked to God too. And Santiago took all the luck he could get. His game of life was high risk and he was determined to get through it, come out alive on the other end, make a place for himself that didn’t include drugs, dope and violence. He’d keep the music, the clothes, the swagger of that lifestyle—it was too much a part of him to let go of. Take the kid out of the hood but don’t fuck with where he came from. He’d keep the cool forever, just drop the gangsta someday. He was gonna make it; deep down he knew it.

  He was saving money in his grandma’s account. He had close to five Gs and that would be enough to at least start out. How expensive could college be? He wouldn’t go anywhere fancy, just some CUNY campus that still let in the riffraff. Get an associate’s degree or whatever shit you started up with. He was gonna do it. He’d show them all what he was made of.

  Bitch better have my money

  When the city was hot, like above ninety degrees, people went nuts. Went and raised hell ‘cause they were out of their minds crazy with heat. He kept his head down and tried to float under the radar—no use in pulling stupid attention to himself. Some people thought Manhattan was swanky, but they probably never stepped foot on this end of the island.

  He met up with two people at the playground on 181st. Crossed Broadway and walked south until he came to his friend Chico’s apartment. Well, Chico’s old lady’s apartment. An old lady who would probably kick him out to the curb if she knew what he did all day while she was at work. Tiago grabbed arroz con pollo at the corner with a side of fries. Enough packets of hot sauce to fill up a small paper bag. The food was hot through the styrofoam and made the bag all sweaty inside. In the apartment, Chico pulled him into a handshake that ended in a quick hug, a heavy slap on the back after their elbows aligned. Even though Santiago had grown up without his father, he easily fell into mimicking the male behavior that was demonstrated around him. He didn’t know how to walk without a strut, his permanent limp, how to give a regular firm handshake and leave it at that. He didn’t know how to interact with other grown men without teasing and taunting, showing real affection with a never-ending pissing contest.

  He and Chico played video games and smoked weed out of a hookah after they demolished the food. When Chico’s woman came home they made their way down to the stoop, bought beer at the bodega on the corner. The sun had set but the heat still wasn’t letting up.

  “Yo, you got air conditioning over at your ma’s place?” Chico asked him.

  “Nah, my grandmother’s old school. Says that air conditioning gets you sick.”

  “So what the fuck you do on days like today? Sit around in your underwear?” Chico asked him. They were both good and drunk. The weed swam through Santiago’s system like a friendly swell, rounding the corners and tight edges of his world into fluid shapes that took no effort to navigate. The night sky looked soft
, and so did the buildings. And the sick yellow light from the streetlights above only mellowed him out more. He was high as fuck. The pressure came off when he smoked, and his inhibitions went away with the drink. They harassed nearly every woman who walked by, unless they were clearly a child or too old, somebody’s grandma. The catcalling was learned too and Tiago didn’t have any idea how to turn it off. He knew it wasn’t something that would go over so well downtown, but up here, shit? It would be too late to stop now. Shorty looked fly—you just told her that shit.

  “I’ma head out. See you round, son.” Another bump of elbows, another day with nothing constructive done. Chico offered out his fist to bump it. They both had 172 tattooed on the backs of their hands. Streets—not cell blocks, but not a big step up from it either. Tiago had managed to avoid gangs for the most part by being the type of guy who could hang with everyone. He was a chameleon and lived by the rule of make your money and get out. Most of his friends he’d known his whole life—from sagging diapers to sagging jeans, they paced the same streets without going anywhere. He could count on one hand the number of cats who’d left the city. They were the ones who graduated high school, either that or joined the military.

  Santiago hadn’t left but he’d moved across town to the East River with his grandmother and it might as well have been another planet instead of a five-minute stint in a gypsy cab across Central Harlem. El Barrio, he was at 105 and Park, the New York Housing Authority Clinton houses. This part of town was old school Puerto Ricans who were political as fuck and poor blacks who’d been fucked over by the system with no way out except jail or a one-way ticket to some relatives down south. While Bachata ruled the Heights, Bomba y Plena were the kings of Spanish Harlem. Tiago was dark-skinned, muscled but lean, and the blood that ran through his body was one half Boricua, thanks Ma, and la otra mitad, cien por ciento Dominicano.