Something inside me rattles. The vase slips out of my hand and shatters into a thousand pieces. Jaylene, Gisela and I start pushing the glass with our shoes into a small pile. I insist I alone will pick it up.
As I’m about to head off for a broom, Tazer comes around with his arm over the shoulder of a thin, long-haired girl. I guess it’s Elicia. He sings loudly to Jaylene, “Hey, Jay, what do you say? Can’t get them both inside your O.J.? So glad you made it!”
Jaylene slaps Tazer’s back. “Yeah! Good to see you here.”
Tazer introduces Elicia to me. “My beautiful date.”
“I’ve heard so many great things about you, Shai.” She’s got large teeth, a long face and vibrant golden eyes.
“Thanks,” I say. “Tazer told me about you, too.” We talk about school, her studies, how she comes from a family of optometrists and the script she and Tazer are writing. “It’s a drama revolving around a teen girl with the natural ability to set fire with her eyes, but she ends up burning the boi she loves to death.” Tazer speaks of planning on having a lot of eye problems to visit her at work more often. Elicia seems smart and feminine-looking with a multicolored skirt and blouse, a touch of makeup and small earring hoops. She’s right up Tazer’s alley, that’s for sure.
“Hey, where’s Rosa?” Tazer’s sparkling eyes roam around the duplex.
“She had to work late,” Jaylene says. “She’s coming later.”
Tazer’s eyebrows leap upward when he sees Gisela. “You’re the waitress at Cha-Cha’s. What’s up?” They all start talking and I send them outdoors. I need to clear my mind. I must erase Gisela from my brain. When a girl’s scent, words, smile, intellect and everything about her captivates you but you can’t do anything about it, it’s probably like being homeless and starved and someone offers you a painting of a bed and a plate of sand molded to look like a steak just to watch you suffer.
As I’m heading to get a broom, Soli comes over with a bag and a broom. “¿Que pasó?” She starts sweeping.
I tell her the entire conversation I had with Mami, but leave out that Marlena is trying to contact me.
“Your mom’s a nutcase. I wish you hadn’t told her you were seeing London. She should love you no matter what.” Soli’s right. Her words tear right through me.
I change the subject. I don’t want to feel pain. “Listen, why is this party filled with lesbians? Are you getting back at me for the fight we had ten million years ago? I thought we were totally over that.”
“Shylypop. Don’t be ridiculous. I just keep meeting gay girls at work. That’s why the dozens of lesbos here.”
“Oh. I see. I guess straight people are too geeky to like your haircuts, eh?” I nudge her in the ribs and wink.
She raises an eyebrow. “No one can pull the wool over your eyes, Shyly, that’s for sure. So, yes. I’ve got an ulterior motive, but can you blame me?”
“You’re too much, Hootchi Momma.” I can’t get mad at Soli anymore. She goes out of her way to do outrageous things because she loves me so much and thinks she knows what I need and what’s best for me.
She sweeps everything into the bag, places it on top of her CD player, and stands with a hand on her hip, the other holding the tip of the broom, peering into my eyes. “I saw the gleam in your eyes when you were talking to Gisela. It’s the same type of shine you had with Marlena. Give her a chance. You hardly ever feel that intense attraction.” She starts sweeping again.
I grab her arm. “She’s not into makeup, perfume or plastic shit. She’s one hundred percent Green. And she’s into the outdoors, animals, politics and foreign movies, too.” I talk low and let it pour. “Being around her makes me want to fly. I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate and explode.”
“Shit! Shyly, it’s about damn time.” She musses my hair.
I lower my head. “But dating her will ruin my life. I just talked to Pedri.” I tell her everything. “I can’t live without him anymore. I just can’t. It’s either Gisela or Pedri. You know girls come and go. Look at Tazer. You thought he was really into me. Now he’s all riled up about Elicia.” I take a deep breath and let out a long, slow exhale. “I need Pedri now more than anything in the world, Soli. I’m this close to moving back home and having my family back.”
I get a dustpan from the closet and place it on the floor. She sweeps the dust left from the glass pieces inside it with such a serious face I think I’ve finally talked some sense into her. I pour the contents into the bag.
“It’s so sad you can’t follow your feelings because of your crazy neuro mom. I know how hard it’s been for you to live without Pedri. I hate your choice, but I guess I’m forced to accept it.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “Thanks so much.” I let out a sigh of relief.
That she understands me, makes a cheerfulness come over me. I know I’m making the right decision to bring a horrible period in my life to a close. I have the will to shut the door to girls for good. If I were swimming right now, I’m sure I’d have started floating.
I glance over at Gisela on the crowded dance floor, swaying her hips from side to side in a belly-dancing style, realizing I’ve made the right decision. I can actually put a stop to my feelings. I’m leaving behind all my troubles to look forward to a better, chaos-free life.
With broom in hand Soli walks away from me and comes back with a limonada.
“Cheers to our friendship. I’ll miss you if your psycho mom takes you back. Here. It’s organic. No alcohol, just like you love it. Lots of mint leaves, honey and lemon.”
I take a sip and hand it over to her. “I’ll miss you too. I love you Soli.”
She takes a mouthful. “I love you too, Shyly.”
Soli grabs the bag filled with glass from on top of the CD player, throws it in the trash, stashes the broom in the closet, and goes to find Diego.
Music blasts. Elbows and feet are going this way and that way. Everyone seems to be having fun. I haven’t even thought of London for an instant. In a way, I’m glad he’s not here. And the same goes for Marlena. I’m definitely not calling her back or seeing her, ever. She’s history. That’s what she wanted. So be it.
Jaylene comes to me and we hang around talking. “Fun party. It’s like a lesbian bar in here.”
“Yeah. Thank Soli for that.”
She takes a sip of the mango fizz juice and licks her lips. “Too bad you’re not at least bi. You’d have a lot of girls to choose from.” I never told her about Marlena and me at work. We text a lot. Mostly about how she enjoys debating with Che and winning each time. After Tazer’s job, Marco bounced me around all over Miami because of my landscape sketching design skills. He’s got four different crews, one for South Miami, North Miami, the beach and the westernmost parts of Miami. Every once in a while, I work with the same crew, crazy Che included.
Diego comes around. He talks about music videos and recites an on-the-spot poem about Soli as we watch her dance with Gisela, Elicia and Tazer. I can hardly watch Gisela’s movements; she’s so delicious. I love the way she sways her whole body in that smooth, sensual way. I look away and hope Soli’s telling Gisela I’m about to get married to a guy on skid row with six kids.
Soli leaves to pick up Viva and I dance up a storm with everyone but Gisela.
Everybody’s eating, dancing and getting to know one another when we hear, Bang! Bang! Bang!
People in the backyard zoom through the back doors and we cram into the kitchen. I hear Viva’s key in the door.
Adela, Viva’s pudgy best friend, and Soli walk indoors as we rush forward. “Surprise!”
“¡Ay, Santa María madre de Dios!” Viva cries out. I drape my arms around weepy Viva and give her many kisses. She looks adorable in her flowered polyester pink and green dress and pink flip-flops. She checks out the piñata, pulls the cape, and down comes a shower of saints and teeny penises. “¡Jesucristo!” The candy flies all over the place and everyone goes wild. Neruda flies to the treats and growls as if the saint
s were alive.
I put on a salsa tape—a mix of old-timers she loves: Olga Guillot, Albita, Celia Cruz and Tito Puente—Viva’s favorite. Hands are up in the air, hips are moving all over the place. Feet are shuffling this way and that way. People twirl around and around. Soli pulls Diego by the suspenders to the dance floor. He looks dapper with baggy pants, a tight pullover and slicked-back hair. She presses herself against him so tightly, you’d have to peel her off him in order to unglue them.
Gisela comes around and I walk the other way. I’ve got to cut the thread of passion that easily flowed between us so the need to be with her won’t feel unbearable.
A tiny, plump man with bushy gray hair, wrinkly face, sweet wilting eyes, big belly and a twinkle in his smile arrives. He’s wearing a sombrero de guano, a guayabera and pleated pants.
Soli peels herself from Diego. “Mima, this is Diego’s dad.”
Viva turns rosy red, as if she’d swallowed a beet and it’s leaked inside her cheeks.
“It’s Gabriel. Gabriel Eufemio.” His eyes are glowing, as if he’s seeing Cleopatra rise from a sarcophagus. “Pleased to meet you.” Viva’s face glows.
The party is grand! I spend the rest of the night talking and dancing with everyone except you know who. Jaylene, Tazer and Rosa manage to keep Gisela company all night long. For once in my life I’m headed in the right direction.
16—Stinking Liar
Beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
I hop off the hammock, place my banana oatmeal nut breakfast bowl on the ground, and dash to my mom’s new glue-smelling green Jaguar, leaving Neruda fenced in, in the backyard.
“Mami!” I lean into the passenger seat and press my cheek against hers. She hugs my face hard to hers and kisses it many, many times. She smells familiar, like home. Tears stream down our faces. I look away, trying to control my overwhelming emotions.
“I couldn’t wait to see you and came early to pick you up. Let’s go.” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. She must love me.
“Get down a minute, there’s no one home.” I want her to see how I live.
“Your neighbor,” she says, still sitting inside the car, “the one with the Santa Barbara tattoo that looks like a criminal, was eyeing my Rolex. I took it off and stuck it in my purse.”
“Babalao Carasco is a nice guy, Mami.” I roll my eyes.
Babalao Carasco is a Santero. Although he’s a respectful neighbor, he kills roosters and goats to sacrifice them to the Orishas when purifying people of their ailments. I begged him to spare the animals’ lives the other day. “Can’t you use dead animal spirits or maybe animal fur or nails?” He insisted only animal blood works.
He and I sat on rocking chairs on his porch. We rocked back and forth, back and forth, debating religion and gods. I don’t believe in gods, and he worships many Orishas and believes spirits of dead ancestors surround us at all times. He told me, “Animal sacrifices are the only way to appease the gods so they can change the course of nature. Your people slowly murder poor bulls in bullfights. The blood we use holds the aché, the life force. It’s used for spiritual and physical healing. Everything possesses life energy. My practice is done with utmost respect for the animals and only when Orishas permit.”
Even though I still hate the killing, I respected his religion when he explained, “I use animal sacrifice to communicate with the Orishas; it’s ingrained in Santería, my ancient Afro Cuban religion. People eat chickens, lamb and goats all the time, yet nobody questions their slaughter. I’d never disrespect you by asking you to sacrifice something you believe in. I’m a good man. I worship my Orishas and cure people’s bad luck and purify them of evil spirits and illnesses. That’s a good thing.”
Mami continues to complain. “Only you, Shai Sofía Lorena, would choose to continue living in this barrio. It looks as if the Castro family, los hijos de putas, opened the doors to more jailed criminals and they all moved here.”
I love this barrio, and Soli’s duplex, close to my old home. And besides, it’s not as if I had a huge choice of places to go to when she kicked me out. But I don’t say a peep.
I swing the door open. Mami bolts through it speaking Spanglish, words flying around ten miles a minute, rearranging our furniture.
“This chair doesn’t match this wall.” She shoves the kitchenette table from the middle of the dining area closer to the wall. She takes down my two framed paintings of the Cuban mountainside. “Uy, I don’t know why you paint la jungla cubana when you can fill your walls with colorful art. All this brown and green will make you depressed.”
As Mami moves everything around, I think about soon wiping Pedri’s runny nose and putting him to sleep at nights reading him storybooks I know he’ll love.
I smile as Mami reminds me of something. A lady from our barrio started coming around every Saturday afternoon when Papi was off working and Mami was doing chores. One day, the woman went around our house, moving things around, saying she was an interior designer and wanted to help us.
“Remember when Maylie sat on our sofa and wouldn’t move until after she’d had lunch with us?” I nod. “When she got up to leave with a full stomach, you slapped her butt and told her, ‘Stop coming over. We have very little food to eat and you only come to stuff your face. We like our house just the way it is. Why don’t you invite us to eat over at your house?’” We laugh, remembering how Maylie never stepped foot in our home again. I recall my mom telling the story to neighbors and laughing at my antics.
“I like brown and green, Maylie, er . . . I mean, Mami.” She cracks a smile as I walk behind her, trying to grab my framed paintings from her. She darts and shoves me aside with her super-dooper BIG beach ball butt.
She hangs my Cuba paintings in our bathroom, over the toilet bowl, on two of the four lined-up empty towel hooks.
“Want some yogurt?” I ask, in an attempt to get her to calm down.
“¿Estás loca? I weigh one hundred ninety-nine pounds. I’m going on a caldo diet until I lose fifty pounds.”
“Mami, you’re forty-nine! You can’t live on broth.”
“Forty-five! And if that doesn’t work, I’ll need to start eating air to lose weight.”
I chuckle and stuff a spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. “Eat more veggies.” In some ways, I’m glad it’s the same old mom in front of me. She’s hilarious and tons of fun, except for her homophobia. If I could just peel off the phobia, she’d be the greatest mother in the universe to have fun with. I really miss the good old days and can’t wait till things get back to normal.
“Vegetables give me a hernia.”
“Veggies have nothing to do with a hernia, Mami.” She continues to move things around as if it were her own home and as if nothing terrible had ever come between us.
“Your grandfather died of diverticulitis. I can’t eat tomatoes or lettuce or anything with skin on it. I inherited that illness.”
“What you inherited is called gluttony.” I stay serious and she cracks up.
“I just got my cholesterol checked and it’s a perfect two-fifty without my ever having eaten a single vegetable.”
“Two-fifty!?”
“¡Ave María Purísima! Shai! That’s normal for a forty-two year old, my doctor told me.”
“A minute ago you were forty-five. What doctor?”
“Dr. Benítez.”
“Mami, Dr. Benítez is three hundred years old!”
“He was the greatest doctor in Cuba. All my friends go to him. He’s giving me a face-lift.”
“A face-lift? Him? Mami, por favor, don’t get a face-lift from him. By now he can’t even hold his ding-dong to pee.”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. My friend Sylvina just got one from him and now looks exactly like a twenty-something Liz Taylor.”
“Damn, Mami! That’s terrible. She used to look like J. Lo.” I wash and throw the empty yogurt container in the recycle bin and sit on top of the kitchen table, swi
nging my feet. She throws herself on the couch and pooooooof, the air slowly comes out of it. A flash of the day she met Marlena appears before me. Mami told her, “You’d be stunning if it wasn’t for your nose. Have your parents fix the cartilage that got broken.” Marlena turned all shades of red.
“When’s the operation?”
“El mes que viene. When I get back from Europe.”
“Next month?” My stomach does cartwheels.
“Uy, Shai Sofía Lorena, you worry about everything. You’re too sensitive, just like Papi was.”
“Mami, nurses have to tie you up with ropes when they give you shots. I can’t believe you’re allowing someone to give you a face-lift. You’re too young for that. And your face is beautiful.”
And it’s true. My mother has gorgeous dark eyebrows, and large almond-shaped eyes with long lashes. Her teeth are moon white and straight. She’s got a killer smile with two dimples. As a teen, she was a face model for soaps, creams and toothpaste.
“When you get to be forty, and you start sagging, you’ll tell me a different story.”
“Forty? So, who do you want to look like?” I’m intrigued.
“A twenty-five-year-old Sofía Loren.” She pats her face with both hands. “I named you after her, my beloved mother’s favorite movie star.” She spins the subject around. “I’ve been on a high-sugar diet. Sugar eliminates wrinkles.”
“What?”
“Sí, Shai Sofía Lorena. Your body needs sugar or you go into a coma.”
“That’s outrageous. Where’d you get that from, Hola magazine? Mami, won’t you ever listen to me? Ditch the diabetes-causing sweets, and eat some veggies?”
“I’m your mother. You have to listen to me,” she joked.
Loud bouncy music sweeps into the duplex through the opened windows. She stands abruptly and looks outdoors into the backyard.
Our neighbor, Maribel, is dancing around to salsa music, getting her high heels stuck in the earth as she throws clothes to hang on the line. Her parrot, Chuchito, is flying around the backyard, squawking, “¡Ay, Miguel! ¡Miguel!”
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