The House of Impossible Beauties

by Joseph Cassara

  “Are we going with Mr. Jacobs?” Juanito asked.

  “No, Juanito,” she said. “I’ll be damned if we use this money for anything other than food.”

  * * *

  Papi had to cancel that summer, and the next, and then the next. But then he called the apartment and spoke to his mother and it finally seemed like it was going to happen for real this time.

  At first, Mami was all objections and no-no-no’s. She said she didn’t understand where Juanito’s father had pulled the money from. “Surely he must’ve pulled it out of someone’s ass,” she said one night after dinner.

  Juanito begged her, please, please, and then in Spanish, por favor, por favor. As if begging held different weight depending on the language.

  Mami still said no, nunca. She called his father That Pendejo Desagracia’o. She said that he had bailed three summers in a row, after an entire childhood of bailing, and she was worried that the bastard was setting them both up for disappointment.

  But then she got to talking to some of her girlfriends and her tune changed along the lines of: “Well, he’s your father,” and “Who am I to say no?” and “Me cago en la leche de la puta that gave birth to his sorry ass, but that man is your father and you should go meet him, but only if you want to.”

  * * *

  Juanito wasn’t thinking, really, when he decided to watch Jaws for the first time only a month before heading to PR. He’d watched it at a sleepover and now the thought of being in the middle of an island, surrounded by nothing but water, potentially shark-infested water, was enough to give him churra pains. He didn’t want no tiburón feasting on his bony legs!

  He packed enough clothes to last two months, even though he knew he was only going to be there for a month. He had waited so many summers for this! He wanted to make sure he had outfits for all kinds of occasions—and he didn’t know what types of things Papi would want to do. There were so many possibilities: like did San Juan have a McDonald’s? Were they planning on going swimming? Pool or beach? He’d need comfy shorts for treks through El Yunque. One towel or two? Maybe three? In order to fit everything into the maleta real good, he had to roll up his calzoncillos and socks and put them along the outer edges of all the bigger clothes. That way he could tuck Barbie in one of the side pockets.

  He grabbed her by the waist and held her out in front of him. Uf—her hair was so messy, it was borderline sinful. She still had some strands left from the Haircut Incident, but things were looking a little patchy. He should’ve had the sense to shave her head bald and make the claim she was just being fashion forward.

  He would do that when he came back home. There was no need in worrying about her hair before the vacation. It’s not like he was actually going to show his father that he had a doll. Absolutely not. He just wanted her to be there, tucked away as a safety precaution. Barbie was a good luck charm, a listener, and most of all, a secret.

  * * *

  In the fotos that Juanito had seen of his father, the man was always holding his mother around the shoulder. His mother looked so crazy happy, as if her smiles were caused by a never-ending surge of electricity and the plug was somewhere outside of the picture’s view. His father was smiling también. Even though Papi didn’t show teeth in any of the fotos, his thick moustache seemed to widen out and take up more of his face when he was smiling.

  In Juanito’s favorite foto, Papi is looking buff as anything on the Wildwood boardwalk. The Ferris wheel is in the background with its glitter lights and the sun is in the pink phase of setting. Mami is in a bikini looking like Miss Teen Taina Boricua 1968 with her big gold hoops and Papi is wearing a tight white T-shirt and red short-shorts showing off his hairy legs.

  “Ay, carajo,” Mami had once said when she fumbled on that foto. She told him that she didn’t even remember the day it was taken. “If I didn’t see it before my very eyes,” she said, “I wouldn’t even believe it happened. I must be losing my ever-living mind.”

  Nah, Juanito thought, sitting next to her as she went through the shoe box that held all the fotos, he couldn’t believe what she said. He didn’t understand how a person could just forget something like that, like, without even trying.

  * * *

  It was the first week of July and thank god the plane had thingies that blew air conditioning on his body. He was nervous the entire plane ride over, even though the nice stewardess with blond hair and red lipstick made sure he was comfy. She gave him so many bags of peanuts, he had to drink three entire bottles of water. He had a window seat and his stomach turned and tumbled as he looked out over the water, wiping the salt from the peanuts onto the sides of his shorts.

  Once he got his maleta from the claim, he walked to Arrivals and looked for a sign with his name on it. In theory, he would be able to recognize the man behind the sign as his own father, but Juanito had never met him before and how was he supposed to recognize a person, even if they shared blood, if they had never met? There was a part of him that thought maybe, just maybe, there would be some kind of click-connection when they were face-to-face. Pero when he looked up, searching, he didn’t see his name on any signs. He didn’t see any men he knew. There was no click-connection tampoco.

  A beautiful man who was probably old enough to drink but not old enough to be his father came up to him and spoke to him in a quick rush of Spanish. It was so fast that all the r’s became d’s and the ends of his words were eaten up. Juanito couldn’t understand a word, so he just looked at the man’s face with a look that was surely dumbfounded.

  “English?” the beautiful man said. His eyes were the color of creamy espresso. He had a mole on his right cheek. “You only English? Me, no.”

  “I’m sorry,” Juanito said, holding his arms up slowly in a shrug. He could get by on some Spanglish, but there was no way he could keep up an entire fluent conversation with someone speaking so fast.

  He stood there alone, watching men and women and families buzz past him, some speaking English, most speaking Spanish. A little girl with pigtails and a yellow sundress was holding on to her father’s hand. She was skipping, but getting ahead of herself because her father was walking too slow. Her arm was tugging at his, like come on, slowpoke. He crouched down and tugged on her pigtail and whispered something that made her giggle.

  When Juanito watched the girl and her father walk out the door, he felt a loneliness creep up inside him. He looked around for another family for his eyes to hold on to, but no one caught his attention. He was all by himself and the idea finally hit him. He had no idea what he would do if his father didn’t come to get him. He had his return ticket dated one month from now, but he didn’t know where he would go.

  He heard someone call his name behind him and he turned. There he was, his father. He looked skinnier now than in those Wildwood fotos. His moustache was pencil-thin above his upper lip. A cigarette dangled on the tip of his lips, as if one sudden move could make it fall to the ground and leave a burn mark.

  “That’s you, verdad?” Papi said, reaching for Juanito’s maleta. “Coño, you got your mother’s face, I can’t believe it. Spitting images, I tell you.”

  There he finally was, standing next to Juanito, after all those years. Juanito wanted to jump up and down, but he didn’t want to seem like some baby who couldn’t control his excitement. He also didn’t want to yell at Papi for being a little late. None of that mattered anymore. Juanito was in Puerto Rico and it was going to be a good month.

  “Damn, what’d you put in this thing?” Papi said, taking the maleta. “It’s so heavy. How’d you carry that around with you everywhere?”

  Juanito shrugged.

  “My man,” Papi said, play-punching the side of Juanito’s arm. “You must got crazy strength in those arms. ¡Tan fuerte! Maybe you could be a ball player one day, my little Mickey Mantle or some shit.”

  “It was nothing,” Juanito said, blushing. “Really.”

  * * *

  The house was a cement cube painted pastel b
lue. There were bars on all the windows that Papi said kept out the people with sticky fingers. Papi had a plastic recliner chair on the back porch, but when Juanito went to adjust the back, it was too rusted to open further. So Juanito sat inside, in front of the fan in the sala that blew the warm air around, and took a nap.

  The next morning, Papi told him to unpack his swim trunks because they were going to a surprise place, but then once they were in the car for ten minutes or so, they were lost and driving in circles.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Juanito said.

  “You know what my father always used to say,” Papi said, looking over his left shoulder to make sure no other car was coming so he could turn right. “He used to say that patience is a virtue.”

  A few minutes later, they were at the same intersection again, with Papi looking over his left shoulder to make sure they were in the clear for the turn.

  “Pa,” Juanito said, trying to sound nice and not like a giant nag. “We were just here. You sure we know where we’re going?”

  “Ya, sin duda, I know,” Papi snapped. Then, “I didn’t mean to yell and shit. But if you ask me the same questions over and over again, you’re gonna get me angry and I’m gonna yell.”

  Papi pulled over and asked a woman for directions. She told them to get on the highway until he saw the mountain, but not the first mountain, because that wasn’t a mountain, it was just a hill, but then the second mountain, that was a mountain, couldn’t miss it. Take the exit after that mountain, then make a right at the Texaco station and then it was only a few minutes more from there.

  Dang, Juanito thought, where in god’s word were they going to end up?

  * * *

  He had to give it to her—the woman was right about the mountain. It was very clear, once they were up front and driving, that that was the mountain. But the Texaco station? Wrong. It was an Esso station, and they were supposed to make a left, not a right.

  “You ready to go swimming?” Papi asked when they finally made it. He perked up in the driver’s seat so he could scan for a parking spot.

  “I’m ready to sit on a towel and soak up the sun,” Juanito said.

  “Yeah?” Papi said. “But I got this reservation thing, on a boat, no te preocupes, I got it paid for, my man. Cut my cigar habit a little, bought some cheaper vodka to pay for it, so you don’t gotta put anything in.”

  Juanito didn’t understand how he’d be able to put something in, even if he wanted to, without some kind of allowance. Which he didn’t have.

  “But, Papi—”

  “What? You don’t know how to swim?” Papi asked. “Your mother didn’t get you lessons at the Y?”

  “It’s not that,” Juanito said.

  “You’re right, you’re right, they got ese, ese salvavidas, what’s that in English?”

  “Life vests?”

  “Yeah, the swimmy things. Eso,” Papi said.

  Juanito wanted to throw a tantrum, but he knew that wouldn’t work. He still had an entire month living with Papi in the campo. He didn’t want to ruin nothing by refusing the tickets, or refusing to swim, or even worse—looking like a sissy if he told the truth about his fear of boy-eating sharks. And, dang, Papi had paid for those tickets too. He had to go in.

  They shared the boat with two couples. The first were newlyweds. He knew this because they announced it to everyone as soon as they stepped foot on the boat. At any given moment, they were either sucking face or holding hands or, in some way, attaching their bodies to each other. The other pareja were middle age. “They,” the middle-aged woman said to her husband, eyeing the honeymooners during a heavy make-out session, “certainly look like they’re having a good time.”

  “Hush,” the man said, “they will hear you.”

  Juanito watched as the woman perfected her side-glare eyebrow freeze. “Do I honestly,” the woman whispered, but still loud enough for Juanito to hear, “look like I give a single, solitary fuck if they hear me?”

  Who was this woman, Juanito thought, and how could he become friends with her? He wanted to grow up to be like her, or if not that, he wanted to grow up and be surrounded by women just like her.

  “Can you please, please, please not,” the man said.

  Juanito stared at them and they saw him. The man squeezed his face into a painful smile and the woman said, “Isn’t he just adorable? ¿Hablas inglés, niño?” she asked, louder now, as if she were talking to a deaf-mute.

  Juanito said yes.

  “Mmm,” the woman said, taking a sip of her lemonade with a straw. “Yes, this is just so nice. The views, the water. Lovely.”

  “Yes,” the man said. “Just lovely. The views are something else.”

  * * *

  He thought he knew what it must feel like to drown, not because he’d ever drowned in real life, but because it had happened in dreams. He called them the quicksand dreams, called them this to no one in particular other than himself. In these dreams, he walked in a forest and then the ground beneath him would turn to quicksand and he slowly sank down into it, knowing that soon he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Then he’d actually go under and hold his breath until he couldn’t take it anymore, gasping for air as he jolted awake.

  It was always like this and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Whenever the dream started and he was in that familiar jungle, he knew exactly how it would play out, and his body would lay tense in bed until it was over.

  * * *

  “You’re not coming in?” Juanito asked, holding his life vest like the restraints on an upside-down rollercoaster. He bobbed up and down with the olas in the water.

  “Dame un momento,” Papi said. All the others had come in: the newlyweds, the older couple, the captain. “I’m just working on my thirst.”

  The water was warmer than he expected. It almost felt like a bath, which wasn’t like any other playa he ever experienced before. Certainly not like Jones Beach. He could actually see his toes in these waters. He looked back toward the land, at the food stands that dotted the sand. Instead of hot dog stands like at Coney Island, there were little setups selling pastelitos in napkins so soaked in grease, they looked yellow and damp. They even had piraguas in white paper cones.

  Half an hour in, Juanito was dolphin-kicking like a real-life merboy. He splashed the water in the air so that the droplets looked like glitter hitting the sun rays. He did this thing where he pointed out his toes as much as he could, like a ballerina floating in the water. He swam on his back. He swam the breaststroke. He even swam on his side. But then, when he was treading water and moving his arms like he was making a snow angel, he was pretty sure he felt a bump on his toe.

  It was his worst fear come to life. It was a shark—it had to be. What else could it be in those waters? It was a shark and it had come to devour him alive.

  “Jaws,” he screamed. “Tiburón, tiburón, help.” Pero he had swam out too far from the boat for anyone to hear him. He switched from Spanish to English faster than a dice man in the South Bronx. “Help me, ayúdame, por favor, help.”

  He flailed about so much that he started to go down a few inches. He flailed some more and then he was starting to go under. Water was in his mouth. He could feel the saltiness burn the back of his throat.

  He pretended he was the strongest merman known to the sea and he kicked and swam back to the boat where Papi was asleep with a Coronita bottle cradled against his chest. Juanito screamed at Papi to help him back up.

  Papi startle-jumped awake and the bottle fell in the water. He reached out an arm and with that, Juanito was back up on the boat. He lay sprawled at Papi’s feet, all dramatic, like an actor playing dead in a crime movie when the police are putting the yellow tape around the cuerpo. “Where were you all this time?” he said. “I almost died out there.”

  “What in sense’re you talking about?” Papi said.

  “I was being attacked by a shark and you didn’t do nothing to come get me,” Juanito said. “You stupid pende
jo desgraciado.”

  Papi slapped him. “No digas eso,” Papi said. “You speak to me like that again and I’ll beat you into tomorrow and yesterday at the same time.”

  * * *

  Two mornings later, Juanito put the espresso pot on the stove and was waiting for the gurgle-sigh to let him know when to turn down the heat. Papi was showing him how to make it the way he liked it. Papi showed him where the coffee grinds were and how to carefully spoon them into the pot, pack them in, then twist it shut so that no steam could get out.

  “You wanna trap the air in,” Papi said, “or else the liquid flies everywhere and shit.”

  His instructions were clear: in order to drink coffee like a man, it needed to be strong and black, sin azúcar.

  “Hey,” Papi said, slapping Juanito’s hand as he scooped the coffee dust into the chamber and packed it down with the back of the spoon. “What’d I say about that pinky?”

  “I’m sorry,” Juanito said.

  “No,” Papi said. “What’d I say about that pinky?”

  “You said to keep the pinky down,” Juanito said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Coffee gotta have strong hands, sabes?” Papi said. “Nothing in a hand being delicada o algo así, nothing with a pinky up, coño.”

  Juanito let the spoon back down on the counter and watched the pot on the stove. In two minutes, the water would boil and bubble up into the pot. Then he would pour it into Papi’s mug. No sugar.

  “Shit,” Papi said, under his breath, “don’t need no fuckin’ princesas up in here, ya tú sabes.” He took a sip of his glass of OJ, clicked his tongue, and opened the cabinet under the sink to grab a big plastic bottle of vodka. He added a splash more into the OJ.

  “What do you think my boys at the shop’ll think if they saw my flesh and blood scooping grinds out así, con la mano así?”

  It didn’t sound like a question that Papi wanted answered in the moment, so Juanito didn’t say anything.

  He practiced for every morning, preparing espresso for Papi just the way he wanted it. A week passed and he felt like he was starting to master it. Or at least he was trying to make sure that he didn’t mess it up. Porque if he messed up, even if it was just once, he was afraid that Papi would get tired of him, send him back, scream THIS IS THE LAST STRAW ON THE COÑO’S BACK, and never want to see him again. It was simple, really. He just wanted Papi to love him.