So after a week of practicing, he wanted to surprise Papi with an afternoon cup of coffee. Like a wake-me-up refresher for when Papi got up from his midday nap, smelling like the thick-smoke cigars he smoked. He focused hard on the pinky, how to summon the energy to keep it down. Whenever he washed his hands under the faucet, he clenched and unclenched his hands, thinking that if biceps curls could make an arm bigger, hand clenches could make the hands stronger. And stronger would be manlier. And manlier would be better.
The flame was steady under the pot, and now the espresso was gurgling. Juanito switched the heat off and grabbed the pot handle, careful to pour two cups without making a mess. He could hear Papi’s chanclas dragging on the floor in the hallway. He liked to imagine it was like the cartoons, where the curlicue was a squiggle of steam that latched on to the character’s nose and reeled him into the cocina.
Juanito grabbed the mugs and rushed them to the table. He set them down before the heat burned his palms. He never understood why he didn’t grab the handles. That’s what handles were there for—for grabbing on to—but he never did because he liked the burn. He liked to see how long he could hold on before he couldn’t hold on no more.
He sat down as Papi’s footsteps got closer. He added a spoonful of sugar and cream to his own mug before Papi could see him do it.
“You prissy little bitch,” Papi said, standing in the doorway.
“No,” Juanito said. “It was just one spoonful of sugar. Just to make it less amargo, less, less—”
“What is this bullshit?” Papi said and in his thick hand, Juanito saw Barbie in all her balding glory.
He was caught and he knew there was no way around it. There wasn’t no lie in the entire book of lies that could save him now, so he did what his gut and his heart were both telling him to do: defend.
“She’s not bullshit,” he said, reaching out a loving hand to take her. Once he said it, he knew he couldn’t take it back. “I brought her with me ’cause she’s like a good luck charm and I was worried about the plane ride.”
“Ave María,” Papi said, over and over again, like he couldn’t believe it. “What’re people gonna think?”
“I was nervous,” Juanito said, careful to hold back his tears because he knew that crying in front of Papi, especially now, would make him seem even more like some maricón-bitch.
“The fuck happened to her head, con ese, ese—her scalp,” Papi said.
Juanito didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to say everything that needed to be said. He didn’t know how to explain to Papi that he had shaved her head in a misguided act of solidarity, or that it was a boy at school who had snipped off a piece of Juanito’s hair in the first place, and that deep down, he was getting this feeling that he was different from all the other boys, softer, gentler, and that this was not seen as a good thing. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything and when Papi stared back at him and shook his head like, are you deaf too, Juanito said he was sorry.
“You’re sorry?” Papi said. “Dime: did that fucking bitch give you this shit?” Even though he didn’t refer to her by name, Juanito knew that he was talking about his mother. There was no one else it could be. She was the only person they both had in common.
Juanito said no.
“What do you mean no?” Papi said. “She trying to turn my son into some maricón cocksucker? She think that’s good revenge on me, huh?”
Juanito wanted to crawl under the table so he didn’t have to look at his papi as he yelled. He looked at the two empty chairs, waiting to be sat in. He looked at the cups of espresso, getting cold. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Enough with the sorry,” Papi yelled. “Sorry this, sorry that.” He punched him in the face and Juanito fell back and onto the floor. He watched as Papi lifted the garbage can lid and threw Barbie inside. He couldn’t hold his tears in anymore, and all he could sob was, “No, don’t do that to her, please.”
“You tell her that I never got nothing done to me,” Papi said. “I was always on top, always the man.”
Juanito crawled over to the basura to try to grab Barbie back out, but Papi put his foot on top of the lid.
“I’m not ready,” Juanito said, “to throw her away like that. I know her hair is a little busted but she’s my favorite thing in the whole wide world. Por favor.”
Papi didn’t move and Juanito was tired of begging. He wanted to say something mean. He wanted to hurt him.
“You shouldn’t’ve gone through my maleta,” Juanito said. “You’re a sorry excuse for a father.”
Papi grabbed him by his hair and dragged him like that to the sofa. Juanito lay there, too scared to move, too scared to even listen to his own breathing. Papi took off his belt, pulled down Juanito’s pants, and whipped him, saying, “If you wanna act like some maricón, then act like one, pero you know I gotta beat some sense into you to make you a man,” and he whipped him and lashed him until the skin on his culo opened and he bled.
VENUS
Every Friday during the early afternoons, Venus and Angel went somewhere in the city all dressed up to the nines-tens-elevens. Each week they picked a different place in order to keep things new and fresh. They even called themselves the Ladies Who Lunch, and girl, lunch they did. This week was Angel’s choice and Venus found her little self sitting across from homegirl at Lindy’s in Midtown. Angel used the side of her fork to slice into a chunk of strawberry cheesecake.
“I am salivating so hard over this,” Angel talked through a glob of cheesecake, “it’s not even funny. If only cheesecake weren’t so fattening, I’d eat it every day.”
“Gross,” Venus said. She sipped on her lemon water.
Angel put her fork down and stared at Venus. “What do you mean gross?” Angel said.
“I mean that cheesecake is gross,” Venus said. “It’s too thick, I don’t know.”
“What can I say?” Angel said, bringing the fork to her mouth and only taking a small nibble of the cheesecake on the edge of it. “I like my men like I like my cheesecake: thick, creamy, and covered in strawberry sauce.” She threw her head back to let out what sounded like half laugh, half snort.
Venus rolled her eyes. Angel always had the audacity to compare the men she liked to pieces of food. “Of all the foods,” Venus said, “you’re gonna pick this shit?”
“Excuse me,” Angel said. She dabbed the napkin at her mouth. “Ladies Who Lunch don’t speak so mal hablada, with shit-this and gross-that. Use your words. Use your mouth.”
“Oh, I’ll use my mouth alright,” Venus said, “on that fine-ass waiter over there. Did you see that bulge?”
“Mmm girl,” Angel said with another glob of cheesecake in her mouth, “did I ever? Like a marble sculpture coming to life. Makes me dream of a restaurant-themed porno with us as the three estrellas.”
They cackled together.
“I wish,” Venus said.
“Ahh, my porn name would be Feliz Taylor,” Angel said. “What do you think?”
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Venus said, “but my grandmother used to dress me up as Elizabeth Taylor, back when I was a youth.”
Angel scream-laughed, saying, “Stop-stop-stop, you’re killing me.”
“Yes, I know. I wish I still had the photographs to prove it,” Venus said, yawning. “Don’t get too excited though. I think your delicious meal of a man is straight.”
“Ay, nena,” Angel said. “They always are, right? One of the biggest shames in the whole world—so much for the eyes to see, but so little we can touch.”
* * *
An hour later, when Angel asked for the check, Venus could see that she made a point to linger her eyes on the waiter’s bulge. Angel stared so long at it before handing over the bills in her hand, that the waiter looked down to see if he had a stain or something wrong on his pants. “No, no,” Angel said. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything about it is so right.”
“We’re just admiring, honey,” Venus sa
id. “Must be hard carrying that bad boy around with you everywhere.” The man blushed and laughed. “You must be new to the city, huh?”
“How’d you know?” the waiter asked, making eyes with Venus. She took in his blue eyes and thought, Damn, that is a face made for the movie screens.
“We’re brujas,” Angel said. “You speak Spanish? Where you coming here from?”
“Iowa,” he said. He fidgeted with the pen in his hand until the cap fell down and he had to bend over to pick it up.
“Oh, girl,” Venus said. “I don’t even know where that is, but sounds exotic. Eye-oh-wah.” She played with the vowels on her lips.
“Excuse my friend over here,” Angel said, shifting in her seat to face the waiter. “She can read a man, but she can’t read a map.” Angel winked at her and Venus play-huffed. “I know Iowa. Don’t even get me started on corn, darling. It’s my absolute favorite vegetable.”
Venus laughed and finished the rest of her water, letting an ice cube glide onto her tongue so she could feel it slowly melt. “Corn?” Venus said. “Be honest, mama. You only like corn because it feels good to hold a thick cob in those delicate hands.”
The waiter boy looked like he was watching a truck explode in slow motion. As if he didn’t know how to stop watching. “Don’t mind us, darling,” Angel said. “I came for some cheesecake. I was just hungry.”
“She gets cravings every now and then,” Venus said. “For cheesecake, imagine!”
He looked like he wanted to bounce back to the kitchen, but that was what made this game so fun. She got to rile them up and then see them figure out how to peel themselves away.
“And this one over here,” Angel said, pointing a limp finger at Venus, “didn’t have any cheesecake today. You could just imagine how starved she is.”
“I’m so hungry for a good, meaty man,” she said, playing her ace card and revealing the whole point of the game, “that someone needs to alert Sally Struthers to my cause.”
“Uh,” he said. “Excuse me, but I need to get back to—serving.”
He spun around and walked to the table across the way, to two men in business suits and Angel said under her breath, “Well he could serve me any day.”
She and Angel played this game every week and whoever could make the straight boy blush first won all the points. Venus always liked to win, but she had to admit that this time, Angel had got the best of the situation.
“Maybe he wasn’t straight,” Angel said. Venus could hear the sound of hope in that tone.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Venus said.
“Hush, nena,” Angel said. “Don’t break your mother’s heart.”
They walked from Times Square to Fifth with struts so fierce, it was a hot shame that Donna Summer wasn’t there to give them theme music. “Bad girls, uh uh, talkin’ ’bout those sad girls, uh uh.” Angel led her into Saks and told her there was someone she wanted to introduce to Venus.
Now Venus got all excited, thinking that she was gonna meet somebody new. But once they got upstairs, Angel led her this way and that and pointed to a rack of Chanel suits. “Allow me to introduce you,” Angel said. “Isn’t she just a marvel?”
The suit was still hanging on the rack as Angel held it by the sleeves, like she was holding out its hands and asking it to get on the dance floor from off the sidelines.
It was a beautiful Chanel. How crazy she had been to think she was about to meet a new person on the floor and in the middle of racks of the softest cashmere and silk.
“I think that when I buy her,” Angel said, “I’m going to name her CoCo. Doesn’t that sound smooth?”
Venus was doing cartwheels in her mind just thinking about Angel strutting down the street in a Chanel suit. It was black-and-white herringbone, and the buttons looked like they were so sewn into place, they’d never pop off. Venus took the hanger off the rack and put the suit up to Angel’s chest. Angel put her hands on her hips and gave a sharp turn to her head.
“Give me a straight-up Vogue shot,” Venus said. “Cover girl, yes, cover girl, pose for me, lady.”
Then Venus saw the price tag dangling near the neckline. Angel must’ve seen Venus’s eyes pop when the price registered in her mind.
“I know, I know,” Angel said. She covered her eyes like a little girl about to play peekaboo. “Don’t remind me of the numbers. I already know.”
“Whoa, girl,” Venus said. “Now that’s a pretty price to pay if there ever was one.”
“It’s gonna take some time for me to save up,” Angel said. “Maybe ten months if I do it proper. Pero I think I can do it.”
“That’s right, mama,” Venus said. “You got this. And what a dazzle you will be.”
“It’s gonna fit like a glove right over my heart,” Angel said. “I can just feel it.”
Venus hummed and put Ms. CoCo back on the rack. “Do they even do layaway here?”
Angel said her plan was to just save up and get whichever style was most classic when she had enough saved to buy one. “I don’t know if I ever told you this,” Angel said, “but back when I first met Hector, he took me here.”
No, Venus thought, I haven’t heard this story.
“And I tried on this beautiful black-and-white herringbone suit,” Angel said. “I swear on all the shoes in the world that I was giving off some Princess Diana realness.”
Venus squealed and clapped her hands.
“I fell in love that day,” she said. “I knew that one day, I would return to get my Chanel,” Angel said, sighing. “I miss Hector real hard, nena. That man was my true love.”
“Yes, mama,” Venus said. “I totally feel you. And the only way to keep him around is to remember him. You know, to keep him with you always.”
“I do,” Angel said, reaching out her fingers to the shoulder of the suit, then gliding them down the sleeve. “I really do.”
“I know you do,” Venus said, grabbing hold of the other sleeve. “Men come and go, I always say that. Maybe love is shorter than it should be, but hot diggity damn, Chanel is fuckin’ forever.”
* * *
If guilt were something that weighed an ounce, she’d have so much of it that she’d be running marathons to shed the extra pounds. Venus and Angel had always been tight. Like, wasn’t that their thing? They could go through the thick and thin, call themselves the Ladies Who Lunch, and tease the straight boys who were so clearly from other places, so clearly so new to New York that they were too polite to talk back to the two sassy Latin boys in drag pumping up the sass machine right in front of their very eyes. Yes, girlfriend, that was their thing.
Angel had told Venus all her secrets, but Venus felt like she hadn’t returned the favor. That day, as they left Saks, Angel told Venus about the Bloomingdale’s Model Search. Had even invited Venus to join her, saying, “Come on, nena. Let’s show them how a real woman can look on a magazine page. Come with?”
But Venus said no. Not because she didn’t want to see her face taped up on a billboard or tucked somewhere in between the perfume ads of Vogue, but because she didn’t want to compete against her own house mother. She totally believed that Angel deserved more of the attention than she did anyway.
When they left Saks for the afternoon and walked up to the southeast corner of Central Park near the Plaza and the Paris and the horses with carriages, Angel bought them both hot dogs with a mound of sauerkraut on top. They sat on the benches on the outer rim of Central Park so their feet could stop pounding.
“For you, darling,” Angel said, handing Venus one of the hot dogs. “Just don’t have too much fun with it. It’s meant for eating, you know.”
Venus rolled her eyes. “And why do you think I’m always about to do something sexy-nasty all the time?”
“Porque you do,” Angel said. She took her first bite and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “You’re the dictionary definition of unpredictable.”
Venus moved her neck back so her hair could move itself out of her face. �
�Dictionary?” she said, eyes wide. “Oh no, don’t you read me, mami. We don’t even own a dictionary, so there.”
“That’s ’cause I don’t need one to know how to read a girl like you,” Angel said.
Venus laughed and took a bite of her hot dog. After she swallowed, she said, “I know you’re playing, but hush it down before you hurt my feelings.”
Angel had finished her hot dog by now. The damn girl could inhale her food quicker than a city rat could in its fastest dreams. “I wanna know about this man you’re seeing,” Angel said.
“What man?” Venus said. “You know I been seeing a few down at the piers.”
“No,” Angel said. “You know what I mean, nena. That man you’re seeing, dímelo todo.”
Venus sighed. She knew Angel was referring to the Staten Island man, and she wondered how she had gotten word. “And how,” Venus said, “did you find out?”
“I got eyes on the back of my head and all around the corners of this city,” Angel said, but Venus could call her bluff. Angel may know a lot more than appears to her own beautiful eyes, but Venus knew that this game was a game of postures. Angel didn’t know that much, but she needed to pretend to in order to find out more.
“He got me tickets to see Cats: The Musical and then we had sex in a hotel room,” Venus said. “And that’s it, I swear on Saint Fendi and Saint Laurent, and that’s all I wanna talk about.”
“Cats?” Angel said. “Who the fuck is about to see life-size cat-people doing a jig on stage, spinning on garbage cans?”
“That’s what I said,” Venus screamed. They both threw their hands high and laughed. “See, our minds are on the same wavelength.”
Angel gave her a double air-kiss. “Pero don’t you make me worry about you, Venus,” she said, “porque I don’t like to worry and I know you’re unpredictable as all fuck. Excuse my French, but I worry. I do worry about you, boo-boo.”
The House of Impossible Beauties Page 23
