Marcus Vega Doesn't Speak Spanish

by Pablo Cartaya

  The building looks more like something out of a horror movie. And did I hear correctly? She says we’re staying on the roof?

  “Mom, the building looks too old.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Charlie turns back to the street. “Where is the taxi?”

  “Come on, you two. I’m not raising a bunch of chickens.”

  My mom leads the way. We approach carefully behind her as she opens the creaky door. Snap. Sunlight enters the room, but it only creates a sharp beam that barely illuminates anything but the tip of the staircase. Snap. My mom walks in, and I wonder if we should wait to be invited inside first. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  Mom turns back and smiles as I let the camera dangle around my neck and take Charlie’s hand. When Mom faces the stairs again, someone is standing right in front of her.

  “Melissa!”

  Charlie lets out a noise like he just got the air punched out of him. Which is less embarrassing than what I do (say “Ah!” and swat the air in front of me). My mom smiles once she recognizes who it is.

  “Ermenio!” she says, bringing him into a hug.

  “Pero mi vida ¡qué flaquita estás!” he says, looking my mom up and down. “¡No estás comiendo!”

  My mom smiles shyly, then looks at us. “He always says I need to eat more.”

  “¿Y estos hombrecitos?”

  “Marcus y Charlie,” my mom says.

  “Hola, mis queridos. ¿Cómo están?”

  Charlie and I look at each other, then at Uncle Ermenio.

  “Sorry, we don’t speak Spanish,” I say.

  Uncle Ermenio looks at us carefully. He’s wearing a suit and tie. His hair is perfectly slicked back and he is sporting the puffiest mustache I have ever seen.

  “Ah,” he says, then looks at my mom. “Hay que hablarle en español, Melissa. Qué pérdida.”

  “You’re right,” she says. “I should speak to them more in Spanish, Uncle Ermenio.” My mom has a guilty look on her face.

  “Pero ¿qué es ese ‘Uncle’? ¡Soy Tío! Tío Ermenio,” he says, telling us to call him tío instead of uncle.

  “Está bien, Tío,” Mom agrees.

  “Since when do you speak Spanish, Mom?” I ask, totally confused.

  “I minored in Spanish in college, sweetheart. I did a semester here. It’s where I met your dad . . . You know this!”

  “Nope,” I say, because I really don’t. I knew my mom met my dad in Puerto Rico, but I never knew she spoke so much Spanish.

  Uncle Ermenio gives me a hug and then kisses my cheek. I step back because I’ve never been kissed on the cheek like that before.

  “Umm, thanks, Mr. Tío Ermenio,” I say.

  “Just tío,” he says, then turns back to my mom. “Ay, Melissa. Pero ¿cómo va pasar tanto tiempo sin ver estos niños?” He takes Charlie’s hand and then mine and holds us close.

  “Perdón, Tío,” my mom says. “I just, you know, Marcus, and . . .” My mom is trying to get words out. She’s talking about my dad, not me.

  “Yo sé, mi amor,” Uncle Ermenio says, kissing her cheek and rubbing her shoulder.

  “Bueno,” he continues. “Están aquí ahora, y eso es lo importante.”

  My mom smiles. Charlie and I look at her.

  “Care to translate?” I ask, because we’re totally lost.

  My mom says Uncle Ermenio is sad that we haven’t visited him since my parents split up. She told him she hasn’t spoken to my dad in a long time.

  “But he said what’s important is that we’re here now,” my mom says. I can tell she feels guilty about not coming sooner. Her eyes get droopy and glassy when she feels bad about something.

  Tío Ermenio holds his hip and starts limping a little. My mom asks him if he’s okay. He starts in Spanish, then switches to English.

  “Bad hip,” he says. “Pero imagine, the wait to get a doctor’s appointment . . .” Tío Ermenio trails off. “Many doctors on the island have left to the States for better reimbursements from insura—” He stops, leans against the stairs, and rubs his side. “No pasa nada,” he says. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re limping pretty bad, Tío,” my mom says.

  “Nah, está bien. Bueno,” he says, clapping and smiling again. “Let me show the boys around.”

  He takes us through the living room, where there are books stacked high in several corners. They lean awkwardly and look like they might topple over at any minute. I see a few photographs on the mantelpiece. There is one of a younger Tío Ermenio holding hands with a lady. There’s another one with him and a whole bunch of kids on a farm.

  “Este flaco aquí is your father,” he says, pointing to a tall skinny kid in the picture.

  “What’s he doing?” I ask.

  “That’s the farm of my late wife’s sister, Darma.”

  He tells me that my dad used to love going there. “He had a connection to the land. He loved farming and riding horses.”

  My dad is wearing a cowboy hat and a tank top. He’s smiling. He looks happy. I wouldn’t know why, because I’ve never seen a horse up close before.

  “How old was he there?” I ask.

  “Eh, creo que he was about thirteen en esta foto,” he explains. “And these are all his cousins. They’re your cousins once removed.”

  I never knew I had cousins.

  “Only they’re grown-up now. Actually, this one here is Sergio.” Tío Ermenio points to another kid standing close to my dad. “He’s staying here with his daughter, María, and two of her best friends. You’ll meet them!”

  “I remember that farm,” my mom suddenly says. “How is Darma?”

  “She’s good,” Tío Ermenio replies. “Stubborn as always. But good. You should go see her while you’re here.”

  “That would be nice,” Mom says. “My gosh, that farm was beautiful.”

  My mom never talks about my Puerto Rican family. I always figured it was because she didn’t know too much about them. But now it seems like she knows more than I thought. I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t she say anything back home?

  “We’ll call her,” Tío Ermenio says. “If she decides to answer her phone. Esa mujer always refuses to answer the phone. She likes to be, ¿cómo se dice? Off the grid.”

  Tío Ermenio heads into the kitchen. We follow him and he tells us to sit at the counter while he prepares a snack.

  “We’re okay, Tío,” my mom says. “We had lunch on our layover in Miami.”

  “I’m not going to let you go hungry!”

  “We’re really not that—”

  Tío Ermenio doesn’t let my mom finish. He takes out two pieces of something that looks like it got run over by a car. It’s completely flattened. Then he takes out mayonnaise that smells like garlic and starts slicing a tomato. When he’s finished, he carefully layers some meat on the table.

  “Oh my gosh,” my mom says excitedly. “Jibarito!”

  “Aha,” Tío Ermenio says while my mom moves around the counter to help.

  “A what?” Charlie says.

  “Hee-bah-ree-toh.” My mom breaks it down phonetically for Charlie. “It’s a fried plantain sandwich with garlic mayonnaise, tomato, onions. Oh my gosh!”

  “What’s that?” Charlie says. He gives the sandwich a strange look.

  “It has a good story,” Tío Ermenio says. “The original jibarito sandwich was created in Chicago by a Puerto Rican named Juan Figueroa. It wasn’t a traditional Puerto Rican sandwich, but he made something new and original with it. Now it’s very popular.”

  “How many Puerto Ricans live in Chicago?” I ask.

  “There are more Puertorriqueños in the United States than actually live on the island,” he says.

  “Wow,” Charlie says, helping himself to the sandwich. He takes a bite, and the tomato slips out
of the plantain, but he scoops it up with his hand and shoves it into his mouth.

  “Whoa, careful there, man,” I tell him. “You’re going to choke.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich. It is pretty delicious.

  “After you’re finished, let’s go and see if the others are awake.”

  “Is there Wi-Fi here?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “Sometimes the rain makes it bad, but mostly it’s pretty good.”

  I ask him for the password. He digs into a drawer and pulls out a whole bunch of papers. He skims through them, looking for the password.

  “I keep telling myself to write all these passwords down in one place,” he says, scattering papers everywhere.

  My mom comes around the counter and watches me carefully. “What do you need Wi-Fi for?” she asks.

  “I dunno,” I tell her, trying to avoid an explanation. My mom doesn’t press the issue. She leaves the kitchen and follows Charlie, who is already checking out the rest of the place. Finally, Tío Ermenio pulls out a paper with the password.

  “¡Aquí está!” he declares, handing it to me. I type the information into my mom’s phone and wait for a connection.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Tío Ermenio leaves the kitchen to meet my mom and Charlie by the stairs.

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, quickly checking my email.

  My dad hasn’t responded.

  I start typing.

  Hi,

  We got to Tio Ermenio’s house.

  Pretty cool here. He made us a

  I look around to see how to spell the name of the sandwich. Finally, I yell out to my mom.

  “J-i-b-a-r-i-t-o!” she yells back.

  jibarito. It was good. Anyway, we’re here for a couple of days. I already told you that.

  Okay, bye,

  Marcus

  “Marcus, honey, let’s go upstairs.” My mom walks into the kitchen. “Are you on the phone?”

  I press send and put the phone away. “Nah, I was just checking something.”

  She eyes me, but I push past her and head to the stairs.

  “Let’s check out the rest of the place,” I tell her before she starts asking more questions.

  ELEVEN

  RELATIVE DISTANCE

  I look at a framed photograph of my dad on a mantel by the stairs. He’s older in this one.

  “When’s the last time you saw my dad?” I ask.

  Tío Ermenio shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him in about a year. He was helping me with the hostel, and then one day he wanted to turn my house into a technology . . . something. I don’t know. He got angry and left when I said no.”

  “Where did he go?” I ask.

  “Honey, we just got here,” my mom says, sounding annoyed. “Can we at least unpack before we get into all of this?”

  “I just want to know how far away he might be.”

  My mom sighs.

  “Your father . . .” Tío Ermenio starts. “Well, he always has a new ‘project.’”

  “Where do you think he went?” I ask.

  “That’s enough dad sleuthing for today,” my mom says, rolling our suitcase to the stairs. “I want to explore the neighborhood!”

  Tío Ermenio takes the suitcase. He looks back and smiles at us. I remove the cap from Danny’s camera and aim. Snap.

  “Síguenme,” he says, motioning for us to follow him up the stairs. “It’s a few flights up. No elevator. Sorry.”

  Charlie doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s scared by the way he keeps looking around the corners of the other rooms as we reach the top of each flight. My mom is already halfway up the second flight as Ermenio walks along the second floor. He knocks lightly and waits a moment.

  “Ja bitte?” a girl says from inside.

  “Hello, Hilda? Angela? I want to introduce you to my family.” Tío Ermenio politely waits by the door. “These are María’s very good friends. They met two summers ago when María did a high school foreign exchange program in Berlin. That girl has tremendous ambitions. All three of them.”

  Tío Ermenio tries to tell us what María and her friends want to study in college, but he can’t seem to find the right word in English.

  “¡Dímelo en español!” my mom says.

  I still can’t get over the fact that she knows so much Spanish. Tío Ermenio says a few things while Mom carefully pays attention. When he’s done, she turns to us and translates what he said.

  “Tío says María wants to study agricultural engineering; her friend from Berlin, Angela, is studying biochemistry at a university in Berlin; and Angela’s twin sister, Hilda . . .”

  “Hallo, Tío Ermenio!” A tall girl with bright red hair who’s older than me opens the door.

  “Hilda is undecided,” Mom says.

  “She’s such a kind girl,” Tío Ermenio offers.

  Hilda gives Tío Ermenio a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hello, Hilda,” he says. “Meine, em . . . My German isn’t very good,” he says to us. “This is mi familia. Melissa, Marcus Jr., y Charlie.”

  “Schön, euch kennenzulernen,” Hilda says. I think she’s going to speak more German, but she switches easily to English. “It’s lovely to meet you all! Ermenio has been talking about your visit for days.”

  My mom says hello and I wave. Charlie can’t stop staring.

  “Hallo, handsome sir. And what is your name?”

  “Charlie,” he says, acting all shy.

  “Charlie,” she says, “it is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

  “I have a Wonka hat,” he says digging into his backpack.

  “Oh,” she says.

  Charlie pulls out a totally flattened hat, and his shoulders sag a little. He starts mumbling about his too-small backpack and the cramped plane and the whole trip in general.

  “Hey,” Hilda says. “Can I see?”

  Charlie looks at his hat and pulls it in close. The hat is bent and twisted. He leans into my mom. My mom tries to help, but he just keeps the hat close and doesn’t talk.

  “Maybe we’ll fix it later?” Hilda says to Charlie. Charlie doesn’t respond.

  “Hallo!” says another girl, popping up behind Hilda. She looks identical to Hilda, except she has really curly blonde hair. “Wer ist das? Oh, Ermenio, this is your family from the US?”

  “Sí! I mean, ja!”

  The girl waves. “Hallo, I’m Angela.”

  “They’re on a break from school,” Tío Ermenio says.

  “Hilda’s always on a break,” Angela says, smirking.

  “Really?” Hilda replies. “Well, at least I know how to have fun.”

  “I have fun,” Angela says with a huff. “Just not all the time.”

  “You should have just told Papa you didn’t want to come,” Hilda says.

  “Ja klar,” Angela says. “As if he would let us separate.”

  The sisters stare at each other for a minute, and it looks like they’re about to get into a fight. Hilda playfully shoves her sister and her sister does the same.

  “Das stimmt,” Hilda agrees. “Very, very true.”

  “Our father likes us being together wherever we go,” Angela says. “He says we look out for each other. But I think, maybe most of the time, I’m looking out for Hilda.”

  Hilda scoffs and crosses her arms. I think they’re mad again, but they end up laughing.

  “Good-bye, my good man,” Hilda says to Charlie. “See you soon?”

  Charlie finally looks up. I can tell he’s thinking about smiling.

  We walk up another flight of stairs, and Ermenio shakes his head at a door marked 3F.

  “This is where your father was staying. After our disagreement, he just stormed off. Left his bags, everything. Never returned.”

 
; “Imagine that,” my mom says, not even looking at the room.

  “This way is the common bathroom—”

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been better about visiting, Tío Ermenio,” my mom interrupts. Her eyes get droopy again and she sighs a few times.

  “Pero no te preocupes por eso, mi amor,” Tío Ermenio replies. “You are here now. With your boys. This is good.”

  My mom nods, and it looks like she’s trying not to let her glossy eyes turn into tears.

  Tío Ermenio pauses and appears to get lost in his thoughts before he takes off again up another flight of stairs. I hear him mumbling something about “niño” and something else about “su familia,” but like I said, I don’t speak Spanish.

  We go up a fifth flight, and Charlie starts to complain. He says he doesn’t want to go up any more stairs. I can tell he’s not comfortable. He starts talking about going home.

  “We’re almost there, sweetie,” my mom says, climbing another flight of stairs.

  Tío Ermenio stops and walks down to my brother. “You know, you look like an adventurer.”

  My brother isn’t paying attention. He’s sick of walking. Honestly, I don’t blame him. This place stinks like rotting wood, and the floorboards creak like they are going to crack open under us. I can hear water running, and then a man yells out, “¡Hija! Wait till I’m done using the toilet!”

  An older girl walks out in a bathrobe and waits impatiently in the hall.

  “Hola, María,” Tío Ermenio says.

  “Hola, Tío.” She starts talking Spanish so fast, I can barely make out a word.

  Tío Ermenio tells her something that sounds like he’s trying to calm her down before he introduces us in English.

  “This is your family, María. All the way from Pennsylvania, USA!”

  “¿Qué tal?” she says, then yells, “¡Papi, apurate! ¡Me estoy congelando!”

  “When someone uses the bathroom,” Tío Ermenio says calmly, “the shower turns very cold. You’ll be fine, though. The shower upstairs is outdoors, so it never feels too cold.”

  “My goodness, María, you’re all grown-up! You’re beautiful,” my mom says.

  María nods and says thank you.