by Achy Obejas
I read on: “From: BBeckBB, To: HippyBoy.” I realize this must be Ira’s screen name—what a hoot! I go on: “IRA: PLEASE PASS THIS ON TO JUANI CASAS—THANK YOU!!!!! Since it seemed to interest you, a note about casein glue: it’s what they used in making redwood and/or balsa surfboards, starting in the thirties and through the fifties.”
Why is Bernie sending me this information? I wonder. So what if casein glue was around in the thirties? That doesn’t mean it was being used on adhesive tape then.
I read on: “Did you know those old boards were not shaped from solid slabs? To make them strong, they took several tenor twelve-foot four-by-fours and glued them together lengthwise, sometimes with one-inch spruce in between. Redwood on the outside for strong rails, alternating with balsa for lightness as you went towards the middle. God, I would love to find a wooden board in a barn somewhere!”
I’m thinking, Why is he telling me this?
“I once investigated this stuff while still living in California, as I was planning to build myself a retro log. Apparently casein glue is hard to find nowadays. The other thing is tools, you have to have a drawknife, can’t use power tools.”
Then it hits me: I know what he’s trying to tell me—that this is definitive proof Papi didn’t invent duct tape, but I don’t need it. I’ve always known Papi was a fraud, I’ve always known the whole duct tape story’s a fantasy.
“I remembered all this after you left, and ended up asking George about it. George used to build those kinds of boards. He said he used ‘powdered’ casein glue. He didn’t clarify what you mixed it with, if it was water or something else. BTW, wood boards are making a big comeback, but usually for collectors only, since they run about twenty-five hundred to three thousand dollars…”
As I read this, some guy comes up and nods at my feet on the seat next to me, so I drop them down to the floor and straighten up. I close my eyes and feel the sun now on my face. The guy next to me is shifting his legs and papers, getting comfortable. I hear him tear something and open my eyes. He’s balancing a cup of coffee between his knees and he’s pouring a pair of sugar packets into it, the little white sacks pinched between his fingers.
Powdered casein glue?
Didn’t Papi used to haul huge sacks of a mystery powder between his buckets of goo in our patio in Havana? Just as I’m conjuring the scene, I think—No, wait, casein glue’s been around since the thirties, my father wasn’t even born then!
I let my head relax against the glass. The sun’s too bright for my eyes now.
Why do I want so bad to believe?
CHAPTER 20
AT TíA CELIA’S, THERE’S A FEAST for Pauli and Rosa. Tía has outdone herself: ropa vieja, maduros, rice ‘and creamy black beans, arroz con leche, hot Cuban bread, and Chilean red wine for everybody. Everything smells of garlic and sweet onions; everything’s warm. The salad is fresh and massive, with little mandarin orange slices and a tangy, lemony dressing. I swear Tía Celia’s doing this just to keep Tío Pepe away. Not even his ghost could get near it without having an allergic reaction.
Pauli looks fantastic. She’s tanned and fit and her eyes are sparkling once more. Before she left for Mexico again, she’d seemed depressed and gangly but now she moves with her usual grace, her long arms reaching across the table for food or encasing each of us in tight, hearty hugs.
“I’m so glad to be home,” she says, walking around her mother’s house, touching the Spanish lace draped on Tía Celia’s furniture, the framed photos on the wall. It’s as if she’s reclaiming them.
“I have some things that are coming via DHL—some textiles and paintings,” she says to no one in particular. “Maybe we could find room somewhere—although, god, I like everything here just the way it is.” She’s so open, there’s nothing about her now that would suggest the Fortress of Solitude.
“We’ll find room, of course,” says Tía Celia, delighted. Every time she walks by Rosa on her way to or from the kitchen, she leans down and kisses her or squeezes her little body. Rosa giggles. She’s a happy baby—laughing and grabbing at everything, sitting upright in our arms, drooling all over each of us in turn. She’s too excited for sleep so Pauli’s not even trying to get her to bed yet.
I’m sitting at the dining room table, stuffing myself as usual at Tía Celia’s, and drinking a Very Fine. Cari’s here too but she’s not eating.
“How about this one?” she says while pointing to a classified ad. She’s got the paper all spread out on the table, bumping right up against Tía Celia’s buffet. She’s got long sleeves on to hide last night’s bruises from her mother and sister. “GEO ‘92 Metro LSI Convertible Auto, AC & New Top. Exceptional $6,995 dealer 800-PRICE-l2.”
Since Tía Celia and Pauli won’t let her smoke in the house now that Rosa’s here, Cari fingers a cigarette now and then. She brings it up to her nose for a quick, meaningless fix.
“Sounds cool,” I say. But she’s not talking to me. It’s clear that this morning’s events have erased me from her screen.
“Jimmy, what do you think?” she calls out to him. He’s in the living room, his face in a huge pile of food, watching the Bears on Monday Night Football.
“I think a dealer’s gonna charge you more for less,” he answers. His voice seems to come out of the wall. “Try just a person who’s trying to sell a car—you might get a better deal that way.”
I know what this is: This is payback, the unspoken apology. After he beats the hell out of Caridad, Jimmy usually gives her something, or gives in to something, depending on what she wants and how badly their fight went. It’s his form of repentance—it’s his way of never having to really say he’s sorry. Unfortunately, Caridad knows this pattern a bit too well and she’s learned to work it. Instead of leaving the bastard, she’s going to get a car out of him this time.
“How about this one then: GEO ‘89 Metro. This Week’s Special, $1,995, AUTOBARN, 312-372-7900?” she asks. She’s practically pushing the cigarette up her nose. Pauli and I look at each other; this is so inane, neither one of us can believe it.
“That’s a dealer, Cari, try an individual,” Jimmy says again.
His patience is exaggerated, patronizing. But he’s pretty sedate right now. When they got back from O’Hare, he checked his losing Little Lotto number by phone then plopped down in front of the TV. The Bears rarely do well on Monday nights, but he’s out there grunting with every play. He didn’t even say hello to me when I came in. Pauli says he barely said a word to her either, just acted real shy and bounced Rosa around in his arms a little bit at the airport gate.
“But, Jimmy, look how cheap it is,” Caridad says, not looking up from the paper.
Behind Cari’s back, Pauli points out her scratches by pantomiming clawing on her own hands. I turn away, say nothing, but I can sense Tía Celia’s anger and disgust. Her gestures are sharp all of a sudden. She grabs her empty plate a little angrily, swipes the silverware off the table in one movement before heading for the kitchen. Cari continues reading the ads, ignoring us, ignoring the food, yelling from one room to another.
“Okay, how about this one: GEO ‘93 Metro LSI Convertible, White, Auto, AIC, Full Power. Only 15,000 miles, $7,745?”
“Caridad, if you’re going to be yelling at Jimmy in the living room, why don’t you just go in there and talk to him at a normal volume?” Tía Celia asks as she steps back into the dining room. Her eyes are like gleaming steel.
“What’s the big deal?” Can asks. “I want to be in here.” She’s distracted, consumed with her ads. She’s also irritable, crazed for nicotine.
“Cari, just go in the living room—don’t yell, okay?” Pauli says, backing up her mother. “We want to talk too. And to put Rosa to bed at a reasonable hour.”
“Uh…okay,” Cari says, gathering up the newspaper and going into the living room. As she walks, she pats her pockets for a lighter—it’s clear she’s going to step out for a smoke. I think, What a relief, maybe she’ll calm down some.
Tía Celia shakes her head sadly, takes Rosa from Pauli’s arms, and disappears into the kitchen again.
“God, what the fuck is going on?” asks Pauli, taking a seat next to me at the dining-room table. She pulls her legs up under her, like Nena did during our big talk in Miami.
I shrug. “Same ol’ thing,” I say.
“No. not same ol’ thing,” says Pauli. “Since when does Caridad talk back to Mami?”
“Huh?”
“That ‘What’s the big deal?’—what’s that about?” Pauli asks, whispering.
I shrug again. “I don’t know,” I say. “Misplaced anger.”
Pauli laughs, slaps my shoulder. “Whoa—that psychobabble sounds like Patricia,” she says. “You’ve been hanging around her too much! It’s rubbing off!”
I smile at her but it’s weak. I’ve got a headache, my temples feel tight.
“Tell me what’s going on with you now,” Pauli says, genuinely interested.
“Nothing,” I say. I don’t want to discuss the career counselor and I can’t say anything about what happened with Jimmy and Caridad at the laundromat while they’re in the next room.
“C’mon, really,” she insists, her hand on my arm, just like Nena. “Do you ever hear from Gina?”
I shake my head. It’s so strange to have Pauli ask about her like this—as if Gina might simply pick up the phone or drop by, as if we could just stroll down the street and run into each other and decide to have a cup of coffee together.
Pauli squeezes my arm. “I guess…I guess I just couldn’t believe that you’d decide not to see her,” Pauli says. She’s so serious, her forehead’s wrinkled. “When Cari told me you cut her off because you didn’t like the idea of being a target of that kind of political violence, well, honestly, it just didn’t sound like you—especially because, Juani, I mean, I know how much you loved her…”
She stares at me so hard and so close, I can barely meet her gaze.
“It’s a lot of different stuff,” I say, pulling my arm away. “It wasn’t just the attack. We had problems before that.” (I tell myself there’s a lot of truth to this.)
Pauli nods. “Still…”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“What are you gonna do now?”
“Go to art school, raise Rosa.” She’s smiling and it’s real—she’s absolutely glowing. “I’ve got some money from Papi’s insurance and my own savings. I actually made good money in Mexico. With some financial aid, I can pay my tuition and help out here.”
I think back to Tía Celia’s vision of the future, how she imagined Pauli and Rosa living with her. And now here they are, in her house, under her roof. I remember too that Tía said her business with Caridad is still unfinished.
I look around the room, searching for spies the way my mother does when she wants to talk confidentially. “I gotta admit, Pauli, you seem really different than when you left,” I say in a low voice. “What happened?”
She laughs. “I worked some things out in my head, that’s all.” She’s still smiling, amused. Whatever’s going on with her, she’s not going to share it with me.
“And Rosa’s father?” I ask, but Pauli laughs, gets up, and vanishes into the kitchen with her mother and her daughter, leaving me alone.
There’s chattering in there, baby gurgles and the sounds of pots and pans being moved; in the living room, the TV announcers blare, Caridad’s squeaky voice bounces above them and Jimmy snorts. Here, where I am, there’s a strange, constant humming.
All night long, I keep waiting for Tía Celia to say something to me about her shift at the Wash-N-Dry. I look at my watch so often that Pauli teases me.
“You got a big date or something?” she asks at one point, eyes twinkling with mischief.
I blush, inexplicably. “No, no, no…”
Pauli laughs. “Okay, okay—you’ll tell me when you’re ready to.”
“No, really, I’m just gonna go home,” I say, but she’s not convinced. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
I don’t want to tell her I obviously misread the schedule—I mean, it’s way past nine o’clock and Tía Celia’s still puttering and playing with Rosa. I’m embarrassed to let Pauli see I’m so scattered. In a way I’m glad it all worked out this way, though. I got to spend time with Pauli and Rosa and so did Tía Celia. Nobody missed anything. And the fact is that I’m still exhausted from my visit with Nena in Miami. I’m still sifting through everything that happened there, still trying to figure out how I’m going to face my parents, and especially my mother, whom I’ve managed to put off since I got back.
“Hey…” It’s Caridad, Jimmy’s empty plate in hand. “Whatcha’ doin’ just sitting there?” she asks.
Her cheeks are pink; obviously the cold air bit at her while she sucked on her cigarette outside. It’s the first time she’s talked directly to me all night.
“Aw, nothing,” I say, getting up from the dining-room table, grabbing Jimmy’s plate from her and dropping it on mine. “Just thinking, I guess.”
As I walk into the kitchen, Tía Celia and Pauli tiptoe out with a sleepy Rosa on Tía Celia’s shoulder. Caridad turns away from me and follows them down the hall to Pauli and Rosa’s bedroom. I think, It’s just as well. We don’t really have anything to say to each other anymore.
I toss the plate in the kitchen sink, which is frothing with suds, and pick a piece of maduro off a pan waiting its turn to be dunked in the steaming, cleansing water. I drop the maduro in my mouth and savor its singed sweetness. I’m just pulling the trash out from under the sink when Pauli walks back in.
“Hey, will you stay?” she asks. “I think everybody’s leaving and then we can talk, you know, just the two of us.”
I look at my watch: It’s about a quarter to ten. “For a little while, I guess, yeah,” I say.
“C’mon,” says Pauli, “I’ll make you a cafesito.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, wrapping up the garbage.
Tía Celia re-appears, her arms stretching into her coat as she walks. “You sure you’ll take care of everything?” she asks Pauli, surveying the dirty dishes and pots, the food that’s still to be put away.
“Absolutely,” Pauli says, helping her with her coat and kissing her cheek.
I’m confused. “Tía, where are you going?” I point to my watch. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
Tía Celia leans my way and kisses me good-bye. “The laundromat, to help close.”
“The laundromat?” I think, What the hell’s going on?
“Zenaida took my shift for me tonight so I could be with Pauli—”
I hadn’t misread the schedule after all!
“—on the condition I help her close out.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” I say, reaching out to unbutton Tía Celia’s coat. “You stay here, I’ll go.” She resists, but in a friendly way. Nonetheless, I start for the living room, where my jacket’s draped across the couch.
“No, Juani, c’mon, I thought we were gonna talk,” Pauli says.
“But I’m happy to help Tía Zenaida,” I say, “and that way Tía Celia can hang out with you and Rosa longer.”
Tía Celia waves me away. “Rosa’s in bed,” she says. “Now you stay here, talk to Pauli. You two haven’t had any time to talk. You know, they live here now—I can talk to them whenever I want.” She winks at me and wanders out of the room.
“So you’ll stay?” Pauli asks.
“Sure,” I say, “of course.”
But I can hardly hear my own words: Now the room’s like a mass of bees, humming and buzzing. I can’t believe nobody even consults me anymore. It’s as if I don’t even exist.
They’re supposed to leave together—Tía Celia, Caridad and Jimmy—so Cari and Jimmy, who live just upstairs from the laundromat, can accompany Tía Celia the block or so to the Wash-N-Dry. Tía and Cari are ready, all buttoned up and wrapped in scarves, but Jimmy’s having a hard time. He’s got his coat in his hands but he�
�s not paying attention—his eyes are glued to the television set, where the Bears have unexpectedly gotten into field-goal position to go into overtime. The announcers are all excited, hooting and screaming. Jimmy’s body leans over at an angle. When the Bears miraculously kick the ball through the posts, he jerks, pumps the air with his fist, and yelps.
“Okay, they won, we can leave now,” Cari says. She’s impatient and Tia’s already by the door, her hand on the knob.
Jimmy laughs and explains it’s a tie, it’s overtime, and the game’s going to keep going. “It’ll be just a few minutes,” he says, smiling broadly and relaxed. “Really, honest,” he says, “let’s just wait a few minutes.”
Tía Celia protests. “Zenaida’s waiting,” she says. “Look, you two stay, I’ll walk over alone. I do it all the time.”
Jimmy objects, insisting it’ll be quick. As he talks, his eyes dart back and forth between Tía Celia and the TV. The Bears have the ball. But Cari’s exasperated—she says the Bears always lose and he doesn’t have to stay to find that out. She tells him football’s so stupid anyway. Tía Celia, Pauli and I all watch, amazed at her audacity, but Jimmy’s too into the game to be concerned. He makes a face as the Bears go to second down already.
“Look, I can’t wait, it’s Zenaida,” says Tía Celia. “She’s doing me a favor. I can’t do this to her.” She turns the knob and starts out. “I’ve got to go.”
“Well, then, I’ll go with you,” Cari says, practically daring Jimmy, but he really doesn’t care. Pauli and I look at each other, a little surprised.
“Cool, cool,” he says, relieved, dropping his coat on the arm of the chair and throwing himself back down. He glances up at Pauli and me for a second: “Cool with you guys if I stay for a few?”
Pauli speaks for both of us. “Yeah, fine.” But I’m not so sure.
Tía Celia darts out, saying buenas noches over her shoulder, and Cari follows. Jimmy sits in the bluish TV light intent on the game, his monstrous face aglow, leaning up, his elbows on his thighs, foot tapping restlessly, vein vibrating.
