by Mara White
“¿Qué lo que, bro?” he says as he sidles up to me. Greasy hair, dirty nails and bloodshot eyes.
“What’s up, Ponzo?” I ask without caring a bit.
“Saw your cousin at the hospital back home. She still got those nice tits.”
The urge to smash his face in is sudden and quick. I gulp a deep breath and push it into my lungs—expanding them—trying to exhaust the rage before it leaks out of me.
I say nothing, clench my fist and barely acknowledge his presence.
“She still think you’re dead? What are you, AWOL or some shit?”
Smash. Pulverize. Destroy this sad sack of shit.
“Nope, I was MIA, but then I turned myself in. Medical discharge. Honorable.” I don’t need to explain myself to this junkie. “What are you doing here?”
“My ma died. Had to come go through her shit and clean out the house. My aunt and uncle are moving in. I’d stay if I could but I ain’t got money for the house payments.”
“Sorry to hear that, man. I remember her from grade school. She was a sweet lady.”
“Hey, listen, you want to score? I got a great hook-up. I don’t mind sharing.”
Not only is he pathetic, offering to score at an AA meeting, but he actually stinks, that stuffy-sweet smell of not washing your clothes, of letting too many days slip without using soap. His breath is clouding up my coffee and cake. I drop the sugary-cornmeal cake into the cup and remove myself one step away from him.
“I’ll keep your secret, shit,” he says, waves his hand through the air. “I don’t fuckin’ talk to her anyway. I know you got her pregnant in high school.”
He’s asking for trouble. I can control lots of things but my temper is the hardest of all. Neighborhood gossip following me halfway around the world.
“No, I did not. And you will stay away from Belén because you’ll have me to answer to if not!”
My meeting is ruined and tonight I was supposed to talk. I was going to speak to the group about trauma and recovery, about staying sober even when the odds are stacked against you. I push him out of the way with my arm. Not violently, but strong enough so that he knows I mean business.
“Yo soy Luciano Cabrera y llevo cinco años sobrio.”
I’m still doing paperwork and I been out for five. Marines don’t let you go that easily when you sign away your life. I had to do the shit by the book and it took a long time. Thank God they notify only next of kin, and that means my mom. I remember our first phone call, how she hyperventilated over the phone—made me promise to get a cell phone and email her pictures so she could see it was really me and not some kind of imposter.
When your ma thinks you’re dead for more than a year, you get resurrected on a pedestal; I mean, second chances are great and shit but my mom acts like I rose from the dead like Jesucristo. She talks nonstop about God’s will and the prayers that we owe him. How she lit a candle every damn day of that year in my honor at the altar. The priest at the Church of the Intercession thought she’d lost her mind when she told him I’d called; Ma had already burnt enough vegetable wax and frankincense to support every botánica in the neighborhood. The real miracle is that I didn’t get my brains blown out by mortar or shrapnel. Or the fact that I survived a day under that powerful sun, bleeding, no water, drying out faster than spit on a hot sidewalk. A miracle that my brain got jolted so hard and still works mostly right. That I didn’t lose an arm or a leg like so many of the guys facing IEDs or combat did.
“Luciano! My boy! My baby!” she howled over the phone. I cupped my hand around the mouthpiece so nobody could hear her get hysterical.
“Ma, calm down! I can’t tell you what happened if you won’t stop yelling!”
I had a four-year commitment and by the second time I got deployed overseas I was close to finishing it. I woulda stayed in longer if I hadn’t fucked up my shit. Marines kept me busy, focused, away from sweet Bey, but also, thankfully, all the assholes I grew up with. Staying out of my old environment made it easy to stay clean. It was the Marines that helped me kick the habit, not rehab. But I wasn’t worth shit to the armed forces with a brain injury, with a body that was in shock and atrophied from being knocked out in a coma. So I did it all by the book as soon as I could stand trial; the Judge Advocate General Corps made sure I wasn’t charged with desertion. I was deemed “physically and psychologically incapable of performing my assigned duties.” My discharge was honorable and I receive full VA benefits.
I owe the Corps a lot since they formed who I am. I still fucking miss every single one of those dudes from my battalion, and I think I will forever. But I realized a lot that night I lay awake in the sand. Life isn’t infinite, connections aren’t random. There’s a reason Bey spoke to me through the stars and the heavens; I wouldn’t have been able to hold on without her voice in my head and her love in my heart. The ancient desert rock that rose out of the sand to find my hand? You can’t tell me that’s not fate. I don’t know if there’s a God, but one thing I know for certain, that wasn’t no shot in the dark.
Después
“Why don’t you take a leave? It’s not all that stigmatized,” Valerie says, squeezing my hand. I told her almost everything, about the opiates, about the voice in the closet, the divorce and now rehab.
She asked me to have a cocktail with her after work; I think she could tell I was hurting. She ordered a margarita, so I got one too. I’d forgotten how amazing the sweet and salty feels on your tongue. It makes shivers slide down my back with every sip. All I need is a roaring ocean and beach towel instead of Broadway in the Heights on Friday night blasting its reggaetón beats.
“What if I do and they don’t let me come back?”
“Then you sue them or you get a new position. Not the end of the world, Belén.” The platter of tostones arrives and I ask for ketchup.
“I think I have to sell my apartment. I can barely go in there. Remember how I told you about my friend from college, Bryan? How I found him in his house and it seemed like some sort of museum, a creepy shrine to his late wife? That’s what our place feels like to me now. That and a sham.”
“Your marriage to Adam was real, it just fell apart like a lot of marriages do. Don’t blame Adam’s drug problem on yourself, Belén. That’s a dangerous path to go down. You didn’t cause his addiction and you can’t cure it either.”
“He didn’t even want to try.”
“Maybe he was trying the whole time,” Valerie says. It hits me kind of hard—the idea that you can be so close to someone and still not really know them.
“Sometimes I want a redo of our whole relationship. Start communicating more—taking everything slower.” I lick salt off of my finger and crunch on crushed ice. “It’s strange, because I feel like a fraud for not knowing him better. I did all that work in college, the therapy and the support groups, for nothing.”
She steals a fried plantain from my plate and swipes it through the ketchup. “Thanks to this neighborhood, I’m addicted to these things,” Valerie says.
“I know, they’re just as cracky as potato chips. Where should I go for this sabbatical? Greece? The Bahamas?”
“Why don’t you go to DR? Didn’t you say your aunt moved back after your cousin died?”
“Yeah. She did. But I think she hates me.”
Our burgers arrive and I remove the bun, dumping ketchup onto the cheese.
“Doubt she hates you. She’d probably be thrilled to see you and Luke. No hotel cost that way.”
“She hates me,” I say. The burger is juicy and drips down my chin.
“Sublet. Go on an extended beach vacation. Drink more margaritas. Life is short. You’re going to be single again. I’m jealous. Really.”
“What about my dogs?”
“There’s a great place that boards right by the hospital. I left Winston when we went to Italy and I tell you, he didn’t want to come back.”
“Winston is a poodle.”
“They don’t discriminate. Winston w
as having an affair with a black lab named Sheba. Probably why he didn’t want to come home.”
I laugh at Valerie and steal one of her fries. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my mom, telling me Luke is asleep in our bed. It’s easy to imagine him there, his sweaty head on my pillow, clutching his red blanket and his monkey with only one button eye. I like staying with my mom. It’s so nice to have someone to rely on when the going gets tough. In a strange way, it feels good, almost natural, to be home again.
“You could get laid!” Valerie whisper-screeches at me over the wide rim of the Mexican glass. I feel color rise to my cheeks. I can’t look her in the eye without blushing.
“That’s the last thing I need,” I say. I reach for my purse.
Valerie pushes my card away and slams hers over the check.
“It’s on me! Never know, Belén. A little casual sex might be just the thing to get you going.”
The train is nearly empty on the way home from dinner. I could easily walk but two margaritas are swimming perilously in my system. The fluorescent lights in here make everyone look like a sleep-deprived zombie, deep purple bags under their eyes and gray skin regardless of what race they are. Life has changed so much in so little time. I’m supposed to be ready for a new life. But the progress I’ve made feels insignificant. Lucky is still on my mind as much today as he was ten years ago.
Luciano Cabrera was born with fire on his heart. He cannonballed into his mother’s life and never gave her a minute of rest, or any of us for that matter. He was a handful for her, but she loved him with superhuman strength. I can only imagine how much she hurts, how empty she must feel. I take out my phone and scroll through my inbox, open the last email my aunt Awilda and I exchanged, reread our awkward communication over Luciano’s last birthday. We both lit candles in the church thousands of miles away from one another. I asked her about updates on my cousin’s remains and she chose not to answer the questions. I rub my thumb over Luciano’s name. The letters cut into me and almost bring tears to my eyes. It’s hard not to imagine what life would look like if he were still alive. I imagine it would still be colorful and filled with glorious light. I can practically hear his laugh if I concentrate hard enough. His laugh is perfectly alive in my heart.
I smile at the memory of how happy he was. My finger hits reply and a tiny spark of hope ignites somewhere deep inside me.
Acensión
Titi’s place is nice, not a lot of furniture or clutter. The floors are all tile and when she opens the back door and the front door, the breeze off of the ocean is delicate and refreshing. She’s in the kitchen, cooking up a storm even though Luke won’t eat much and it’s just the two of us. We arrived yesterday, did nothing but take Titi out to dinner and crawl in bed early. I couldn’t shake the strangest feeling that the bed Luke and I were sleeping in smelled like Luciano. It must be the detergent she uses, but it made my dreams come to life and all night my head was filled with nothing but lucid visions of him.
The rain comes down in sweeping torrents like it does only in the Caribbean, a forceful baptism that washes away everything in its path during the rainy season.
“Belén, will you and Luke go to the beach tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ll take him down in the morning if this weather lets up and we’ll be back here for lunch.”
“The waves will be strong from the storm, better put the life vest on him just in case. But this won’t last all day—they look strong, but they pass quickly.”
Her kitchen is bright and already filling with mouthwatering scents. Titi can cook even my mother under the table when she really gets into it.
“Luke reminds me so much of Luciano at that age. Kind of rubiocito with all the sun freckles and that cute little nose.”
“Right, I thought so too,” I say. My hand goes to her back naturally to try to comfort away the pain. “He’s so energetic, it’s hard to keep up with him. Look who I’m telling—you know better than anyone!”
“Girls are easier; your mother was the lucky one. Did you want to have more? You know, if Adam had wanted to?”
“We should talk about that,” I say. There’s a door on the kitchen and I close it just in case. It’s overly precautious because Luke is a deep sleeper. Tía Awilda doesn’t know all the details of Adam’s and my separation. Mami didn’t want to tell her over the phone, but Titi refused to come back to the city again. All she really knows is that he left me.
“Adam ended up doing a paternity test without telling me first. He thought Luke wasn’t his and didn’t believe what I told him.”
“Why would he do that?” Awilda wipes a sharp knife off on the skirt of her apron.
“Well, he had a lot of issues after losing his twin. I think identity factored in hugely for him. He grew up with a mirror image of himself, looking at his brother every day. It started to bother him that he and Luke only seemed to share commonalities in personality. Luke, on the physical side, takes much more after me.”
Awilda sniffs, sets down the knife and wipes the backs of her hands across her eyes. I’m not sure if it’s about Lucky or the giant onion she’s slicing.
“Do you know who the father is?” she asks me in a whisper.
I know what she’s asking without saying his name.
Here’s where I hesitate; there is no question about Luke’s paternity. And even without the test, there was only one other possibility, but Awilda doesn’t know that. I don’t want to tell my beloved aunt that Lucky and I were intimate. I’ll die if she asks for how long, how old we were when we started. I don’t want to put the doubt in her head that they made a mistake, by letting Lucky and me get so close, by letting us sleep in the same bed. She shouldn’t have to bear any blame, to feel any fault.
I don’t want her to think one of us pressured the other or that Lucky negatively influenced me, being a year older, being more experienced, or by giving me drugs. Or God forbid she goes the other way and thinks that I seduced her son.
I’ve no idea how much she and Mami spoke about all that went on. How hard we tried to hold back, how the restraint and the stress nearly drove us both crazy, how Lucky’s death brought me to the point of giving up. I kept going for one reason and for one reason only. My son.
I need to tell her because I can actually see the hope rising in her eyes.
“Luke is Adam’s son, Titi. The tests came back a match. But Adam knew that Lucky and I had been intimate and he suspected the worst.”
“He could have been my grandson,” Awilda says and her voice starts to quaver. Tears spring up in her eyes and her expression is far away, probably fixed on the fantasies of all that could have been.
“I never knew what he told you or how much you know. We didn’t sneak around when we were younger. It happened one time only, Tía, while I was at college. And Luke can be your grandson. He sees you that way already.”
I run my fingers through my hair and feel like I might have a heart attack. The clock on the stove says two PM and Luke will be up from his nap any minute.
“Titi, Luke obviously doesn’t know that Adam questioned the paternity. I want to protect him from the confusion until he’s at least old enough to understand it. I don’t want him to ever think that it was the impetus of what broke his parents up—it wasn’t really. And of course Adam will remain in his life. They love each other dearly. The issue was more with Adam’s own inner battles, not because he didn’t love our son.”
“I wish he were Luciano’s son,” Titi says as she rinses her fingers. She wipes them dry on her apron.
“I always did too,” I whisper and try not to lose my composure. “At least a little piece of him could still be here with us.”
Titi nods her head and she looks uncomfortable and nervous. I should explain to her what went on when we were younger so she doesn’t feel guilty about what happened.
“It wasn’t just physical, if that’s what you’re thinking. I loved Luciano with my whole heart, and he always took good care of me. Always
held back, never pressured or–”
“You don’t have to explain, Belén. I knew from that day I caught you two in the kitchen that there was an extraordinary love. I’d’ve had to be blind not to see how much you mattered to him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say and the sobs come out hard and punctuate the heavy air around us. A storm is brewing outside. It looks intense but Titi assured me that there would be blue skies on the other side of it.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, mi hija. You two were good kids.” She nods her head as she says it, trying to believe it herself.
Awilda suddenly has her arms wrapped tightly around me. She kisses my cheek and pats my back through the deluge of tears.
“Why’s Mommy crying?” Luke asks as he pads into the kitchen in shorts and a tank top, dragging his red blanket behind him.
“I’m happy to see Auntie Wilda, Monkey. These are happy tears,” I say. I scoop his little body into my arms, nuzzle his nose and kiss his face. “Come, let’s help Auntie set the table. You haven’t tried her tostones yet. They are way better than Mommy’s.”
It cuts my heart that Luke is so trusting and innocent. He latches onto my hand and follows me through the double doors into Awilda’s dining room. We pull china from her hutch and make three places at the table.
