That night, Yoyo watched him from the upstairs hall window, where she’d retreated the minute she heard his car pull up in front of the house. Slowly, her father came up the driveway, a grim expression on his face as he grappled with a large, heavy cardboard box. At the front door, he set the package down carefully and patted all his pockets for his house keys. (If only he’d had Laura’s ticking key chain!) Yoyo heard the snapping open of locks downstairs. She listened as he struggled to maneuver the box through the narrow doorway. He called her name several times, but she did not answer him.
“My daughter, your father, he love you very much,” he explained from the bottom of the stairs. “He just want to protect you.” Finally, her mother came up and pleaded with Yoyo to go down and reconcile with him. “Your father did not mean to harm. You must pardon him. Always it is better to let bygones be forgotten, no?”
Downstairs, Yoyo found her father setting up a brand new electric typewriter on the kitchen table. It was even better than her mother’s. He had outdone himself with all the extra features: a plastic carrying case with Yoyo’s initials decaled below the handle, a brace to lift the paper upright while she typed, an erase cartridge, an automatic margin tab, a plastic hood like a toaster cover to keep the dust away. Not even her mother could have invented such a machine!
But Laura’s inventing days were over just as Yoyo’s were starting up with her school-wide success. Rather than the rolling suitcase everyone else in the family remembers, Yoyo thinks of the speech her mother wrote as her last invention. It was as if, after that, her mother had passed on to Yoyo her pencil and pad and said, “Okay, Cuquita, here’s the buck. You give it a shot.”
Trespass
Carla
The day the Garcías were one American year old, they had a celebration at dinner. Mami had baked a nice flan and stuck a candle in the center. “Guess what day it is today?” She looked around the table at her daughters’ baffled faces. “One year ago today,” Papi began orating, “we came to the shores of this great country.” When he was done misquoting the poem on the Statue of Liberty, the youngest, Fifi, asked if she could blow out the candle, and Mami said only after everyone had made a wish.
What do you wish for on the first celebration of the day you lost everything? Carla wondered. Everyone else around the table had their eyes closed as if they had no trouble deciding. Carla closed her eyes too. She should make an effort and not wish for what she always wished for in her homesickness. But just this last time, she would let herself. “Dear God,” she began. She could not get used to this American wish-making without bringing God into it. “Let us please go back home, please,” she half prayed and half wished. It seemed a less and less likely prospect. In fact, her parents were sinking roots here. Only a month ago, they had moved out of the city to a neighborhood on Long Island so that the girls could have a yard to play in, so Mami said. The little green squares around each look-alike house seemed more like carpeting that had to be kept clean than yards to play in. The trees were no taller than little Fifi. Carla thought yearningly of the lush grasses and thick-limbed, vine-ladened trees around the compound back home. Under the amapola tree her best-friend cousin, Lucinda, and she had told each other what each knew about how babies were made. What is Lucinda doing right this moment? Carla wondered.
Down the block the neighborhood dead-ended in abandoned farmland that Mami read in the local paper the developers were negotiating to buy. Grasses and real trees and real bushes still grew beyond the barbed-wire fence posted with a big sign: PRI VATE, NO TRESPASSING. The sign had surprised Carla since “forgive us our trespasses” was the only other context in which she had heard the word. She pointed the sign out to Mami on one of their first walks to the bus stop. “Isn’t that funny, Mami? A sign that you have to be good.” Her mother did not understand at first until Carla explained about the Lord’s Prayer. Mami laughed. Words sometimes meant two things in English too. This trespass meant that no one must go inside the property because it was not public like a park, but private. Carla nodded, disappointed. She would never get the hang of this new country.
Mami walked her to the bus stop for her first month at her new school over in the next parish. The first week, Mami even rode the buses with her, transferring, going and coming, twice a day, until Carla learned the way. Her sisters had all been enrolled at the neighborhood Catholic school only one block away from the house the Garcías had rented at the end of the summer. But by then, Carla’s seventh grade was full. The nun who was the principal had suggested that Carla stay back a year in sixth grade, where they still had two spaces left. At twelve, though, Carla was at least a year older than most sixth graders, and she felt mortified at the thought of having to repeat yet another year. All four girls had been put back a year when they arrived in the country. Sure, Carla could use the practice with her English, but that also meant she would be in the same grade as her younger sister, Sandi. That she could not bear. “Please,” she pleaded with her mother, “let me go to the other school!” The public school was a mere two blocks beyond the Catholic school, but Laura García would not hear of it. Public schools, she had learned from other Catholic parents, were where juvenile delinquents went and where teachers taught those new crazy ideas about how we all came from monkeys. No child of hers was going to forget her family name and think she was nothing but a kissing cousin to an orangutan.
Carla soon knew her school route by heart, an expression she used for weeks after she learned it. First, she walked down the block by heart, noting the infinitesimal differences between the look-alike houses: different color drapes, an azalea bush on the left side of the door instead of on the right, a mailbox or door with a doodad of some kind. Then by heart, she walked the long mile by the deserted farmland lot with the funny sign. Finally, a sharp right down the service road into the main thoroughfare, where by heart she boarded the bus. “A young lady señorita,” her mother pronounced the first morning Carla set out by herself, her heart drumming in her chest. It was a long and scary trek, but she was too grateful to have escaped the embarrassment of being put back a year to complain.
And as the months went by, she neglected to complain about an even scarier development. Every day on the playground and in the halls of her new school, a gang of boys chased after her, calling her names, some of which she had heard before from the old lady neighbor in the apartment they had rented in the city. Out of sight of the nuns, the boys pelted Carla with stones, aiming them at her feet so there would be no bruises. “Go back to where you came from, you dirty spic!” One of them, standing behind her in line, pulled her blouse out of her skirt where it was tucked in and lifted it high. “No titties,” he snickered. Another yanked down her socks, displaying her legs, which had begun growing soft, dark hairs. “Monkey legs!” he yelled to his pals.
“Stop!” Carla cried. “Please stop.”
“Eh-stop!” they mimicked her. “Plees eh-stop.”
They were disclosing her secret shame: her body was changing. The girl she had been back home in Spanish was being shed. In her place—almost as if the boys’ ugly words and taunts had the power of spells—was a hairy, breast-budding grownup no one would ever love.
Every day, Carla set out on her long journey to school with a host of confused feelings. First of all, there was this body whose daily changes she noted behind the closed bathroom door until one of her sisters knocked that Carla’s turn was over. How she wished she could wrap her body up the way she’d heard Chinese girls had their feet bound so they wouldn’t grow big. She would stay herself, a quick, skinny girl with brown eyes and a braid down her back, a girl she had just begun to feel could get things in this world.
But then, too, Carla felt relieved to be setting out towards her very own school in her proper grade away from the crowding that was her family of four girls too close in age. She could come home with stories of what had happened that day and not have a chorus of three naysayers to correct her. But she also felt dread. There, in the playgrou
nd, they would be waiting for her—the gang of four or five boys, blond, snotty-nosed, freckled-faced. They looked bland and unknowable, the way all Americans did. Their faces betrayed no sign of human warmth. Their eyes were too clear for cleaving, intimate looks. Their pale bodies did not seem real but were like costumes they were wearing as they played the part of her persecutors.
She watched them. In the classroom, they bent over work-books or wore scared faces when Sister Beatrice, their beefy, no-nonsense teacher, scolded them for missing their home-work. Sometimes Carla spied them in the playground, looking through the chain link fence and talking about the cars parked on the sidewalk. To Carla’s bafflement, those cars had names beyond the names of their color or size. All she knew of their family car, for instance, was that it was a big black car where all four sisters could ride in the back, though Fifi always made a fuss and was allowed up front. Carla could also identify Volkswagens because that had been the car (in black) of the secret police back home; every time Mami saw one she made the sign of the cross and said a prayer for Tío Mundo, who had not been allowed to leave the Island. Beyond Volkswagens and medium blue cars or big black cars, Carla could not tell one car from the other.
But the boys at the fence talked excitedly about Fords and Falcons and Corvairs and Plymouth Valiants. They argued over how fast each car could go and what models were better than others. Carla sometimes imagined herself being driven to school in a flashy red car the boys would admire. Except there was no one to drive her. Her immigrant father with his thick mustache and accent and three-piece suit would only bring her more ridicule. Her mother did not yet know how to drive. Even though Carla could imagine owning a very expensive car, she could not imagine her parents as different from what they were. They were, like this new body she was growing into, givens.
One day when she had been attending Sacred Heart about a month, she was followed by a car on her mile walk home from the bus stop. It was a lime green car, sort of medium sized, and with a kind of long snout, so had it been a person, Carla would have described it as having a long nose. A long-nosed, lime-green car. It drove slowly, trailing her. Carla figured the driver was looking for an address, just as Papi drove slowly and got honked at when he was reading the signs of shops before stopping at a particular one.
A blat from the horn made Carla jump and turn to the car, now fully stopped just a little ahead of her. She could see the driver clearly, from the shoulders up, a man in a red shirt about the age of her parents—though it was hard for Carla to tell with Americans how old they were. They were like cars to her, identifiable by the color of their clothes and a general age group—a little kid younger than herself, a kid her same age, a teenager in high school, and then the vast indistinguishable group of American grownups.
This grownup American man about her parents’ age beckoned for her to come up to the window. Carla dreaded being asked directions since she had just moved into this area right before school started, and all she knew for sure was the route home from the bus stop. Besides, her English was still just classroom English, a foreign language. She knew the neutral bland things: how to ask for a glass of water, how to say good morning and good afternoon and good night. How to thank someone and say they were welcomed. But if a grownup American of indeterminable age asked her for directions, invariably speaking too quickly, she merely shrugged and smiled an inane smile. “I don’t speak very much English,” she would say in a small voice by way of apology. She hated having to admit this since such an admission proved, no doubt, the boy gang’s point that she didn’t belong here.
As Carla drew closer, the driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger door window. Carla bent down as if she were about to speak to a little kid and peeked in. The man smiled a friendly smile, but there was something wrong with it that Carla couldn’t put her finger on: this smile had a bruised, sorry quality as if the man were someone who’d been picked on all his life, and so his smiles were appeasing, not friendly. He was wearing his red shirt unbuttoned, which seemed normal given the warm Indian-summer day. In fact, if Carla’s legs hadn’t begun to grow hairs, she would have taken off her school-green knee socks and walked home bare-legged.
The man spoke up. “Whereyagoin?” he asked, running all his words together the way the Americans always did. Carla was, as usual, not quite sure if she had heard right.
“Excuse me?” she asked politely, leaning into the car to hear the man’s whispery voice better. Something caught her eye. She looked down and stared, aghast.
The man had tied his two shirtends just above his waist and was naked from there on down. String encircled his waist, the loose ends knotted in front and then looped around his penis. As Carla watched, his big blunt-headed thing grew so that it filled and strained at the lasso it was caught in.
“Where ya’ going?” His voice had slowed down when he spoke this time, so that Carla definitely understood him. Her eyes snapped back up to his eyes.
“Excuse me?” she said again dumbly.
He leaned towards the passenger door and clicked it open. “C’moninere.” He nodded towards the seat beside him. “C’m’on,” he moaned. He cupped his hand over his thing as if it were a flame that might blow out.
Carla clutched her bookbag tighter in her hand. Her mouth hung open. Not one word, English or Spanish, occurred to her. She backed away from the big green car, all the while keeping her eyes on the man. A pained, urgent expression was deepening on his face like a plea that Carla did not know how to answer. His arm pumped at something Carla could not see, and then after much agitation, he was still. The face relaxed into something like peacefulness. The man bowed his head as if in prayer. Carla turned and fled down the street, her book-bag banging against her leg like a whip she was using to make herself go faster, faster.
Her mother called the police after piecing together the breathless, frantic story Carla told. The enormity of what she had seen was now topped by the further enormity of involving the police. Carla and her sisters feared the American police almost as much as the SIM back home. Their father, too, seemed uneasy around policemen; whenever a cop car was be-hind them in traffic, he kept looking at the rearview mirror and insisting on silence in the car so he could think. If officers stood on the sidewalk as he walked by, he bowed ingratiatingly at them. Back home, he had been tailed by the secret police for months and the family had only narrowly escaped capture their last day on the Island. Of course, Carla knew American policemen were “nice guys,” but still she felt uneasy around them.
The doorbell rang only minutes after Carla’s mother had called the station. This was a law-abiding family neighbor-hood, and no one wanted a creep like this on the loose among so many children, least of all the police. As her mother answered the door, Carla stayed behind in the kitchen, listening with a racing heart to her mother’s explanation. Mami’s voice was high and hesitant and slightly apologetic—a small, accented woman’s voice among the booming, impersonal American male voices that interrogated her.
“My daughter, she was walking home—”
“Where exactly?” a male voice demanded.
“That street, you know?” Carla’s mother must have pointed. “The one that comes up the avenue, I don’t know the name of it.”
“Must be the service road,” a nicer male voice offered.
“Yes, yes, the service road.” Her mother’s jubilant voice seemed to conclude whatever had been the problem.
“Please go on, ma’am.”
“Well, my daughter, she said this, this crazy man in this car—” Her voice lowered. Carla heard snatches: something, something “to come in the car—”
“Where’s your daughter, ma’am?” the male voice with authority asked.
Carla cringed behind the kitchen door. Her mother had promised that she would not involve Carla with the police but would do all the talking herself.
“She is just a young girl,” her mother excused Carla.
“Well, ma’am, if you want to file charges
, we have to talk to her.”
“File charges? What does that mean, file charges?”
There was a sigh of exasperation. A too-patient voice with dividers between each word explained the legal procedures as if repeating a history lesson Carla’s mother should have learned long before she had troubled the police or moved into this neighborhood.
“I don’t want any trouble,” her mother protested. “I just think this is a crazy man who should not be allowed on the streets.”
“You’re absolutely right, ma’am, but our hands are tied unless you, as a responsible citizen, help us out.”
Oh no, Carla groaned, now she was in for it. The magic words had been uttered. The Garcías were only legal residents, not citizens, but for the police to mistake Mami for a citizen was a compliment too great to spare a child discomfort. “Carla!” her mother called from the door.
“What’s the girl’s name?” the officer with the voice in charge asked.
Her mother repeated Carla’s full name and spelled it for the officer, then called out again in her voice of authority, “Carla Antonia!”
Slowly, sullenly, Carla wrapped herself around the kitchen door, only her head poking out and into the hallway. “¡Sí, Mamil!” she answered in a polite, law-abiding voice to impress the cops.
“Come here,” her mother said, motioning. “These very nice officers need for you to explain what you saw.” There was an apologetic look on her face. “Come on, Cuca, don’t be afraid.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” the policeman said in his gruff, scary voice.
Carla kept her head down as she approached the front door, glancing up briefly when the two officers introduced themselves. One was an embarrassingly young man with a face no older than the boys’ faces at school on top of a large, muscular man’s body. The other man, also big and fair-skinned, looked older because of his meaner, sharp-featured face like an animal’s in a beast fable a child knows by looking at the picture not to trust. Belts were slung around both their hips, guns poking out of the holsters. Their very masculinity offended and threatened. They were so big, so strong, so male, so American.
How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents Page 13
