Dedication
Para Pury y Juan
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
ANA LUCÍA CÁRDENAS RÍOS CELEBRATED HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY ON the day she killed her first chicken. Months before her cumpleaños, she woke to the cackle of a rooster pulling the sun over Santa Clara, her small town on the edges of the Peruvian rainforest, and to a bedsheet tinged in her blood. The spot made her cower at the top of her bed, as if the thing might rise up on tentacles and nip at her terracotta skin. She hid her stained underwear beneath her thick straw mattress, convinced she was pregnant. But the blood stopped after a couple of days, and the baby never came. She wondered if perhaps this was La Virgencita’s way of warning her for being fresca, sucia. El Señor would work through her mother and punish her if she didn’t change her ways. And so she stopped kissing Betty, her ten-year-old neighbor with the birth-marked lip and drowsy gaze, who always seemed ready for a kiss. She even stopped kissing Pepito, though she was certain she was in love with him. Instead, she made sure she woke early to make her mother and uncle breakfast, and even lit a candle at her mother’s altar for her dead relatives. She knelt each night beside her bed and prayed for the blood to stay away. But weeks later, another stain was on her sheet, and she feared more than just a beating. What if God had a worse punishment for her? She decided to be truthful and told her mother.
Only Ana didn’t get hit. Instead, Doña Sara—determined to teach her only daughter how to survive now that she was a woman—told her to pick a chick from one of the nests in their coop. A clutch had hatched, and the hen was no longer guarding her chicks as feverishly as she once had.
And so Ana chose one. Don’t name it, her mother warned; just take care of it from now on. Ana fed the chick for weeks, plumping it up with maíz, watching it graze on bits of grass, salivating as it kicked up dirt and ran across the huerta. Her mother, meanwhile, made Ana watch as she cracked the necks or sliced the heads off one bird and then another. Ana watched until whatever was in her belly made its way up her throat, forcing her to run inside their shack. “No corras,” Ana’s mother would shout. “Your turn will come.”
Soon, the nightmares began: those of black, neckless birds catapulting through her bedroom window. Their severed heads cawed as they lay on the sun-butchered dirt outside; their barren eyes fixated on her.
On the day of her twelfth birthday, the nightmares stopped, and Ana picked up her mother’s knife. She asked Betty to grab the sandy-feathered bird she’d fed and cared for, and bring it to the tree stub in the middle of the huerta. As her friend held down her chicken, Ana wrapped her thin fingers around the handle of the knife and, with all the might her minuscule body could muster, smashed the blade into its sunny neck. The knife slipped off Ana’s fingers, wet and tremulous, and she scurried inside. She almost collided with her mother, who heard the bird’s shriek, and had to finish what her daughter could not.
That afternoon, Ana mourned her chicken as it crisped above an open flame in the huerta. She sat in front of the fire pit, her arms wrapped around her scarred and flaky legs. The smoke stung her eyes, but she did not flit away her tears. She let them hit her knees even as she kept her body still.
Her mother was unmoved. “You’re going to have to do things like this in life, Ana.” Doña Sara did not look at her daughter as she spoke. She turned the chicken, picking at the flesh. “You’re going to love and have to do things for love. Sacrifice is a part of life.” Ana wiped the tears from her legs. “Better that you learn that lesson now. God knows I don’t want you running around here for the rest of your life, like this bird.” She turned to face her then. “I need you to fly, Ana.”
When she finally sat down for her birthday dinner, she prayed for her chicken. Diosito, she pleaded, que mi pollito esté contigo en el cielo.
Except her sandy-feathered pollito wasn’t in heaven with God. It was on her plate, its yellow skin crisped to gold, and then in her mouth, melting on her tongue.
* * *
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER, NOT LONG AFTER HER TWENTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, Ana was still cooking chicken, only this time, she was in a three-bedroom co-op in a six-story building in Queens, New York. And she didn’t have to kill anything. She had taken a frozen carcass from the refrigerator the night before, and let it thaw in the sink. Now, Christmas Day, she simply had to season the bird.
It sat on an aluminum foil pan on the kitchen’s pearl-like countertop. A small radio she had placed there three months earlier now blasted a string of salsa songs, punctuated with the occasional reggae en español, a new kind of sound she was not particularly keen on. Her straight black hair, with its shades of dye in Mahogany #10, was tied in a low ponytail by a mint green elastic band she had fished from the ziplock bag where she kept her daughter’s hair accessories. She didn’t need anyone to find a strand of her hair in their dinner.
Lately, the smell of raw meat had made her nauseous. The thought of eating chicken in particular sent her stomach into a somersault. She opened the overhead kitchen cabinet, eager to throw on whatever spices she could find, anything to mask the smell.
The cabinet housed dozens of spices, some topped to the brim and others still sealed in plastic, but she grabbed only the ones she knew: salt, black pepper, the tall plastic bottle with the red “Adobo All Purpose Seasoning” scribbled across the middle. Her tongue was reluctant to accept the others, some she’d never seen until she came to live with her husband’s cousin, just three months earlier. She didn’t know where they came from, how they were made, or how they were actually supposed to taste. When she lived in her own home, she never used anything that didn’t come from a specific bodega in Queens, but the señora of unit 4D in Lexar Tower didn’t seem to mind the spices from the local Key Food or the Pathmark.
Valeria Sosa had not cooked a single meal since Ana, her husband, Lucho, and their two children moved in. Ana prepared her own sofrito the first time she offered to make dinner, spending most of her grocery money on enough beef to feed her own family and Valeria’s. She later watched Valeria slide her finger across the meat, swallow a cough, and declare that her son didn’t eat spicy food. She then ordered a pizza. Ana kept to salt ever since.
But today was different. Today, there was a package on the counter, one her Tía Ofelia had prepared just days earlier in Lima: a glass jar wrapped in plastic, then covered in sheets from Sunday’s edition of El Comercio, and inside of that jar, was palillo. Ana had run out of the spice months earlier. As a child, her father had brought home sacks of the plant from the chacra: fat, arthritic nubs covered in the red dirt from the ranch where he labored for weeks at a time. She’d help her mother lay them outside beneath the scalding sun and, once they had shriveled, smash the roots for hours, sometimes over the course of several days, until she crumbled the twisted umber roots into gilded powder. For days, it turned her rusted finger gold.
Ana’s pale chicken now ached for color, but the jar didn’t belong to her. Hers was tucked away in the bedroom she and her family occupied in Valeria’s apartment
. She closed the kitchen cabinet and grabbed the package anyway. The newspaper ink bled onto her fingers, their crinkle exuding hints of limeño gasoline and her aunt’s vanilla perfume. Valeria’s name wasn’t on it, but she knew better than to tear the paper open. She needed permission first. Valeria had arrived from her latest trip that morning and was still locked in her bedroom. There was only one other person she could ask.
She walked across the dimly lit living room to the glass doors that led to the balcony, where Rubén Sosa, Valeria’s husband, was smoking another cigarette. The man wore only a sweatshirt and jeans, despite the dipping temperature outside. He stood at the center, taking up most of the space on the balcony. He was the kind of man that overflowed—his voice, his chest, his chevron mustache. He wasn’t overweight, but he never protested if anyone called him “gordo.” Fat was a sign of abundance, and as a man with his own business, he was, by all accounts, a man of abundance. If anyone would let Ana use a mere teaspoon of palillo from that jar, it was Rubén.
“Sí, sí, Anita,” he said. “You don’t have to ask about those things. Take whatever you need.” She smiled and inadvertently bowed her head as she closed the glass doors. He’d opened his home to her and her family. She found it difficult not to be overly grateful.
She was about to return to the kitchen when the blaring of an English-language cartoon coming from her nephew’s partially opened bedroom door drew her attention. Michael, the Sosa’s ten-year-old son, wasn’t hard of hearing. The child simply liked to shut out the world.
“Is everything okay?” she asked as she went inside. The room was the same size as the one she and her family occupied. The walls were white, like the rest of the unit, but the bed covers, the dresser, the bean bag, the oval rug, even the chair by the desk, were coated in shades of blue. The floor was littered with new toys that were given to the children the night before, yet her own, still in their pajamas, were more focused on the television that sat on top of the dresser. She snapped her fingers. “Hey,” she said, “is everything okay?”
Her daughter, Victoria, sat cross-legged on the bed. “Sí,” she replied, shutting her eyes momentarily before she answered. She was Ana’s eldest child, but at the age of six, her eyes carried the load of a dozen lives, always threatening to see more than one was willing to show. Her hair was straight, like her mother’s, but softer than either of her parents’, and when she was born, it was almost as light as Valeria’s. That’s how they knew she was Lucho’s.
Pedro, Ana’s five-year-old son, sat on the floor, his back against the bed. From top to bottom, there was no denying he was hers. His black hair was rich and shot straight up from his scalp. His skin was not copper, but he had pulled some of Ana’s brown as he left the womb. He had his father’s mouth, a heart-shaped button that he chewed on when he was nervous, as he was doing now. Ana looked at the screen. “What are you watching?” she asked.
“The kid wants a present for Christmas,” said Victoria, then in English, “a gun.”
“Español,” said her mother.
“Una pistola,” said Pedro.
Ana grabbed the remote control. “Tonterías,” she scoffed as she changed the channel. “Who gives a kid a gun?”
Michael pulled his eyes off the device in his hands. “Hey, it’s not a real gun,” he said in English, the only language he ever spoke. “And I’m watching that!” He was broader than most children his age, with glasses that made him appear more fragile and scholarly than he actually was. He had been given the anglicized version of his maternal grandfather’s name to indicate his Americanness, but he bore no resemblance to his mother. He was not as fair as Valeria, and when relatives saw him, they remarked on how he was trigueñito, the color of toasted corn, like his father.
Ana responded in Spanish. “They’re too little to watch that. I told you, just channel twenty-one when they’re in here.”
“I’m not little,” protested Victoria.
“It’s my room,” declared Michael. “I can watch whatever I want.”
She turned to her daughter. “If he changes the channel, I want you to go to our room.” The edge of a miniature, lilac dress, partially visible from beneath Michael’s bed, caught her eye. She grabbed the plastic, brown-haired doll and asked, “What’s this doing here?”
“I was playing with her,” said Victoria.
“I told you, Liliana stays in the room.”
“I forgot.”
“Don’t forget again.” She pushed a shoe against the door to hold it open, then took the remote control and the doll with her as she walked out and headed to her bedroom.
That bedroom had been their home for the past three months. Lucho had lost his job over the summer, and when September came, the Sosas offered them their spare bedroom. It was bare, except for a vanity set that Valeria insisted remain in the room. They paid the utilities, but no rent. “Guarden su dinero,” Rubén had said. Save your money so you can get back on your feet. There was no choice but to downsize while they lived off of her factory-worker wage and Lucho looked for a job. They saved a bunk bed and a queen-size bed, a dresser drawer, a small television, but otherwise reduced their possessions to whatever else could fit into that bedroom. Ana saved as much of the children’s clothes as she could, but she and Lucho each kept only a drawer’s worth of shirts and pants. Valeria took the rest to Peru, for Ana’s distant cousins and whoever else could fit into the clothes she had outgrown.
Yet despite keeping only the necessities, the move to Valeria’s apartment was something of an upgrade. Statues of cherubs greeted anyone that entered Lexar Tower’s front doors. Vines climbed its red bricks. A chandelier dangled above its marbled lobby. Although it was almost palatial, Ana at first found its newness uninviting. Those red bricks retracted from the top of the entrance’s wide white columns like open lips showcasing a set of clenched teeth. The keypad reminded her of punching in at work. The lobby echoed every sound. There was no secret it could keep.
She wanted to dislike the place and, up until the day Valeria left for her trip, she did. She was a guest there, and so she did what she could to compensate for the lack of rent. She acquiesced whenever Valeria asked her to make dinner or pack Michael’s lunch or clean the bathroom since her family outnumbered the Sosas. She said nothing when Lucho took Valeria shopping for her trip to Peru, or when he picked her up from the auto body shop, the business she and Rubén owned. Those were all a husband’s duties, but Ana never asked Valeria why Rubén couldn’t do those things for her nor did she ask Lucho to stop.
During those weeks that Valeria was gone, Ana was the only woman in unit 4D, and she embraced the chance to care for it the way it should be. She walked barefoot or in socks so she could check her soles for signs of dirt, grabbing the broom at the first hint of a speckle. A forgotten mug in the living room could jolt her out of bed faster than a fire. She washed each plate and piece of cutlery, every pot and pan with her bare hands, convinced the dishwasher was only for those who were too lazy to pick up a sponge. She played merengue and salsa on weekends as she made breakfast, and in the evenings, she lit cinnamon-scented candles she purchased from the 99 cents store.
But Valeria was back, and whatever sense of home Ana felt in her absence quickly dissipated. Her room, however, was still her sanctuary.
She opened its door slowly, careful not to make any noise. The lights were off, the curtains pulled shut, yet from the afternoon sky that crept between the lips of the blinds, she could see her husband’s curled, sleeping figure under the blanket. She closed the door behind her. Her pink polyester socks skimmed the oak floors as she made her way to the bed. She put Liliana on the top bunk, in a far corner beside her daughter’s pillow. On the nightstand between her bed and her children’s bunk bed, Ana had set up her altar. A large white doily covered the top of the stand, and over it was a statute of La Virgen María, a picture of San Martincito, her mother’s prayer card, a cauldron where she burned charcoal and incense, and a pair of red and white candles. She
kissed her mother’s card and blessed herself, then sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband.
She liked to watch him sleep. He’d returned only a few hours ago from his night shift driving a livery cab. The top of his head was visible beneath the blanket. The oil in his hair had tempered its waves, and it laid out flat against the pillow, in desperate need of a trim. She leaned close to his ear, over the brown mole that stood prominently on the right side of his bare neck. His hands were tucked beneath his cheek, and his lips puckered against them. She could smell the fading bergamot in his cologne and the leather from the car that still lingered on his body. She imagined brushing her lips over his eyes, watching them flutter into life, but even when she had the chance to do so, she held back. The time for those kinds of things, it seemed, had passed.
She shook his shoulder gently. He had once told her to never wake a person in mid-dream by calling out their name. “You don’t want to pull their soul from wherever it is,” he had said then. She did not know where Lucho’s soul was now. For some time now, she’d wondered where it had been.
“Despierta,” she said as she rocked him. She noticed his burgundy lace-ups by the bed, defying both the house rule that all shoes must be kept by the door and his own meticulous storage practice. He had rebuffed Ana’s winter boot suggestions from the outset. Thick-soled, hard-shelled tan boots—he’d look too much like a construction worker, he said. Instead, he wore the shoes he brought from Peru, three pairs that he refused to exchange for any American sneaker or boot: the dark burgundy lace-ups that were by her feet, a pair of black slip-ons, and a set of tassel loafers that reminded him of the kind of shoe his late father used to wear. He kept them each in separate boxes in the closet, and their stitches had been redone several times over the years by the same cobbler. Beside the shoes were the two layers of socks he needed to keep his feet warm in the cold months—a sliver of thin black socks Ana had purchased at a local store for two dollars and the pair of one-dollar, cotton-blend white socks he wore underneath them, the kind that hit the knees with red double lines at the top.
The Affairs of the Falcóns Page 1
