The Affairs of the Falcóns

by Melissa Rivero

  She turned the red gift bag in her hand and noticed the tag still on the handle. It was addressed to Aunt Ana; the gift-giver, Michael. She ripped it off and slid the tag into her handbag. She fished out her address book and pen, then scanned the list Mama had dictated to her over the phone the day before:

  mantequilla

  arroz

  Advil

  bredstic

  té

  She had called the woman to say she’d come by the next day, implying that she’d make a payment toward the debt she owed. But she also ran errands for Mama. Ana didn’t mind doing so. Mama was in her seventies, with a sluggish walk and gnarled fingers. Their knots stood out despite her polished rings and manicured nails. The curve in her upper back was rounder than her belly. She never complained of any aches or pains, but she took her time whenever she sat down or stood up. Recently, Ana noticed that her hands had started to shake.

  And she had that man. He was younger than Mama by only a decade. Still, the difference in age was noticeable, and so was the distance between them. Why she kept him around, Ana did not know.

  But Mama’s need for help at home wasn’t the only reason Ana ran errands for the woman. It was also a quid pro quo. Picking up the occasional groceries or prescriptions meant a lower interest rate on her loan. That was worth fronting a few dollars and giving up an afternoon on a holiday. She picked up the items on Mama’s list at the twenty-four-hour deli just off the train station, then headed to her building.

  Mama lived on a quiet block, where holiday lights and Christmas ornaments illuminated most windows, even as autumn clung to the trees, forming a canopy over the brownstone-lined corridor. Unlike those just south of it, Mama’s block was untouched by the broken bits of glass and rogue garbage cans that filled every other part of her neighborhood. Here, the stoops were empty, and no one lingered by the spiked black gates that sealed off ground floors from the unsettling world. The homes, painted in varying shades of muted fire, looked stately yet ready to engulf whatever wandered past.

  Mama was perched at her undecorated window, her pallid face partially obscured by the square frames that sat on the bridge of her nose, stealing the faintest glimpse of daylight. Her rusted lips pressed against each other, and Ana knew a lecture was coming. She lifted the pot of soil by the front door and took the key beneath it.

  Mama waited at the end of the hall, the light from her kitchen settling behind her, an aura that bathed her broad figure and floral print dress in its yolk glow.

  “Take off your shoes,” she told Ana, nodding to the rack by the wall as her hand pressed against the door frame. “Unless you want to mop up later.”

  Ana placed her sneakers by a pair of polished loafers, careful not to touch their shiny edges. Inside the apartment, the heat from the radiator pounded the scent of a vanilla candle through the air. The kitchen and living room were symbiotic, every object soaked in dusky tones, accented by the copper flowers that climbed the wallpaper. Six chairs surrounded the dining table, which was anchored by an unlit candle and its pillar holder. A single place mat lay in front of the chair at the edge of the table. The living room consisted of a plastic-covered couch and a coffee table with a stack of Vanidades magazines, some dating back to before Ana’s arrival in New York and all of which she had paged through in her first few visits.

  The room then opened to two others: to the left was Mama’s sitting room, where she conducted business; to the right, her bedroom, which always had its door ajar. By now, Ana had made out Mama’s preference for rose-patterned bedsheets and oversized pillows.

  “No umbrella?” Mama asked as she leaned on the back of a chair. “Did it stop raining?”

  “No,” said Ana, pulling apart her coat and scarf. “Just a drizzle.”

  “What took you so long then?”

  “It’s a holiday,” she replied. “The trains are slow.”

  Mama raised her eyebrows, as though she suddenly remembered. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” she replied, then handed Mama the red gift bag as she scanned the room. “Where is Don Beto?”

  Mama pulled out the bottle of hand lotion. “Out somewhere,” she said, turning the bottle with one hand and dismissing her husband with a wave of the other. Her fingers dazzled, even in the dull light. She put the lotion back in the bag, then walked toward her sitting room. “There’s water in the kettle. Make some tea and bring us something to eat.”

  Minutes later, Ana brought a tray of breakfast treats and two teacups into the room. She set it down on a coffee table in front of the love seat. Mama was on one end of it, and beside her was a rolling tray, where she kept her medicine and a water bottle. Ana shrunk into the other end of the couch. The television blared. El derecho de vivir, the name of a telenovela, was scribbled across the screen in shades of ivory and tangerine cursive. Ana averted her eyes to avoid a headache.

  Mama turned up the volume as the protagonist, María Rosario, sobbed on the screen. “Miguel left her,” she explained, as she popped a few pills in her mouth and took several gulps from the bottle of water. “He found out she was pregnant. Do you know this story?”

  Ana shook her head no.

  “It’s the second time I’m seeing it in this country. But the first time I heard it was over the radio back in Cuba.” She picked up her cup and blew into the tea. Her glasses fogged and unfogged. “I was a much younger woman then. I had hair like honey and eyes like the sea. Of course, I imagined that María Rosario looked like me.” A grin grazed her lips, then quickly faded. “I don’t know why these Mexicans picked a morena to play her.” She paused as she was about to take another sip. She stared at Ana as the fog in her lenses cleared. “You know, you look a bit like her. Your eyes are on the lighter side, and your hair is just as dark.” She traced Ana’s face in the air with her fingers. “Except you’re more Indian than black.”

  Ana brought her scalding cup to her lips. She wanted to tell the woman that she wasn’t all Indian. Her eyes, for example, hinted at some distant European relative. But she knew how ridiculous she’d sound, especially saying this to someone like Mama.

  “Anyway,” Mama continued, pointing at Ana’s hands. “I see you’ve been cooking.”

  Ana straightened her mustard fingers in front of her. “Yes,” she said with a smile. “My aunt sent me this spice. It’s from the old ranch where my father used to work.”

  “Ah,” said Mama. “El desaparecido. Don’t tell me you make your poor aunt go back there hoping to find him.”

  “No, no,” she stammered. “I know I’ll never see him again.”

  She hadn’t seen her father in nearly seventeen years. But every now and again, a scent or a sound would lure a vague memory that, as the years went by, only seemed to grow more vivid. Every December, the scent of fresh cut trees piled along the street took her back to his embrace, back when she’d sit on his lap and sniff the smell of sap that emanated from the paper-thin skin along his neck. Whenever she heard a whistle, she’d turn almost instinctively, expecting to see him waving to her to come closer to home; she’d wandered too far into the dusty, solitary road.

  He worked on the ranch, along with her mother’s brother, going deep into the forest to retrieve whatever crop the patrón was harvesting that season. Then, every three weeks, he’d travel down the river on a motorboat, returning home for a few days before going back again. He indulged in their cooking, napped in the hammock in the huerta, and sat with his daughter outside in his rocking chair as the stars appeared in the pastel sky. On the mornings he was home, Ana went to the market early, oftentimes with Betty by her side, in search of the ripest capironas. He liked to drink chapo de plátano for breakfast, and Ana wouldn’t settle for anything but capironas, the sweetest of plantains, to make his morning shake.

  One night, when her father had already been gone for more than a month, her Tío Marcos showed up at their door, alone. He carried only a single bag with him, and when her mother saw his face, she walked out and crouc
hed beside the door, unable to move for what seemed like days.

  “There must always be a man here,” he said somberly, as he unpacked. He handed Ana three palillos, all that her father had been able to stow away under his cot. She made the powder, using it sparingly, and was able to make it last for several months. She reined in her tears even as she used her father’s palillo one final time, not long after Marcos himself returned to the forest, despite her mother’s protests, and never came back.

  Once, she told her mother she’d forgotten what her father looked like. She remembered his smile, the way the froth of the chapo lined his upper lip. Look in the mirror, her mother had told her then, there he is—in your eyes, your mouth. You share the same smile. For some time, this comforted her, knowing she could always see her father this way.

  It wasn’t until Doña Sara died that Ana wished she’d seen her mother’s reflection instead.

  “Just as well,” said Mama. “Probably better that you don’t know what happened to him. Those terrorists are animals. Although it’s always nice to have a grave to go to. In any case, I suppose you had a party last night.”

  Ana cleared her throat. “Just a few friends over.”

  “No wonder you look beat. Anyway, you should wash your hands better.”

  “I actually like the color on my skin.”

  “It makes you look like a cook.” She picked up the remote control and lowered the volume on the television set. “I hear your husband is doing well in his new venture.”

  It was Ana’s cue. She dug into her handbag and pulled out the white envelope that delivered Valeria’s gas bill that month. The cellophane crunched as she handed it to Mama. “It’s going okay,” she said, diverting her eyes, hoping to downplay Lucho’s luck so far and mask her own discomfort at handing their money to the woman.

  “Which car service is he with?”

  “RapiCar,” said Ana, and immediately regretted sharing that bit of information.

  “Why that one?”

  “The man we’re leasing the car from,” said Ana, “he works out of that base.”

  “I see. I take it your family helped with the lease then?”

  “His cousin lent us the money,” she lied.

  “How long do you have it for?”

  “Three months.”

  Mama raised her eyebrows. “You only wanted one month when you came to me.”

  “We only have the car at night for now. The owner’s going to Ecuador for the summer. Lucho thinks that if he shows he’s responsible and a hard worker, then maybe we can work the car the entire time he’s gone. We’d love our own car, of course.”

  “Pay off your debts first.” She shuffled through the twenty-dollar bills in the envelope. “You’re short again.”

  “I’ll catch up next week, Mama.”

  “Ana, the only reason I do business with you is because you said I could count on you to pay your debts—”

  “And you can,” she said. “I do pay my debts, Mama. It’s just that, Lucho just started working the car. We had to pay his cousin back for some of the bills she covered. Gas, electric. And it’s Christmas—”

  “Look. This,” she said, holding up the envelope, “is better than not getting paid at all. But don’t think I’m going to hold on to that deed of yours forever. You miss one payment, you get behind, it happens. But I expect you to catch up. Not for your payments to get smaller and smaller.”

  “I promise you I’ll get back on track next week, and even pay you more.”

  “Good.” She put the money back in the envelope and slipped it in the gap between the cushion and the arm rest. “I’m being very reasonable, Ana, and very patient. I understand the dilemma that you’re in. I’ve been helping women like you since I came to this country. Some in better situations than you, some in worse. Single mothers with no husbands, no family.”

  Ana had heard about the women Mama liked to help. It was only women, and only those with real estate or other valuable pieces of property to offer up as collateral. But she had a soft spot for a particular type of woman. Undocumented, South American. Mothers. That was what Carla Lazarte, Ana’s friend and Betty’s eldest sister, had told her. Ana and her family had spent their first months in New York living with Carla and her husband, Ernesto. But when fall arrived that year, Carla hinted that it was time Ana and her family move out. She suggested that Ana meet a woman named Patricia Aguilar. They called her Mama because, unlike other prestamistas, she was more lenient. She wasn’t as quick to react when things got difficult for a client. She understood the challenges of being a new immigrant and a woman, having been a single mother herself. She liked young, ambitious women who didn’t see obstacles; the kind who want a house in the States, a house back home, wherever that might be, cars nice enough to pose in front of for pictures, and brand-name colleges for their children. She liked these kinds of women because they were prideful, and so they always paid. She was also kinder to these women, so Ana was told.

  “I know things haven’t been easy,” Mama continued, “what with your husband out of a job. But imagine if I had lent you that money for the lease? We both know you couldn’t pay it back. I’d have no choice but to take that house.”

  That house was the one Lucho, as the eldest son, had inherited from his father. It had always been meant for him, but it was nevertheless his mother’s. Ana had once believed they could build their lives in that house. She had imagined cooking her meals in its garlicky kitchen, eating in its chandeliered dining room, sitting in the garden with a cup of chamomile tea in her hand as the moon clawed its way behind the avocado tree. Despite his mother’s presence, she still believed it could one day be hers.

  But right now, it was Mama’s.

  The woman shifted in her seat. “Besides, your family should help you. Your husband is unemployed, and you have two small children. They know what it’s like to be here, so young and inexperienced.”

  “Mama, Lucho’s cousins have a very different experience,” she said. “And they’re already giving us a place to live.”

  “That is the least they can do for you. They may be your husband’s blood, but he married you. They’re your family too.” She paused, tapping her fingers on the armrest. “On the other hand, I can understand why they won’t help. People come here after everyone else has done all the heavy lifting. That’s how you get a job, how you get connected to someone like me. Someone else has found a way in, then you come, and benefit from all they’ve done. That’s not right either. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet.”

  “I know that, Mama, but Lucho lost his job—”

  “And it won’t be the last time you run from immigration.” Her voice rose. “I helped you then, all those months he didn’t work. I helped you. He’s working now, and I expect to get paid exactly what we agreed to every week. Are we clear, Ana?”

  She pressed her lips and nodded.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Clean this up before you go. I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Ana did as she was told, threw on her winter gear, then kissed Mama goodbye, though the woman said nothing to her. As she picked up her sneakers, still wet from the walk over, they brushed against the shiny heels of the loafers she had so gingerly avoided when she first set them down. She wiped them dry with her sleeve.

  She descended the front steps, looking over her shoulder to see if Mama had made her way back to the window, but it was empty. The plight of the suffering María Rosario was more entertaining and less costly to watch than that of a suffering Ana, and she was glad for it. She had to pay the woman back. She’d work faster this week at la factoría, and longer. She might even sell some of her palillo to the women.

  She made it halfway down the block when she saw Don Beto standing under a black umbrella several feet from her. He was half a foot taller than her, a man composed of spherical parts and corners—a round nose, round hands, curls at the ends of disappearing white hair on a round
head. He was thinly dressed: a light jacket in the same shade as that of his living room furniture, zipped only halfway, revealing a translucent guayabera underneath it, and pants stitched of fabric as fragile as the dead leaves that littered the street. His shoes shone in the rain.

  “Hola, niña,” he said, his voice hoarse and thick. “Been too long.” A grin stretched across his face as he walked toward her. He stopped close enough that she could smell the coffee and tobacco that lingered in his breath. “Feliz Navidad,” he said, but she didn’t respond. “You’re not going to say hello?’”

  She leaned over and punctuated his cheek with a kiss. “Hola,” she whispered. “Feliz Navidad.”

  His eyes lingered on her mouth as she pulled away. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been—” She took a step back. “It’s been a very busy week. With the kids. Work. Christmas.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

  She pressed her lips, pulling her hood over her head as the rain fell harder.

  He stepped closer, covering both of them with his umbrella. “Will you come inside then?”

  She wanted to say no. Their encounters had become increasingly intimate; their secretive nature alone should have been enough to keep her from coming back. They finally did, but not after the two had crossed a line. For three weeks, she managed to avoid him, coming at different times to pay Mama instead of the Fridays-after-work schedule she had agreed to months ago. He knew that schedule. She needed to stay away, to say no, but it wasn’t something she could muster the courage to do. She was too afraid of what might happen if she did.

  Instead, she tried to find another way to say it. “I have to go home to my kids. I’m already running late.”

  “You are avoiding me,” he chuckled.

  “I didn’t like where things were going,” she admitted.

  He inched closer. “It only went as far as you let it.”