The Affairs of the Falcóns

by Melissa Rivero

  And so, as the train now hauled itself east across the borough, Ana paid close attention to the shops that emerged at each station. It wasn’t long before she saw the pawn shop’s sign. When she got off, she walked along the street opposite the clinic, unnerved by the thought of someone seeing her near it and asking what it was she was doing on Roosevelt Avenue on a Thursday night. She passed a beauty salon with its murmuring blow-dryers, a Colombian karaoke bar ignited in black and fuchsia lettering, and a Chinese restaurant that looked out of place to her. She eventually stood across from the clinic, between the bakery and a travel agency, its window covered in flyers that touted deals on flights to Ecuador and Peru. From across two lanes of traffic, she could see the sign posted outside the clinic’s first floor entrance. Open seven days a week. One could call twenty-four hours a day for information. They accepted all major credit cards. Not that she had any. A narrow staircase led to the clinic on the second floor, and even though the lights were on, the air conditioner and the sign and the blinds obstructed the view, which put her at ease.

  Yet she couldn’t move. Suddenly, the bustling of the passersby, the rumbling of the overhead train and the cars along the road fell away, and she was back on the bus that took her from Santa Clara to Lima. That night had been clear. The mountain air had invaded the bus’s interior as it trekked along the incondite road. She tried to sleep, and leaned closer to Ofelia for warmth. Ofelia, whose eyes were wide and alert ever since she arrived in Santa Clara to retrieve her grandniece. In the days that followed her arrival, she had buried Ana’s mother, helped Ana pack the few possessions left in the shack, including her mother’s ring, then sold the property. They left on a Sunday morning, after a brief farewell to Betty, and with Ana sweating beneath the pair of jeans and the peach sweater her aunt had brought her for the cold ride and colder city that awaited them.

  On that bus, Ana had huddled closer to Ofelia. She gazed outside the window, at the mountains that stroked the interminable sky with its luminescent eye. ¿Está ahí mi mamá? She had asked her aunt, hoping she’d lie.

  But Ofelia was honest. “No sé,” she had replied. And although Ofelia did not know where Ana’s mother was, she made it clear to Ana why her mother wasn’t here.

  “No se cuidó,” she had told her. Sara had only taken care of things when it was too late, she explained. It was too late, and that man found out. That’s why Sara wasn’t here.

  As she stood on that street in Queens, she could hear Ofelia’s voice, clear and crisp, even as the car horns blared behind her and the trains bulleted above her. She wasn’t going to cry, no matter how angry or how scared she got. She kept telling herself that it didn’t matter that she was alone; she had to focus only on the reasons why she was here in the first place. She had started something she had to finish, something that did not begin days or even months ago, but a shedding that had taken years. Do things for love, she could hear her mother saying, and for your own good, even if it hurts.

  There was no turning back for her, yet in that moment, in the loudest and loneliest of January days she’d known, she couldn’t move. She remembered the very first time she’d ever seen the inside of her body, when she lay flat on a bed and Lucho held her hand, gripping it tighter as a wand moved across her abdomen. The technician clicked on a gradient screen, describing what it was they were seeing, what it was she was hearing. It was so different from the distorted, bloodied pictures she’d seen on television and in newspaper ads; so different, she imagined, from what her mother had buried. It would become Victoria.

  The noise that surrounded her grew louder, but she couldn’t quiet the sound of her own thoughts. The noise only seemed to amplify the voices, all pouring in and seeping through her being, as if to cement her to the concrete.

  But it was late, she realized. Her children were waiting for her, and whatever needed to be done couldn’t be done at this moment anyway. Not right now. She had to move. And so she turned away, pulling her hood over her head, and hurried back toward the station, breathing fast, praying the voices might fade in the thudding of the rain.

  15

  ON THE TRAIN RIDE TO LEXAR TOWER, IT BECAME CLEAR WHAT IT WAS she needed to do. She’d known all along, but simply couldn’t bring herself to think it, let alone say it. She’d go back to the clinic tomorrow, she told herself. She’d figure out exactly what the process involved, how much money she needed, if she could really take care of it without any papers.

  It was late, however, and she was determined to set her mind to more pressing matters. There were still clothes that needed to be packed and labeled. There was homework that needed to be done. Dinner needed to be plated, although she hoped Valeria would have fed the children the leftovers by now. She stopped by the fruit market on her way to Lexar Tower, picking up bananas and clementines and empty boxes the salvadoreño had set aside for her. She’d forget about the day for now, focus on what needed to be done tonight. She could think about tomorrow later, perhaps over a cup of chamomile tea. She’d no doubt have another sleepless night.

  By the time she got to Lexar Tower, the drizzle had turned to snow. It dripped from the plastic bags in her hand, marking her path along the mauve carpeting as she walked toward unit 4D. She stopped short of the door as the shouts from inside the unit made her forget about the children’s dinner, the packing, and everything else that had happened that day. She looked at her watch: it was just after seven o’clock. Valeria’s muffled voice was incoherent. She never raised her voice at Michael; Ana concluded she must be yelling at Rubén. She jammed her hand inside her pocket, searching for her keys. She didn’t want her own children in the middle of an argument between their aunt and uncle. Or worse yet, become a target for their aunt.

  As she crept inside, Valeria’s voice grew distant, and Ana realized the argument had made its way into their bedroom. She tiptoed into the hallway. The couple’s bedroom door was shut, but she could still hear the muffled voices behind it.

  She set her bags, shoes, and coat down in the kitchen, then headed to Michael’s bedroom. The three children were huddled on the bed. Victoria and Michael were transfixed by a Mexican actress pacing in her soap opera living room on the television screen, while Pedro played with Michael’s game console.

  “Buenas noches,” she whispered, shutting the door behind her.

  “¡Mami!” Pedro jumped off the bed, hugging her and planting a wet kiss on her cheek.

  “Pedro, you know I don’t like it when you play with that,” she said as he ran back to his spot on the bed. “Why don’t we go out for a walk? It’s snowing outside.”

  Victoria pecked her on the lips. “No, Mami, it’s too cold,” she said, holding one of her loose braids in her hand. “Can you fix my hair?”

  Suddenly, the argument in the bedroom down the hall grew louder, then the floor reverberated as Rubén pounded against it. She waited until the couple passed the door, then opened it slightly and peeked outside. Rubén had his coat on; Valeria shouted at his back.

  “De verdad que estás loca,” he declared.

  “I’m not crazy!” Valeria shouted. Her usually coiffed hair sprung loose from her head. Her black mascara was smeared and her red mouth hung open, trembling. “And I’m not stupid either. I see how you look at her. I know something’s going on. I’m not an idiot!”

  “I can’t with you,” he said. He turned around, but she stepped in front of him.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, blocking him. “You’re going to see that other one, aren’t you?” She pummeled her fists into his coat. “That whore and your fucking bastard!”

  He held her arms. “Stop it!” he shouted. “¡Basta ya con tus estupideces! If you want the body shop, then take it. I can’t do this with you anymore.”

  “The body shop,” she scoffed. “What body shop, Rubén? The one you’ve run into the ground? The one I’m trying to keep open? And for what? For you to give money to your whore and that kid? So you can have another woman—”

  Ana h
eard a shuffling behind her, a reminder that she wasn’t the only one taking refuge in the bedroom. Victoria inched closer to her as she tried to peer through the door.

  “Mami, what’s happening?” she whispered as Ana closed the door.

  “Nothing, my love,” she said. “Go back to the bed.”

  “They get like that sometimes,” said Michael in English as he walked over to the television. “She yells a lot.” He raised the volume, then hopped back onto the bed.

  “Is she screaming at Tío?” asked Victoria, as she tried to reach for the door again. “I wanna see!”

  “That’s enough!” said Ana. “Stay here. I’m going to make sure your aunt is okay. Don’t leave the room until I come get you.”

  When she stepped into the hallway, she heard Rubén’s steady voice. “I’m tired, Valeria,” he said. “I’m tired of all this.” Keys fumbled and then, without another word, he let the door slam behind him, a ding ringing through the apartment.

  Ana was about to go back inside Michael’s room, then hesitated. Despite the loud cackling from the television, she could hear Valeria’s low, muffled cry. She’d never heard Valeria cry. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her shed a tear. The pain in her sob was so palpable that Ana’s own throat clogged. She couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t ignore her.

  She inched her way down the hallway, past the living room, then peeked into the foyer. Valeria was on the floor, her back against the wall, facing the shoe tray. Her arms were folded over her knees, and her face was buried in them. For the first time in the eight years Ana had known her, she wanted to hold her. Perhaps it was because she needed to let out her own sadness and needed comfort herself that she wanted to sit beside her on the floor and cry with her.

  She stepped closer, unsure whether to call out her name or just hold her. She remembered what it was that Lucho had said about dreams and nightmares: when you call out someone’s name, you pull their soul back from wherever it wandered to. She couldn’t leave Valeria alone, to linger wherever it was that she’d gone. It seemed too painful. So she whispered, “Valeria.”

  At the sound of her name, Valeria’s head jerked. Her eyes were swollen from her crying, but her voice was even and sharp. “So you finally show up?”

  Her tone made Ana stand still. “I picked up some groceries after work,” she explained. “Can I bring you some—”

  “Cállate,” she said, moving off the floor almost cat-like. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me.”

  Ana stepped slowly back into the living room, almost colliding with the recliner. She grabbed the back of it, her eyes never off Valeria, who looked ready to lunge. “What are you talking about?” she asked, ready to block her face if she needed to.

  “You and Rubén,” she said. Her black eyes were swollen, entangled in a web of thin red veins. “I know there’s something going on between you two.”

  “Is this because we had tea the other night?” she asked. “Valeria, that’s all it was. We were just having tea.”

  Her neck hollowed out, the vein on her temple beating as she tensed. “Be careful, Ana,” she warned. “I see you. I see the lie that you are. You’re nothing but an opportunist. You went from one brother to the next because you couldn’t go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. It’s too bad one of my cousins thought more with his dick than the other. And now you see Rubén and think, ‘Mira a este gordo. With a nice home and money. He’s looked at worse women than me, so why not me?’”

  “I don’t think that,” said Ana.

  “I think you do,” she said. “Except Rubén will never look at you that way. Want to know why? Porque eres corriente. You’re cheap. He has cheap tastes, I know. That Dominican is proof of that. But you’ve been passed around the family too many times. That’s a special kind of cheap, and not even Rubén will go for that kind.”

  Ana clenched her jaw as she struggled to stay calm. “So you see,” she managed, “I’m too . . . cheap . . . even for your husband. Then there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Nothing?” Valeria repeated, inching closer. “Absolutely nothing?” Vodka lingered on her breath. Her body rattled, then she went still before running into her bedroom.

  Ana caught her own breath as she paced the living room. Valeria and Rubén had just had a fight, she told herself. She and Lucho were leaving soon. Perhaps these were things Valeria needed to say because she wouldn’t have the power to say them once Ana was gone. But where was this coming from? The children didn’t need to see this. She needed Valeria to calm down. Lucho was gone for the night, but she thought about calling him. He’d know how to handle Valeria. Maybe he could talk some sense into her.

  Or maybe it was best to keep him out of this.

  Then Valeria was back in the room. Ana’s eyes darted to the box in her hand, the same white box with the fuchsia letters that Ana had hidden inside her closet. She clutched a ball of toilet paper in her other hand. Ana’s stomach contorted, pulling blood from every corner of her body.

  “Nothing going on, right? So you haven’t slept with him, right?” She held up the box. “Then what the hell is this? Tell me. And what the fuck are these?” She threw the toilet paper at Ana, and two of the hexagonal pills Betty gave her rebounded off the floor. “You don’t think I know what that is?” she said, pointing to the pills. “I’ve carried those in my suitcase before, Ana. I know exactly what they are!”

  Ana fell to the floor. “You went through my stuff?”

  “Why would you keep a pregnancy from Lucho?” she demanded. “Why, Ana, unless you didn’t want him to know you were pregnant?” Her voice cracked as she wept. “Why don’t you want him to know? Tell me.”

  Ana’s heart hammered against her chest.

  “You just want to get rid of it, that’s why.”

  She picked the pills off the floor, shaking her head.

  Valeria smacked the wall, and Ana’s body jumped. “Don’t pretend those aren’t yours!” shouted Valeria. “I found them in the bathroom, and they’re not mine. They’re not mine.”

  Ana trembled in disbelief. “This is between me and Lucho, Valeria. I don’t owe you any explanation.”

  “This is my house, you bitch! You live in my home. Who do you think pays for this place, Ana? Who pays for the food around here? For what your kids eat? I work like a mule to keep the shop open and for what? So you can sit with my husband at my table in my kitchen in the middle of the night and whisper shit in his ear.”

  “I was just giving him advice—”

  “Is that all you were doing?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Or are you already sleeping with him?”

  Ana held her hands in prayer by her lips. She took a deep breath as she looked into Valeria’s eyes. “There’s nothing going on between me and Rubén. There never was and there never will be. This,” she said, holding up the pregnancy test, “is between me and Lucho.”

  Valeria’s tear-filled eyes grew wide, fish-like. “So it’s Lucho’s?” she said. “It’s Lucho’s and you’re doing this?” She swallowed hard, a look of disgust distorting her face. “You’re worse than I thought, you know that?”

  Ana let out a breath, knitting her brows as she tried to keep from crying. She wouldn’t give Valeria the satisfaction. “I don’t care what you think anymore,” she said. “And now that you know this has nothing to do with you or your husband, you can leave it alone.” She marched toward Michael’s bedroom, and saw Victoria peer through the door and then quickly shut it.

  “You could have hurt the kids, you know?” shouted Valeria. “Leaving that shit on the floor like that. What if one of them ate it, then what? But you don’t care, do you? You only care about yourself. You’ve only ever cared about yourself. You dragged my cousin here, away from his family, his friends. For what? To cut meat off of dead animals and drive around títeres.” She choked back her tears. “And you come to my home and try to meddle in my marriage. You take over like this is yours when it’ll
never be yours.”

  The full weight of Ana’s body was on the doorknob. She steadied herself, and took a few breaths as Valeria’s words seeped through her skin. She’d never taken anything that wasn’t already hers. She wished she had some of Valeria’s things: her home, her education, her green card. She didn’t want whatever she had with Rubén, but there was something about Valeria’s relationship with Lucho that she did want. It was the one thing Ana truly envied about her, but she could never admit it, not to her.

  And so she straightened, and said, “I don’t want anything you have.” She leaned her forehead against the door. “The truth is . . .” she paused, simultaneously saddened and empowered by what she said next. “Te tengo lástima.”

  Valeria froze. “You can’t feel sorry for me,” she whispered. “You have no right to feel sorry for me.”

  Ana ignored her and pushed open Michael’s door. She shut it quickly behind her. Victoria and Pedro were on their feet, their eyes wide. “Mami, ¿qué pasó?” asked Pedro. “Why is Tía screaming?”

  “She’s fine, my love,” she said, setting a knee on the ground so they were at eye-level. She rubbed his arms. “Don’t worry. Go sit on the bed with Michael.”

  “But why is she screaming at you?” asked Victoria.