Drown Page 2

  What are we waiting for? I said. That one had air-conditioning.

  I want a younger cobrador, Rafa said, still looking down the road. I went to the counter and tapped my finger on the glass case. Chicho handed me a pastelito and after putting it in my pocket, I slid him a coin. Business is business, Chicho announced but my brother didn’t bother to look. He was flagging down the next autobus.

  Get to the back, Rafa said. He framed himself in the main door, his toes out in the air, his hands curled up on the top lip of the door. He stood next to the cobrador, who was a year or two younger than he was. This boy tried to get Rafa to sit down but Rafa shook his head with that not-a-chance grin of his and before there could be an argument the driver shifted into gear, blasting the radio. La chica de la novela was still on the charts. Can you believe that? the man next to me said. They play that vaina a hundred times a day.

  I lowered myself stiffly into my seat but the pastelito had already put a grease stain on my pants. Coño, I said and took out the pastelito and finished it in four bites. Rafa wasn’t watching. Each time the autobus stopped he was hopping down and helping people bring on their packages. When a row filled he lowered the swing-down center seat for whoever was next. The cobrador, a thin boy with an Afro, was trying to keep up with him and the driver was too busy with his radio to notice what was happening. Two people paid Rafa—all of which Rafa gave to the cobrador, who was himself busy making change.

  You have to watch out for stains like that, the man next to me said. He had big teeth and wore a clean fedora. His arms were ropy with muscles.

  These things are too greasy, I said.

  Let me help. He spit in his fingers and started to rub at the stain but then he was pinching at the tip of my pinga through the fabric of my shorts. He was smiling. I shoved him against his seat. He looked to see if anybody had noticed.

  You pato, I said.

  The man kept smiling.

  You low-down pinga-sucking pato, I said. The man squeezed my bicep, quietly, hard, the way my friends would sneak me in church. I whimpered.

  You should watch your mouth, he said.

  I got up and went over to the door. Rafa slapped the roof and as the driver slowed the cobrador said, You two haven’t paid.

  Sure we did, Rafa said, pushing me down into the dusty street. I gave you the money for those two people there and I gave you our fare too. His voice was tired, as if he got into these discussions all the time.

  No you didn’t.

  Fuck you I did. You got the fares. Why don’t you count and see?

  Don’t even try it. The cobrador put his hand on Rafa but Rafa wasn’t having it. He yelled up to the driver, Tell your boy to learn how to count.

  We crossed the road and went down into a field of guineo; the cobrador was shouting after us and we stayed in the field until we heard the driver say, Forget them.

  Rafa took off his shirt and fanned himself and that’s when I started to cry.

  He watched for a moment. You, he said, are a pussy.

  I’m sorry.

  What the hell’s the matter with you? We didn’t do anything wrong.

  I’ll be OK in a second. I sawed my forearm across my nose.

  He took a look around, drawing in the lay of the land. If you can’t stop crying, I’ll leave you. He headed towards a shack that was rusting in the sun.

  I watched him disappear. From the shack you could hear voices, as bright as chrome. Columns of ants had found a pile of meatless chicken bones at my feet and were industriously carting away the crumbling marrow. I could have gone home, which was what I usually did when Rafa acted up, but we were far—eight, nine miles away.

  I caught up with him beyond the shack. We walked about a mile; my head felt cold and hollow.

  Are you done?

  Yes, I said.

  Are you always going to be a pussy?

  I wouldn’t have raised my head if God himself had appeared in the sky and pissed down on us.

  Rafa spit. You have to get tougher. Crying all the time. Do you think our papi’s crying? Do you think that’s what he’s been doing the last six years? He turned from me. His feet were crackling through the weeds, breaking stems.

  Rafa stopped a schoolboy in a blue and tan uniform, who pointed us down a road. Rafa spoke to a young mother, whose baby was hacking like a miner. A little farther, she said and when he smiled she looked the other way. We went too far and a farmer with a machete showed us the easiest loop back. Rafa stopped when he saw Ysrael standing in the center of a field. He was flying a kite and despite the string he seemed almost unconnected to the distant wedge of black that finned back and forth in the sky. Here we go, Rafa said. I was embarrassed. What the hell were we supposed to do?

  Stay close, he said. And get ready to run. He passed me his knife, then trotted down towards the field.

  4.

  The summer before, I pegged Ysrael with a rock and the way it bounced off his back I knew I’d clocked a shoulder blade.

  You did it! You fucking did it! the other boys yelled.

  He’d been running from us and he arched in pain and one of the other boys nearly caught him but he recovered and took off. He’s faster than a mongoose, someone said, but in truth he was even faster than that. We laughed and went back to our baseball games and forgot him until he came to town again and then we dropped what we were doing and chased him. Show us your face, we cried. Let’s see it just once.

  5.

  He was about a foot bigger than either of us and looked like he’d been fattened on that supergrain the farmers around Ocoa were giving their stock, a new product which kept my tío up at night, muttering jealously, Proxyl Feed 9, Proxyl Feed 9. Ysrael’s sandals were of stiff leather and his clothes were Northamerican. I looked over at Rafa but my brother seemed unperturbed.

  Listen up, Rafa said. My hermanito’s not feeling too well. Can you show us where a colmado is? I want to get him a drink.

  There’s a faucet up the road, Ysrael said. His voice was odd and full of spit. His mask was handsewn from thin blue cotton fabric and you couldn’t help but see the scar tissue that circled his left eye, a red waxy crescent, and the saliva that trickled down his neck.

  We’re not from around here. We can’t drink the water.

  Ysrael spooled in his string. The kite wheeled but he righted it with a yank.

  Not bad, I said.

  We can’t drink the water around here. It would kill us. And he’s already sick.

  I smiled and tried to act sick, which wasn’t too difficult; I was covered with dust. I saw Ysraellooking us over.

  The water here is probably better than up in the mountains, he said.

  Help us out, Rafa said in a low voice.

  Ysrael pointed down a path. Just go that way, you’ll find it.

  Are you sure?

  I’ve lived here all my life.

  I could hear the plastic kite flapping in the wind; the string was coming in fast. Rafa huffed and started on his way. We made a long circle and by then Ysrael had his kite in hand—the kite was no handmade local job. It had been manufactured abroad.

  We couldn’t find it, Rafa said.

  How stupid are you?

  Where did you get that? I asked.

  Nueva York, he said. From my father.

  No shit! Our father’s there too! I shouted.

  I looked at Rafa, who, for an instant, frowned. Our father only sent us letters and an occasional shirt or pair of jeans at Christmas.

  What the hell are you wearing that mask for anyway? Rafa asked.

  I’m sick, Ysrael said.

  It must be hot.

  Not for me.

  Don’t you take it off?

  Not until I get better. I’m going to have an operation soon.

  You better watch out for that, Rafa said. Those doctors will kill you faster than the Guardia.

  They’re American doctors.

  Rafa sniggered. You’re lying.

  I saw them last spring. Th
ey want me to go next year.

  They’re lying to you. They probably just felt sorry.

  Do you want me to show you where the colmado is or not?

  Sure.

  Follow me, he said, wiping the spit on his neck. At the colmado he stood off while Rafa bought me the cola. The owner was playing dominos with the beer deliveryman and didn’t bother to look up, though he put a hand in the air for Ysrael. He had that lean look of every colmado owner I’d ever met. On the way back to the road I left the bottle with Rafa to finish and caught up with Ysrael, who was ahead of us. Are you still into wrestling? I asked.

  He turned to me and something rippled under the mask. How did you know that?

  I heard, I said. Do they have wrestling in the States?

  I hope so.

  Are you a wrestler?

  I’m a great wrestler. I almost went to fight in the Capital.

  My brother laughed, swigging on the bottle.

  You want to try it, pendejo?

  Not right now.

  I didn’t think so.

  I tapped his arm. The planes haven’t dropped anything this year.

  It’s still too early. The first Sunday of August is when it starts.

  How do you know?

  I’m from around here, he said. The mask twitched. I realized he was smiling and then my brother brought his arm around and smashed the bottle on top of his head. It exploded, the thick bottom spinning away like a crazed eyeglass and I said, Holy fucking shit. Ysrael stumbled once and slammed into a fence post that had been sunk into the side of the road. Glass crumbled off his mask. He spun towards me, then fell down on his stomach. Rafa kicked him in the side. Ysrael seemed not to notice. He had his hands flat in the dirt and was concentrating on pushing himself up. Roll him on his back, my brother said and we did, pushing like crazy. Rafa took off his mask and threw it spinning into the grass.

  His left ear was a nub and you could see the thick veined slab of his tongue through a hole in his cheek. He had no lips. His head was tipped back and his eyes had gone white and the cords were out on his neck. He’d been an infant when the pig had come into the house. The damage looked old but I still jumped back and said, Please Rafa, let’s go! Rafa crouched and using only two of his fingers, turned Ysrael’s head from side to side.

  6.

  We went back to the colmado where the owner and the deliveryman were now arguing, the dominos chattering under their hands. We kept walking and after one hour, maybe two, we saw an autobus. We boarded and went right to the back. Rafa crossed his arms and watched the fields and roadside shacks scroll past, the dust and smoke and people almost frozen by our speed.

  Ysrael will be OK, I said.

  Don’t bet on it.

  They’re going to fix him.

  A muscle fluttered between his jawbone and his ear. Yunior, he said tiredly. They aren’t going to do shit to him.

  How do you know?

  I know, he said.

  I put my feet on the back of the chair in front of me, pushing on an old lady, who looked back at me. She was wearing a baseball cap and one of her eyes was milky. The autobus was heading for Ocoa, not for home.

  Rafa signaled for a stop. Get ready to run, he whispered.

  I said, OK.

  FIESTA, 1980

  Mami’s youngest sister—my tía Yrma—finally made it to the United States that year. She and tío Miguel got themselves an apartment in the Bronx, off the Grand Concourse and everybody decided that we should have a party. Actually, my pops decided, but everybody—meaning Mami, tía Yrma, tío Miguel and their neighbors—thought it a dope idea. On the afternoon of the party Papi came back from work around six. Right on time. We were all dressed by then, which was a smart move on our part. If Papi had walked in and caught us lounging around in our underwear, he would have kicked our asses something serious.

  He didn’t say nothing to nobody, not even my moms. He just pushed past her, held up his hand when she tried to talk to him and headed right into the shower. Rafa gave me the look and I gave it back to him; we both knew Papi had been with that Puerto Rican woman he was seeing and wanted to wash off the evidence quick.

  Mami looked really nice that day. The United States had finally put some meat on her; she was no longer the same flaca who had arrived here three years before. She had cut her hair short and was wearing tons of cheap-ass jewelry which on her didn’t look too lousy. She smelled like herself, like the wind through a tree. She always waited until the last possible minute to put on her perfume because she said it was a waste to spray it on early and then have to spray it on again once you got to the party.

  We—meaning me, my brother, my little sister and Mami—waited for Papi to finish his shower. Mami seemed anxious, in her usual dispassionate way. Her hands adjusted the buckle of her belt over and over again. That morning, when she had gotten us up for school, Mami told us that she wanted to have a good time at the party. I want to dance, she said, but now, with the sun sliding out of the sky like spit off a wall, she seemed ready just to get this over with.

  Rafa didn’t much want to go to no party either, and me, I never wanted to go anywhere with my family. There was a baseball game in the parking lot outside and we could hear our friends, yelling, Hey, and, Cabrón, to one another. We heard the pop of a ball as it sailed over the cars, the clatter of an aluminum bat dropping to the concrete. Not that me or Rafa loved baseball; we just liked playing with the local kids, thrashing them at anything they were doing. By the sounds of the shouting, we both knew the game was close, either of us could have made a difference. Rafa frowned and when I frowned back, he put up his fist. Don’t you mirror me, he said.

  Don’t you mirror me, I said.

  He punched me—I would have hit him back but Papi marched into the living room with his towel around his waist, looking a lot smaller than he did when he was dressed. He had a few strands of hair around his nipples and a surly closed-mouth expression, like maybe he’d scalded his tongue or something.

  Have they eaten? he asked Mami.

  She nodded. I made you something.

  You didn’t let him eat, did you?

  Ay, Dios mío, she said, letting her arms fall to her side.

  Ay, Dios mío is right, Papi said.

  I was never supposed to eat before our car trips, but earlier, when she had put out our dinner of rice, beans and sweet platanos, guess who had been the first one to clean his plate? You couldn’t blame Mami really, she had been busy—cooking, getting ready, dressing my sister Madai. I should have reminded her not to feed me but I wasn’t that sort of son.

  Papi turned to me. Coño, muchacho, why did you eat?

  Rafa had already started inching away from me. I’d once told him I considered him a low-down chicken-shit for moving out of the way every time Papi was going to smack me.

  Collateral damage, Rafa had said. Ever heard of it?

  No.

  Look it up.

  Chickenshit or not, I didn’t dare glance at him. Papi was old-fashioned; he expected your undivided attention when you were getting your ass whupped. You couldn’t look him in the eye either—that wasn’t allowed. Better to stare at his belly button, which was perfectly round and immaculate. Papi pulled me to my feet by my ear.

  If you throw up—

  I won’t, I cried, tears in my eyes, more out of reflex than pain.

  Ya, Ramón, ya. It’s not his fault, Mami said.

  They’ve known about this party forever. How did they think we were going to get there? Fly?

  He finally let go of my ear and I sat back down. Madai was too scared to open her eyes. Being around Papi all her life had turned her into a major-league wuss. Anytime Papi raised his voice her lip would start trembling, like some specialized tuning fork. Rafa pretended that he had knuckles to crack and when I shoved him, he gave me a Don’t start look. But even that little bit of recognition made me feel better.

  I was the one who was always in trouble with my dad. It was like my God-given dut
y to piss him off, to do everything the way he hated. Our fights didn’t bother me too much. I still wanted him to love me, something that never seemed strange or contradictory until years later, when he was out of our lives.

  By the time my ear stopped stinging Papi was dressed and Mami was crossing each one of us, solemnly, like we were heading off to war. We said, in turn, Bendición, Mami, and she poked us in our five cardinal spots while saying, Que Dios te bendiga.

  This was how all our trips began, the words that followed me every time I left the house.

  None of us spoke until we were inside Papi’s Volkswagen van. Brand-new, lime-green and bought to impress. Oh, we were impressed, but me, every time I was in that VW and Papi went above twenty miles an hour, I vomited. I’d never had trouble with cars before—that van was like my curse. Mami suspected it was the upholstery. In her mind, American things—appliances, mouthwash, funny-looking upholstery—all seemed to have an intrinsic badness about them. Papi was careful about taking me anywhere in the VW, but when he had to, I rode up front in Mami’s usual seat so I could throw up out a window.

  ¿Cómo te sientes? Mami asked over my shoulder when Papi pulled onto the turnpike. She had her hand on the base of my neck. One thing about Mami, her palms never sweated.

  I’m OK, I said, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I definitely didn’t want to trade glances with Papi. He had this one look, furious and sharp, that always left me feeling bruised.

  Toma. Mami handed me four mentas. She had thrown three out her window at the beginning of our trip, an offering to Eshú; the rest were for me.

  I took one and sucked it slowly, my tongue knocking it up against my teeth. We passed Newark Airport without any incident. If Madai had been awake she would have cried because the planes flew so close to the cars.

  How’s he feeling? Papi asked.

  Fine, I said. I glanced back at Rafa and he pretended like he didn’t see me. That was the way he was, at school and at home. When I was in trouble, he didn’t know me. Madai was solidly asleep, but even with her face all wrinkled up and drooling she looked cute, her hair all separated into twists.