My Beloved World Part 3

But for those who remained, what often happened next was the climax of the evening. The velada was something that no one ever talked about; adults would change the subject casually if a kid asked a question. The kitchen table would be cleared and moved into the living room. A couple of neighbors from downstairs would appear, joining the party quietly. My mother and t.i.ti Gloria would retire to the kitchen. Mami thought the whole business was silly and didn't want any part of it. t.i.ti Gloria was actually scared of the spirits.

The remaining kids-Nelson, Miriam, Eddie, Junior, and I-would be corralled in the bedroom and ordered to sleep. We knew that nothing would happen until the adults believed we were snoozing, and they were dead serious about this. Somehow they failed to reckon with the power of my curiosity, or how easily I could impose my will on the other kids. We all lay on the bed in watchful silence, perfectly still, waiting.

There was just enough light coming from the street and through the curtains on the glazed doors separating the bedroom from the living room to make the atmosphere cozy or spooky, depending on your mood. I could hear the fading rumble of the El train going by. I could hear by their breathing when Junior and Eddie both conked out.

As we lay there, my mind would rehea.r.s.e what Charlie had told us: how Abuelita and Gallego call the spirits to ask them questions; how they were not evil but they were powerful, and you had to develop your own powers if you wanted their help; how Abuelita's spirit guide was called Madamita Sandori and spoke with a Jamaican accent. His eyes got wide just talking about it. Charlie and Tony were Alfred's age, an in-between generation much older than the rest of the cousins. Charlie was adult enough that they let him sit at the table for the velada. Gallego, who was as skilled an espiritista as Abuelita, wanted to teach Charlie, but Charlie did not want that responsibility. It was one thing to have the gift, quite another to dedicate yourself and study it.

As strange as they were, Charlie's reports of the supernatural made sense. They weren't like Alfred's unbelievable stories, about the ghosts of dead jibaros riding horses around San German, intended only to scare us. I knew that Abuelita used her magic on the side of good. She used it for healing and for protecting the people she loved. Of course I understood that a person with a talent for engaging the spirit world could equally put it to work for darker ends-brujeria, or witchcraft. In Abuelita's own building one of the neighbors was known to put curses on people. I was forbidden to go near her door on penalty of getting smacked, which was something Abuelita had never done, so I knew she meant it.

Finally, the little bell would ring very softly. That was the cue. Nelson, Miriam, and I would climb off the bed and sneak up to the glazed doors. We'd stick our noses to the panes, peering through the tiny gaps at the edge of the curtain stretched and pinned over the gla.s.s. All I could see was the backs of chairs, the backs of heads, shoulders hunched by candlelight in a tight circle around the table. The bell would tinkle again, but except for that one clear note it was impossible to make out any sounds through the door.

I would carefully open the door a tiny crack, and we would huddle to listen. It was good to be close together, just in case. Gallego would always be the first to talk, and not in his usual voice. It didn't sound like Spanish, but it wasn't English either. It sounded like someone chewing words and swallowing them. Choking on them. Then the voice coming out of Gallego would moan louder until the table moved, seeming to rise off the floor, signaling the spirits' arrival. Miriam, trembling, would scoot back into bed fast. I wouldn't give up so easily. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't decipher the garbled words. After Nelson and I got tired of trying, we'd join Miriam in bed. Nelson would pull the blanket over his head and whisper in mock exasperation, "How do they expect us to sleep with a house full of spirits?" We'd all lie still for a minute. Then Nelson would pretend to snore very softly, and Miriam and I would start giggling.

EXCEPT FOR my very earliest memories, when we still lived on Kelly Street in the same tenement as Abuelita, my father hardly ever came along to the parties. It was easier that way. On the rare occasions when he did come-on Mother's Day or Thanksgiving-I was nervous, watching and waiting for the inevitable signs of trouble. Even in the midst of the wildest mayhem that Nelson and I could concoct, even sinking my teeth into Abuelita's irresistible crispy chicken, even when everyone else was lost in music and laughter, I would be watching my father from the corner of my eye. It would start almost imperceptibly. His fingers would slowly curl up into claws. Then his face gradually scrunched up, just slightly at first, until finally it was frozen into a contorted grimace.

I usually noticed the early signs before my mother did, and for an agonizing interval I watched them both, waiting for her to notice. As soon as she did, there would be sharp words. It was time to go home, while he could still walk. I didn't have a name for what was happening, didn't understand what alcoholic neuropathy was. I only knew that I saw my father receding from us, disappearing behind that twisted mask. It was like being trapped in a horror film, complete with his lumbering Frankenstein walk as he made his exit and the looming certainty that there would be screaming when we got home.

Best were the times when I didn't have to go home. Most Sat.u.r.day nights I stayed over at Abuelita's. When there was a party, Mami would take Junior home; Tio Benny and t.i.ti Carmen somehow managed to get Nelson, Miriam, and Eddie down the street and into their own beds.

When I woke up in the morning, I would have Abuelita all to myself. She would stand at the stove in the housecoat she always wore for an ap.r.o.n, her pockets full of cigarettes and tissues, making the thick, fluffy pancakes she knew I loved. Those mornings were heaven. When Mami came to take me home later, I would kiss Abuelita good-bye. "Bendicion, Abuelita." She would hug me and say without fail every time we parted, "Que Dios te bendiga, te favorezca y te libre de todo mal y peligro." May G.o.d bless you, favor you, and deliver you from all evil and danger. Just her saying it made it so.

CHAPTER Three

WITH THE EXCEPTION of my cousin Nelson, who was in a category of his own, Gilmar was my best friend in elementary school. To tell the truth, he was my only real friend who wasn't a cousin. He lived in the Bronxdale projects too, in the building across from ours, and we played together outside almost every day.

We were lying down in the concrete pipes next to the far playground, our favorite hiding place, when he told me the news. His parents-Gilbert and Margaret, who'd each given him a bit of their names-had decided to move to California. They had palm trees in California, he told me, and the weather was always sunny. I had seen palm trees when I visited Puerto Rico, but beyond that I had no mental picture of California. Still, I could imagine what having to leave must have felt like to Gilmar: not seeing our corner of the world and all the people in it anymore, maybe ever.

"Gilmar, you have to say good-bye to everybody. Everybody! Come on, I'll do it with you."

The good-bye tour on which I accompanied Gilmar that day was a snapshot of our life in the projects. Pops was the first person we both thought of. We scrambled out of the pipe and ran to the gray truck he kept parked on the service road off Bruckner Boulevard. Every day when my father got home from work, he would give us each a penny, and we would run over to Pops's truck to buy candy. On Fridays we got a dime, because it was payday.

Pops was surprised to see us so early that day; Gilmar explained that he was moving to California. Pops said he was sad to see Gilmar go, and they shook hands. Then he let us each choose a candy and said we didn't have to pay.

We went to Louie's building next and knocked on his door. Louie lived with his grandmother because his parents had died in a car accident. It was a story that I'd only heard in neighbors' whispers, but it seemed to be confirmed by the fact that his grandmother always wore black. She was Jewish, but I surmised that they had the same custom we did, of wearing black for el luto when people die. Louie attended Hebrew school and didn't play much with the other kids in the projects, but Gilmar and I played with him because I liked his grandmother. She invited us in that day, but we only stayed for a minute, because we also had to say good-bye to another grandmother in the next building over.

Mrs. Beverly also had a grandson living with her, in this case because his mother had problems. Jimmy might have had something wrong with him too; it was hard to say. Maybe he was just different, or a little slow; anyway, it was clear to me that he was more than the typical burden an elderly woman might bear caring for a young boy, and that gave Mrs. Beverly a heroic aura in my eyes, especially since she also held down an office job. Sometimes my mother and I would run into her on the street and stop to chat. She always wore a fur coat even when the weather was mild, and I thought she was very elegant. Mami explained to me that her coat was probably the only precious thing she owned and that's why it was important to her. I could see that it gave her pleasure to wear it.

Mrs. Beverly wasn't expecting Gilmar and me at the door, of course, and when he explained about California and said good-bye, she almost cried. I've always thought grandmothers who take care of kids are special.

In the building kitty-corner from ours was Ana, my mother's best friend, who kept an eye on Junior and me after school until Papi got home. Ana's husband, Moncho, and her daughter, Chiqui, were both home. Junior was there, too. That was no surprise. He worshipped Moncho and followed him everywhere, even to take out the garbage. Ana called Junior Moncho's rabo de conejo, his rabbit tail. Ana's next-door neighbors, Irma and Gilbert, heard the commotion, so of course they came over to see what they were missing. It became almost a party as Gilmar said good-bye to everyone.

We decided to walk over to Blessed Sacrament next, to say good-bye to the nuns. Junior wanted to come with us, but Moncho asked him to stay and help him cook an octopus, which he had in a bucket. He showed it to us, all slimy arms and suckers. Junior's eyes widened, his mouth was hanging. "Mami doesn't cook that," he said. Moncho was a merchant marine who brought his kids exotic souvenirs from far-off lands. I imagined he knew all about the depths of the ocean, as well as how to cook things we'd never even heard of. He certainly knew how to keep Junior occupied, and we continued our good-bye tour unenc.u.mbered.

When we reached Blessed Sacrament, the school yard was empty and silent, abandoned for summer vacation, but the office door was open. Sister Marita Joseph and Sister Elizabeth Regina both looked up.

"h.e.l.lo, Sonia. h.e.l.lo, Gilmar. Is everything all right? What brings you here on a Sat.u.r.day?" Sister Marita Joseph looked apprehensive. When Gilmar explained that he was moving to California and saying good-bye to everyone, she asked, "And you, Sonia? Are you accompanying Gilmar on his good-byes?" I just nodded. I might have been a compulsive talker at home, but at school I spoke when spoken to. "That's very unusual," she said, looking at me strangely. I thought she approved, but I was not 100 percent sure. Why would it be unusual to keep a friend company? It had practically been my idea, even if it was Gilmar who was leaving.

Sister Elizabeth was our teacher that year. The best I could say about third grade was that it was a more or less continuous state of dread. As hard as I tried to keep a low profile, trouble seemed to find me. At Christmas, for instance, all the students brought presents for their teachers. That year my father had chosen my present for Sister Elizabeth. He'd never once come to school, had never even met her, but he chose the present, which he proudly handed to me in a long box, already gift wrapped by him. He wouldn't even tell me what it was.

Sister Elizabeth opened her presents in front of the cla.s.s; there was soap, candy, a zippered prayer book, a box of stationery, and then there was Papi's present. Inside the box was a ruler. And not an ordinary wooden or plastic ruler, but a ruler made of some indestructible metal alloy no doubt invented to build rocket ships or bank safes-the Ruler of the Future, likely fabricated at the factory where Papi worked.

The sight of it was like a punch in the stomach, and actual ones came my way at recess, as I had predicted from the daggers of hatred being shot from every pair of eyes in the cla.s.s. Pleading ignorance won me no mercy, and I cried all the way home. Fortunately, the hatred eventually died down, because the ruler was never to reappear, either for measurement or for punishment. Sister Elizabeth had her merciful side, too.

Discipline was what made Catholic school a good investment in my mother's eyes, worth the heavy burden of the tuition fees. The Bronx public schools of the 1960s were not yet as severely troubled as they would become, though they struggled with de facto segregation and a chronic lack of funding and offered a rough environment compared with the parochial alternative. Still, none of my uncles and aunts chose the sacrifice of sending my cousins to Catholic schools.

Among the black-bonneted nuns who managed cla.s.srooms of forty or fifty kids in my school, discipline was virtually an eighth sacrament. It might mean my copying a prayer in my clumsy cursive however many times it took to get every loop perfect or submitting to slaps and blows for some infraction. I often stewed with righteous anger over physical punishments-my own or others'-especially when they seemed disproportionate to the crime. I accepted what the Sisters taught in religion cla.s.s: that G.o.d is loving, merciful, charitable, forgiving. That message didn't jibe with adults smacking kids. I remember watching as Sister continued to slap one boy who'd disrupted cla.s.s even after the braces in his mouth drew blood that ran down his chin. Many of my cla.s.smates have happier memories of Blessed Sacrament, and in time I would find my own satisfaction in the cla.s.sroom. My first years there, however, I met with little warmth. In part, it was that the nuns were critical of working mothers, and their disapproval was felt by latchkey kids. The irony of course was that my mother wouldn't have been working such long hours if not to pay for that education she believed was the key to any aspirations for a better life.

AFTER WE'D FINISHED saying good-bye to everyone we could think of, Gilmar and I went back to say our good-byes to the concrete pipe and to each other. Lying inside, all we could see was the circle of bright sky. Our voices bounced around in the hollow of the concrete. We shouted and stretched the words out long and loud to get a really good echo.

"Good-bye, Gilmar!"

"Good-bye, Sonia!"

"I'll miss you!"

"Write me a letter!"

"Write me a letter, too!"

"From the palm trees?"

"From the palm trees!"

I WOULDN'T GET to see California until my second summer at law school. I remember driving the freeways with palm trees in view and thinking of Gilmar, among other friends I've lost touch with who may never know what memories they've left behind in my keeping.

CHAPTER Four

THIS IS my mother, Sonia, your bisabuela," said Abuelita. "Give her a kiss." The cheek that was my target was wrinkled and translucent, so fragile that I feared my lips would bruise it. Her eyes were blank. As I leaned in to kiss her, she seemed to pull away, but it was just the rocking chair easing back from my weight. There was no spark of awareness or curiosity. I don't know if I was more disturbed by this absence that gave no hint of how I should relate to her or by the shadow of Abuelita's features that I could see arranged inanimately on her mother's face.

Bisabuela Ciriata was in her nineties, though she looked two hundred years old to me. Her rocking chair of carved wood and woven cane tilted between this world and another that was beyond imagining, wafting scents of talc.u.m and medicinal tea, auras of lace-edged santos whose eyes rolled up to a heaven too close for comfort.

We were in an area of San Juan called Santurce. Abuelita visited with her sisters and brothers while I played on the balcony or in half-hidden gardens. There had been ten of them all together, she said (Diezilita, Piatrina, Angelina, Eloys ...), but I couldn't keep track or tell sisters and brothers from cousins and uncles and aunts. We were in a city, but it seemed to teeter on the edge of dissolving into nature. Vines snaked under iron fences and up bal.u.s.trades. Chickens scrabbled under hibiscus bushes and bright yellow canario flowers. I watched the afternoon rains pour down like a curtain enclosing the balcony, rutting the street below with muddy streams, pounding on the corrugated roofs and wooden walls until Abuelita called me inside to a treat for merienda-maybe a tembleque, a gelatin made of coconut milk and sweet condensed milk, or fruits that I'd never seen in New York: guavas with their sharp perfume, quenepas with pits as big as grapes and a thin layer of featherlight flesh that puckered your mouth when you sucked on it, and mangoes of a melting sweetness unlike any I had tasted back home. At night, I slept with Abuelita in a room crowded with sisters and cousins, and the mosquito nets transformed our bed into a cozy hideaway among gauzy clouds. The traffic noise gave way to the rickety rhythm of the ceiling fan and coquis-the tiny musical frogs that are a symbol of the island-chirping in the shadows as I drifted to sleep.

On my earliest trips to Puerto Rico, when I was small-including my first as a toddler-it was just Abuelita and I. My mother was determined that she would never, ever go back to the island, but then she changed her mind. Some of the best summer vacations I remember were traveling with my mother and Junior to Mayaguez to visit her family.