How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water (3)

ángela talks about those apartments like they’re the man who got away. From the day she arrived to this country she was determined to leave Washington Heights. To do this she counted her money and calculated how many years it would take for the down payment. And when she met Hernán, she told him immediately the plan. She said, If you want to be with me, saving is a family project.

Every day for breakfast, they talk about their goal: a down payment for the house. With a yard. A room for each child. A porch for the swing. She writes the progress on the refrigerator. Every time they save $1,000, they buy a small cake from Carrot Top and celebrate with the children. That way, the children learn that dreams only become real with hard work and saving money.

Hernán and ángela save $50 a week. That’s $200 a month. And that’s $2,400 a year. In ten years, they saved $24,000. And we think ten years is a long time. But look at me, I worked in that factory for twenty-five years. And my son, Fernando, has been gone for ten.

Why do you say sorry? Ay, no. My son is not dead. He abandoned me. Maybe one day, si Dios quiere, I will tell you about Fernando.

But what I was saying is that time passes in a blink. If I would’ve saved even $10 a week maybe I wouldn’t be in so much trouble now. The little bit I put aside I sent to the banks in Santo Domingo. I converted my dollars to pesos because the interest was higher. Yes, of course you shake your head. It was stupid! What a mistake. Overnight, the change rate went from RD$13 for $1 to RD$45 for $1.



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Talking to you makes me remember the days ángela and I got along. Now I can’t remember the last time we were in the same room without her getting angry with me.

How old is she? ángela is fifteen years younger than me. She’s my sister and we look the same age, but she could be my daughter. Maybe that’s why, like my son, Fernando, she thinks everything I say is wrong. For example, tell me you—was I wrong to say that we should relax Yadiresela’s hair? That’s my niece. It looks like a broom when I brush it. ángela gave me a lecture about chemicals and the damage it will make. She told me not to brush the children’s hair. But how do I get out the knots? The fury she puts on me could burn down a forest. So now I say nothing.

Do you have a sister? Oh good, so you understand. Sisters don’t always get along. But even when we fight, we eat dinner together, like a religion. Always we are two apartments but one house.

She makes me pudín de pan. I tell her it’s too sweet and then everything is OK. Food, I tell you, fixes things.



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Yes, yes, I know. I am here to talk about getting a job.

But my point is I know how to save money too. When I was able to make a little extra, I saved. And when times were good, I always made extra, like in the winters when I did mandaos for La Vieja Caridad. Back then I helped her a little, now I help her every day, especially after she fell on the steps in front of our building because the super let the snow turn to ice. But listen to this, she didn’t even think to sue the building. We all told her to do it. But she said, I’m my father’s daughter, and then sang, Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma. Do you know that song? Yes? It’s a good one.

La Vieja Caridad calls me and says, Cara, can you do me a favor and pick up something in the store? I would do it with pleasure for nothing, but she insists on giving me her money. She is good to give me her money because, without her even asking, I know what she needs. With the years we’ve known each other, she is like family. I clean her apartment. And not only on the tippy-tippy of things like the dust on the TV and the shelves. No. I get on my hands and knees and scrub the floors and clean the faucet and the drains. I organize her refrigerator so she can find everything easy. I put in order her forks, knives, and the spoons in the drawers. You know, small things that make a big difference in the life.

Toma, La Vieja Caridad says, and puts $20 in my hand.

No, no, I say to her. I don’t need the money.

Take, take, we all need.

She folds my fingers around the money like I do with children. I tell you, her skin, so thin and soft, like she’s never worked hard in her life.

We do the dance, you know?

She never had children. You don’t find that strange? No husband, no children. All her life, she lived with her childhood friend. When they walked together, they held on to each other. They fought in public like husband and wife. But no one knows for sure because until her friend died, I had never stepped into that apartment. It’s not my business. But it’s strange, right?

You don’t think so? Ha!

Her companion now is the dog. Ay, how she loves that Fidel! Feeds him comida orgánica, you hear me? Home-cooked food delivered frozen. If not, the dog makes poop in the wrong place. But the dog is tiny, the size of my purse, so it’s no problem to clean the mess. But I prefer to take him outside to make poop.

Yes, I walk the dog. In the morning and in the night—even when it rains and when it snows—because to me it’s not hygienic to poop in the house. I also don’t want no dog stinking the apartment. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes to walk the dog. Between us, when I walk him, it feels nice to feel the fresh air hit my face.



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What did you say? Yes, of course I want to find a job, that’s why I’m here!

Please write that down: Cara Romero wants to work.