The Book of Unknown Americans(14)
DURING THE DAY, I kept myself busy by cleaning and watching television. I had found a Spanish-language channel that, if I angled the antenna just right, I could see through the static. I cooked lunch for myself—pork and beans, or chicken basted in onions and orange juice, or on days when I was feeling lazy, soup from a can—and sat at the table alone eating it. I got up afterwards and cleaned again. Once, I used the prepaid cell phone we had bought in a market in Pátzcuaro and called my parents, even though the phone was supposed to be reserved for emergencies only. We had called them just after we arrived to tell them we got here safely, but we hadn’t spoken again since. My mother shrieked when she heard my voice and I laughed at hearing my father in the background dashing to my mother in alarm, asking what was wrong. They wanted to know how we were doing, what it was like here, how Maribel was adjusting. I imagined the two of them crowded around the receiver in their small kitchen, the kitchen I had grown up eating in with its half-moon window over the sink and the clay rooster my mother kept on the counter next to her bean pot and a jelly jar filled with flowers. How far away it seemed. My mother brought me up to date on the latest gossip from town—Reyna Ortega finally had her baby and they’d been invited to the bautismo, a new assistant chef had started at Mistongo, two hogs had gotten loose from the Cotima farm—but hearing it all only made me feel more disconnected from Pátzcuaro, oddly disappointed to hear that life was going on even without us there.
In the two weeks since we’d been in the apartment, many of the neighbors—mostly the women—had stopped by to introduce themselves. Quisqueya Solís arrived with a platter of coconut cookies in her arms—besitos de coco, she told me—and when I invited her in, she walked through the apartment slowly, letting her gaze sweep over our few pieces of furniture, and then refused to sit when I offered a chair, explaining as she patted her fiery red hair that she had errands to run. Nelia Zafón knocked on the door and clasped one of my hands between hers, apologizing for taking so long to stop by and assuring me that everyone was happy to have us here. Ynez Mercado stood in the doorway and told me if there was anything we needed not to hesitate to ask. I explained that we had acquired some things along the way, but when she heard that Arturo, Maribel, and I were sharing one mattress, she insisted on bringing over an old sleeping bag she and her husband had. “It’s from José’s navy days,” she said. “It kept him safe, and it will keep whoever sleeps in it safe, too.” I smiled and said, “Thank you. That sounds perfect for Maribel.”
When no one came, I went out, determined to explore and acclimate myself to the town. A few times I went to the Laundromat—despite Celia’s warning, it was still the nearest one—and sat with my hands in my lap while the load ran, watching the clothes spin in the portholed dryers lined up along the back wall. People walked in and out—a brown-skinned man chewing a toothpick, a motorcyclist wearing a leather vest, a woman with two children—their baskets hoisted up against their stomachs, their clothes spilling over the sides like seaweed. I yearned for them to talk to me, especially anyone who looked as though they might speak Spanish. I readied myself to say hola if anyone so much as glanced my way, but day after day people walked by without acknowledging me in the least.
I walked to Gigante some afternoons and pulled mangoes and chiles from wooden crates, holding them to my nose, inhaling the scents of home. In the back, I stared at the fish and the lobsters in their giant glass tank and when the man behind the meat counter asked in Spanish if there was something he could get me—everything was recién matada, fresh, he assured me—I told him no. “Too expensive,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “We have a sale,” he said. “It’s only for beautiful women,” and I laughed in spite of myself.
And sometimes I went to the small church we had found, St. Thomas More Oratory, with its water-stained drop ceiling and its folding chairs in place of pews, and sat alone in the empty sanctuary, reciting the same prayers over and over, imploring God to listen. I know I’m not very important, I told Him. I know You have other things to worry about. But please forgive me for all that I’ve done. Please give me the strength to fix it. Please let her get better. And please let Arturo forgive me, too. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
ONE AFTERNOON I made chicharrones and carried them over to Celia’s apartment.
She clapped her hands together in delight when she saw me and motioned for me to come inside.
“These are for you,” I said, holding out a foil-covered plate.
She lifted a corner of the foil and sniffed. “Sabroso,” she said.
I loved how full her home felt, embroidered pillows on the couches, a curio stacked with milk glass bowls and recuerdos and folded tablecloths, red votives along the windowsills, spidery potted plants, woven rugs, unframed posters of Panamá beaches on the walls, a box of rinsed beer bottles on the floor, a small radio on top of the refrigerator, a plastic bag filled with garlic hanging from a doorknob, a collection of spices clustered on a platter on the counter. The great accumulation of things almost hid the cracks in the walls and the stains on the floor and the scratches that clouded the windows.
“Mi casa es tu casa,” Celia joked as I looked around. “Isn’t that what the Americans say?”
She poured cold, crackling Coca-Colas for both of us, and we sat on the couch, sipping them and taking small bites of the chicharrones. She looked just as she had the first time I met her: impeccably pulled together, with a face full of makeup, fuchsia lips, chestnut-brown chin-length hair curled at the ends and tucked neatly behind her ears, small gold earrings. So unlike most of my friends at home, who used nothing but soap on their faces and aloe on their hands and who kept their hair pulled into ponytails, like mine, or simply combed after it had been washed and left to air-dry.