The Book of Unknown Americans(50)

Now, twenty years later, I still run the Parish Theater. We do just one production a week. I act in them sometimes, but the real pleasure for me now is giving roles to other actors, watching them perform, especially the young ones. I was like them once. I can relate. And now I think, Okay, this is what it is. My life. This country. It took me so long to get started, and I never became a big star, but now I feel proud when I go back to Puerto Rico to visit my old neighborhood in Caguas because in a certain way, I did make it, after all.

A few months ago I met a man who came to the theater. He’s younger than me, a gringo, an attorney, so young and handsome. ?Cielos! We have almost nothing in common, but somehow we’re a good fit with each other. He makes me laugh. How can I explain it? He has a spirit. I’m fifty-three years old with wrinkles on my hands. I’ve never been married in my life, and now this. You never know what life will bring. Dios sabe lo que hace. But that’s what makes it so exciting, no? That’s what keeps me going. The possibility.





Alma


One day near the end of January, Maribel and I were sitting at the table, going over her schoolwork, when, three hours before he usually got home, Arturo walked through the front door, slammed it behind him, and marched down the hall.

Maribel looked at me, confused.

“I’ll be back,” I told her.

I found Arturo in the bathroom, stripping off his clothes, tiny crumbs of mushroom soil raining down to the floor. He turned on the water and, without waiting for it to warm, climbed into the shower, burying his head under the spray.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

I rested my hands on the rim of the sink, feeling the cool, smooth porcelain, and stared at myself in the mirror. For a second, fear got the best of me. What was it? Something with the boy?

“Did something happen?” I asked, trying to conceal the anxiety in my voice.

Arturo pulled his head out from under the water, heavy droplets streaming down his face, dripping off the tips of his mustache. “You really want to know?” he said. “I was fired.”

“Fired?”

“Yes. Because I changed my shift. The morning when I stayed home for Maribel’s first day of school.”

“But that was months ago!”

Arturo turned off the water, twisting the handle so hard I thought he would break it. I watched as he picked up his towel from the floor and rubbed himself dry, the hair matted on his barrel chest, his limp penis hanging between his stocky legs.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He snapped the towel against the floor. “?Chingao!”

“It has to be a mistake. They went through all the trouble of getting you a visa. Why would they do that and then turn around and fire you?”

“Because they’re cowards.”

“What does that mean?”

“The only reason they sponsored our visas was because the government was pressuring them to hire workers with papers. But now everyone’s saying it was all talk.”

“But why does that mean they have to fire you? What are they going to do? Get rid of everyone they already have and hire people without papers now?”

“Probably. It saves them money that way.”

I thought, I could call his boss and explain the situation. Maybe if he knew about Maribel, he would have some sympathy. Maybe if he knew what it meant to us. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. We had followed the rules. We had said to ourselves, We won’t be like everyone else, those people who packed up and went north without waiting first for the proper authorization. We were no less desperate than them. We understood, just as they did, how badly a person could want a thing—money, or peace of mind, or a better education for their injured daughter, or just a chance, a chance! at this thing called life. But we would be different, we said. We would do it the right way. So we had filled out the papers and waited for nearly a year before they let us come. We had waited even though it would have been so much easier not to wait. And for what?

Arturo finished drying himself in silence.

“I worked hard,” he said after a long time.

“I know.”

“I did what I thought—”

“I know,” I said.

We were both quiet for a moment. “Maybe I could look for a job?” I suggested.

“No. Our visas are only for me to work. I have thirty days. If I can find something within thirty days, then we’ll stay in status. It can be anything. Just a paycheck and our visas will be good.”

I reached toward him, but he stepped back, tense, locked in his thoughts.

“You’ll find something,” I said.


SO DURING THE DAY, every day, Arturo looked for work. He dressed in his church clothes—black pants and a button-down shirt, a brown belt, his cowboy boots—and walked into store after store, asking for applications. People laughed in his face. They told him, “Haven’t you heard that the economy’s in the shitter? We can’t get rid of workers fast enough.” They told him, “Crawl back across the river, amigo.” And yet, what else could he do but try the next place, and the one after that?

We had to take money from our savings to pay the rent. There was no other choice. Arturo and I tried reasoning with Fito, but Fito was firm. “I feel bad for you,” he said. “I do. But I have a mortgage to pay and it depends on collecting the rent.” Arturo shook Fito’s hand and assured him we would bring him the money soon, even though both Arturo and I feared that might not be true. Two months, we estimated, was as long as we could go without a paycheck coming in.