After the Hurricane(83)

“Marin,” the woman says, smiling, as if it isn’t a bizarre question. “But she wore many. She married over and over again, our mother. We’re the last of her children.”

“Save the best for last!” Hermando says, crowing it out.

“You must be Tía Irena,” Elena says, standing, but before she can hold out her hand to shake Irena’s, she is enveloped in a hug that smells like sandalwood and coconut oil and orange-flower water.

“She was a real piece of work, that one.”

Elena leans back and sees Irena studying the photo in the album.

“Always running around with some gang member or something,” Hermando says, standing next to Irena, who has sat with the dignity of a queen waiting to be served. Hermando pours her a beer with great ceremony, and Irena takes a sip, then nods her head, this will do.

“You were some gang member or something, idiot,” Irena says, without heat. Hermando ducks his head, and for a moment Elena can see their childhood relationship written on top of their adult one. “That is why we came back here.”

“When did you come back?” Elena asks. Maybe if she can get them talking about something they will be more open. It feels like they are hiding something from her, and she wants to know what it is, but if she can’t get through the front door, maybe there is a side door she can use.

“We left New York, when Mando . . . what has it been?”

“My chip says sixteen years in July.” Hermando takes out a chip proclaiming that he has spent the better part of three decades without narcotics. Elena eyes the beer in his hand, and he shrugs. “This is nothing. With liquor, I’m fine. I run this place, I get a little drunk, I sleep. With heroin . . .” He trails off as Irena’s lips thin.

“He was in with a bad crowd. I could see his future. No need to sacrifice anything to la Madre, los santos, not for that. You don’t need magic to see where that life leads. We came here, fresh start. Your grandfather gave us some help, in the beginning, and we landed here, in Ponce. Of course, I travel around the island quite a bit. People require my services. But Hermando is here, running this place.

“Here.” Irena removes the oldest album from Elena’s limp grasp, and searches it for something. “This is all of us.” Irena shows Elena a photo of a group, a kind-looking man—Isadoro, Elena thinks, one of Teofila’s husbands—with a fierce-looking woman, Teofila. They are surrounded by children, and by a woman whose face is blurry, but those eyes, it is Esperanza, the eyes give it away.

“That’s our father, Isadoro, he wanted a photo of everyone. This was a little before Rodrigo, our oldest brother, went to jail. Last time all of us were in one place, I think. See, this is our mother, your father’s grandmother, and Isadoro, her last husband. That’s Rodrigo, and Roberto, they come from the second husband, a Lopez. That’s Carmen, she was a Rodriguez, see, same look, like she’s going to set something on fire.” Irena sighs, mournfully. She is explaining the photos to Elena, like she understands that Elena doesn’t know any of this. Well, she’s a witch, after all, isn’t she? Elena wonders.

“Where is—”

“Dead. She survived a lot of bad men, but not cancer. Here, though, doesn’t she look like she is going to live forever? She thought she would. Sometimes, I feel her spirit, she’s come back here with us, back to the island. Then my older brother, Rowdy. He’s also gone now, and Roberto. And this is me, of course, and little Mando.” She points to the baby in another boy’s arms. “And that’s your father, holding him. He used to change his diapers.” Irena shoots Hermando an evil grin, and Elena sees it again, the way these two are like children still, no matter his sobriety or her magical powers. “And Esperanza, the oldest, next to your father. There we are, all of Teofila’s many children and first grandchild. You know, people call me a witch, well they should. But she was a witch, too. The bad kind. I think she cursed us. She was a black witch, and I’m a white one.”

“Brown,” Hermando says, cackling. Irena shoots him a look. “No, she did, I agree. The men, at least.”

“Your father escaped, though,” Irena says, crossing her arms. “All that work I did, trying to free his mother, trying to help Esperanza, I believe it all went to him. Maybe she gave it to him.”

“Work?” Elena asks, curious.

“I knew my calling early. I knew I was called to be a santera. A priestess. Our grandmother, Teofila’s mother, she was a santera of some power. Teofila brought her over, and our neighbors knew what she could do, made sure she always had food to eat, money for things she needed, brought her flowers and feathers for her altar, helped her find the little shops Cuban immigrants had set up for supplies. But Teofila didn’t like this, didn’t follow her ways. She believed in the Church, wanted to scrub our power out of our family. Really, I think she wanted to keep everything for herself. She must have used something, some magic to keep attracting these men, these husbands, one after another. She would have liked the magic to die with her, I think. But it’s in the blood. And much as she wanted to have it all, she had children, all of us were touched by the magic. Some of us, it was just a violent urge, an impulse. That’s the men.”

Irena glances balefully at Hermando, who has moved to pour rum and Cokes for two customers who have wandered in, and beers for what look like a trio of regulars, older men setting up the pool table.