Bird of Paradise Page 4

  The following morning, Rocío is running late for work yet again. She leaves early, tiptoeing over Esperanza and Sara, sleeping in the living room. She’s almost at the 1 train bound for Lincoln Center when she realizes she forgot the keys to one of the apartments, that of a French filmmaker currently out of the country on location back home. Though Rocío could leave that one apartment for tomorrow, she goes back to her paraíso, carefully unlocking the front door and taking off her tacónes by the entrance in order not to wake anybody.

  Rocío is so careful not to disturb anyone as she walks toward the kitchen that she doesn’t realize Sara isn’t where she left her minutes earlier, next to Esperanza on the couch.

  The muffled groans coming from the bedroom paralyze her. Rocío’s world is imploding. With every step she takes in that direction, she feels, sickened by her self, by her own stupidity. The warnings from friends and coworkers, from her parents, are like a hurricane spinning around in her mind. Rage is shooting through her body.

  When she reaches the door, Rocío thinks of turning around and walking away. If she leaves the door closed and goes about her day, perhaps she’ll find an excuse in her mental file to justify what sounded like heavy sex coming from her bedroom. Rocío braces herself.

  Shakespeare had it right all along: Love will kill you in the end. And if your so-called love manages to survive the city’s blackouts, the jolopeos, the nadir of her financial and moral history, it won’t do shit to strengthen your bond to each other. It’ll just draw out the end and make it really fucking agonizing.

  Rocío pushes herself down the hallway and opens the bedroom door as quietly as she entered the apartment. Eduardo and Sara don’t notice. The puta is too busy riding him in the white negligee Rocío lent her.

  This is what I know about my parents. They spent the next several years trying to forget each other, and me.

  * * *

  Rocío set off to find herself soon after catching Sara riding her king like a stallion. She divorced Papi. Eduardo, now free to walk around with Sara como un sinvergüenza in public, inherited half of the furniture from their apartment after the split, along with money Rocío gave him in hopes that he’d move as far away as possible. As a gift to the new puta in his life—Rocío was generous—she rolled up the published divorce papers like a diploma and awarded them to Esperanza. “Here, you can have him,” she said.

  Eduardo moved into a small one-bedroom apartment two buildings down from Rocío. He was within walking distance of his favorite place on earth next to a woman—the tennis courts.

  I went to live with Mama and Papa in Santo Domingo so Mami could get back on her feet. My poodle, Oliver, tired of my erratic trips to and from the island, ignored me in the beginning, and in protest of my last jaunt back into his life, he stole all my dolls and decapitated them, strewing them about the backyard and leaving the heads underneath all of our beds. Just as he got used to me, comfortable with the notion that I, his best girl, wouldn’t abandon him again, I returned to New York City. He’d had enough. I never saw him again. Oliver died shortly afterward of an epileptic seizure.

  * * *

  Soon after I return to New York, life falls back into a routine, a familiar rhythm. I become invisible once again. Mami’s days and nights are like they’ve always been, a seamless grind. She spends her life working, running to job number two, then three, paying bills, going back to work the following morning. Sometimes I tag along and pretend to help her clean toilets and dishes, anything I can do to be with her.

  It’s on one of these routine outings that Rocio’s life is interrupted once more. We’re waiting to be seen for my yearly checkup at Sydenham Hospital in Harlem. In the waiting room full of mothers and their children, Pascal Baptiste, a social worker at the hospital, spots Mami. He circles around her like a vulture, waiting patiently. He must smell the musk of rejection Mami has worn since leaving Papi less than a year earlier. The wound is still fresh.

  Suddenly, Pascal is standing before Mami, an impeccably dressed caramelito of a man with a small yet solid build, not quite like Bruce Lee’s but close. His eyes are light and alert, his smile wide. Pascal’s clothes are so hip, he looks more like a disco dancer than a hospital bureaucrat.

  “Hi,” he says with a slight accent familiar to Rocío. “You know, I have a little girl named Sable. You two resemble her. Where are you from?”

  “The capital city of the Dominican Republic,” replies Rocío, speaking English that’s a little less broken than it was a few years ago.

  “Oh, we are relatives!”

  “How so?” she asks.

  “I am from the other side of the island, from the capital of Haiti.”

  “That’s nice. Nice to meet you,” Mami says, extending her hand.

  “May I have your number?” he asks. She shakes her head no, but that doesn’t matter to Pascal. He finds our number by looking through the hospital records and calls Mami anyway. She’s creeped out at first, but Pascal’s game is tight and persistent, and he says all the right things. In no time, the calls start coming in more frequently, and by the time Doña Dolores deposits me back into Rocío’s life from yet another trip to Santo Domingo, the calls sound like a barrage of bullets spraying from an AK-47.

  “Rocío, coño hombre, this guy calls way too many times,” Dolores says. “Who the hell is he?

  “Nadie, Mama, just a friend,” Rocío responds, irritated by her mother’s prying. Everything about Dolores bothers her.

  “It’s not good. You have to be careful.”

  “But we don’t have anything going—not really.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of bringing this loco into Raquelita’s life.”

  “Please, Mama, relax. I’m twenty-one and allowed to have friends.”

  Rocío is impressed with Pascal’s Ivy League education and drive. She resented having to drop out of college to take care of Eduardo and me whenever I was in town. Pascal appreciates Mami’s beauty and youth. The fact that she’s impressionable and easy to control is a bonus.

  Papi finds Pascal charming and well spoken, especially for un haitiano. The man is always honest and forthright when talking about his relationship with Rocío. “I have to hit her sometimes when she steps out of line,” he once told Eduardo, who understood that his ex-wife was capable of driving a man to this threshold. He voiced no objection to Pascal’s modus disciplina.

  Pascal may have mastered the science of manipulating the mind at prestigious institutions like Yale and Harvard, but that was nothing compared to the fieldwork he conducted on Mami. In under a year, he convinces her to relocate to San Francisco by promising to put her through law school, going as far as buying her books to prep for the exam. Mama smelled the bullshit all the way from Santo Domingo, but Mami wasn’t having it.

  Shortly before we move to San Francisco, Mami insists that I start referring to her rebound as “Papito.” I oblige without putting up much of a fight. Pascal demanded the affectionate nom de guerre regardless of whether or not it was genuine. At this point “Mami” and “Papi” are names that lack meaning. And Papito is just another person on the growing list of people who don’t fucking matter.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Journey into the Heart of Darkness

  Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.

  —JOSEPH CONRAD

  WE LIVE IN SEVERAL RENTED HOUSES BEFORE SETTLING ON EDDY Street. It’s close enough to the Mission, where Papito’s new shop, The Smoke House, is located. It’s right next to the old theater crowded with tourists and weirdos. I guess he makes enough money at the hospital—although he’s hardly ever there—to afford a side hustle. It doesn’t take long for Papito to become a popular fixture in the area and at the discotheques he and Mami frequent almost every night. A magnetic and larger-than-life character, Papito is showered with attention everywhere he goes. People often tell Mami how lucky she is to have him. At home—his home and our prison—it’s another s
tory altogether.

  I’m five years old when we move into the two-story three-bedroom avocado-green house on the corner, with avocado-green carpeting and an ecru kitchen that matches the tiles in the bathroom. The extra room is for hosting Papito’s relatives when they fly in from New York City and Port-au-Prince, and for storing his massive collection of vinyl: disco, funkadelic, salsa, afrobeat, soul, Motown, rock, country, and some reggae. With all that wax at his disposal, I wonder why he pumps Journey and Fela nonstop when he’s not practicing disco routines with Mami in the basement.

  Papito is even more of a dandy now than when we lived in New York City. He maintains a tightly cropped ’fro and well-manicured hands painted with clear polish. He makes Mami iron everything down to his socks. And he coordinates his outfits and jewelry with Mami’s, even when he’s at the hospital and she’s at The Smoke House.

  Papito now calls Mami Rosie. He says the name feels more suited to our new lives here. I barely recognize Mami anymore. She works every single day at the shop, selling tobacco, incense, and San Francisco souvenirs, never seeing a dollar. I join her after school during the week and with Lady, my Doberman pinscher, on the weekends. Papito pops in and out the store to count and pick up money, sometimes yelling at Mami in front of customers and other times waiting until they leave.

  “Rosie, why did you smile at him like that?” he asks one day after a man leaves the shop. Papito walks over to the front door and hangs up the SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED sign. I wrap my arms around Lady’s neck.

  “What do you mean, Pascal?” she asks. “I, I was just being nice to the—”

  “Are you fucking him, Rosie? Are you cheating on me?” Papito shouts.

  I walk over to Mami and hold on to the hem of her dress. I can feel her trembling.

  “I promise you, Pascal, I, I was just trying to sell—”

  Pascal flicks me on the wrist. I am not allowed to cry, although it hurts. He grabs Mami and goes to the back room, leaving Lady and me alone behind the counter. Mami starts screaming, begging him to stop whatever he’s doing to her.

  SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Mami sobs, “Please, Pascal, Raquel is outside, please—”

  SMACK! “I fucking love you, Rosie,” he yells. “Why are you forcing me to do this?” I think I hear the sound of a belt hitting flesh. Mami is screaming her head off.

  I wrap my arms around Lady’s strong black neck and begin to cry. She starts barking toward the door. The louder Mami yells, the louder Lady barks. Minutes later, Mami walks out of the back room. Her face and arms are bleeding, and her eyes are black and swollen. Papito is calm, almost jovial. He bends over and smiles at me. I want to scratch his eyes out, but I’m too scared. “Here,” he says, giving me a dollar bill, “go buy some candy.”

  I go to the bathroom and clutch the dollar bill close to my chest and start praying to la india. I first saw her, a tall handsome woman with long black hair, sitting at the edge of my bed weeks before we left Seaman Avenue. She told me she belonged to me and promised to appear whenever I was scared or in danger. “I pray Mami takes out the tiny gun she keeps in the kitchen drawer, the one with the pretty white handle, and shoots Papito in the brains, like they do on Tom and Jerry.”

  Later that evening they go dancing, like they do most nights. Mami is wearing a ton of makeup to hide the marks Papito left on her body as a token of his love. Tonight Dickie McAllister, a flamboyantly gay white guy who adores Papito, is babysitting me. When Dickie isn’t available, they leave me with Lady.

  In a low, menacing voice, Dickie sends me to my room as soon as Mami and Papito leave for the club. “But I’m not tired, Dickie,” I whine.

  “Oh, girl, go to your room. And if you don’t listen to me, I will tell Pascal you were a very naughty little girl when he gets home,” he almost whispers back.

  Later that night, I become Wonder Woman, flying in an invisible helicopter. I spent the day staring directly at the sun through the large living room window to charge my powers with its rays. I knew Dickie was coming over later that evening, and was determined to find out why he always sends me to my room as soon as Papito and Mami leave.

  I try to look the part, sneaking into Mami’s bedroom and climbing on the seat of her vanity in my Wonder Woman panties and tank top. I put on Mami’s red lipstick and sweep my hair with her roller brush, trying to re-create the superhero bouffant. The closest I get is a mess of combed-out frizzy curls. It doesn’t matter. Dickie won’t be able to see me spying on him from my invisible plane.

  I peek out of my bedroom and find Dickie watching a movie with naked men rubbing each other. Dickie is sweating, nodding off in front of the TV set with no sound. There’s white powder on the glass table in front of the couch and a bottle of wine. He looks up at me, halfway startled but mostly out of it.

  “Oh, Raquelita,” he whispers in a funny flavorless accent. I hate the way he says my name. “You’re going to be in so much trouble when Papito and Rosie get home.”

  “But I just had to go pee, Dickie,” I say, pretending I’m half asleep.

  “Oh yeah? Well, when you use the bathroom, be careful, because I think I put too much paper in the toilet. Oh, the water is too high, I’m afraid.” He doesn’t change the channel or turn off the TV as I walk into the bathroom. I close the door and flush the toilet with the lid still down. Bright yellow stinky water starts pouring out of the sides, spilling all over the floor and my feet. Dickie knocks on the bathroom door.

  “Oh, now you really did it, Raquel my belle,” Dickie sings in a descending scale. “Oh, you better find a way to clean that up before they get back, girl.”

  I start panicking. Last time I got Papito angry, he spun me around by my ankles until I couldn’t see in front of me and nearly threw up. He let go, and I landed on the couch, where he punched me in the stomach and started laughing. Another time he became annoyed when I wouldn’t finish my plate of spinach, and he made Mami serve it to me over the next several days for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When he wasn’t home, I begged Mami for food.

  “Please, Mami, I am so hungry. I promise I won’t tell him if you give me food.”

  “I can’t, Raquelita, he’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  “But how will he find out?” I whimpered.

  “Don’t you understand? He has his brother Jean watching us when he’s not here.” I had forgotten about Jean, sitting in the living room watching Scooby-Doo.

  If Gerard, Papito’s youngest brother, had been here, I would have been able to eat. They shared a mother and father, though Gerard didn’t look anything like Papito or Jean. He was very tall and had a pretty face the color of brown sugar, like Papi’s nieces in Santo Domingo. His hair was more like mine, big and curly. When Gerard was around, there was peace: He worked at the store with Mami and let me climb up his legs to the top of his soft head as many times as I wanted. Lady loved him, too. When Jean dropped into town, Lady was locked in the basement because she tried to attack him. It was as if Lady could smell Jean from the airport—a couple hours before he arrived, she’d start to bark incessantly. Jean was a darker-skinned version of Papito and way more sinister. I started thinking that what Dominicans said about haitianos was true: Their darker skin did make them more evil.

  Mami avoided eye contact with me, placing what used to look like cooked greens on the table before me with a glass of milk. I begged her for a slice of the bread she pulled out of the oven minutes earlier, but Mami didn’t answer me. The spinach had turned into mush with a layer of white mold coating it. Papito never covered the plate when putting it back in the refrigerator. I scooped up spoonfuls of the greenish mush and swallowed without chewing, washing it down with two glasses of milk.

  I can’t let anything like that happen again. I take off all my clothes, ball up my Wonder Woman panties and tank top, and begin to mop up Dickie’s piss from the floor. I wring it out in the bathtub and go back to mopping. I start to smell like piss, the ammonia is making my skin itch as if I have chicken pox. Dickie pecks in.<
br />
  “Oh, good. Gooood. It’s almost clean. Girl, you better go to sleep. They’ll be back soon,” he says.

  “Do I have time to take a quick bath, Dickie?” I ask. My legs are covered in welts from scratching.

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think soooo,” he sings softly.

  I go to bed. My entire body stings.

  When they come back from the club, I can hear Papito screwing Mami in their bedroom, which he does every night whether she wants to or not. If she doesn’t scream when he fucks her, Papito accuses her of having an affair. I begin to hate her for allowing him to treat us so badly. Mami is so weak.

  The following morning I sit with Mami in the yard while she plants flowers. It is one of those rare days when Papito decides not to open the store. I say nothing, following Mami to her sliver of a garden and then upstairs into her bedroom. She slides open the doors of her large closet that’s full of fabulous clothes Papito bought her. She isn’t allowed to buy her own gear and jewelry or go to a department store without his permission.

  There are shiny hot pants in electric blue and black with matching sequined tube tops; bright white clothes that glow under the ultraviolet lights at the club; designer jeans and fitted T-shirts; flowing silk dresses; and more tacónes than she could wear in a lifetime, for all those disco-dancing competitions Papito regularly signs them up for. Diamond rings, big wooden bracelets, and turquoise jewelry are stuffed into large ornate boxes next to the bottles of perfume on her dresser. Mami didn’t bother packing the rags she cleaned apartments in when we left New York City, but something tells me she hates all the expensive shit hanging in front of her more than anything she left behind.