Bodega Dreams (9 page)

“Help me, Chino,” he pleaded. I knew it wasn’t just his health he was worried about.

“Negra, I’m taking Victor to the hospital. Get me a towel.” She jumped up and raced out to get me one.

“Vic, I’ll take you to the hospital but you got to let me put a towel
around you, okay?” I knew he was reluctant to pull his hand away from his stomach, but he agreed, nodding his head and grimacing in pain. Negra ran back in with the towel.

“I’m coming too,” she said.

“You’re … crazy … I don’t want you near me!” Victor yelled at Negra, more out of pain than anger.

“I don’t want you … coming …” Victor glared at Negra. “Chino will take me.”

“Yes, I’ll take him,” I repeated, helping Victor to his feet.

“See … Chino … will take me,” he moaned.

Negra agreed and even seemed sorry. She touched her fingers to her mouth, mumbling worried words as she opened the door. I was holding Victor with one arm around his shoulder and one arm around his stomach as we made our way out of the apartment. Negra walked out too and called the elevator. She got in with us and caressed Victor’s face. She kept telling him she believed him and that she was sorry. Once outside the building, Negra flagged a gypsy cab. Victor and I got in. He collapsed in the taxi, moaning a bit. Negra tried to kiss him but Victor turned his face away from her, so she pulled back. We drove off, leaving Negra standing at the curb shouting to us, “Call. All right? Call me.”

“Metropolitan Hospital,” I said to the driver, but Victor summoned a bit of reserve energy.

“Nah, nah, Mount Sinai Hospital,” he said and the driver took off.

“Why, Victor? Negra’s not coming with us.”

“I know … but my girl at Metro would want to know how this happened … and she don’t know I’m … married.”

“Thass fucken great, bro. You dying and shit and you’re worried about some bimbo knowing you married. Thass great, man.” I looked out the window and thought, to each his own. Victor and Negra deserved each other. But Blanca and I were far from perfect either these days.

“When they ask me to fill out the form, what do you want me to put down, Victor?”

“I fell on it … write that I fell on it.”

•

WHILE VICTOR
was being attended by an emergency-room doctor, I phoned Negra.

“When you filled out the form, what did you put?” was her first question.

“That he fell on the knife.”

“Thass good.” I heard a sigh of relief. “You know, Chino, I never meant to throw it at him, it just flew.” Like I believed that.

“Can you call Blanca and tell her where I’m at?” I didn’t really have to ask this of Negra, I could have called Blanca myself, but I needed some fill-ins for my next question.

“I’ll call Blanca for you, Chino.”

“And another thing, Negra, I need to find your aunt Veronica. The one who calls herself Vera.”

“Why?” There was a dip in the middle of that
why
, to let me know that she knew I had something to hide. I let her have it.

“I didn’t ask you why the knife flew out of your hands, right? I wrote on the form that Victor fell on it. Victor wanted to tell the truth. Victor wanted to tell the doctors that his wife threw it at him. You know what that means, right? The doctors would have to report the incident as a possible crime, right? But I convinced him not to. I said you know she still loves you, so why would you want to send the cops to your house? So,
mira
, you owe me. You owe me big.” I paused and waited for Negra to say something. She stayed quiet, so I continued, calmer and slower.

“All I’m asking, Negy, is if you have any information about some aunt of yours. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Why not ask Blanca?” She was too smart to fall for this. Negra could always see an opening where she could get back her leverage, regain the upper hand. She knew I was asking a really stupid question with an obvious answer.

“You know your sister, all she knows is school and church.” I was proud of my quick reply. I hoped Negra would buy it. There was no response for a little while and I could just picture Negra mulling this over as she lit a cigarette.

“
Tía
Veronica?” She exhaled, and I could almost smell the smoke. “She lives in Miami.”

“I know that already. Where in Miami?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard to find out. I’ll ask around. I’ll find out. Okay?” Pause. “And Chino, thanks for taking Victor, all right?”

“Yeah, all right. Just get me her address. And listen, they’re going to keep Victor overnight for observation. So you can come and pick him up tomorrow, okay?” I was ready to hang up.

“Okay. Hey Chino!” she said loudly, bringing my ear back to the phone.

“I’m still here, but make it quick.”

“Does Victor really like Al Pacino?”

“He loves him.”

•

I DIDN
’
T
want to alarm Blanca, so before I got home I buttoned up my denim jacket, which only had a bit of blood smudged on the sleeves. When I got to our building I walked up the stairs, took my keys out, and opened the door.

Blanca was waiting, furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, waving a piece of paper in my face. “I had to find this under the door, Julio?” I looked at the paper in her hand. It was a lease. The Harry Goldstein Real Estate Agency, two bedrooms for half of what we were paying the City of New York to live in a one-bedroom in one of its projects.

“I wasn’t sure we’d get it. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” Bodega hadn’t wasted any time.

“I’m so mad at you, Julio, keeping me in the dark! After all we’ve talked about, after I asked you to tell me everything you’re up to, you kept me in the dark.”

“I kept you in the dark? I get us a better place to live and I kept you in the dark?”

“You know that’s not what I mean. You do things as if you were still single. As if my two cents means nothing. As if you—” She stopped and took a deep breath. She lowered her head and asked the Lord for help. When she raised her head to look at me again her face was red and her eyes were wet from the hurt that dries your throat and hurts when you swallow.

“I’m happy that you got us this apartment, Julio. I’m actually very
happy. It was a good thing. But you didn’t ask for my input. You just went and did it. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I nodded.

“Nancy”—I called her Nancy when I wanted her to know that I wanted to clear things up without fighting. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but it was always worth a shot. “Nancy, I’m new at this married thing, all right? You know I love you but I’ve been used to doing things alone all my life without consulting anyone. But I’m trying, Nancy. All I know is that I try. At times I forget to tell you things and just play it by ear. If I’d asked Housing for a two-bedroom they would have just placed us on a five-year waiting list. After five years the rent for a two-bedroom would be even higher and we’d still be living in a project. So when the chance came around to get something better, I took it. You know how fast applications go, Nancy. So I just filled it out and hoped for the best.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m not saying this wasn’t a good thing, Julio. Just tell me what you are planning, all right? If you filled out an application just tell me where.”

“Why? As long as it’s a better block—”

“Because I want to know!” Her face got angry again. “Besides, did you ever think that I might not want to live there? Did you ever think of that, Julio? What if I don’t like the block, the building? From here on out I better not get secondhand news, all right?”

“Yeah, all right,” I said.

“We’ll talk about moving tomorrow, okay?” Then she gently kissed me hello, since she hadn’t when I’d walked in. She thanked the Lord again and hugged me. Her eyes fell on the bloodstain on my sleeve.

“What’s this?”

“Ketchup. I was eating fries,” I lied. She bought it.

Then Blanca, placing her hands in the small of her back, slowly sat down on the couch. She took a pillow and positioned it behind her arched back. She pressed her hands against her swelling belly and focused her eyes straight ahead, on nothing in particular. I knew she wanted to ask me something and was debating whether to ask me now or later.

“Do you know anyone who wants to get married?” she finally asked.

“Why?” I went into the bedroom to change.

“Well, there’s this sister …” When Blanca said “sister” or “brother” that meant it had something to do with her church, which made me nervous and angry at the same time.

“…  and she needs to get married.”

“Aren’t there any men in your church?”

“No, there aren’t. Most of them are married or teenage boys. And if they’re single and old enough they want a young sister who’s beautiful and a virgin. It’s the worst thing.”

“I like it when you knock your church.”

“No one is perfect, Julio.” She didn’t appreciate my comment. “The church is full of imperfect people. Noah was a drunk, but God gave him the ark. David committed adultery with Bathsheba but God made him king. Peter denied Christ, but God—”

“I get your point. So what you’re telling me is, because this sister is not that young and who knows if she’s a virgin, no brother will take a chance on her?”

“Yes. They say they want a wife that’s spiritual and wants to serve God. That’s all they say they want. But when a sister shows up who’s not that young or pretty it doesn’t matter how spiritual she is.”

I started laughing. I could hear Blanca laugh a little and get up from the couch.

“Yes, it’s funny,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” I told her, “let her wait, a brother will come.”

“That’s the problem. She doesn’t have time, she’s illegal. She’s going to be deported.” Blanca joined me in the bedroom. Her face glowed by the light coming from the lamppost outside the window. I gave her a little kiss. She smiled a little.

“This girl,” I asked, “is she from some country where they persecute Pentecostals or something?”

“Of course not. What day and age do you think we’re living in? No one’s throwing us to the lions anymore. She’s from Colombia.”

“So let her go back to Colombia, then. You always say the most important thing is to serve Christ. If Christ is everywhere, He must be in Colombia, too.” I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It stared at
me back. Enough of this, I was thinking about Vera and Bodega. Where could I find this woman and fulfill my part of the deal with Bodega? I hoped Negra could help.

“That’s not the point. She’s very nice. And she wants to do so many things. She wants to learn English and go to school. She wants to do things she could never do in Colombia. I know Immigration won’t come knocking at her door and drag her back to Colombia. They’ll just make it hard for her to ever better herself. Isn’t that what it’s all about, Julio? Isn’t that why we’re going to school and talking about buying a house someday?”

Of course it was. But those who travel the farthest are those who travel alone. And we had a kid coming, there was no time for this. It was bad enough I had to get mixed up with Bodega just so we could have a better place to live, a cheaper place, and save some money, too.

“Blanca, we have our own problems,” I said, making believe I was trying to go to sleep. Blanca sat carefully on the bed next to me. I knew she was thinking again. I wondered why she had so much interest in this girl from Colombia. I knew Blanca was kind, but getting someone a green card is tough. Especially since Blanca had cut herself off from the street. There was no way she could ask around, put the word out on the street wire, because the street was never her playground. Her only source was the church, and if that community lacked what she needed, she had no other options. All her life, her parents had kept her sheltered by religion. Sheltered by the fear of God. When Blanca grew up she never shook it but embraced God even more, and now she needed something her church couldn’t deliver—some sucker to marry a girl from Colombia. Blanca had probably already asked around dozens of congregations without any luck. Now she needed another outlet. And she didn’t want to get caught up in the petty politics of the streets. She didn’t want to owe anything to anyone. She wanted to help this girl on her own.

“Maybe I should ask Negra,” she whispered as if to herself.

“Blanca, why are you doing this?” Blanca knew as well as I did that once you asked Negra for a favor, you’d better be ready to pay up. Considering the magnitude of what Blanca would be asking, if Negra or
anyone Negra knew could deliver, the payback wouldn’t just be a bitch but a house full of whores.

•

FROM THE
time they were little, they had been polar opposites. Negra hated the church, couldn’t wait to leave her parents’ house and rip up her Pentecostal roots. Negra was the type who smoked joints at midnight in the bathroom, keeping the window open so her parents wouldn’t smell anything. The one who sneaked out of her house wearing tight jeans under a long skirt. She would leave the skirt at some friend’s house where she could get it later, then sneak back home, skirt and all. She loved boys. And it was no surprise to her parents when she met Victor at Corso, a dance club, and left their house, unmarried. Negra never looked back.

Negra’s reputation for information was made at the time of Popcorn’s murder. Popcorn was the neighborhood’s only openly gay man. He was great, always full of life. Always laughing and joking. He had a beautiful mane of long black hair and wore tight jeans, makeup, and Hawaiian shirts, and he carried a knife in his back pocket. When some guy would make fun of him he’d laugh and say, “The only difference between you and me is what we do in bed.” So now that guy had two choices, fight Popcorn or say something tough and funny and walk away. Everyone knew it was better to walk away because if Popcorn was for real and you lost the fight, the entire neighborhood would know you got your ass kicked by a homo, and if he was only bluffing, then there was no glory in it—anyone’s little sister could beat a homo. Popcorn played this card to the fullest, carrying his knife in his back pocket like a second bulge. So everyone laughed and left him alone and he didn’t care because everyone said cruel things to everyone in the neighborhood. The first rule of the street: “Not everything that snaps at you is trying to threaten your manhood.”