An Island Like You Page 12

  “Look at them,” she says, laughing at the way Pablito and Valentín are lining up the animals back on the counter. “I think Pablito is teaching the dummy a few things.”

  Valentín looks at me with such a hurt expression on his face that I honestly had to count to five or I would have punched her. Pablito tries to get Valentín’s attention by pulling on his pants leg, but Valentín just says, “Trabajo,” and goes back to his newest project. Pablito starts crying and yelling, “Tin, Tin,” which is the part of Valentín’s name he had picked up. I lift him over the counter to his mother. “Maricela, I really think that you are the dummy. You listen up. If we hadn’t been here to take care of your son, someone would have called the family services and they would have taken him away — which may be the best thing for him anyway.” I’d heard my mother say that was just what’ll end up happening to poor Pablito.

  “You’re just jealous, niña. You can’t stand the competition. And, little girl, nobody is going to take Pablito away from me. Have you noticed that he looks a little like Bob Dylan?” she says, laughing.

  I lean over the counter so that my face is right in front of her face. “Why do you ask, Maricela? Are you having trouble remembering who the father is?” I hiss at her.

  She storms off and behind me I hear soft laughter. It’s Valentín, apparently amusing himself with his new toy.

  By Friday afternoon, Clarissa, Anne, and I have gotten the message from Bob Dylan’s attitude that he is not interested in our company. Maricela has been here every afternoon, and she, Pablito, and Bob Dylan leave together. I see my summer turning into a boring routine, since Anne and Clarissa are mad at Bob Dylan and are staying away from the pool. Valentín is getting good at pouring drinks and cleaning up, so at least the job is easier. The rest of the time he works with his rubber bands and only talks when Maricela brings Pablito over for a snack.

  Valentín is teaching Pablito the names of his animals in Spanish. Maricela has nothing to say to me, but she does hang around for a while when Valentín and her son become absorbed in their daily game. “Elefante, caballo, oso” — Valentín points to each animal; then Pablito tries to repeat the words. This makes Valentín smile big. I guess it makes him feel good to be able to teach someone else something for a change.

  It’s almost closing time on Friday and I’m counting bags of potato chips, candy bars, and other snack stuff while Valentín is checking to see how much soda mix is left in the back, when we hear a kind of little scream. It doesn’t last long, so I almost ignore it, thinking it’s some kid out in the street, since the pool is supposed to be closed for the day. But Valentín has come out with a really scared look on his face and is leaning way out over the counter trying to see something in the water. I don’t see anything, but Valentín is flapping his arms like he’s trying to take off and stuttering “Pa … Pa … Pa …” I can’t understand him. His tongue seems to be getting twisted around the words he’s trying to say, and his eyes look terrified. I start thinking he may be about to have a fit or something.

  “What is it, Valentín?” I put my hand on his arm like Mrs. O’Brien does when she walks him home in the afternoon. I figure it calms him down. “What do you see out there?”

  “Pablito. Pablito.” He is trembling so much I fear he’s going to go out of control. But I don’t have time to think, the water is moving, and it could be the kid. I don’t see Bob Dylan anywhere.

  “Get Mrs. O’Brien!” I yell to Valentín as I run out. But he is frozen on the spot.

  When I get to the pool, I see the kid is thrashing wildly near the edge. He’s really scared, and his kicking is only forcing him away toward the deep water. I jump into the shallow end and start walking in his direction. I cannot tell how deep it will be as I take each step, and I feel scared that it will be over my head before I know it. My mother’s words of warning come back to me. I may drown, but I have to reach Pablito. I keep going toward his voice. But I feel that I’m moving in slow motion, so I finally dive into the water. My glasses get wet and I can’t see, so I throw them off, which makes it worse. I can’t see a thing. I start screaming for help, hoping that Bob Dylan or Mrs. O’Brien will hear me. My lungs are about to explode, and I’m sinking and pushing up, stretching my hands in front of me in case I feel his body. Suddenly I find myself at the edge of the deep end of the pool and I hold on, trying to catch my breath.

  I am screaming hysterically by then. But just when I feel that my lungs are going to burst, I feel Pablito’s little legs wrapping themselves around my waist. I pull him up and he grabs a handful of my hair. He is like a baby monkey holding on to his mama. I hear splashing behind me, and it’s Valentín heading for us. He carries Pablito out of the pool in one arm and pulls me out with his free hand.

  When I take him from Valentín’s arms, his body feels limp, so I put him on the ground and push on his tiny chest until water comes out. Soon he is coughing and crying.

  While I am frantically doing what I can for him, Valentín holds Pablito’s hand and talks to him in Spanish. Then I see Bob Dylan and Maricela run up. Bob Dylan takes over the chest compressions while I run to call Mrs. O’Brien and the emergency rescue. Maricela goes nuts. She keeps calling out for her baby and trying to get to him, until Valentín guides her to a bench, where they sit holding hands until the ambulance drives up. She and Bob Dylan ride with Pablito to the hospital.

  It’s all over in minutes, but I feel like it’s days while Valentín and I sit in Mrs. O’Brien’s office wrapped in big towels, waiting for word from the hospital. I also expect to get fired for not reporting that Bob Dylan was not at his post like Mrs. O’Brien had warned me to do.

  She comes in in a very solemn mood, and I look over at Valentín, who is wringing his hands. I know he’s only thinking of Pablito, and I feel a little guilty for worrying about myself so much.

  “The boy is going to be fine,” Mrs. O’Brien says, “thanks to both of you.”

  Then she does something that really surprises me. She comes over and kisses me on the forehead. I am cold and shivering, and I sneeze practically in her face. “Sorry,” I say, feeling a little bit stupid. She fishes my foggy glasses out of her skirt pocket. I busy myself cleaning the lenses on my wet towel.

  “We have to get you into some dry clothes,” she says. Then she goes over to Valentín, who is fidgeting with a rubber-band animal which has become a sort of wet brown lump.

  “Valentín, you did a very good thing today. You and Teresa saved a little boy’s life. You are a hero. Do you understand me?”

  “Sí,” Valentín says. But I’m not sure about his English, so I start to translate: “Valentín, ella dice que eres un héroe.”

  “I know,” Valentín says, and smiles real big.

  “You speak English?” I cannot believe he’s fooled me into thinking that he can barely speak a few words of Spanish, and here he understands two languages.

  “Sí,” Valentín answers, and laughs his funny quiet laugh.

  Mrs. O’Brien looks at Valentín in a motherly way. “Valentín, how would you like to keep your job here year-round?”

  Valentín has been just staring at his hands as she talks, almost like he was not listening. But then he slowly glances over at me, as if asking me what I think. He can communicate in total silence, and I’m learning his language.

  “When the pool closes at the end of the summer, we are going to ask you, and yes, Teresa too, to come work in my office. We have many things that you both can do, such as helping out with after-school programs and supervising the playground. Are you interested?”

  Valentín looks at me for an answer again. I can tell that we have to take the job as partners or he won’t do it. I sneeze loudly and he practically falls out of his chair. Really, he’s the most nervous human being I’ve ever met. I see that I’m going to have to put up with him in this new job too. I don’t think anyone else would have the patience.

  The best time to run away from home is noon, Anita thinks, because nobody�
�ll notice you walking away from your life in the blinding sunlight while they eat their pork sandwiches at the counter in Cheo’s bodega, or while they fold their laundry at La Washeteria, or come out of their dark apartments, a hand over their eyes, as in a salute, because the cement reflects the white-hot July sun and gives you an instant headache when it first hits you.

  Anita walks slowly past the familiar sights: shops, bodegas, and bars of the street where she’s lived all her life, feeling like she’s saying adiós, and good riddance to it all. Her destination is the future. She is walking toward love. But first she has to get past her life that’s contained by this block. The barrio is like an alternate universe. That’s what they call it on Star Trek when the crew of the starship Enterprise find themselves in another world that may look like Earth, but where the natives have history turned around, and none of the usual rules apply. In these streets, on this block, people speak in Spanish, even though they’re in the middle of New Jersey; they eat fruits and vegetables that grow only in a tropical country; and they (Anita is thinking of her parents now) try to make their children behave like they were living in another century, enforcing rules that they break themselves. But it’s always “Do as I say, not as I do.” Anita has had enough of their hypocrisy; enough of the monkey cage of El Building, where your life is everyone else’s business; and enough of her friends, who’re either still playing games like children or trying to self-destruct with drugs and guns. She’s going to break free of the barrio trap. Now’s the time. She has somewhere to go, and she’s going.

  “Anita, come in here a minute!” It’s Sandra, her best friend at school last year, calling her into Ortega’s Zapatería, the shoe store where she works in the summer.

  “I’m in a hurry, Sandi. What do you want?” Anita scrunches the brown paper bag containing some clothes and makeup under her arm so that Sandra won’t ask her about it.

  Sandra comes to the front of the store with a pair of fancy sneakers in her hand. “What do you think about these?” She holds them up to Anita’s face like they were Cinderella’s glass slippers. That’s Sandra’s thing — sports. She has basketball on the brain, especially since she and Paco have started something like a romance, except with basketball being the thing they both love the most. Sandra and Paco’s idea of a hot date is to go to the yard and shoot hoops together.

  “They’re nice, Sandi. Gotta run.” She leaves Sandra holding the sneakers and hurries down the block. What a child, Anita thinks, it’s just like Sandra to get all excited over athletic footwear. Frank had told her he’d be expecting her at the deli by lunch hour. She thought he meant one o’clock, but they sometimes had a little trouble communicating. He’s Italian — that is, his mother was born there, in the old country, as he calls it, so the mixture of Italian and English he sometimes speaks doesn’t always make sense to Anita. He’s also ten years older than she, which probably has something to do with the problem. But what a man! Anita feels her knees get like jelly just thinking about Frank. He has a deep voice that startled her when she first met him at the deli, the place he and his mother own. She had been writing out her address and phone number to leave in case they were hiring. Anita had decided to find a job away from the barrio that summer. That day it was just the mother behind the counter, and either she didn’t speak English or she just ignored Anita. But Anita wasn’t going to give up that easily.

  “Bella, whatcha doin’ in this neck o’ the woods?” Frank had come up behind her. She’d dropped the pencil at the sound of his deep baritone. He slowly bent down to pick it up, letting his eyes wander from her ankles, to her legs, to her waist, and then to her breasts, where they lingered. He finally looked deeply into her eyes. Anita felt like she had been touched everywhere. His straight black hair was long in front and hung over his eyes, which were a startling green. And when he smiled, his teeth were big and white. But it was his lips, which he licked like she was an ice-cream cone he wanted, that made her crazy. Those full, sensuous lips. That hungry look.

  “I’m applying for jobs….” Anita felt his fingers press hers as he handed her the pencil.

  “Yeah? Well, I need a girl…. Mama, don’t we need a counter girl?” Frank turned to his mother, who had been watching them, unsmiling, from where she perched on a stool at the cash register, shrouded in her black vinyl apron, black sweater, and black head scarf. To Anita, she looked like a black bird waiting to pounce. She didn’t answer Frank’s question, but then he hadn’t waited for an answer before taking Anita by the hand and leading her to a booth in the back of the store.

  He sat across from her and, leaning way over the table, he asked her a bunch of questions, some of which she didn’t quite understand. But it was as if Frank just liked the sound of his own voice. He didn’t wait to get answers before going on to something else.

  “So you wanna a job, hey, kid? You’re very pretty, you know that? You sixteen yet? Don’t need trouble with the cops. You’re not a minor, not with that face and shape. Hey, you could be a model, you know that? Can you run the cash register?”

  Anita said, yes, no, yes. And by the time she got up from the booth she had a job starting the next morning. By the second hour of the first day, Frank had kissed her. He’d just taken her hand and guided her into the dark storage room. It was exciting in a way. But her mouth hurt afterward. He had crushed her against the wall and pressed his body hard against hers. He stopped only when he heard his mother coming down the stairs from their apartment over the deli. The woman had taken one look at Anita’s smeared lipstick and hissed a harsh word that sounded familiar to Anita. Spanish and Italian have some things in common. Dirty words, for example, and insults.

  That was only a month ago. Since then Frank had been calling her his girl. The mother spoke to Anita only to give orders in broken English.

  “She’s old-fashioned,” Frank had explained. “Don’t worry about her. She does what I tell her. Okay, bella mia? You worry too much.”

  The fact was that Frank was a flirt. Anita saw the way he looked at other girls who came into the store. But if she said something about it, he always said, “I’m just friendly to the customers. But you’re my cara, my dolce Anita.” Besides, he charmed the old ladies too. “I saved the last slice of cheesecake for your, signora,” He’s say to the eighty-year-old woman who came in for “something sweet” every afternoon. She’d always blow Frank a kiss as she left carrying whatever Frank chose for her that day in a little brown bag. And he cooked wonderful Italian dishes for the three of them, although his mother preferred to eat alone in the kitchen. Anita loved the candlelit romantic dinners with Frank after the deli closed on Fridays.

  Anita looks at her watch. There’s still time to sit down at Mario’s drugstore and have a soda. It’s hot, and besides, she needs to think about how she’s going to let her parents know that she isn’t coming back home. She knows the first thing they’ll do if she doesn’t come home tonight is call the cops. If they stop arguing long enough to notice she isn’t there, that is. This is one of the reasons Anita has decided to move in with Frank. Her parents have been having a nonstop fight for over a year. It has to do with a bleached-blond woman her father had an affair with. She was the dispatcher at the taxi company where he worked. Someone in the barrio had told Anita’s mother. There had been a scene at the cab company. Her father has quit that job and now keeps swearing that he hasn’t seen the woman again. But it’s like Anita’s mother just can’t drop the subject. Practically every day she puts a new angle on it. Lately, though, they’ve been whispering instead of shouting. Just a temporary cease-fire, Anita thinks.

  Anita looks at herself in the mirror behind the counter. With makeup and the right clothes, she looks eighteen, no doubt about it. In a few days she’ll be sixteen and nobody can make her go back to school in the fall. She’ll be with Frank, helping him run the deli. Maybe they’ll get married at Christmas. She had a fantasy about a church decorated in poinsettias and wreaths; the bridal party dressed in red and green. Fran
k hadn’t had anything to say when she mentioned the subject of marriage, but Anita’s sure that’s the plan.

  So far, Frank has only wanted to take her upstairs when his mother is out. Their apartment is kept dark with shades and drapes — his mother suffers from migraine headaches. The small rooms are crowded with heavy furniture that makes it seem like a museum. There are crocheted doilies under every knickknack, and framed pictures of people who look mummified line the walls. Their suspicious-looking beady eyes, similar to Frank’s mother’s eyes, make Anita nervous: it’s like they’re laying a curse on her or something. One afternoon Frank took her to his room, where there were old things scattered all over. They seemed like remnants of his childhood: model airplanes, a race car set, baseball trophies, and stacks of comic books. He threw a bunch of clothes on the floor to clear a place on his narrow bed, then he pulled her down next to him. He started to unbutton Anita’s blouse, but she pushed him away.

  “I can’t do this … not today.” Anita had really thought she was ready to make love with Frank. After all, she had known where it was heading from the day when he first kissed her, maybe even from the first time that she’d looked into his eyes. But she wanted it to be different: a little more like how it happened in her daydreams. Not in a messy room, on a hot afternoon, with a cardboard clock on the store’s door that said, BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. Frank wasn’t easy to fight off that time. She’d had to lie about having her period. After that she just managed to get away at the last minute. Anita knew his mother’s schedule by then. The old lady only went out to go to mass or to her doctors, and she was always gone for exactly the same amount of time. But recently Anita had noticed that Frank’s attention had begun to wander. He still touched her at every opportunity but without the same intensity. She felt that she was going to lose him if she didn’t do something soon. So she finally decided to tell him what she really wanted.