Letters from Heaven / Cartas del cielo (3 page)

After math homework, I put on some of my dance music and start to dance. I practice a few moves; whichever ones come to mind. But after a while I forget about them and my feet begin to improvise. I can feel the vibrations of the trumpets in the bottoms of my feet, as if they were tickling them, making them move. Grandma used to say that I'd inherited that rhythm from her people. Just like my wavy hair and the coffee color of my skin. My teacher agrees. She says that no other student dances to tropical jazz the way I do.

“It's in your blood, Celeste,” my teacher used to say. “Let it out!”

And that's when I'd let go and start dancing like a hurricane, taking down everything along my path . . . But I no longer go to dance class. There's not enough money.

I fling myself onto a chair, exhausted, but the break doesn't last very long. Through the window I can see that the flag on top of the mailbox is no
longer sticking up, so I run to grab the mail. In between bills and catalogs, I spot an envelope . . . with Grandma's handwriting!

My Dearest Celeste
,

I hope that the cangrejitos you made came out delicious. Did your mami like them? She has loved them ever since she was a little girl . . . I never taught her how to make them, even though she always asked me to, because I was terrified she'd burn herself. Or that she'd love to cook so much she'd quit school. I wanted her to have a career, because I never had that option. In the end, I don't know if what I did was right or wrong. But then, when you asked me to teach you how to cook, it occurred to me that if I didn't, all the flavors of our history would be lost . . . My only regret is that this cursed illness didn't give me enough time. But at least you know the essentials: be patient and follow the recipe with measurements so that it comes out just as good, every single time. Soon you'll know when it's time to add your personal touch to these dishes. In the meantime, here is the recipe for congrí, so that you will remember me
.

I love you always
,

Your grandma Rosa

Congrí
was our weekend fare. Grandma would make a bean soup sometime during the week and would use whatever was leftover for the
congrí
. And if there wasn't any left, then she'd use canned beans. Either way, it always came out delicious. She used to say that during colonial times, Haitian slaves had taken the
congrí
to Cuba, to the province of Oriente where my family was from. In their language, the slaves would call the beans “kongo” and the rice “riz” and that's where the word “congrí” came from.

I read through the recipe and realize that, by some miracle, we have all the ingredients we need! I immediately begin to cook so that I can surprise Mami when she gets home.

5          
MARIQUITAS

The
congrí
was marvelous. Mami and Lisa licked their fingers while they said how good it turned out. The only thing that felt strange was that Mami didn't ask me how I'd done it. I think she suspects that it was Grandma's recipe because it tasted almost exactly like the
congrí
she used to make. But Mami didn't say a word. Now that I think about it, she doesn't talk about Grandma at all! It's as if Grandma was still sitting in her room watching the
novela
. Or, even worse, as if she'd never even been here with us. Lisa talks about Grandma, but whenever she does, Mami changes the subject.

Yesterday I went to the supermarket with Doña Esperanza because Mami started working on Saturdays too. She says that without Grandma's social security check we no longer have enough to pay the bills. How I wish she didn't have to work so much!

“What do you need,
m'ija
?” asks Doña Esperanza.

“Rice, beans, bread,” I say, trying to remember the few dishes that I know how to prepare. “And green plantains.”

“What about chicken? Or meat?” she asks. “Or has that Lisa turned you into vegetarians?”

“Lisa is not a vegetarian,” I correct her. “She eats chicken.”

“Well, I think a good piece of meat would do her some good,” she says. “That woman is so thin that if a strong wind hit her, she'd end up miles away.”

“I don't know how to cook anything with meat yet,” I tell her.

“You'll get there,” she says, while she puts some packs of meat into the cart.

Unlike my mom, Doña Esperanza loves to talk about Grandma. She told me that after Grandma moved here, she was the first person that my grandma met. Since Doña Esperanza is Puerto Rican, she felt the same sense of nostalgia for her island as Grandma did for hers. That's how they shaped their friendship; talking about the food and people that they'd left behind. And since they were neighbors, they'd talk all the time. They'd sit down on the front stoop, talking about the neighborhood, the
novela
, the news—everything except sad topics. At least they never seemed sad to me.

“I'm learning to fix Grandma's recipes,” I tell Doña Esperanza.

“¡Qué bueno!”
she says. “You know, your grandma promised she'd teach me how to make her famous
ropa vieja
. But, between one thing and the next, she got sick, and we never got around to it.”

“Well, if she sends me the recipe, I'll share it with you, Doña Esperanza,” I tell her.

I stare at her to see if she'd look at me funny.

“Thank you,
nena
,” she responds. “I'd love that.”

I couldn't understand why all the adults seemed to think it was perfectly normal that Grandma was sending me letters from the beyond, but my friends, who spent their days reading books about fairies and wizards, were convinced that I'd completely lost my mind. It didn't make any sense.

When we get home I ask Doña Esperanza to teach me how to make fried plantains, because on her island this is also a popular dish.

“
¡Amarillos
” she says, “of course!”

At home we always had plantains. Green, yellow and black. One time, Karen and Silvia were at the house and Grandma took out a ripe plantain. Karen thought that it was spoiled and if she ate it she'd get sick. The dummy didn't say anything until Silvia was about to eat one of the fried plantains on the table. Karen grabbed at her hand very hard, so she couldn't eat it, but Silvia had already taken a bite. She nearly choked when Karen told her that it was a black banana and it would make her sick! When I translated to grandma what was going on, she laughed so hard she had to leave the kitchen to catch her breath. When she returned, she asked me to translate for her:

“When plantains are fried green, they turn crunchy and are eaten with salt,” she said. “Like
mariquitas
—which happens to mean ‘ladybugs' —and the
tostones
, that are just like
mariquitas
, but bigger. When plantains go from yellow to black, it's because they are very ripe. That means they will be very sweet when you fry them.”

“Celeste, you're going to kill me,” Karen said. “First you serve me a black plantain and then you tell me that the green ones are filled with ladybugs!”

Grandma thought the whole thing was hilarious. After having a nice laugh, she took out a green plantain and sliced it into little rounds. She pointed to the plantain's little black specks.

“
Ma-ri-qui-ta
,” she said, slowly.

Karen and Silvia repeated after her.

“Ladybug,” Silvia told Grandma.

And Grandma repeated, slowly: “
Lei-di-bog
.”

The memory makes me change my mind, and I ask Doña Esperanza to make
mariquitas
instead. Even though I already know how to prepare them, Mami doesn't let me fry things by myself, because she's afraid the oil will splatter and I will get burned. Between the two of us, we cut the plantains into thin slices, and Doña Esperanza fries them. I think about my friends talking to Grandma and get a little sad. But Monday will be another day.

6          
ROPA VIEJA

On Monday, Mami and I wake up tired, as if the weekend never happened. We sit at the table to have breakfast—a bowl of cereal,
café con leche
and toast. Mami drinks her coffee slowly and tells me about her other job, the one she works on Saturdays.

“It's not bad,” she says. “It's a fun group and we pass the time talking while we stuff letters into envelopes. It's easy and time goes by fast.”

“
Ay
, Mami, I wish you didn't have to work so much!” I tell her.

“It's not forever,
cielo
,” she says. “Just for a few more months so I can catch up on the bills. And so you can go back to dance class.”

“I don't need classes, Mami,” I say. “I'd rather be here with you.”

“Patience, honey,” she says in a tone that reminds me of Grandma. “Everything comes, and everything goes.”