The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (10 page)

I
“forgot” my gym clothes, again, and Miss DeVarona “understood,” again, pretending she believed my excuse that my only pair of shorts got soaked on the clothesline the night before. I lied. I just had to. She had taken down the St. Patrick’s Day decorations, which meant she was getting ready to decorate the classroom for Easter. If I excused myself from gym, I knew she’d ask me to help her. And she did. “Ricardo”—she called me by my formal name—“what do you think about this purple for the front bulletin board?” she asked, holding up a piece of construction paper. I seized the opportunity. “Do you need any help, Miss DeVarona?” I volunteered, looking up at her from the history textbook I was pretending to read. “I sure do, young man,” she said. “Come over here. And bring your scissors and glue.”

Miss DeVarona was my favorite teacher: kind, loving, and generous. She indulged me, making me feel understood and safe—confident enough that I told her, “Well, purple isn’t really the right color for the background. Let’s do the baskets in purple instead, then make the background a light green, like a field of grass for the Easter bunny.” She agreed. We then stuffed the Easter basket cutout with sparkly plastic grass and decorated the cardboard eggs with bands of glitter. But the Easter bunny also needed something—a special touch to make it look real. “Let’s make the tail out of cotton balls,” I suggested. “Yes, wonderful—what a great idea!” she praised me. When the class returned from gym, she presented our
masterpiece
to everyone and then asked me to stand up. “Isn’t Ricardo talented? He’s so creative. Let’s give him a big thanks,” she said, leading them in a round of applause. I took my seat, feeling proud at first, and then ashamed of feeling proud after catching a few of the boys’ sneers and Ralph Castellano’s teasing remark: “Oh how cute . . . Isn’t that pretty . . . Ricar
da
.”

At the first parent-teacher conference that quarter, Papá told me Miss DeVarona said I was
sensitive
and
very creative
and that I should do something artistic when I grew up, like painting or architecture or writing. “
Sí
, if you want to eat your whole life nothing but
frijoles negros
and rice. You should be a doctor or an engineer,” he told me dismissively. “What’s wrong with her?” Papá asked me, not knowing that Miss DeVarona’s face was partially paralyzed, the result of an operation she’d had years before, though she never told us exactly what kind. Her left side never smiled, never blinked, never moved when she spoke to us, or sipped her tea, or read to us from the Chronicles of Narnia after lunch.

Perhaps because she was uncomfortable having the class watch her while she read, she usually kept us busy with something artsy-crafty. Some kids filled in coloring books; others twisted and bent colored pipe cleaners into tiny animals. But most of the kids—except me—had a latch
hook rug kit. They pulled pieces of yarn through the color-coded mat as Miss DeVarona pulled us into an imaginary world of magical wardrobes and talking lions. I hadn’t dared to ask my parents for a rug kit; they were too expensive—ten dollars for even the cheapest one, according to Ernesto Perez, the richest kid in class. Ernesto brought in a new kit every week. Besides, I was sure Abuela wouldn’t find rug-making appropriate for
un hombre
; she’d probably throw it away, just like the strawberry-scented erasers she had taken from me.

But if I kept the kit hidden in my desk at school, Abuela would never know. I decided to save up and buy one. For weeks I did without the Little Debbie cakes I ate at lunch, socking away thirty-five cents a day until I had saved twelve dollars. That very afternoon, I rode my bike about five miles to the arts-and-crafts megastore near
tía
Ofelia’s house.
Diamond’s—A Woman’s Paradise,
the humongous sign read, painted in cursive across the entire front of the building as if a giant had written out each word by hand. Abuela always made me wait outside the store when she and Mamá went shopping for birthday and
quinceañera
decorations, but today it would be all mine to enjoy—a Garden of Eden filled with colored sand, silk roses, plastic tiaras, candy molds, glass beads, skeins of yarn in colors I had never imagined. I lingered in every aisle, dreaming of all the dazzling things I could make, if I had enough money: a rhinestone collar for Misu, hanging macramé holders for Mamá’s houseplants, a Popsicle stick lamp for my room.

Over an hour into wandering Diamond’s, I found the latch hook rug kits—an entire aisle to choose from: owls, sunsets, butterflies, eagles, kittens, ladybugs, sunflowers, lighthouses, unicorns. How could I decide? Most of the kits were more than twelve dollars. Even so, it took me another hour to narrow it down to two choices: Mickey and Minnie Mouse wreathed by red hearts, or a tiger crouching in jungle-green grass. I had a crush on Mickey and Minnie, as bad as the crush they had on each other. But maybe the tiger’s fiery gaze and steely look would seem manly enough to earn Abuela’s approval. I made my decision hoping Abuela would allow me to hang the finished rug on the wall above my bed.

Half a block from my house, I saw Abuela standing on the front porch, waiting to interrogate me. “Where you were,
cabrón
?” she demanded as I pedaled up the driveway. School had ended four hours earlier—I hadn’t realized I’d been gone so long. “Umm, I was at Enriquito’s house . . . We were playing . . . outside,
te lo juro,
” I swore, but she locked her eyes on my bag. It had
Diamond’s—A Woman’s Paradise
printed right on it. “
¿Qué carajo?
You go to Diamond’s?” she asked, her eyes fierce. I stood silent as she snatched the bag from my hand and pulled out the rug kit. “What’s this?” she barked, her eyes as big as her mouth. “It’s for making a rug. It’s a tiger. See?” I explained softly as she examined the kit. “A rug?
Con
yarn? What’s next—ballet? I told you
diez mil veces:
it’s better to be
it
and not look like
it,
than to look like
it
even if you are not
it
.” At that age, I only understood that
it
meant watching telenovelas;
it
was my paint-by-number sets;
it
was my cousin’s Easy-Bake Oven I wanted for my own—all the things I enjoyed for which she constantly humiliated me. “I’m keeping this until your
padre
gets home.” She took the kit into her room, closing the door behind her even as I tried to explain. “But it’s for school. Everyone has one . . .”

True to her word, when Papá walked through the front door, she marched out of her room, my kit tucked under her arm. “
Mira esto,
” she began, tossing the box onto the kitchen table. “He wants to make rugs now. You want your
hijo
doing
cosas
like that? What will be next? He can’t keep this.” I wanted my father to shut her up for once, but he didn’t, or couldn’t, for reasons I was too young to understand. Why didn’t either of my parents ever take my side and stand up to her?

But that day Papá must’ve felt sorry for me; instead of completely giving in to Abuela, he suggested we exchange the kit for something else. “Okay,” my grandmother said reluctantly,
insisting, however, that we go exchange it before dinner and that she would go with us. Papá, still in his necktie, drove us back to Diamond’s. “Wait in the car,” she instructed him as she grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the backseat and dragging me into the store. We tramped down the aisles trying to find something appropriate, Abuela tsk-tsking past the needlepoint sets and jars of glitter. Finally, she took interest in a leather wallet and key chain kit, which she held up in front of my face. “See? Leather is for
hombres,
” she decreed, pointing to the photo of the boy on the box. He wore a cowboy hat as he stitched through the leather.

The leather kit was dumb and dull—I tossed it on my desk when we got home and never opened it. With nothing to do with my hands except color in my same old coloring books, I listened even more intently as Miss DeVarona read on about the White Witch of Narnia who made it always winter but never Christmas. Abuela was just as bad as her, I thought—or was she? A few weeks before the White Witch was killed by Aslan the lion, Abuela announced at the dinner table that one of her “clients” had settled a big debt with her. She then slipped a plain white envelope to my parents and said, “
Coje,
this is for you—so you can take Riqui to Disney. We’ll stay here.” From the warm glance she gave me, I figured it was her way of making up for the latch hook rug incident. Nevertheless, Mamá was shocked and nearly spit up her flan; Papá couldn’t say anything except
gracias
. For months my parents had been telling us just how much overtime they were working to save enough money for our first weekend trip to Walt Disney World. The whole school year they had been threatening to cancel their plans whenever Caco or I misbehaved or got an unacceptable “U” grade in conduct. But all along I suspected it was probably a front in case they couldn’t afford to make it happen.

The night before the trip, I thought about the bedtime story that Papá used to tell me about El Ratoncito Miguel, who tricked La Cucaracha Martina into diving into a pool of sweetened condensed milk, where she drowned. I said three Hail Marys and an Our Father, asked God to keep us safe on the trip, and fell asleep. When Mamá came into my room the next morning to wake me, I was already up and getting dressed. The sun wasn’t even out yet, but I had made Mamá promise we’d get an early start so we could arrive at Disney World just when the park opened and make the most of the day. In half an hour we were all packed into Papá’s immaculately clean
Malibú,
ready to go. I checked the Mickey Mouse watch that my rich
tía
Gloria had given me for Christmas: 6
A.M.
—we’d be there by 10
A.M.
Grateful that Abuela had given my parents the money for the trip, I was also glad she wasn’t going, as I watched her waving good-bye, standing in the amber glow of the front porch light, the stars above our rooftop beginning to fade in the morning twilight.

Seven in the morning: only three more hours to go on the Florida Turnpike when Mamá smelled something funny. “
¡Ay, qué peste!
Did we go by a landfill out here?” She lowered her window to investigate whether the foul odor was coming from inside or outside the car. “Is from inside the car,” she concluded, and turned to look at me. “Was it you,
mi’jo
? Did you fart?” she asked. “No, no,” I said, making my best angel face: eyebrows pulled up, eyes wide open showing I had nothing to hide behind them. “Oh, who was it then, your Fairy Fart Mother?” Caco blurted out, his cracking teenage voice underscoring his sarcasm. “Shut up, butt-face,” I shouted. “Did you hear what he said?” I turned to Mamá, trying to get Caco in trouble. “No, what he said?” she replied, unable to understand his smart-ass comment without translation. But how would I say “Fairy Fart Mother” in Spanish?
¿Mi Madrina de los Peos? ¿El Guardia de mis Peos
? I gave up. “Never mind.”

Ordinarily I would’ve admitted to the act—no biggie. Caco and I had fart wars all the time, competing to see who could outdo whom with the loudest, longest, or smelliest. But this was different. “
No, te lo juro,
Mamá, it wasn’t me,” I repeated, not wanting anything—especially not impending diarrhea—to ruin my first trip to the promised land. But I did have to go—real bad. My stomach was in an uproar of anticipation; I was finally going to meet the most important man in my life: El Ratoncito Miguel, Mickey Mouse himself. And it was about time—I was already eleven years old, and the only kid in my class who hadn’t been to Walt Disney World yet.

“You need to go to
el baño,
don’t you?” Mamá asked. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” I lied again, trying to ignore my cramps, hoping I could hold it for the rest of the three hours to Orlando. But it was no use; a loud one slipped out like a foghorn.
“¡Ay, Dios!”
Mamá yelled, waving her hand in front of her nose and lowering her window as if she were going to pass out. “
Qué va,
this boy can’t wait—
va a explotar
. He’s pale—
míralo
. Pull off the road someplace,” she instructed Papá, who was gripping the vinyl-wrapped wheel of his Chevy Malibu as proudly as if he were driving a Rolls-Royce. The last thing he wanted to do was stop in the middle of the turnpike. “
¡No! ¿Tú estás loca?
We can’t stop—what if they hit my car? You can wait,
mi’jo,
can’t you?” Papá hoped, finding my face in the rearview mirror. “Yes, yes. I don’t have to go, Papá,” I swore, even as my stomach cramped up again. Pointing through the windshield, Mamá directed Papá, “Over there
—perfecto
. Over there—
ándale
.” “Okay, okay.
No jodas más!
” he shouted and switched on his hazard lights, inching the car onto the paved shoulder.

It still didn’t dawn on me that I was about to take my first shit in the woods until Mamá pulled a jumbo roll of toilet paper from her just-in-case tote bag. “
Menos mal
I remember to bring this,” she said proudly, “
por si las moscas
.” That was her favorite Cuban motto,
por si las moscas—in case of the flies—
an idiom meaning “always be prepared for the worst,” and she was—always. Besides the toilet paper, she had brought a cooler full of ham and cream cheese sandwiches, grapes, and pineapple sodas in case there were no convenience stores; five cans of OFF! mosquito repellent in case one wasn’t enough; a tube of Krazy Glue just in case
something
broke; and a spare set of house and car keys in case Papá lost his, again.

“Vamos,”
she said, plucking me from the car and leading me down the embankment by the hand with the roll tucked beneath her arm. We scurried through a stretch of itchy grass that brushed at my knees, until we reached the edge of the tree line beyond which everything was wilderness. “
Allá,
behind the trees. No one will see you,” she directed, pointing to a cluster of sable palms amid a clump of bushes. “Hold the tree,
y agáchate
all the way down, like a toilet but lower. Like this,” she instructed, squatting down herself to demonstrate. “But what if there’s something out there, Mamá? What if—” “Shh, don’t worry,
mi’jo,
” she assured me. “Now
apúrate,
we don’t want to miss El Ratoncito Miguel.”