The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico (20 page)

Arriving in Between

I
N
N
OVEMBER
, M
AMÁ
J
UANITA USUALLY WENT TO
visit Tío Orlando and my
titis
for the American Thanksgiving; but that year she decided to stay in Puerto Rico with Mamá, Papi, and Naranja. She gave her plane ticket to me.

On the day of my flight from San Juan, she kissed my forehead, blessed me, and told me to bring a coat because D.C. was like an icebox in the winter. I remembered Omar’s story about the man who froze in front of the White House; but all my good dresses and white pumps were packed in a daisy-print suitcase, so Mamá Juanita gave me her green polka-dot sweater, five sizes too big. Papi pulled my suitcase from the jeep while I said good-bye to Mamá and Naranja.

“I bless you in the name of the Father, and the Son,
and the Holy Spirit.” Mamá kissed my cheeks, forehead, and chin.

I laid my face against the white of her neck. “Thank you, Mamá.”

“The next time I see you, you’ll be a
señorita
. I’m certain.” Her voice wobbled. She cleared her throat to steady it. “Don’t change too much while you’re gone, okay?”

I nodded, but didn’t dare promise. Truth was, I hoped I came back changed. More American, for sure.

She handed Naranja to me so I could say good-bye.

“It’s only a little while,” I whispered. I didn’t want him to think I’d forget him. Life had been good since he came. I’d been wrong to hate him, and was glad God didn’t grant me my prayers. “Our spirits can meet on the rainbow dream beach every night.” I kissed his head, sprouted with dark curlicues like my own. They’d grown so fast over the past four months. He grabbed my finger and held tight. I didn’t want him to let go.

“Verdita, these planes don’t wait for no one,” Papi said. He, alone, was taking me to my boarding gate. Since Mamá got better, we hadn’t really talked like we used to. He and I were different now.

“God bless you,” Mamá Juanita said, putting her hand on my cheek one last time. The smell of cocoa butter lingered.

A smiling woman in a short blue dress took my suitcase, put a tag on the handle, and gave me back another tag. They were like puzzle pieces, she said. The two fit together
so that if somebody else had a daisy-printed suitcase, I would know which was mine. My puzzle piece fit only my luggage.

“Don’t lose that ticket,” said Papi. “Keep it someplace safe and don’t let it fall out.” I pulled my gardenia journal from my bag and slid the ticket between the pages of magazine pictures, scribbled thoughts, memories, and dreams. It was safest there.

“Do everything they tell you on the plane,” he went on, “Fasten your seat belt, and if you have to go to the bathroom, ask one of the women to take you.
Don’t
go by yourself.
Don’t
talk to any strangers. And
don’t
get up out of your seat unless it is an emergency. And remember to chew gum, otherwise your ears will hurt—you have gum?”

I nodded and showed him my box of Chiclets.

“Good—and always pray during the takeoff and the landing. Always.”

We were at my gate, but I didn’t want to go yet. We hadn’t talked about any of the important stuff like the
jíbaros
bar and the dead roosters; what they named the baby girl; his secret for peeling oranges; how to keep from forgetting Puerto Rico and …

“Verdita …” Papi’s voice trailed off raspy, like he’d swallowed burnt
chicharrones
. “Here.” He pulled an extralarge sesame seed bar from his pocket, the size he only bought on birthdays and holidays. “I know how you like these. And you deserve it.” He looked down at the candy stretched out to me.

I thought he wanted me to take it, so I tried. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed the point where my hair stopped and my face started.

“Mieja
.” He stayed close for a moment.

I didn’t want him to ever pull away, but he did.

“When you arrive, Tío Orlando will be waiting for you. Look for him. Okay?”

“Sí”
I said. My voice was small. I tried to make it bigger. “Papi—”

“You have everything.”

“Sí, pero Papi
—
“
I began.

“English, Verdita. People won’t understand you. They’ll take you as ignorant. You must show these Americans that you are a smart girl. A Boricua! So only English in the States. You can speak Spanish when you’re with the family.”

I didn’t argue. There was too much I wanted to say, and not much time.

“Get out your ticket. Hurry now,” Papi said. My hands shook. “Give it to the lady, and she’ll show you to your seat.” His body stiffened; his cheeks barely moved when he spoke, and his eyes stayed away from mine. I couldn’t stand it.

“Papi.” I forced my face against his chest and breathed in the Old Spice, the gardenias, the chickens and the corn, the Schlitzes and
mixtas
, the brown dirt and the green, green island. He smelled like home.

Papi leaned his cheek on my head. “Mamá and I will
be right here to pick you up when you come back. I promise I’ll take good care of her and Naranja.”

I nodded. There was no time for talk, so I took a last breath and held the smell inside my lungs, let it soak into my flesh and bones so I would always remember.

“Te quiero,”
I said.

“También,”
he whispered then pushed me through the gate.

The attendant took my ticket and led me through the boarding tunnel. I didn’t look back at Papi. I didn’t need to. I would remember.

The attendants all wore the same dress that stuck out at the corners like the edges of a kite. They blended into the matching blue airplane chairs and beige paneling. Blue and beige, blue and beige.

“You’re in 14A, a window,” the attendant said, and motioned to a row of seats. “I can take your bag.”

I held it tight, feeling the hard cover of my journal, the box of Chiclets, the can of guava juice Mamá Juanita gave me, all my important things. “No.
Gra
—Thank you.”

“Okay,” she looked down at my ticket stub, “Maria, would you like something to drink? Apple juice, orange juice, coffee, tea, water, soda—Coke, ginger ale, or Fanta?” Her voice was twangy; the words blended together, like saying the rosary.

Apple juice made my stomach turn. I wasn’t thirsty yet anyhow, and when I was, I could take care of myself.

“I’ve got this.” I pulled the can from my bag and shook it.

She smiled. She wasn’t exactly like all the other American attendants. Her hair, pinned back beneath her blue bonnet, was honey-colored, and her eyes, big and bright, were green like mine.

“Looks like you’re ready to go.” She winked. “I’m Cindy. If you need anything, just buzz.” She pressed a button on the arm of the chair, and a light above my head flashed on like the morning star.

The seat smelled of old
café
and mouthwash. It was hard to get comfortable. The metal parts poked through the fabric, like bones through skin, so I used the small pillow for an extra seat cushion. It helped, and made it easier to see out the window.

Just before Cindy came around to check our safety belts, a woman with dark skin and flippy brown hair sat beside me. She wore blue jeans and a tight pink shirt, and her eyebrows formed two plucked arches that made her look like she’d just swallowed a bug, even when she smiled. She was American—pretty. But she smelled like
sofrito
. Like onions, peppers, capers, garlic. Like Mamá’s kitchen.

She fastened her belt and pulled a
Vogue
magazine from her bag, then turned and asked, “You all by yourself?”

“Sí,”
I said, making my voice loud and sure. “I’m going to Washington, D.C.”

“La
capitál
. Never been. I live in New York City,” she explained.

“My teacher—Señora Alonzo—she’s from there.”

“Ah.” She raised a brow higher. “You should come. There are many Puerto Ricans.”

She opened her magazine. “I just came back to visit my sister. She’s the only one left on the island.”

I thought of Mamá and Papi, Mamá Juanita and Naranja, Tío Benny and Titi Ana, Titi Lola, Teline, Delia, and Pepito, and all my other family, great-
tíos
and -
titis
, second, third, and fourth cousins, the whole
barrio
of Florilla. I couldn’t imagine not having family in Puerto Rico.

Out the window, the mountains seemed nothing more than a rolling line across the horizon. My gaze ran the crest, searching, but I was too far from our pink house. It was hidden beneath the spiked palms and Flamboyán trees of Borínquen.

As the plane took off, the woman read her magazine. I chewed my gum and prayed that angels would lift me into the air. I knew Angela was one of them. Through the window, I searched the sky for her. Puffs of white gave way to a sunny blue. My eyes ached at the brightness. I had to look away from the face of God. He was watching. He knew my story.

Like the emerald parrot, I soared high while far below, Papi, Mamá, and my island grew small. The blue, blue sea swallowed the green mountaintop until it was no more than a speck, a sesame seed floating in the darkness, and then nothing. The moment it disappeared, the sun’s warmth
seemed to empty from my body. Yet, for the first time, I knew for certain who I was.

The pilot announced that our flight time was three hours, forty-eight minutes, and that Washington, D.C., had snow flurries in the forecast. I curled my sandaled toes and pulled Mamá Juanita’s sweater over my shoulders, soft and light. Snow. I remembered Mamá and Papi shaving balls of ice for my birthday
piraguas
, their faces warm and laughing. A Puerto Rican snowfall.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Sheri Reynolds for believing in me before I fully believed in myself and for giving me the opportunity to follow my heart. I am forever grateful. I thank Janet Peery for setting the bar high and never allowing me to slip beneath it; Dr. Jeffrey Richards, for his never-ending encouragement and for saying, “I told you so”; my classmates in the MFA program for their insightful thoughts that weighted my pen; my trusted readers and lifelong friends Christy Fore, Stacy Rich, Sandra Scofield, and all those who loved me through long writing hermit spells.

To my agent, Doris Michaels, and my director of development, Delia Berrigan Fakis, I am enormously grateful for their continual support, warmth, and wisdom; my editor, Kate Kennedy, what can I say, you’re amazing; Shaye Areheart and everyone at Shaye Areheart Books, thank you for believing in me and this story.

I could not possibly have written this novel without its fundamental inspiration, my family. To all of my extended family and especially my grandparents in Puerto Rico, Wilfredo Norat-Torres and Maria Esparra-Rivera, my love is immeasurable, and I hope I bring honor to our family’s name and land. To my parents, Eleane and Curtis McCoy, you are my best friends and all that I strive to be. Thank you for seeing my gifts early and nurturing them. I am a writer because of you. To my brothers, Jason and Andrew, how could I have written of adolescence without the influence of my sidekicks? As men, you hold my esteem like no others.

Thank you to my husband, Brian Waterman, without whom I would certainly be lost. For your infinite support and patience during the writing of this book (and for forgiving the harrowing citrus-throwing incident), I promise a lifetime of Miss Ellen’s Muffins and all my love.

Finally, I must say that I am grateful and immeasurably humbled by the work of the divine in my life. I count every breath and word as a blessing.

About the Author

SARAH MCCOY has taught writing at Old Dominion University and the University of Texas at El Paso. She lives with her husband in El Paso, Texas, where she is working on her second novel. Please visit
www.SarahMcCoy.com
.

Discussion Guide

1. What role does food play in Puerto Rican culture? How does McCoy use specific foods to bring the characters together?

2. What kind of narrative voice has McCoy chosen for this novel? How do we connect with Verdita’s character through that narrative style? How does the child’s point of view enhance or detract from the book’s impact?

3. Freud’s theory of the primal scene asserts that when a child is faced with the sudden awareness of his or her parents’ sexuality and intimacy, it shocks the psyche and sets the child’s libido into motion. How do you see this affecting Verdita in
chapter 1
and throughout the novel?

4. The discovery of identity is a common theme in coming-of-age
(bildungsroman)
stories. At the beginning of the book, Verdita’s persona is directly tied to her parents. Finding her identity requires her to recognize the separation between who they are as a unit (Venusa and Faro) and who she is as an individual. Simultaneously, she battles with who her parents are in the intimate setting (Mama and Papi) and who they are in public (Monaique and Juan); who she is in private (Verdita) and in public (Maria-Flores). Discuss this and other social dualities Verdita faces in her coming-of-age struggle.

5. How is Verdita’s coming of age in 1960s Puerto Rico different from a girl coming of age in America during that same period? How are they similar?

6. How have the Taino Indians and the indigenous island culture adapted to each of its colonizers (the Spanish and Americans) and the African slaves brought by them? How do you see each of these influences in the novel? How does this compare to America’s “melting pot” identity?