The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico (4 page)

Allí
.” I motioned my nose toward the door. Papi didn’t say another word. I’d get the belt for sure. But I wanted it—the familiar sting. I wanted to hear the belt clap down hard on my skin so I could hush the rushing wings, the crunching of spurs against bone.

Outside, Omar sat on the dirt, his back against an old
Chevy with muddy wheels and missing hubcaps. His face shone slick and pale.

Papi put a firm hand on each of our shoulders. “Get in the car.”

We climbed into his jeep and drove up the winding mountain road in silence. I wondered what would happen to the rooster that lost the fight. Who washed the bloody marks off the floor? Who stuffed the body with wood chips and put marbles in the eyes? I wondered if Papi’s hands were stained red. Red like the playing cards that he had held. Omar put his hand on mine. I clenched my fists and turned to look out the window. Papi parked in front of our house. Through the window, Mamá moved around the kitchen, laying out plates.

“Hola querido!”
she said when she saw Papi. “What’s this?” She nodded toward us.

“Go to my study,” Papi instructed. His dark eyes were ringed red.

Omar and I obeyed. We sat in the study, side by side, looking down at the floor. Papi didn’t scare me as much as the three dead roosters winking and the flood of images from the
jíbaros
bar. In the kitchen, Mamá chattered and scraped the crusty
pegao
from the bottom of the rice pot. It reminded me of the roosters’ spurs as they landed and dragged their feet on the concrete. I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes, but even there I could still see Papi and the ring of men, even clearer.

“Verdita!” Papi shook me by the shoulder. He sat in
his wooden study chair and leaned forward so close that I saw the wide, shiny pores on his nose, smelled the steel of grenades on his breath. “What do you want? You can have the belt or we can talk about what you did wrong. It’s your choice.”

This was how my papi punished, with choices. But I knew better.
We
didn’t talk. Papi talked and talked and yelled and talked. The belt was quicker. Pain for only a moment and then it was done.

Before Omar had a chance to say anything, I spoke up. “The belt.”

Omar shook his head, but it had been decided. Papi unhooked his belt, folded it in half, and thumbed the leather.

“Verdita, I told you not to go there,” Papi said.

“Lo siento,”
I whispered. And I really was.

“Get up.”

We did.

“Omar, leave us,” he said.

Omar’s entire body jumped a little. Then he took off down the hall.

“You won’t go there again.” Papi stood. His arms flexed, ready to swing. I squeezed the cheeks of my
culito
, anticipating the sting, and mad that Omar wasn’t there beside me. Papi pushed a hand through his hair; his tobacco-stained hands ran over the belt edge. Then he touched the top of my head.

“Go. Dinner is waiting.”

I walked from the study to the dining room table and took a seat with Omar and Mamá. It was a while before Papi joined us. Mamá didn’t speak or sing or hum or move while we waited for him, and neither did we. When he finally did come, his belt was looped back around his waist and he didn’t say another word about the
jíbaros
bar or the roosters. Instead, he blessed our meal and talked of the day and the sugarcane and the heat; then he drank a Schlitz, laughed, and kissed Mamá for her good cooking. Omar smiled so big it hurt my gums to watch. He asked for second helpings of Mamá’s rice and said
gracias
-this and
gracias
-that. They all went on like nothing had happened, like they’d been to the States and forgotten. But I knew. I remembered it all. I could barely eat my plateful, even though my stomach growled and cramped. The
mixta
tasted like copper, red saffron-stained rice and cooked chicken flesh. I picked a small wingbone from the pile of rice on my plate.

Gringo Elvis

I
N THE WINTER, THE RAINS CAME
. S
TUCK INSIDE
our schoolroom, nobody could concentrate. At first I thought it had something to do with the
Navidad
and the
Día de Reyes
and the coming holiday break. But the conversations weren’t about
parrandas
and presents, fire-works and troubadours, not even about the rain.

It wasn’t just the students, either. The teachers huddled in the halls, their voices tinkled like broken bells. At home, Papi’s friends from the
jíbaros
bar came over in the evenings to complain about the weather and debate politics over glasses of gin. Everybody was talking about the United States, President Kennedy, and Puerto Rican statehood.

One night during dinner, Papi pulled the television close to the table so he could watch the news. Parts were in English. Mama didn’t like it. She cleared her throat and hummed aloud, so Papi turned up the volume.

“What’s the big deal with President Kennedy?” I asked. The news showed a photograph of the smiling president and his smiling wife surrounded by children waving American flags, all smiling.

“Para! El público!”
The newscaster spoke every word as an exclamation. “Come! See! The American! President!”

“He’s coming,” said Papi. He leaned back in his chair and tossed a half-eaten drumstick onto his plate. I nibbled on the tough skin of my sweet-and-sour chicken thigh. Mamá had overcooked the meat and burned the rice. She’d been mindless all day.

I set the thigh to the side and licked my sticky fingers one by one. Mamá handed me a napkin. Copper finger-prints stained the white.

“To our
barrio
?” I crumpled the napkin in my fist and sucked my saucy thumb. Mamá frowned, but I pretended not to notice. “Why?” There was nothing but corn, tobacco, and jungle for miles. Nothing a president would be interested in.

Mamá hummed louder. Papi turned up the volume again.

“No. To San Juan,” Papi explained. “On December fifteenth. He’s flying here to meet Governor Muñoz Marín. For sure, it will be one big fiesta.”

“Can we go, Papi? Are we going to be an American state?”

“Maybe. Many want us to. Many don’t.” He laid his palm firmly on the table, our glasses shook.

“Do you want us to become a state?” I asked.

But Mamá cleared her throat. “Politicians are nothing but gamblers—they use words instead of cards. Faro, please, not at dinner, not with Verdita,” she said.

“I like politics.” I licked another finger. Heat prickled up from my belly. If Papi and I wanted to talk politics, so be it. Mamá could just keep her nose out of that, too. And besides, she didn’t know a thing about it. This wasn’t just politics—this was important! Plenty of other United States presidents had come to play golf and vacation, but normal people, like me, weren’t allowed to see them. They only printed photographs in the newspaper after they left. But now there was going to be a public fiesta in San Juan, and the whole island was invited.

Mamá sighed. “I’m sick of hearing these men talk, talk, talk.” She spooned her rice. “Besides, I have news of my own.”

Papi turned down the television.

I rolled my eyes. It was just like her to try to change the subject.

“I had an appointment with Dr. Lopez today,” she said.

Papi cocked his head and sucked his teeth. “
Sí
?”

Mamá’s eyes twinkled wet; she sucked her bottom lip and nodded.

“No!” Papi’s eyes went big as eggs. “Are you? Did we?” He rose from his seat and nearly knocked the television over.

I looked from him to Mamá, confused. They spoke a secret language, some code I hadn’t learned. Did they
what?

“Ah-ha!” Papi laughed. “It’s a miracle!” He lifted Mamá off her chair and kissed her.

I twisted my paper napkin to shreds. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to have a baby.” Mamá laughed.

“A baby!” repeated Papi.

Suddenly I seemed to slip underwater. The sounds echoed, the lamplight marbled while they hugged and kissed. I was watching it all, but wasn’t a part of it. Mamá was going to have a baby? I knew she’d wanted one for years, but I’d overheard Titi Lola say she couldn’t, so I figured it was true—figured I was safe.

The sweet-and-sour taste caught in my throat. I definitely didn’t want Mamá to have a boy. Papi would love a boy more than me. Everybody did. He’d have a son to take to the cockfights and work on the
finca
and talk English with. He wouldn’t need me. But if Mamá had a girl—and she was beautiful—Mamá and Papi would definitely love her more. I hated it, the baby, whatever it was. And I despised them for making it.

I left them in the kitchen, went to my room, and shut the door. I thought my head would burst. Everything was changing so fast. I crawled underneath my sheets and closed my eyes, trying to dream my way back to Papi’s perfect rainbow beach. I was nearly there when the door creaked open and a beam of light pierced the darkness.

“Verdita,” whispered Mamá, silhouetted in the doorway.
“Querida?”

I ignored her.

“She’s asleep,” said Papi. He ran his hand over her belly. “She’s happy.”

But I wasn’t. I was wide awake and couldn’t seem to find my dreams again, no matter how hard I tried.

W
E HAD MUSIC
class the next morning, so I let myself forget about the night before. Music and English reading were my favorites. I got to show everybody how good my English was. Words changed during those hours. Everything sounded like magic. Our teacher, Señora Alonzo, was good at both singing and reading. She had a nice voice and could play the mandolin. Papi said she was born in New York City but was still a Puerto Rican; she had island blood even though her body was in the States. There were rumors she’d sung in an American band. Words rolled off her tongue like music. I hoped she never stopped teaching, but if she did, I thought she’d make a good casino singer or a priest, if priests could be girls. Mass would be so much better if she was reading the scripture. Señora Alonzo was the first woman teacher in Florilla, the first American too, and I loved her best of all.

That morning we sang the Puerto Rican national anthem, “La Borinqueña.” That was one of my favorites. It
said that our island, Borínquen, was a beautiful woman, the daughter of the ocean and the sun, who had a body covered in flowers. And knowing what I knew—what Papi told me about the Ocean King wanting Mamá—I imagined the song was my own. I pretended I was Borínquen. And sometimes, in the middle of the chorus, I’d truly believe.

After we finished our anthem, we sang the United States anthem. We always started music class with both. The daily songs were written in white chalk on the green board:
La Borinqueña, The Star-Spangled Banner, Class Choice
. Señora Alonzo strummed the opening melody on her mandolin.

“ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’
Uno, dos, tres
.”

We began to sing, hesitating at each line, trying to follow her sweet sound.

Ohhh sé con yoo sí bi de donsair leelite. We sang together. A few of the girls giggled, stumbling through the words.

“Bueno!”
Señora Alonzo said at the end. “We’ll practice this again. Okay. What else do we want to sing today? The last song is a class choice.”

“Let’s twiss again!” Mikal yelled.

“Besame la Bemba,” Fredo shouted next to me.

“Will you love me tomorrow!”

“It’s Now o’ Never!” said Sonia two rows over.

“Ay! Elvis Presley! How many like Elvis? I like Elvis.” Señora Alonzo’s eyes sparkled. We all raised our hands
and made “oo-oo” sounds. I didn’t feel one way or another about Elvis, but I did love Señora Alonzo. If she liked Elvis, then I liked Elvis. I raised my arm like a needle to the sky.

“Perfecto!”
She smiled wide, and giggles rippled over the classroom. “It’s Now or Never.” She strummed the mandolin.

“Ready, class?
Uno, dos, tres!’
She sang. I joined my voice to hers, my sound drowning in the group. I liked the way it felt. The rhythm was familiar and yet not. That’s how a lot of music from the States felt. Something deep down in the chords made you want to move, to dance, but in a different way than our
jíbaros
songs. The songs from the States made me want to run, to jump, to spin until all the colors of the room blurred together. And at the same time they scared me so bad that I had to stop singing and hold my breath until the feeling passed. I did so then, and noticed that Fredo wasn’t singing either.

Señora Alonzo strummed the last of the chorus, “My love won’t wait.” She looked in our direction and set the mandolin beside her chair. “Verdita. Fredo. Why don’t you sing with the class?
Por qué?”

Fredo stared straight, his eyes bulging wide and unafraid. He looked the way Papi did when I talked back to him about my name and when he found me at the
jíbaros
bar. “My papá says that’s a
gringo
song. I’m not allowed to sing
gringo
songs.” I couldn’t hold back my gasp, and I covered my own mouth for Fredo’s.