The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico (7 page)

We didn’t talk on the ride home. My stomach was too full to feel, my mouth too slick for words. So I closed my eyes and pretended that I was outside my body, flying through the dark like the Big Boy Santa Claus, like President Kennedy in his airplane. Flying to the States.

A Taste of Puerto Rico

T
HE
N
AVIDAD
FELL ON A
M
ONDAY THAT YEAR
. The Saturday before, there was a
parranda
, and our house was the start. Relatives began arriving in the afternoon. Tío Benny, Titi Ana, and my cousin Adel came extra early. They brought Tío’s guitar and a pan of creamy
tembleque
for our feast, since their house was too far to be part of the progression. Titi Lola and Tío Chacho arrived soon after with my cousins Delia, Teline, and Pepito. Teline and I were the same age, but Delia was sixteen and already a
señorita
, so she didn’t play with us as much as she used to.

“Hola
, Verdita,” Delia said, and kissed both my cheeks. She smelled strong. Like the incense they flung around during mass. I wondered if she had just come from confession and what she’d confessed. Mamá said once you became a
señorita
, everything changed. She said that Titi
Lola took Delia to confession twice a week so that the priest could make her right with God. I wondered if I would have to go that often when I became a
señorita
. I hoped not. I smelled like coconut bark, and I liked it that way.

Teline came in with Pepito. He was only three years old and still needed someone to watch after him. When Teline stopped to hug and kiss my cheeks, Pepito pulled away and ran toward the line of potted poinsettias that Mamá had bought for decoration.

“Pepito!” Titi Lola yelled, barely inside the doorframe. She’d dyed her hair purple-red and wore a grass-green dress that cinched at the waist then belled out to her knees. Her gold stiletto heels made little click-click noises wherever she walked.

Pepito ripped pointy leaves from their stems, but before he brought the red handfuls to his mouth, Titi Lola click-clicked to him and pulled him back by the forehead. “Teline, you almost let Pepito die!” She emptied his fists. Jagged petals confettied the floor.

“It’s not my fault,” Teline said.

“Your brother is little. You must watch over him,” she scolded, then lifted Pepito onto the ledge of her hip and headed to the kitchen. “Mami is here.” She kissed him, leaving a smear of fuchsia across his temple.

Teline got blamed for everything Pepito did wrong, because he was the only boy in the family. It wasn’t fair. I did
not
want Mamá to have a boy. I took Teline’s hand and led her away to the quiet corner of the living room where
Papi had put up a plastic tree with colored lights and a blinking star on top. I’d covered the limbs with silver tinsel like I’d seen in a magazine. The tree stood about my height, but if I lay down next to it, it seemed a hundred feet tall. I pulled her to the floor next to me; the crinoline beneath our skirts stuck up like white branches.

“Do you like our tree?” I asked.

“Sí
, we have one too. Mami got it at Walgreen’s,” she said.

“My papi says Santa Claus is coming. Someone finally told him about our
barrio
.”

“Santa Claus? Delia says he’s an old white man who only visits families on the mainland.” She pulled a tinsel strand off a lower limb and wrapped it around her thumb.

“No, he’s a saint—Santo Nicolas Claus. He comes to everyone in the world. My papi said so. It was in the newspaper,” I corrected her. “Don’t believe Delia. She’s just mad ‘cause she has to go to confession. Probably because she doesn’t believe in saints!”

“No, Delia goes to confession because she has a boyfriend.” Teline covered her mouth to keep in the laughs. But I didn’t.

“A boyfriend!”

I knew that some
señoritas
had boyfriends that made them do crazy things, like scream and throw plates or dance in the rain. I’d seen it all on Mamá’s
telenovelas
. She watched them in the afternoons while crocheting, pausing every so often from her counting to say
Ay bendito!
and cluck her tongue.

“Shhh,” Teline warned. Delia stood a few feet away in the kitchen. Teline rolled over on her stomach. From where I lay, the layers of fluff haloed her head like an angel. She cupped her mouth and whispered, “Sometimes she goes in the back shed with him. I see them. Like when the rooster climbs on the hen. He rubs her and kisses her
tetas
. And she makes noises like this, oooo—ahh
—sí
—oh,
sí
.”

I thought of Mamá and Papi on the couch, and the roosters I’d seen pecking hens, pecking each other—the blood of the
jíbaros
bar and the sound of bone against bone. I stopped laughing. Teline rolled around next to me in a fit of giggles.

“Not funny,” I said, my face hot, my heart pounding.

Teline cocked her head. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Sí
.” I pulled away.

“What’s wrong, Verdita?”

“Who cares about Delia and her boyfriend.” I got up. My red-striped dress was caught in the crinoline. I worked around myself, smoothing the stiff bristles. Teline stood and did the same.

“I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.” Her eyes were big as eggs.

I wasn’t mad. I was something else. But I couldn’t explain that to her. So instead I kissed her cheek. “It’s okay.”

“Girls,” Titi Lola called. “Come help.” We went to the kitchen. “See this.” She held out a large bowl. “See those.” She pointed to a basket of eggs. “Now, crack these eggs and put the yolks in the bowl. Just
yemas
. Don’t get your
dresses dirty.” She tied a dish towel around my waist and did the same for Teline.

“What are we making?” I asked.

“Ahh!” She winked and smiled so that her eyes became slits.
“Co-qui-to
.” She broke the word in three parts. “Some for tonight, some for
el Día de los Inocentes y los Días de Reyes
and the rest for in between. Go on, crack-crack,” she said and waved a hand.

We smashed the shells against the bowl’s edge. It was fun to feel them break inside my palm. I ran my fingers over the smooth sides before crushing it into sharp pieces. My hands felt powerful.

The troubadours arrived just as Teline and I finished the last egg. Our fingers were sore from breaking the shells and scooping out the yellow. We only threw out three that bled orange-red sunsets, silent baby chicks. The juice stuck to my palms. At the door, Papi greeted the men and welcomed in their bongos,
guiros
, guitars, and maracas. The troubadours’ songs were better than any other music—
-jíbaro
or American—because they weren’t just choruses and chants hummed over and over, they were stories, long and real and full of adventure.

Papi led the musicians through the kitchen back door to the outside tent he’d put up for the
parranda
. All of my cousins and Tío Benny filed out behind. I wanted to go too, but I couldn’t leave Teline, and my hands stank raw. Mamá mixed the yolks with a wire whisk while Titi Lola
added thick, sweet milk from a can, juice squeezed from the coconut flesh, sugar, and rum.

On the way out, a young troubadour with maracas nodded hello to Mamá and Titi Lola, then shook his batons.
“Me gusto coquito, coquito, coquito. Ay mi coquito, bebo todo el día,”
he sang, and shimmied to the door.

Mamá and Titi Lola laughed loud and hummed the tune as they mixed, their hips swaying.

“Taste,” Mamá said. She poured the creamy mix into a chipped china cup and handed it to Titi Lola.

Titi drank and puckered her lips. “More rum.”

They went on mixing and singing.

“Taste-taste,” Mamá said again, and she handed Titi the cup again.

“Almost,” Titi Lola said, and poured in gulps from the gold-labeled bottle.

“Can I taste?” Teline asked.

“No, not until you are older. This is for the mamás and papás,” Titi explained. “But you can dance with me.”

She took Teline by the hands and twirled her around.
“Me gusto coquito, coquito, coquito …”

Mamá put down her whisk and clapped along, salsaing to the rhythm. “Come on, Verdita,” she called.

I had been mad at Mamá for months, but it was the
Navidad
, and Santa Claus was coming with reindeer, and we were having a
parranda
with troubadours, and despite myself, I couldn’t help but miss her, just a little. So I figured, for that night I could forgive. I took her hand.

“Follow me,” she said.

We danced around the kitchen, stepping back, stepping forward, spinning and moving our hips as we sang until Titi Lola’s gold spike heel slipped beneath her and she nearly fell. Mamá caught her by the arm, and they laughed together until tears and spit mixed on their lips. Whatever this
coquito
was, it seemed to bewitch.

Titi took one last taste before deciding it was ready, and Mamá put a plate over the bowl. It had to marinate. Mamá and Titi Lola walked arm in arm to the
parranda
tent. More guests arrived, but, hearing the music, they followed the sound to the backyard instead of coming through the house. Teline and I were alone. Tío Benny’s voice, already warm and sweaty with gin, began to sing. Mamá and Titi Lola’s voices hummed along. I knew they were probably sitting under the tent, listening some, singing some, and all raising warm glasses. What magic this
coquito
must be for the troubadour to sing of it, for Titi Lola to say the word like a spell.

“Teline.” I gestured with my lips toward the bowl. “Taste?”

“No! My mami will knot my head with
cocotazos
.” She crossed her arms.

“I
dare
you to take one sip,” I said. But Teline didn’t know the States games.

“No,” she said.

“Are you a chicken? Afraid?”

“Sí
. Of my mami,” she said.

I would never admit to a thing like that, and neither would Omar.

“Fine. I’ll do it. I’m not a coward.” I went to the bowl, making sure to check over my shoulder in case Mamá or Papi came inside.

I slid the lid halfway off. The smell burned my nose.
Medicina
and coconut soap. I wanted to cover it back up and forget the whole thing, but it was a dare—even if
I
had been the darer—and I couldn’t let it beat me. Teline stood close behind, watching. I took up the big serving spoon that Mamá used for
mixtas
and dipped it into the cream. It was thicker than I’d anticipated, like rice soup or
tembleque
before it stiffened up. I looked back at the door. Mamá sang with Tío Benny, the troubadours played on.

“Quickly,” Teline wheezed behind me.

I hesitated. Titi Lola had said that Teline couldn’t have any. But I couldn’t get in trouble, I reasoned, because Mamá never said I wasn’t allowed. I lifted the spoon to my lips, holding my breath so my nose hairs wouldn’t catch fire, and sipped. The smell didn’t betray the taste. My throat burned, then cooled in a sweet candy coating. It was good. I put the whole spoonful in my mouth and gulped.

“What’s it like, Verdita?” Teline pulled my arm.

“Ay! You’ll make me spill.” I licked the spoon clean and set it back on the countertop. “Coconut fire candy.”

“I want to try.”

I handed her the spoon. “You’re still a scared chicken,” I teased.

Teline ladled the mix into her mouth.

“Ay bendito!”
She grabbed at her throat, her mouth turned down, and her nose flared. After a moment, she licked her lips. “It’s not bad.”

“Sí,”
I said, and out popped a laugh. I covered my mouth and looked to the door. Still no Papi or Mamá. We took three more spoonfuls each; but then Tío Benny stopped singing, and I quickly licked the white off the back of the spoon and slid the plate over the bowl.

Papi came inside with Señor Lopez and some other
barrio
men.

“Don’t you want to hear the troubadours, Verdita?” He palmed a couple of Schlitzes from the fridge and handed them around. The men popped open the tabs and sucked the fizz, their eyes glittering silver, their thumbs beating rhythms against the tin cans.

Papi went to the bowl of
coquito
. His hand was next to the serving spoon. He stood for a moment. I swallowed my heart and felt the thump-thump in the bony ridge of my throat. The heat of the
coquito
must have filled up my face. Sweat beaded above my lip and across my forehead.

He took off the plate, dipped his thumb in and sucked it.

“Venusa!” he called.

I closed my eyes. My eyeballs were hot under their lids. I had my defense ready: Titi Lola drank the
coquito
; Mamá never said I couldn’t—

“Coquito bueno!”
he said.

I popped open my eyes. Papi picked up an empty tumbler and scooped from the bowl. The coconut drink trickled down the sides. He licked the trails.