Chapter Four

Posted by Sandy on May 26th, 2008 filed in Chapter Four, Sweetwater American Chapters

1998

Silver Spring Metro Station.

I flung my backpack over one shoulder and hung my duffel bag from the other.

“Doors open on the right,” the conductor said.

I stepped onto the station’s platform and followed the crowd towards the escalator.

“Five dollars.  Are you interested?” asked a man dressed in a newspaper coat.  The words The Washington Post were taped to his forehead. Torn pieces of The Post held together with masking tape covered his body.

He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular–just throwing words out and waiting for a response.

“Four dollars.  I’ll lower the price,” he said and waved a videotape in the air.

I assumed he was either selling porn or bootlegged movies or maybe even both.

Commuters and students walking ahead of me ignored him.  Some even turned and started walking towards the opposite-end escalator.  I was tempted to join them.

“Three dollars.  I need to eat.  Come on, please,” he said, his voice rose higher and higher with each word he uttered. “I’m only asking for three dollars.  Damn. I know you have money.”

Once outside the station, I took out Elena’s paper and followed her directions.

Silver Spring was the place in which Dihda wanted to raise me.
Did it look so different in 1976 when Dihda and Mami visited? Growing up in the city in Adams Morgan, I’d hear people mention Silver Spring.  They’d talk about it as if it was “the country.”  Many older Washingtonians still considered it “country.”

I didn’t think I was in the country, more like a small city.  Sure, the streets were wider, the trees just a little fuller and greener, and the landscape a bit more vast.  But as far as my camera could tell, it was probably filled with the same amount of air pollution brought on by busses and an overpopulation of cars.

People were walking in every direction, in a hurry to get home to their families, I supposed.  Some even munched on appetizers—pretzels with mustard—as they walked.  Others sipped soda cocktails.

And Señor Moreno wasn’t the only person who owned a Tienda Latina.  The words Supermercado Latino appeared in big letters on a store’s window, a picture of a Latino family sitting at a table having dinner was placed right next to the letters.

I walked on in “the country.”

There it was–Elena’s house–at the top of a hill.  On the hill’s bottom sat two large houses each separated by a couple hundred feet of grass.  Elena’s was much smaller than the other houses.  I crossed the street and began walking up her walkway.  Potted flowers and plants lined each side of the walkway.

Yap, yap, yap, yap, a dog barked as he raced down the lawn.  He yapped at my feet all the way up to the house.  A couple of times, I almost tripped over him.

Standing on the porch, Elena was dressed in a muumuu, a coffee cup in her hand.  The steps leading up to her house were decorated with more plants and flowers.

I stepped onto the porch.  Goose bumps formed on my arms.

“Come on in,” Elena said.  “I’m watching my favorite soap opera.”

I followed her inside and was immediately met with the living room, a plaid couch up against the wall and a floor lamp next to it.  Photographs were placed on the fireplace mantel and on each of the sofa’s end tables.

The dining room was located through the living room’s open doorway. The dog scurried under a china cabinet.

Elena took a sip of her coffee and said, “Poor Petro.  I can’t lower the volume because I won’t be able to hear him talk.  And I can’t miss a word he’s saying.”

“What’s wrong with Petro?” I asked.

“Nothing.  He hides under the cabinet when my soap opera is on. If he was a quiet dog, I’d feel bad about the noise, but my God, he’s anything but quiet.”

Poor Petro? I thought my eardrums were going to burst.  I hoped her soap opera ended soon.

“Petro is my Saturday morning alarm clock, the only day of the week when I don’t need a wake-up call.”  She sighed and refilled her cup with coffee. “On Saturdays, I can sleep in until noon if I want to which I rarely do.  My plants need tending, you know.  The bathrooms cleaned.  The carpets vacuumed. The kitchen floor polished and on and on and on.  Not to mention that during the spring and summer, my favorite chair, out on the deck, shaded by an umbrella, is always waiting for me.  In the late afternoon after I’ve completed all my housework, I recline into it with a glass of papaya juice in one hand and a Spanish romance novel in the other.  I enjoy reading romance novels but not as much as I enjoy watching him on television,” she said.

She pulled out a chair from the tiled-top kitchen table and motioned for me to sit.  I obeyed.

Him?  Who was this “him” to whom she kept referring?  Her personality was different than the one she expressed in the school’s cafeteria.  Where was the nervous woman who couldn’t handle a cash register?  I was more nervous than she was.

“Would you like a cup?  I don’t usually drink more than one cup of coffee in the evening.  Otherwise, I can’t sleep.  But tonight is different.  I had to prepare myself,” she said and opened the freezer door.  She pulled out an ice tray, popped out a couple of ice cubes and let them go in her coffee cup.

More air inflated the already-obese goose bumps on my arms.

“May I have a glass of water instead?” I asked.

She sipped her coffee and then said, “I like it lukewarm.” She put the cup on the counter.

Then she dropped some ice cubes in a glass and held it underneath the sink faucet.

She handed me the glass.

“Thank you, I like my water nice and cold,” I said, an attempt at a joke.

She offered me half a smile.  I wished I could crawl underneath her china cabinet and cuddle up with Petro.

Taking my free hand, she led me back to the living room.  I remembered that I had left my camera on the porch.

“My camera.  I’ll be right—”

“Leave it for now.  No one will take it, I promise.  We can start the interview after my soap opera.  I watch it every evening.”

Sinking into a fake leather chair, she propped her feet on the ottoman.  I gave in and sat on the couch.

“Juan del Diablo is such a handsome man, long hair and sunbathed skin.  He’s the hero in Corazon Salvaje, a Mexican soap opera.  It was first released in 1993 but we demanded it be re-released.  A bunch of us got together and wrote letters to the production company in Mexico.”

I doubted her letters had anything to do with its re-release.

The commercial segment ended and Juan appeared on the screen or so I assumed it was Juan.

“There he is,” Elena said.

Juan was just about to kiss a woman; her hair almost touched the ground as he held her back in his arms.  I love you.  I love you, he said to her.

Elena stood and turned up the volume.  Petro whimpered.

It went to commercials.

“I shouldn’t be watching.  Forgive me, God.  Please forgive me,” she said and looked up at the ceiling.  “We aren’t supposed to watch soap operas.  It’s the Devil’s way of keeping us from studying God’s word.  I’m also not allowed to read romance novels.” She giggled.  “I guess I didn’t learn anything from last Sunday’s sermon.”

“What should you have learned?” I asked and swallowed some water.

“Last Sunday in church I held my bible in my hands and listened to our preacher,” she said, raising her hands as if she was about to address a congregation.

‘Let us pray and ask for forgiveness,’ “the preacher said as he lifted his arms in the air and closed his eyes.”  ‘Let us promise we’re not going to let temptation win.  Trust in yourselves, sisters and brothers.  Believe in the power of God.  Say no to temptation. Whatever that temptation may be.  Say no to it.  Do not let your minds be poisoned by the Devil’s work.’

“Soap operas and romance novels are my temptation, my internal conflict, forever tempting me,” Elena said.

A small bible sat on the ottoman next to her feet.  Glancing at it, she said, “It will end shortly and then we can talk.  I’m going to be honest with you about something.  But I don’t want you to film it.  You can tape everything else I say except for what I’m about to tell you.”

The commercial segment ended and Juan appeared on screen.  He kissed the woman on the lips; she wrapped her arms around his neck.  Elena was fixated.  She seemed to inhale and exhale with each kiss Juan gave the woman.

One last kiss and the episode ended.

Elena stood and turned off the TV.  Petro came out from under the cabinet.

The show was about to begin.

“May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

Picking up her bible, she said, “It’s just down the hall on your left.”

I shut the bathroom door behind me.  Turning the faucet on, I ran my tongue over my lips and then splashed cold water on my face.

When I returned to the living room, Elena was reciting a verse from the bible, her eyes on the ceiling.

John 3:16, a verse with which I was familiar.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. That whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have ever-lasting life.” Elena crossed herself.  “I recite it every day at this time.  I’m going to tell you a story.  One that took place not too long ago.  I don’t want you to interrupt me.  After I’m done if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to talk to you.  Otherwise, we’ll let it die and you can get your camera.”

The only word that came out of my mouth was, “Okay.”

And Elena began her story.

“You don’t remember me.  How could you?  You were only three years old when your parents brought you by the cafeteria,” she said.  “I worked behind the ice cream counter at the time.

‘Would you like some ice cream?’ “I asked you.”

“You looked up at me and answered,” ‘No thank you.  I’m having lunch with Mami and Dihda.’

“None of the other workers’ children had ever turned down an ice cream cone.  Ever.  At three years old, you were already an old lady.

“You only came once.  I think your parents were embarrassed even though they never admitted it.   A school cafeteria was not for you. And yet, there you are, years later, every day, sitting alone in the cafeteria’s center pretending not to watch the students.  Looking up for a few seconds, then down into your books.  Then up again.  There were so many times I wanted to go to your rescue.  I shouldn’t have let you suffer the way I did.”

“I still can’t believe you actually once tried filming the students. I stood in the back of the cafeteria, leaning against a trashcan. I wanted to stop you. But I couldn’t interfere.  So instead, I giggled and waited for the inevitable to happen.  You reached into your duffel bag and out came your camera.  I continued to laugh.  How could you be so dumb as to think you’d be able to film the students without them questioning what you were doing?”

“Two minutes after you started filming, three young women came up to you.  I panicked, stepped forward, and tripped over someone’s backpack. My knees landed on the floor.”

‘Are you okay?  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t see you.’ “A young man said as he helped me to stand.”

‘I’m fine.’

“I wanted to cry.  My palms started to sweat.”

‘I was tying my shoelaces.  I put my backpack down,’ “the boy said.”

‘I’m okay.’

“My stomach turned and twisted, turned and twisted.  Students stopped to stare.”

‘Poor thing.  Oh, poor lady?’ “they said to the boy.”

‘I’m-’   “I was interrupted.”

‘What’s going on over there?’ “Someone asked.”

‘I don’t know but it looks like they’re going to fight.’

“I forgot about you.”

‘What’s your problem?  Why are you filming us? Speak up,’ “one of the girls said to you. Remember?”

‘I wasn’t filming you.  I’m sorry.  I was just trying to film the cafeteria.  Not you.  Just the cafeteria,’ “You responded.”

‘You were pointing your camera right at us,’ “the other girl said, her voice elevated.”

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.  I won’t do it again.’

‘It’s not that big of a deal.  But you should have asked us first.  Why are you filming us?’

“I wanted you to tell the truth.  They would have respected you if you had just been honest with them.

Instead, you said,” ‘I already told you.  I wasn’t filming you.  I was filming the cafeteria.  Not you.  Please believe me.’

‘Just stay away from us, you freak,’ “the girls said, turned and left.”

“You put your camera back in your bag and then left.”

I remembered all of it.  They had called me a freak.  Freak. Freak. Freak.  The word danced and did flips inside my head for days after that incident.

“How are you ever going to make friends your own age if you continue to lie and live in fear?”

Elena had looked into my soul and didn’t like what she saw.  I was so ashamed.  There I was in her house ready to ask her about her life, her struggles, her dreams, her hopes and what had I discovered?  That she knew more about me than I knew about her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Let’s let this die.  I can’t interview you today.  Please understand.  Can I come back tomorrow?”

What I really wanted to say was, I can’t ever interview you.

“You can come back as many times as you want.  But always come prepared.”