Chapter Five

Posted by Sandy on June 24th, 2008 filed in Chapter Five, Sweetwater American Chapters

It was 9:00 p.m. when I arrived at the Woodley Park-Zoo/Adams Morgan Metro stop. I squeezed my stomach muscles in an attempt to calm the hunger pangs.

Had I not decided to walk back to the Silver Spring Metro Station from Elena’s house, I would have endured the thirty-minute walk to my apartment. But my aching shoulders begged me to take a cab.

There were only a few cabs still parked on the street alongside the station. Unlike New York which claimed to be the city that never sleeps, D.C. managed to get a few hours of sleep each night.

A woman stepped out of a cab and said, “Miss, you need help with your bags?” She was wearing an Orioles baseball cap which was almost too small for her head.

I looked around. Four other people were standing near me, all men. Businessmen or up-and-coming politicians, I guessed, by the way they were dressed. Black suits, black ties, black briefcases, and perfectly cut short hair. Young men working late to show they had what it took. I smiled at them. They smiled back.

“Sure,” I said to the woman and lifted my backpack to her.

She opened the passenger’s door and set the bag on the floor.

“I can put the other bag in the trunk,” she said with a grin.

“That’s okay. I’ll just keep it with me if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing. Get in and I’ll hand it to you.”

My mind played a trick on me. The backseat of the cab looked exactly like my bed—white sheets, down comforter, and a hundred pillows.

If only I could fall asleep for a couple of years.

I got in and waved goodbye to the men.

“On your way home from school?” Baseball Cap Lady said.

If I answered yes, she’d want to know which school I attended. If I answered no, she’d want to know from where I was coming. Either way, a second question was inevitable.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude but I’d rather not talk,” I said.

Baseball Cap Lady nodded. Not another word came out of her mouth.

The head stomping intensified.

“Two little monkeys jumping on the bed.”

None of the other workers’ children had ever turned down an ice cream cone, Elena had said. Why would Elena remember me? She obviously met a lot of other kids. Something was missing. And why did she feel compelled to come to my rescue? I wasn’t the only freaky student at George Washington University. She hadn’t told me everything. What else was she hiding?

“Three little monkeys jumping on the bed.”

I rubbed my temples. Then I rolled down the window and took in a breath. Raindrops fell on my nose. April in D.C. meant cool breezes mixed with rain showers in the late afternoon or evening.

Elena had known Mami and Dihda. They never mentioned her.

My sweet parents, I miss you so much. You told me all about your lives. How you got here. Where you lived. Everything. But you never mentioned Elena. Why?

As the cab sped on, I rested my head against the cold glass and closed my eyes.

***

1986

Bikers and joggers passed by us; every few minutes I’d stop and throw sticks into the creek as Mami and I walked in Rock Creek Park. Mami immigrated from San Miguel, El Salvador with her brother and sister six months after their mama died of a heart attack. They were supposed to leave immediately because their mama told them if anything should ever happen to her, they were to get on a plane bound for America and never return.

“You’ll go to school in America, you’ll learn English and have beautiful homes,” she’d say to them.

“It’s not that mi mama didn’t think El Salvador was beautiful—she just thought America had more opportunities. Neighbors showed us American magazines in which men and women dressed in fancy clothes appeared on the covers,” Mami said to me.

“In the summer time you can go to El Cuco, and eat turtle eggs from the porch of your own rented bungalow on the beach. For dessert, you can suck on a ripe and juicy mango until your gums hurt from all the mango hairs that get stuck between your teeth. And you can also go hiking in Cerro Verde National Park, stare at Izalco Volcano and wonder how such a beautiful thing could have been created from basalt. Perhaps someday you’ll visit El Salvador.”

I licked my lips.

As we continued walking, Mami told me how it was she came to live in the States. She also told me how she met Dihda, my father. I listened without interrupting her.

“Mi mama would take my siblings and I to El Cuco when she was tired from cleaning people’s houses and needed time off. Mi papa rarely joined us because his skin was too white for the sun.” She laughed. “He also thought we should have the best so he’d sacrifice his vacation. And when he got tired of mowing the lawns and trimming the bushes from the yards of his bosses’ houses, he’d put on his favorite extra large white t-shirt and his only pair of pajama bottoms.”

A couple of joggers passed by us. Mami didn’t seem to notice them.

“Then he’d sit on the porch of our house for a week, only getting up to pee or to grab another American beer.” Mami stopped, picked up a stick, and threw it into the creek causing small ripples in the water. “He only drank American beer because he said it tasted better since it was more expensive and was from a far away land. And as long as we could spend our summers at the beach, your grandma was happy to allow him the expense of American beer.” She moved a strand of hair away from her face.

“When Mama died I fell into a deep depression. I was the youngest and she had promised my siblings and I she’d be around to see her grandchildren throw wet sand in each other’s faces while she laughed and clapped.” She took my hand and squeezed it.

“Soon after we buried her, I was taken to a psychiatric institute for six months where I received shock treatments. The doctor thought the electricity would knock me out of my depression.” She squeezed my hand harder.

She was hurting me. I tried to pull away but she refused to let go.

“My sister and brother begged me to act happy so we could all leave for America. Papa had packed our clothes and bought our tickets. He wanted us to have a better life. Mama had taken us to El Cuco every summer to live in a bungalow where we bathed in shiny white tubs filled with bubbly soap.”

I freed my hand. Mami didn’t notice.

“And at bedtime, Mama had wrapped us in plush, colorful blankets and we slept in our own beds. Papa knew that once we were grown, we’d need more than American beer to make us happy.”

“Papa visited me at the psychiatric institute and reminded me of the summers I’d spent at the beach. I reminded him that Mama had not kept her promise. Papa asked me to promise that someday I’d bring my children to El Cuco.” ‘I’ll engrave memories in my children’s minds so that when they are grown, they’ll start to believe they had been to El Cuco. But I won’t promise to take them there because I don’t want to be reminded of Mama.’ “I said to Papa.”

‘Then in those memories, your mama will live,’ “he said to me. He left, and that night I dreamt of your grandma.”

Mami rubbed her eyes and expelled a long sigh. She didn’t tell me about the dream.

“The next day, when the doctor asked me if I was ready to receive my next shock treatment, I said,

‘No, I don’t think I need it anymore because today when I got up, I looked in the mirror and saw a smile.’ “I was released and sent home.

A few days later my siblings and I left for America. Papa sat on the concrete and watched the plane take off. He lifted his American beer in the air and I knew I’d never see him again.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds.

“My siblings and I got jobs as housekeepers working in the same house near Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C. My sister and I cared for the inside of the house and my brother cared for the outside. He mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes. But he wasn’t allowed to remove the ivy from the house’s walls because the bosses thought he was much too young to be up on a ladder so high from the ground.”

The wind blew a strand of her hair into her face. I threw another stick into the water.

“We were happy. We were able to stay together and the owners of the house treated us with respect and kindness,” she said as she tied her hair back in a ponytail.

‘You might not have the opportunity to get an education but your children will, and so will your grandchildren,’ “they’d say to us.”

“My brother translated for us because my sister and I had difficulty learning English since we spent all our time working together—cleaning the bathrooms, making the beds, and vacuuming the carpets. My brother spent a lot of time talking with the limo driver and the pool cleaner. Neither of them was Latino nor spoke Spanish.”

“On Saturdays and Sundays when we didn’t have to work, we’d go for walks in the park and talked about our dreams and hopes for the future. And on one occasion we got on a bus on Sixteenth Street and didn’t get off until we reached The Pigeon Park as it was called by los Latinos.”

“We had never been there but talk of the park spread to our neighborhood and we wanted to see if it really was infested with pigeons. We brought some stale bread with us and when we arrived, we couldn’t believe such a small area with few benches could host so many pigeons.” She paused. “We sat on the ground underneath a tree and threw pieces of bread into the air and talked about our dreams.”

I felt her grip on my hand tightening.

“My brother was determined to learn to speak English fluently so he borrowed some cassette tapes and books from the library. He’d stay up late reading until the owners of the house noticed him bumping into bushes. They bought him a pair of glasses and told him once his eyes got rest from all the straining he forced on them, he’d only need his glasses to read. He never took them off because he said they made him look distinguished and that when he had children, they’d know he was an educated man.”

I had to interrupt her.

“My hand. You’re hurting it,” I said.

Instantly, she let go.

“I laughed at my brother and loved him.” Her face was wet with tears. “When he broke his neck after falling from a ladder he was not supposed to have been on, the owners tried to take his glasses off before he was carried to the ambulance.

I stopped them because his never-conceived children should know their papi had been an educated man.”

No child ever wants to see her parent cry. I wanted to swaddle her in a blanket and shush in her ear like she had done to me when I was a baby.

“We buried him in a cemetery near Rock Creek Park and this time I didn’t fall into depression because I knew my brother was drinking American beer, and eating mangoes, and turtle eggs from the porch of a bungalow on the beach. And our mama and papa were with him.”

She looked at the sky. I let my tears flow. And Mami continued with her story.

“My sister dreamt of the day she’d marry a handsome man and I knew her dream would come true because she was a kind and beautiful girl who deserved to live like a princess in a castle. So after we had been in America for several years, my sister met a man on a night when the owners of the house were having a party. We had been left in charge of serving the food even though our duties consisted of cleaning the house.” She wiped away tears.

“When the time came to serve the food to the guests, who were impatiently waiting in the dining room for more than an hour, the owners of the house stopped us in the kitchen.”

‘You were not hired to serve food, tonight you’ll both eat with us and our guests.’

“The owners had a nephew who was about my sister’s age and when they introduced them to each other, they fell in love and soon after, were married. I was left to care for the house alone but I didn’t mind because my sister and brother found happiness and I knew someday my sister would take her children to El Cuco to visit my brother, mama, and papa.

Shortly after my sister married and moved to California with her husband, I met your papa.” Her eyes widened, a smile on her face.

“I was vacuuming the living room carpet when the owners of the house introduced me to a dark, thin man.”

‘This is Patricio, he’s the new gardener,’ “the lady of the house said.”

“I felt my heart sink to my toes. I stood up straight.”

‘Good to meet you. Where are you from?’ “I said.”

‘I’m from El Salvador and I suspect you are too,’ “he said exposing crooked teeth.”

“Your papa and I became good friends. He helped me vacuum the carpets, dust the furniture, and make the beds and even taught me how to plant flowers, trim bushes, and mow the lawn. At night when the house settled, he and I went for a walk and talked about our future. During one of these conversations, your papa asked me to marry him.”

Mami and I plopped down under a tree.

“He crunched on an apple, got down on his knees, and said,

‘I love you. I’m sure I’ve loved you since I was born. Will you marry me?’”

“I crunched on an apple and said,

‘I love you. I’m sure I’ve loved you since I was born. Yes, I will marry you.’”

“We worked there every day until you were born.” She kissed me on the cheek.

‘Now that you have a daughter, you can’t work for us anymore,’ “my bosses said to your papi and me.” ‘You have to look out for her,’ “they said.”

“So they let us go and got us another job in the cafeteria of George Washington University. They got us the job because they knew the benefits package included a twelve thousand dollar scholarship that was awarded to all employees’ children who wanted to attend college,” she said with a smile. “They also knew that when classes ended for the summer, your papa and I would have the opportunity to take a few weeks vacation time. You and I could go for long walks in the park and I could begin to engrave Salvadoran memories in your mind.”

More joggers passed by us. We held each other’s hand and walked in silence.

***

“Miss, we’re here. Hellooo…”

“I’m sorry,” I said to Baseball Cap Lady. “I’m exhausted. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time. I get two kinds of passengers. Thinkers and chatters,” she said.

“I hope I didn’t offend you earlier. I had a lot on my mind,” I said and gave her a twenty-dollar bill.

“No, no. I understand.” She dug in her pant pocket.

“Keep the change,” I said.

She continued to dig.

“Please, I’m serious. Just keep it.”

“Really? You’re a nice kid. Have a good night and don’t spend all your time thinking.”

I was getting advice from a stranger.

I laughed and said, “I’ll try not to.”