I don’t care who’s president, but if things don’t get better soon, we won’t be able to keep all of our land. Especially the land by the sea, Mamá says, emphasizing all our land, the sea.
Ramón suddenly sits upright. Ah … maybe one day you can show us around? he asks Mamá but looks at Papá.
Oh, Papá’s discomfort with these city men, fat and thick, dressed in dark wool suits even when they’re sweating, bragging about their trips to New York, the properties they plan to buy, their restaurant dreams. Full of stories, full of hope. Ay Papá, in his worn pants and thinned shirt, listening to Mamá go on and on about the fertile land and the view.
I’ve never met a man who works harder than my husband, she says, and looks pleadingly towards Papá, who replaced the rifle on his lap with the scowl on his face.
Is that true, are we selling the land? I ask Papá.
Papá isn’t a liar, so he says nothing. I may not have a chair to sit on, he often says, but I have my word. He may not care for the way Mamá flirts and how prematurely she mixes me up in things, but he does respect the Ruiz brothers. When they borrow money, they pay it back with interest and on time. When they lend money, they write it on paper, so no one gets screwed. Everybody knows that the Ruiz brothers’ word is gold in the bank.
More beer for anyone? Mamá chimes in.
The next day, when we’re alone, Papá says out of nowhere, Ana, I want you to be happy.
I’m happy.
You know what I mean. He looks at me as if waiting for a smile, or a squeal or a clap of joy. Everyone’s always telling me to smile, even when there’s nothing to smile about. Smile, Ana! You’re a pretty, young girl! You haven’t seen the worst of life yet! So sometimes I smile so that people will leave me alone. But this time no smile comes.
Papá has already drunk two beers, and with the hot sun it might as well be four. His eyes dip at the edges, and his free hand rubs on his knee, which is sore from working long days watching over our animals and land.
Are you happy? I ask him. His tanned leathery face is like looking at the sea at night.
Juan disappears for months at a time to stand on line to get work at the New Yorker Hotel.
The wind slaps his face. His thin blood gels, his bones ache, and just when he thinks he’ll die from the cold air filling his lungs, he begins to count the number of days he’ll stay in New York: one hundred eighty. It’s enough workdays to pay for his trip and save some money to take back with him. He counted twenty-eight years because it was his age. Nine, his birthday. Four, the number of Ruiz brothers, two of whom are on their way to New York to work alongside him, and one who had tried to bear the winters but returned back home. Juan counts the men on the line. One, two, ten, fifteen. He’s the sixteenth on line. His stomach growls from not having dinner. The piece of bread he stole from Frank’s fridge only opened his appetite. The men all stare at the side door of the hotel. He wants to return to his room and huddle near the heater.
The guy in front of him says, Tuck in your pants. Keeps the heat in.
But Juan doesn’t want to look like a punk.
Finally the door opens and a woman runs out wearing a furry black hat. A real movie star. Bright red lipstick on pale skin. She walks up and down the line as she looks at her list. She picks her men and waves the rest away.
That’s all for today.
Juan grabs her arm to get her attention.
Get off of me.
I’m sorry, but I need work.
Try us tomorrow. Everyone needs work.
As handsome as me?
This is the Ruiz charm. They all have a light in their eyes, not eagerness but an indisputable certainty.
Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.
She disappears into the building. Juan sits by the door to wait. A man walks over and offers him a cigarette.
She ain’t coming back for you. Don’t be a pendejo.
All the other men have left. He had been told this was a sure thing.
* * *
Juan buys a coffee from the back of a van. He grabs the cup with both hands to warm them up and sips it slow. His heart speeds up each time someone opens the side door. It’s the garbage. It’s someone leaving work. It’s a person flicking a cigarette butt outside. What’s the time, he asks some kid. He decides he’ll wait for only an hour. He counts the seconds. The minutes. He counts too fast. He slows down. Loses count because his fingers are numb. The door opens. The woman runs out. She doesn’t see him.
Excuse me, he yells after her.
Are you crazy? It’s below zero today. You should go home.
I need work.
I told you, I have nothing.
You told me to wait.
She looks around, searching for a way to flee Juan’s desperate eyes.
I’ll work for free today. You’ll see how good I am. And then tomorrow you’ll choose me for sure.
The woman sighs. Go inside and ask for José. He’ll give you stuff to do. I can’t pay you for today, but you can eat lunch with the others.
Thank you. Juan’s face lights up, and he grabs her hand to kiss it. You’re an angel, he says, and runs in through the side door, escaping the cold.
When Juan doesn’t visit for a long while, Mamá makes me write him letters. Tell him how hot it’s been. Unbearable. How you long to see the snow. How handsome he looks in a suit and that your favorite color is green to remind him about your eyes. They’re unusual. Maybe it’ll inspire him to bring you a gift. Tell him how well you’re doing in school. How you love numbers so much, you dream of them while you sleep.
In this way Juan and I are the same. I too count the steps to school, how many times the teacher repeats herself. Even the impossible things I count, like the stars in the sky, the limoncillos on our tree.
Tell him how much you enjoy to cook. Be specific. Don’t just say food, say pescado con coco, so he knows you’re the kind of woman who’s not afraid to debone a fish or grate coconut.
What kind of woman is afraid to grate coconut? I ask, but Mamá keeps talking.
Invite him to visit during the day so you can cook him a proper meal at a proper time. Say how much you would enjoy feeding him. That you miss him and would like to see him again.
But that’s not true, I say.
Oh, who cares what’s true. Look, what is the truth? Letters are a lasso, words on a page that we fling out, hoping, hoping.
What about what I want?
What do you want, Ana?
I don’t know.
If Teresa was a duck she would’ve saved herself from El Guardia, Mamá says. Now she’s stuck with bad seed. Her life is basically ruined. Ruined! Ducks can reject unwanted sperm, only allowing in the sperm they want. They choose the best duck to make their babies, not just any grubby, ill-looking duck. And they sleep with one eye open unless they have some other duck on guard. Learn from the ducks, Mamá says.
Ramón says he delivers all my letters, but Juan doesn’t write back. He’s preoccupied with work, and all that is New York.
Listen to this one, Juan says to the guy standing on line in front of him.
Anything to get my mind off the cold.
Two friends see each other and one says, Don’t know what to do with my grandfather. He bites his nails all the time. Then the other says, I had the same problem with my old man, but I fixed it.