How? You tied his hands?
No, I hid his teeth.
A cluster of men burst out laughing. So hard they don’t notice that the lady dressed in black with her furry hat is pointing at them.
Maybe you’re all having too much fun to work, she says.
It’s the first time Juan sees her smile. Even if she treats him like every other guy on that line, Juan tells Ramón she has a thing for him.
A Puerto Rican chick who works management likes an off-the-boat spic like you? Keep dreaming, my brother.
You’ll see, says Juan, determined to prove it. He’s bought a red scarf for fifty cents on the street that really makes him stand out among all the other men who wear grays and browns.
When she sees him she does a double take.
Hey you, how’s your English? she asks Juan.
Bedy good.
We need a doorman today. Someone called in sick.
He notices her wedding band.
Seguro que yo speako English, he says, chasing after her.
If you mess up, you’ll never work here again.
Sí, señora.
Don’t call me that. You make me sound like an old woman.
I’m sorry, señora. I mean señorita.
Ask for José. He’ll give you a uniform and tell you what to do.
Gracias, señora. You’re very beautiful, señora.
You’re totally crazy, she says, and laughs with him.
And your name? Juan finally asks.
Caridad. Caridad de la Luz.
From that day on Caridad picks Juan from the line, for various positions. He trains to set tables in a formal way: forks for each of the courses, placed to the left, and knives to the right, bread and butter plates above the forks. He learns the difference between white and red wineglasses. How to fold napkins to look like birds. One day he hopes his restaurant in Dominican Republic will be as fine.
He enjoys bussing tables over the monotony of washing dishes in the kitchen, but working the door even more, because the tips are good and he’s working alone. Even if by the end of the day his jaw hurts from smiling and his feet ache from standing, Juan would rather be busy, because when he stops he gets lonely and sad and misses Santo Domingo and all the girls back home who never turn him down. The women in New York are complicated. Women like Caridad are complicated. Many are married, waiting for their husbands who are on active duty, ready to fight some war. These women want to be taken out, to talk and talk.
Ramón reminds Juan that he’s in New York to work, not to get into women trouble. He tells Juan he needs a quiet girl like me, from a good family.
So with a nudge from Ramón, Juan mails me a money order for five dollars, for my needs, he says, and a necklace with a green stone, because of my eyes.
His note is very to the point: Ana, please wait for me.
Papá says even one drop of water could fill a bucket if you wait around long enough. Between Mamá’s letters, the free beers, and yearly visits, Juan Ruiz finally asks properly for my hand in marriage. I am fifteen. Juan is thirty-two.
He shows up, during the daytime, with Ramón. Sober, or as sober as I have ever seen him, not flailing his arms or grabbing at me, at Mamá, the chair, a tree, to hold himself up. For the first time ever, I see him. Really see him. He even takes off his suit jacket. In only a tailored vest and without the shoulder pads, his shoulders become small, less threatening.
Ana? Juan says in such a serious way everyone stares with bated breath. I wear my Sunday dress, a faded yellow one I can’t breathe well in. Frizz crowns my head. My tongue dry, my throat aching. I knew this moment would come from the first serenade. Juan towers over me. I focus on the thin gray lines on his vest, the way they intersect at the lapels. The sweat running down his cheeks over the incoming stubble. I try not to look at him. But they all stare. Teresa stands close by with her son on her hip. My mother’s teeth are exposed, her lipstick caked on her bottom lip. Yohnny and Lenny lie on a bench like overheated dogs, so thirsty, their tongues hanging out of their mouths. I look for Papá, who stands quietly, defeated.
Where is your rifle? Where is your scowl? I want to scream.
What is it? I ask. Has my lipstick already stained my teeth?
And suddenly, Juan pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes all the lipstick off.
What are you doing?
I push him away.
You don’t need that stuff. You don’t need anything, he says. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s undone just by looking at me. I open my eyes wider. Hold my chest higher, and a smile escapes the side of my lips. Everyone wants something from a man like Juan—a visa, dollars, a good word, a ride in his car, a free meal in his restaurant. Even if my mother wants all those things, I keep my grace.
Will you be my wife? he asks.
Ramón stands behind Juan, as if without him there, Juan will split, run away, take it all back. And I understand then that maybe Juan doesn’t want to marry me after all. They are here for my parents’ land.
I could’ve said no. Teresa’s mouth, tight lipped and pursed in disappointment. You have rights, she said days before. You’re the boss of you.
I look to Papá for an answer. Go ahead, answer him, Papá urges.
Mamá grabs Papá’s arm in solidarity, an unusual gesture, understood by Ramón because he smiles and shakes my father’s hand as if I have already said yes, although nobody cares what I want.
Yohnny and Lenny run about singing:
I like to be in America … everything free in America, olé.
In minutes the adults distance themselves to make the arrangements. Yohnny and Lenny grab my hands and spin me around like they did in the West Side Story musical we had seen at the theater in the center. Juanita and Betty run out and join in the celebration.
Wow, prima, you’re so lucky, Betty says. Don’t forget to send me something.
Me too! Juanita’s voice, laced with a mix of envy and hope. After you see all those bright lights, I bet you never coming back here.
Get the refrescos, Mamá yells over to Yohnny. We have to celebrate.
Teresa stomps back into the house and watches everything transpire from the window. She holds her baby in her arms, tighter, closer to her chest as if to keep me from reading her thoughts. Who would cover for her when she snuck away? Who would do all her chores?
Then it really hits me: I’m leaving. Dread and fear and excitement ripple through my body. Once I leave no one will ever treat me the same. My life will be a load of gossip material for Juanita and Betty, who lost their parents in a flood and have lived with us ever since I can remember. I’ll be the woman with dollars, and fine clothes, and beautiful skin from all the good lotions Juan will buy me in America. I will be given lists upon lists, with orders to be filled.
Every bride deserves a new dress. So Mamá takes me to Carmela’s in San Pedro de Macorís for a fitting.
But I have school, I say.
You don’t need to go there anymore.
But I can’t not go. I haven’t said good-bye to everyone.
From the moment I say everyone she intuits I mean Gabriel, and she won’t let him ruin everything now.
Mamá wraps a scarf over her head and pulls the keys for the motoconcho off the hook. And without any hesitation she swings her leg over and sits on the scooter and yells, C’mon, get on!