When things were awful.
When the beatings were regular.
At the end of their relationship, Cessy had been trapped by its beginning, the memories of when everything was magical and possible, love overwhelming. When Hector had been different, discharged from Baltimore’s PD because of a lower back injury that kept him sidelined, rueful but not yet dejected. She’d met him at the bar, and they’d talked all night, gone to breakfast at three in the morning, finally left each other at noon without even a kiss … just the desire for one. He stopped by the next night and the same thing happened, but they left on a brief kiss that second time, a shy touching of lips.
His old-fashioned approach charmed her, his past as a cop and thoughts about what he would do next (private security, maybe something else entirely) intrigued her. It fit Cessy nicely given that she also considered herself to be in a transitional state—she was eventually planning to return to school and finish college. And she hadn’t dated another Latino for a while, even if Hector couldn’t speak Spanish. She teased him about that, and he struggled to comprehend what she was saying, responded back with high school skills: “¿Por que … tu habla?”
Cessy was only half Latina. Her mother was from Panama, and she’d never met her white American father, so she and her brother had been raised speaking Spanish, watching telenovelas, eating an indecent amount of rice with every meal. But her mother had been absent so frequently that she and her brother couldn’t help becoming Americanized—by television, by their friends, by the stores and restaurants and adults around them. And so, as an adult, Cessy was able to slip into either culture.
And she and Hector slipped into love with the enthusiasm of children chasing each other. He moved in after a few short months. One bright Saturday morning, they spontaneously married, happily lost in love, aching to be as close to each other as possible. That was when, to Cessy, everything about Hector was endearing, even the playful annoyances. The way he loudly ate, his snores, the shirts he wore too often without washing. Those rough edges fit into her smoothly, like the natural flow of an easy conversation. Cessy had never been in love, and it was more than she’d expected. More than she’d hoped for.
It was only after the first year that she noticed Hector’s moodiness, the irritation overtaking him about the lingering pain in his back, his inability to find consistent work. She started to learn more about him, about why he had really been discharged from the police, the scandal about the drugs he’d taken from dealers and sold on his own. The fact that his reluctance to find work was really his lack of interest in a regular job.
And when he first hit her, that’s when she realized how corruption had stained his soul.
And she realized she’d made a horrible mistake.
Cessy tried to leave the day he died. Was almost out the door with a duffel bag of clothes, about to head back to her brother in Arizona, when Hector burst in, high and moody. Turned enraged when he saw her packed bag.
He fell on her, fists first.
Cessy was left stunned on the floor, taking slow pained breaths, her ribs and thighs on fire from his kicks. Cessy had sworn that was the end.
That night, he died.
And she almost wished that made her sadder.
It reminded her of another time in her life, when guilt and sadness should have overpowered her but didn’t.
But that was a memory she couldn’t let herself think about.
Something no one but Hector and her brother knew about.
Cessy turned off the water, wrapped a towel around herself. She stepped out of the shower and walked toward the living room, a trail of drops on the hardwood floor behind her like quivering eyes. She stared at the picture of Hector on the living room wall, the one he insisted be framed, an old one from back when he was a cop. Still thin, hair close cut, an intensity to his brown eyes as he gazed at the camera.
Cessy took the picture down.
She hated that picture. Seemed like such a lie.
The blank white wall was better.
Cessy couldn’t stop staring at the wall. Marred only by a single nail. Reminded her of when she’d first moved in and had the place to herself. Before she’d met Hector.
She wanted it back that way, back when everything was new.
Cessy got a trash bag from the kitchen and shook it open. Put Hector’s cop picture inside, along with a pair of his old fraying sneakers that had been sitting against the wall. She went to the bedroom, dried herself and dressed, and then viciously ripped his clothes out of the closet. Thought about sorting them to give some away to Goodwill, but figured nothing of Hector’s should remain. Jeans and T-shirts and sweatshirts filled bags, along with boxers and socks and shoes.
The rush to throw everything away slowed, and Cessy found herself examining the clothing. Partially out of a sense of nostalgia.
And she hated herself for it. Hated herself for the confusion of feelings.
She stood. Dressed in jeans, a sweater, a jean jacket, boots. Headed out.
Cessy lived in Fells Point, a picturesque Baltimore neighborhood of cobblestone streets, eccentric shops, and running chains of row houses. At its prettiest, Fells was a living oil painting; at its worst, it was drunk college kids throwing up on the street on a late Friday night.
Cessy’s apartment was west of the tourist trappings, tucked between the stores and the homes. She walked to the water and the crowds of the business district, slipped into a little coffee shop. She stood in line for a few minutes, the men and women in front and behind her on their phones. She’d forgotten hers at the apartment and debated going back to get it. Not that she was expecting any important calls, but she didn’t like waiting without anything to do. It made her nervous.
And Cessy always felt like she stood out in Baltimore, a small city that didn’t include a large number of Latinos. When men stared at her, she had to wonder why. Was it because she was a woman? How she was dressed? Had she been looking at him? Was it her race? Was the gaze unfriendly? Threatening?
Was she safe?
She hated having to ask herself those questions.
“Can I help you?” a kid behind the counter asked.
Cessy blinked, realized the man in front of her had already ordered and left.
Ever since Hector’s death, time had slipped by Cessy without her noticing.
“Yeah, coffee. Nothing special.”
The kid stared at the register like he’d never seen it before, then slowly entered the order. “Three thirty-five.”
A girl gave Cessy her drink. She heard the line shifting behind her. Pulled out a five and gave it to the cashier.
“Keep it.”
She found an empty stool near the window and sat, facing the restaurant. Stared at a mix of older couples talking and young professionals texting. Reminded her of what she’d heard about the past and present of this neighborhood. Fells Point used to be one of the most Bawlmore of all the city’s neighborhoods, deeply and proudly representative of Baltimore’s unique personality, touches of Tyler and Simon and Poe and Holiday and Calloway and Lippman and Coates and Waters mixed together, beehive hairdos and Elvis figurines and marble steps. Softly slurred consonants.
Now it was transients and hipsters and tourists.
Cessy sipped coffee and frowned at the taste. She could have made something just as good at home, wondered if they had the same coffee maker she did. Could have, although she liked to think an actual shop wouldn’t be that cheap.