If Lulú knew about José, she’d say, Tell him to leave his wife and make you a serious woman.
I’ve lived long enough. I know life is no movie. If José left his wife and got serious with me, you think he’d want to do exercise with me in the sofá the way he did all those years? I don’t think so! He’d be like my brother Rafa. Who used to come home after work, park himself on the sofá in front of the TV, and drink until he fell asleep. Poor Miguelina. If she said something about it, he yelled at her, ?Co?o, mujer! Can you give me a few hours to relax? Miguelina was more alone than all of us because with each drink Rafa went more and more far away.
When I think of José’s good wife, I think she’s another Miguelina—aguantando. In the end, I got the best of that man. I never got the bad; only the sweet. We took good care of each other for many years. And you know what? José still comes to my apartment. Not like before. He closed his Everything Store after he had a stroke and scrunched up like a ciruela.
Ay, sorry. I swear to you, I don’t talk my business. Here I vomit the words. I haven’t been with a man since José. What was that, six years ago? It’s crazy. Most women I know have closed their business down there. Unless they’re keeping it secret.
You can tell me anything and it’s secure with me.
Write that down: Cara Romero never shows the sausage to the pigs.
Lulú could never keep a lover a secret. Lulú is full of announcements. She takes a small thing, makes it big. I don’t know anybody that likes to talk more than Lulú.
Many things Lulú says start with: Don’t forget, if it wasn’t for me …
In La Escuelita I always permitted Lulú to show off. Because she knows English really good. She reads in English, she writes good English, and was the first in our building to have a computer. This, she wants in the history books. So yes, in La Escuelita, Lulú talks and talks because she dique knows everything. But when I say something, people listen. This I learned from my father. The less you say, the more the people listen.
Let me give you one example: La Escuelita gave us the Metrocard with the map of the MTA. La Profesora put the map of the train on the wall and made círculos where La Escuelita was and all the places we could visit together: the Statue of Liberty, the Gardens Botánicos, the immigrant museum, the Museo de Arte, the zoo in the Bronx.
Where do you want to go first, Cara? La Profesora asked.
Ha! The look on Lulú’s face when everyone turned to hear me. It was just like it was in the factory, people looked to me like I was in charge.
I said, I want to go to the Statue of Liberty.
So we went.
And let me tell you, it’s not easy to get to the Statue of Liberty. We had to take the train and then the bus and then the boat and then walk and walk. It took us two hours. That’s when I understood that New York is big. But big!
When La Profesora asked us if we wanted a special ticket to go to the crown, of course I said yes. And Lulú said yes. At first, almost everybody said yes. She said, there are many stairs to climb. For me, that’s no problem. In our building the elevator breaks every time. You see the músculos on my legs?
Have you been to the statue? No? Only the tourists. Ha! We were tourists that day.
The statue was on an island. So big. When La Profesora saw my open mouth she said, Wait until you see New York City when you go up to the crown.
With all the shit of life, it was nice to be the tourist.
We took the elevator to the feet of the statue. La Profesora showed us the picture of the 162 steps to get to the crown. Then, almost half of the group said they would wait on the bench. Including Lulú. She told everybody that the stairs were too much for me. For me, Cara Romero! Without asking, she pulled me to the bench to sit with her.
I want to see the crown, I said, and followed La Profesora to the stairs.
You do?
Yes, I do.
Pues, Lulú said, I was only staying down here for you because of your knees. ?Vámonos!
Today I don’t have pain in my knees, I said.
OK, Lulú said, we have to do one hundred sixty-two steps.
The steps were skinny and espiral. I looked to my feet and counted each step so I always knew where I was. I told Lulú, don’t look up. It looks impossible but we can do it.
At forty-four steps, I asked Lulú if she wanted to take a break and she said no. When I got to seventy-five steps, that’s when my legs started to burn, but because I do the exercises in the apartment where you go up and down like you’re going to sit but you don’t, I was still good. But I could hear Lulú breathing hard.
You OK?
Why you ask me that? Lulú said.
Lulú was in front of me. She was breathing so heavy, I pressed my hand on her back to support her.
Slowly, we arrived to the crown. Lulú was holding her stomach. I grabbed her arm and took her to look at New York City. Una belleza. We stayed there a long time, enough time for Lulú to breathe normal again. I could not feel my legs, but I was so happy to see all of the city with Lulú.
Cara Romero mira pa’llá. From Hato Mayor to the top of the Statue of Liberty.
* * *
OK, OK, fine, I will tell you about the interview. The lady was very nice. She was younger than me; not a lot, but with babies still. You know how the Americans are. They wait forever to have a baby and then have to fight like the devil to make it.
But OK, OK, she has a nice house, the lady. There were some plants that gave the house a little bit of life. And a painting, muy moderna, took all the attention in the room. I don’t know if it was a blue frog or a blue elephant, maybe a cloud, maybe it was everything.
She needed me to work four nights every week. Sometimes five or six nights.
I travel a lot, she said.
?Qué tristeza! Her children spend so much time with people they don’t know.
Spanish only, she said.
Sí, claro, no hay problema, I said. She talked very fast and not like you or me: different. Like she had no air to breathe. When I am nervous I don’t understand what the people are saying.
But I know I don’t want to sleep in someone’s house. How am I going to take care of La Vieja Caridad? And ángela’s children? What will Lulú do in the mornings if I sleep in this lady’s house?
Yes, Lulú. I told you, she needs me. Last night she came to my apartment with the bottle of wine.
What am I going to do about Adonis? she asked and passed me a glass.
Apparently things are even worse with Adonis than we had imagined. He knew he was going to be laid off last year. Last year! And he didn’t plan for it. He took that fancy cruise with the children anyway. His poor wife, Patricia, didn’t have any idea of their problems. When he lost his job, he pretended to go to work for months.
Lulú is in a real crisis. You’re not going to believe this. Or maybe you will because Lulú can be a little dramática. She took off her faja and threw it out of the window. This from a woman that puts on the faja from the moment she gets out of the bed. Always a size too small. She can’t even bend to pick up something from the floor. Breasts high up on her chest, like missiles.
So imagine, poor Lulú at the window, wearing only her bata. When did she start wearing batas outside the house? I could see everything under there. I had never seen her stomach before, her tetas pointing to the floor.
I’ll get it for you, I said, and rushed to the window to make sure the faja was down there. But it was gone. Disappeared. Who would take a faja from the street? Only in Washington Heights.
I could see the gray roots in her hair, half an inch of canas in the border of her forehead. I had no sense of how gray she was.
Lulú looks ten years older, maybe twenty years, with the fall of Adonis. For sure she hasn’t eaten all week because she’s emptied of life. How could mothers be happy when their children suffer? Impossible.