Eccentric Neighborhood (25 page)

On Calle Esperanza they were just as unprepared as everywhere else. Luckily the storm came in September and Tío Roque and Tío Damián were home for summer vacation. Ulises and Aurelio helped Abuelo Chaguito board up the windows and doors at the last minute. But when the hurricane began to blow full blast and the corrugated tin roof began to wobble like a kettledrum, Adela panicked and started to scream. Chaguito ordered his four sons to climb up to the attic and nail the beams of the ceiling to the walls of the house. The hurricane passed and Chaguito was euphoric. “Thanks to me, catastrophe was avoided!” he bragged with his usual modesty. Adela always wondered how close she had been to seeing her four sons fly off, hanging on to the roof’s wooden rafters.

For months after San Felipe, the poor of La Concordia survived on flour, margarine, dry crackers, and powdered milk doled out by the U.S. Army. Over 10,500 residents were homeless. There was no gas, electricity, or running water. The sugar, coffee, and tobacco planters, who lost all their crops, usually had their machinery repaired at Vernet Construction, and when San Felipe flattened the island they delayed their payments even more than usual. Tío Ulises and Father had a terrible time bringing home enough money to meet the payroll. Aurelio spent most of the week on the road, driving from one hacienda to the next down winding back roads. He often had to sleep in the family’s old Model T. Once he woke up with a cow sticking its head through the window to lick his cheek.

The large American sugar mills—Eastern Sugar, Guánica Central, and Aguirre—owned forty-six percent of the sugarcane-producing land on the island, but they refused to buy machinery from the Vernets. Abuelo Chaguito would rail against them in disbelief: “We’re American citizens, just like they are! We could repair and even build all the equipment for their mills at Vernet Construction!” But when he approached them, they always said the same thing. “Of course you could repair the mill’s evaporator. But how long would it last? We’d rather ship it to the States and have it repaired there to make sure it won’t break down again.” Chaguito refused to believe Americans could be so unfair. But since he couldn’t speak English and had to talk to the sugar-mill managers through an interpreter, there was no way he could convince them to the contrary.

Once Ulises and Aurelio came back from the States, however, things began to change. They were fluent in English—with a Boston accent, to boot—and made a good impression on the American managers, who began to give Vernet Construction the contracts for repairs of the mills’ machinery and even to buy equipment. But then San Felipe struck, and the Americans couldn’t afford to buy any new machinery.

To make matters worse, the only way Abuelo Chaguito could calm his anxiety was by spending money. Adela would yell at him that there was a boiling cauldron in hell just for him, full of all the gold he had wasted in his life. But it was as if it were raining in Hades.

First it was parrots. Every week Abuelo Chaguito brought home a new one, and soon he had a collection. They were beautiful and shone like jewels inside their cages at the back of the garden. But they were also nasty and tried to bite Adela every time she fed them.

“How can anything so beautiful be so vicious and make such an infernal noise?” she asked Chaguito, putting her hands to her ears to fend off the screeches and hoots. “If you bring one more of those devils dressed up in colored feathers to the house, I swear I’ll wring its neck and drop it into the soup pot.”

But Chaguito went on with his extravagant hobby. He bought an emerald-green yellow-nape parrot from Venezuela for fifty dollars, then a red, green, and gold macaw from the Amazon for a hundred, and a deep-blue cockatoo from Paraguay for two hundred and fifty. Chaguito loved to tame them. He would let one out of its cage, perch it on his gloved hand, and take a large walnut from his pocket. The parrot would inspect it suspiciously, turning it this way and that on the tip of its beak, then crack open the shell and remove the sweet, crumbly meat with its tar-black tongue. Chaguito scratched its head as it ate, softly calling out, “
Piojito, piojito
,” until the parrot became drowsy and stopped wanting to bite him.

“Taming parrots is simply a struggle of wills,” Chaguito would tell Adela. “I love to see how they lose some of their fierceness every time I feed them a nut.”

But Abuela Adela had really begun to worry long before, when Chaguito started collecting automobiles. In 1907 Don Rafael Escribá, the owner of the Ridruejo sugar mill in Caguana, had offered to pay for a major repair to his evaporator with his two-year-old black Reo instead of cash. Chaguito was particularly attracted by the Reo’s canvas top and the wooden spokes on its wheels. So he brought home the Reo. Then in 1908 Don Marcelino Marfisi had wondered if he could pay for a new
tahona
with his blue sports Parry, which had patent-leather mud guards and bright steel spokes. It was practically new but Don Marcelino had almost perished when the car went off the road. Chaguito loved it. He could repair the damage at the foundry for nothing at all, and he accepted it as payment for the
tahona
. In 1909 he had repaired the cogwheel at the Antonsanti sugar mill, and instead of the thousand dollars they owed him, they asked if they could settle the account with a brand-new fire-engine-red Stutz Bear Cat. Mr. Antonsanti wanted to get rid of it because the price of sugar had dropped even more and he couldn’t meet his payments. Again Chaguito accepted the deal.

Until then, Abuela Adela had behaved like an obedient giant. She was always asking Abuelo Chaguito how much she should spend on the house. When Chaguito gave her fifteen dollars and told her to buy enough food to last the family a whole month, she never complained. Abuelo Chaguito was older than Adela, and he had the wisdom of experience. The minute Chaguito walked into the house at the end of the day, Adela would stop whatever she was doing—whether teaching Tío Ulises to read or giving Aurelio a bath—and run to make him feel at home. She’d take his jacket and hang it up, put his straw hat on the stand, and demurely ask if he needed anything.

Chaguito would tell her to bring him his slippers and a glass of iced lemonade and would walk out onto the terrace complaining about the heat. By the time he reached the shade of the mahogany tree at the back of the garden, where he loved to sit reading the newspaper, Ulises and Aurelio would be flying down the street like a pair of barefoot devils, because they knew she wouldn’t be paying attention to them for the rest of the afternoon.

But the night Abuelo Chaguito drove the Stutz Bear Cat to the house, honking its silver horn all the way down Calle Esperanza from a party at La Concordia’s casino, Adela reached the end of her tether.

It was two in the morning and she was sitting next to Damián, who was lying in bed with an asthma attack, when Abuelo Chaguito stepped gaily into the room all dressed up in his fireman’s dress uniform. Tío Damián’s chest was covered with a cheesecloth smeared with
benjuí
, a black unguent that was applied hot to make breathing easier, and Santa Ursula was beside Adela on a chair. Abuelo Chaguito was thinking how lucky he was to have such a wonderful wife who could bring up his children, cook, and clean on practically no money at all. He was feeling very affectionate. “And how is my Statue of Liberty tonight?” he said, drawing near to give her a kiss on the cheek. But Adela turned her face away.

“How much did that piece of junk cost?” she asked, looking angrily out the window at the Stutz parked across the street.

“One thousand dollars. But you wouldn’t understand, dear,” Chaguito added diffidently. “A Stutz is a collector’s dream. It’s worth every penny.”

Adela got up slowly from the bed and towered over Abuelo Chaguito. “Do you mind showing me the palms of your hands?” she asked in a controlled voice. There was an uncomfortable pause, but Chaguito decided to humor her. He spread his hands in front of him, palms upward, and gave a nervous little laugh. Adela examined them carefully. “That’s funny. I don’t see a hole in either one. And I’m sure there must be one because I’ve never met a wastrel like you in all my life. Tomorrow you’re going to take that nickel lobster back to Mr. Antonsanti and ask for the money he owes us, or else you’ll have a taste of Santa Ursula like everyone else in this house.”

Abuelo Chaguito gave in and returned the Stutz to Mr. Antonsanti the next day, asking to be paid in cash. From then on, none of my grandfather’s smiles and tricks did him any good. Adela took the helm and managed the family budget. And if something ever went wrong, she had only to grab hold of Santa Ursula, the walls of the house would begin to tremble, and Abuelo Chaguito, as well as everyone else, would run for cover.

W
HENEVER ABUELA ADELA FELL
ill, Aurelio would take her place at the head of the table. He was worse than a drill sergeant. Abuelo Chaguito was so busy he often didn’t get home until after dinner. Tía Celia told me a story about Father once that gave me an idea of what he was like at the time.

Meals at the house on Calle Esperanza were very different from the lavish dinners at Emajaguas. The Vernets always ate plain fare: steak and onions, French-fried potatoes, corn on the cob, fried eggs over white rice, and
guineitos niños
—baked baby plantains. Everything, though, was served in generous portions. Seafood and salads were luxuries that didn’t give you the calories necessary for hard work. (Aurelio had never tasted an oyster or a shrimp, much less a lobster, until he met Clarissa.)

The Vernets’ table was bare—a tablecloth was used only on special occasions. The tableware was stainless steel, and the dishes and glasses were from the local hardware store. The dining room opened onto the balcony at the back of the house, and Abuelo Chaguito’s German shepherds, Siegfried and Gudrun, were always lying in wait under the table to snap up whatever morsel might fall to the floor. Years later Abuelo Chaguito had sculptures of them cast in cement and set them up on either side of the steps that led down to the garden.

The Vernets had neither the time nor the patience to indulge their taste buds. Nonetheless, etiquette at the table was important. There was only one servant, and Aurelio had given strict orders that no one should begin to eat until everyone had served himself. Once, at lunch, Tía Celia couldn’t resist popping one of the
bacalaítos fritos
, the crunchy golden cod fritters that were her favorite dish, into her mouth before the others had food on their plates. At first Aurelio didn’t notice, but when Celia munched on the fritter, it was so crisp it made a loud noise. Aurelio looked up. “Who’s eating?” he asked archly, looking around the table. Celia giggled behind her napkin, but Aurelio was indignant. He ordered Celia to her room; that day she would have no lunch. But Ulises later sneaked into Celia’s room with his pants full of
bacalaítos fritos
. “You mustn’t pay attention to Aurelio,” he said as he took them out of his greasy pocket. “He loves to boss people around and never has any fun. But you and I know that having fun is what heaven is all about.”

Tía Celia was the runt of the family. When she was a child, Tío Ulises nicknamed her Volleyball because she was always bouncing around the house on her short, thick legs. But she had beautiful pale-blue eyes—the color of the sky at dawn—and a fair complexion.

Celia was Abuela Adela’s favorite daughter and Adela gave her a lot of attention. She taught her to read and write and they recited the Rosary together every day before the Virgin of Guadalupe’s image.

Once Adela said to Tía Celia: “To reach heaven one must make sacrifices. Praying and fasting and helping the poor are not enough. Every sacrifice we make brings us closer to heaven.” Celia didn’t know what
sacrifice
meant, but she smiled and agreed wholeheartedly with her mother.

A few days later, when Abuela Adela was sitting on the balcony with Celia, a beggar woman whom Adela knew well went by, leading an emaciated little girl by the hand. They stopped to talk. It was Three Kings’ Day, or Epiphany, and the marketplace across the street was crowded with vendors’ stalls exhibiting their toys. Rocking horses, tin horns, gaily ribboned drums all gleamed in the sun. The beggar’s child looked at everything wide-eyed from where she stood, but her mother couldn’t buy her anything. Celia was sitting next to Abuela. On her lap was a beautiful doll dressed in blue gingham with white ribbons at the neck that the Three Kings had brought her.

All of a sudden Abuela said, “Celia, didn’t the Three Kings bring Aralia’s little girl a present last night too?” Celia immediately understood what her mother meant. “Of course they did! They brought her a doll!” she said. And she ran to her room to get a doll whose pink gingham dress was a little faded—last year’s gift from the Magi—but still very nice. She came back to the balcony and generously handed the doll to the little girl. “Not that one! The new one. Don’t you remember, Celia?” And Tía Celia, with tears in her eyes, went back to her room to get her new doll, and handed it to the little girl. Now she knew the meaning of sacrifice.

Tía Celia was always climbing trees and riding her bicycle, and later she became a star baseball player at La Concordia’s country club. She once showed me a picture of her First Communion, and I found it amusing and at the same time revealing. Celia is kneeling on a carved dark-mahogany prie-dieu. Her head is covered with a veil crowned with large white roses. In one hand she holds a small missal, and in the other a large Communion candle. But instead of holding the candle devoutly in front of her, Celia has slung it over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Many years later, when Celia became a nun, she had that same wholesome approach to religion—a “coming up to bat” style—that enabled her to do a lot of good in the world.

A
DELA’S RIGHT LEG BEGAN
to swell and acquired a gray hue that made it look like an elephant’s foot. Nobody knew what was wrong with her, and she refused to see a doctor. “It’s nothing, just a bad mosquito bite,” she’d say to her children. She bathed her leg at night in
sal de heno
—Epsom salts—diluted in warm water, and sewed several more long muslin Statue of Liberty robes, which she wore when she went out so no one would notice her swollen limb.