Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa (8 page)

“I won't say anything,” I promise. She shrugs again. This girl has apathy down to an art form.

The knob to the front door turns and the door opens. Now José walks in, though without any of the covertness of Lucy's arrival. But I have had my quota of shock for the night and Lucy, of course, could care less.
“Hola,”
he says, not bothering to whisper. He looks at Lucy. “You were out?”

“Rafael,” she says.

He nods. “I'll be around tomorrow, but I'm sleeping in,” he says, and wanders off to his bedroom.

“I guess that means we can set an extra place at the table,” I quip after he's gone.

Lucy's not amused. She glances at her watch. “I have to get to bed,” she says, sighing.

“I can drive the girls tomorrow,” I offer. “That way you can sleep a little bit later.” The words are out of my mouth before I can register what I'm saying.

Lucy shakes her head. “I have to start breakfast, get them dressed. . . . Thanks, but there's too much to do.”

“Seriously, I can take care of it. I've got your routine down,” I say.

Lucy finally appears to be considering my proposal. “Do you really know where the church camp is?”

“My mother can find it,” I say. “From that day when we tailed you.”

Lucy shakes her head again, this time a quick, decisive
no
. “Mamá would be upset,” she says, more to herself than to me, even. She heads off to her room, pausing briefly.

“Thanks, though.
Muchas gracias
.”

“De nada,”
I whisper to the empty room.

W
ednesday morning starts off like any other: Lucy is up moments after Rosa, fussing over the girls and helping with breakfast. Since I know what time she went to bed last night, I'm even more impressed than usual; her energy is limitless even without taking that into consideration. She's slightly cranky, the only sign that something might be up. But then again, I can't remember the last time she was actively friendly to me, so cranky isn't exactly a far cry.

I poke at a bowl of cereal, and Dora shows my mother her latest church camp masterpiece, a watercolor self-portrait that is, I must say, a pretty accurate rendition, all things considered. My mother smiles halfheartedly at the painting—most of her movements these days are halfhearted at best—and offers up her typical promise to have dinner ready by six.

My mother, who at home keeps the local Chinese place on speed dial, is now the self-appointed Guardian of Dinner. Puerto Rico has had a strange effect on her.

Once everyone's left, the house feels empty. You'd think I'd be excited to have some space to myself for once, but instead it's like a Yiddish parable come to life: the rabbi tells the poor man to cram as many of his barnyard animals into his shack as he can; once he removes them again, the place feels shiny, new, spacious. I could roller-skate from room to room if I wanted.

The Yiddish parable connection is a weird one, what with where I am and all. Also, the thing is, I haven't studied any of that stuff since my bat mitzvah. “Jewish” is like a default state of being, whether you are conscious of it or not.

I glance at my watch. Nine thirty. The dishes are done and nestled in the drying rack. Grocery shopping is my only “to do.” Maybe I'll pay a call to my good friend Siddhartha. He seemed to make do, in his story, with just the basics. Maybe I could pick up some pointers from him.

I'm on my way into the bedroom when I bump into José.

I totally forgot that he even came home last night. What is it with this place? In such close quarters, you'd think you'd be on top of everyone's coming and going, but instead it's a crapshoot who's even home. Crazy. He's wearing a towel, clearly off to take a shower, and I'm mortified.

“Uh, hi,” I stammer. “Sorry.”

“You're here,” he says, making it a statement rather than a question. I'm not sure how to respond; clearly he knows my mother and I are staying for the summer, right? And if he doesn't, it's
definitely
not my place to tell him.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“What do you do while everyone's out?” he asks, as though the question has just occurred to him. Which, come to think of it, it probably has.

“Errands,” I say. “We start dinner.”

“That takes you all day?” he asks incredulously.

“Not really,” I admit. “I was going to read.”

He shakes his head. “
Mira
, I know your mother is sort of out of it these days”—understatement—“but you're in Puerto Rico. I'm guessing folks back from your hometown come here for vacation,
sí
? Fun in the sun?”

“Right, but . . .” How to put this . . . “Things are pretty . . . messed up.”

“Your mom hasn't been here in years,” José points out. “She's staying for a reason, and it isn't just to help my mother with dinner.”

I can hardly argue with that.

He purses his lips, appears to be considering something very deeply. “I'm not working today.”

José works? I have literally not a clue what the boy does with his days—or his nights, for that matter—and we're technically living under the same roof.

“Have you been to Old San Juan?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don't know how to get there,” I say, as if that's the only reason, or even the primary reason, that I've yet to visit.

He laughs. “You're missing the point. I do.”

 

Once José is dressed, he hunts my mother down in the backyard, where she is enjoying her first cigarette of the day. He breaks his brilliant plan to her without, I admiringly note, even a moment's hesitation.

I expect her to beg off, and at first it looks like she's not too keen—kind of waving her hands in a wishy-washy way—but inexplicably he's insistent and charming, and the next thing I know, we're piled into his car, me sitting shotgun, off to Old San Juan with José as our tour guide.

José has a
car
?

“I bought it myself with the money from my first job,” he says, slightly bragging but all in all very matter-of-fact. “I mean, a chunk of the paychecks go to the house,
por supuesto
, but I took on enough extra shifts because I knew I would need a car. The same with Lucy.”

Por supuesto
. How many T-shirts would I have to fold at the Gap in order to pay for my own car?

“I haven't seen it in the driveway,” I hedge.

“I haven't been home,” José agrees. But he doesn't offer anything more as to where he spends his time, so I don't ask. Now at least I know that he has a girlfriend (if only because Lucy has mentioned it in passing) and a job. That's, like, two hundred percent more than I knew about him this time last week. A twenty-one-year-old boy with a job and a girlfriend might not be around that often, I guess.

“You're at school at the local university?” my mom chimes in from the backseat. I'm flabbergasted; I guess this means she gets the scoop from Rosa? Not that that's so strange; it's just I've never felt so disconnected.

It occurs to me that if there's something I need to know, maybe I should just ask. What a novel concept.

“Two more years,” José confirms. “A year and a half if this summer session goes right.”

Another clue in the mystery of José's schedule slides into place.

“Is Lucy going to go to the University of Puerto Rico too?” I ask, emboldened. This may be my only chance to get the dirt on Lucy without having to be subjected to her full-force sarcastic scowling. She is, like, an Olympic contender in disdain.

“Lucy?” José bursts out laughing. Seriously, he's laughing so hard he's wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. I can't think of one reason why my question would elicit this kind of response.

“Are you kidding? You think she'd spend one minute more than she has to on this island?” he asks once the chortling has subsided.

I shrug; well, clearly not. Funny, I had figured she was dying to graduate high school and marry Rafael. Not from anything she'd said outright . . . it was just something I'd . . . assumed.

He spells it out, just in case his maniacal laughter left any room for doubt. “She does what she has to do, you know, to help Mamá, but once it's time for college, she's out of here. She wants to go to New York.”

“Really? But . . . what about Rafael?” I ask. I don't know Lucy all that well, but I can't imagine her leaving town without him.

“I'm sure she wouldn't mind if he went with her,” José explains. “But for her, New York is the priority. She has a scholarship to NYU, and that's where she's going to be.”

I take it in silently as the scenery slips by in a stream of colored blur. I've learned more about Lucy and José in the past two hours than I have in the past week plus, total.

It's a lot to think about.

And here it is, not even noon.

 

El Morro, as it turns out, is one of two forts remaining of the original city of Old San Juan. Back in the 1500s, San Juan was a walled city; El Morro protected it against sea attacks. Or so the brochure tells me. It's linked to its less-famous land-facing brother fortress, San Cristóbal. We examine a scale model replica of the layout, trenches, dried-out moats, and endless stucco expanses.

Without the model I might not grasp the scope of the city, but small clay figurines don't do justice to the view over the crumbling walls. I don't think it occurred to me before today that Puerto Rico has an actual history of its own.

It's downright hot, for a change, and we're exposed. There's no shade to be found against the flagstone pavement. I squint out at the ocean, the sunlight glittering against the water. José has disappeared.

A shadow falls across my shoulder and I turn to find my mother, also peering out at the landscape, cupping one palm over her eyes to shield against the sun. “It's pretty, isn't it?” she asks absently.

“It's old,” I say. What I mean is,
it's older than I realized
, but that's not how it comes out.

Thankfully—but not surprisingly—she doesn't bat an eyelash. Doesn't seem to register anything at all lately. “Yes.” She sighs. “They settled this fort in 1540. San Juan was founded in 1519. But none of this was preserved until the sixties. And then in the eighties it was declared a World Heritage Site.”

Okay . . .

My mother's area of expertise, to the best of my knowledge, is women's studies. I had no idea she was an authority on the history of Puerto Rico too.

“It's a wide wall,” I observe, because it is. I saw the scale model, of course, but now that I stand in front of it, it towers above me, threatens to devour me. It's solid, powerful, overwhelming. It's crackling in the heat of the sun, as I imagine it has been for so many centuries. “Keeps things nice and . . . contained.” What am I even talking about?

Inexplicably my mother leans forward, hugs me toward her fiercely. Ow.

“It goes both ways,” she says mysteriously.

“Right.” I think for a moment, then frown. “What?”

“The wall, Em. It contains things, sure, but isn't it . . . mostly . . . keeping things out?”

Well, sure. I thought that was the whole point of a wall. Is there anything wrong with that?

I notice that my mother is grinning. This may be the most animated that I've seen her since we've come to Puerto Rico.

The Great Wall Epiphany has been good for her.

I myself am more confused than ever.

 

When I get home, I check my cell phone to find a text message waiting for me. WON BIG ON THE GAME. MISS YOU.

Noah, obviously. A text message from Noah and I missed it. More than that, I have no idea what game he's talking about. I'm spending the afternoon with my mother, who's babbling cryptically about good fences and yadda yadda, and meanwhile I'm so disconnected from my boyfriend that he's off male bonding and I know nothing about it. I have stumbled into a Spanish-speaking wormhole in the time-space continuum.

This tiny, seven-word message gives me a palpable ache in my throat, my stomach. Back home, Noah and I spoke every day. Obviously we saw each other in school, but there were phone conversations, IMs, and countless text messages beyond that. Since I got here, we've been playing phone tag. Being apart sucks. It's that simple. And I don't know how much more time I'm going to have with Noah before we both go off to college. This could be it for us.

Could
have been
it for us
, I correct myself. It's done, after all. I'm here for the summer, reconnecting with my mother and helping her to reconnect with . . . God knows what. And suddenly I'm more than confused. I'm annoyed and resentful.

I slip out to the backyard, settling into a lawn chair. I punch Noah's key on my speed dial, noting that my breath has quickened. I'm nervous?

I check my watch again. Six. Deep down, I know there are any number of things he could be doing that would be totally legitimate, but I let my mind run rampant anyway. He could be out with his friends at a movie, baby-sitting his younger brothers, running an errand for his mother, sure, but it feels more satisfying to imagine him on a date. After all, there's no Ade or Izzy around to rat him out. He could get away with it scot-free. Who would it be?

Hmmm . . . I fixate on the petite blonde who sat in front of us in chemistry last year: Angela, I think her name was. Angela Haring. She totally had the hots for him.