Dating : Don Q In Villa Rica

August 6. Bayamon, Puerto Rico

“What’s wrong with him? I think his mother spoils him too much.”

They spoke in Spanish, so that the little boy couldn’t understand.

“Too much? Either you spoil a child or you don’t,” said the young man to the old lady.

“I guess I spoiled you a little.”

“Maybe. We can talk about that later. Un traguito mas.”

He went to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. He’d distract her by pressing the point.

“I can’t take him with me tomorrow.”

“I know,” The light on her face fading as the pink sun set through the blinds.

“I would take him, you know.”

“I know,” she fetched a malta, the non-alcoholic training beer, as the boy’s mother likes to say. The old lady brought it to him. He was fidgeting in the parlor on a large aquamarine Thunderbird sofa, a gift from her eldest son the year before when she and her husband moved. She wasn’t pleased when he came with the delivery man. It was too expensive. Her arms akimbo on her 4’10” frame, she let them into the parlor and waited for them to leave. The next day, she covered the sofa in plastic.

The boy sat there, in the plaid shorts and melon guayabera that his mother bought him before the trip. It matched his uncle’s shirt. He had stopped crying a moment ago. As his grandmother spoke, he uncle began filling a tall Scotch thermos, with ice, Coke, and rum from one of the bottles he had stashed on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, too elevated for his mother to see or reach.

The boy fidgeted on the humid plastic.

“Mijo. Drink your malta.”

He did. It was like mother’s milk.

+++

July 31. In the sky

He and his uncle had arrived the week before, aboard a Pan Am 747, first class. The seats were roomier than the ones on the plane last time they flew to San Juan. And the food was better. The boy studied the tan leather-bound lunch menu. After a short interrogation, it was decided he’d have the salmon crepes with the tropical fruit cup. His uncle ordered the Bistec Frito Con Cebolla over rice, no dessert. Instead, a large Pina Colada, with a small ring of piña fastened to the lip of the glass in case the ride got lumpy. By the time the boy finished his lunch, his uncle was finishing his second glass. The foam clung to his lips, as if he’d gone for a swim.

“Finish up. There are fruit cups upstairs.”

The boy had been eyeing the spiral staircase.

“It’s where the captain actually flies the plane and plays high-stakes poker with special passengers.”

The boy felt for the Pan Am Junior Wings the stewardess had given him when he first entered the cabin.

“Better make sure you wear those, or the captain will send you back downstairs.”

“Are you going to play cards?”

“Depends on who’s upstairs.”

“My mother says it’s wrong to gamble.”

“Well, it’s not really gambling.”

“What do you mean?”

“What your mother calls gambling is a game of chance.

“So, what’s poker?”

“It’s a game of skill. No chance of losing.”

They both squeezed the rail as they ascended to the lounge, which, as it turned out, was a round floating bar in the sky. There was but one person there. A four-year old girl with blonde ringlets, wearing her Sunday best.

“Little lady, meet my squire. Some call him Sancho. But he will be me some day soon.”

She eyed each suspiciously, one at a time.

“My mother says never talk to strange people.”

“Well, we are strange. But we’re no strangers.”

The little girl eased up.

“My mother will be back soon.”

“That’s good. You shouldn’t be alone. Where is your mother?”

“In the pilot’s cabin. My dad is flying the plane.”

“I feel even better. He must be a very good pilot.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m not nervous.” He removed his jacket and stretched out his arms. His hands were steady.

“You’re scared of airplanes?”

“Terrified.”

“Then why do you fly?”

“How else am I and my apprentice supposed to get to San Juan?”

She paused, then nodded. “Do you like cards?”

The boy and his uncle looked at each other. The girl reached into her purse and found a Pan Am souvenir deck, still wrapped in cellophane like a fresh pack of cigarettes.

“Don’t let her swindle you,” said her mother. No one had noticed her entering the lounge. She went to the bar. What will you have?,” she asked the uncle.

“Banana daiquiris all around? Without rum for the children.”

The mother interrupted the bartender from his daily Jumble. He hastily prepared the drinks.

“Mommy, is it Easter again?”

“No, baby. But maybe it feels like it.”

“How does she know how to play cards?,” asked the uncle.

“She doesn’t. She just likes to shuffle.” In contrast to her daughter, she was in her evening best, a long black satin dress, gloves, a black toque cinching her blond curls. She was dressed for a nightclub, or a funeral service.

“I’m an actress. And I have no time to change before Call Time. We’re taking a studio limo directly to the set in Bayamon.

The uncle couldn’t believe his luck.

“That’s where we’re going. My mother and father just moved into a new home in Villa Rica.”

“What’s that?”

“A neighborhood in Bayamon. Quiet but poor.”

“Yet it is named Rica,” showing off her Spanish. “We can take you there. I’m sure we have enough time for that.” The little girl was practicing an amazing shuffle, where one hand drops the cards into the other in a swirling cascade.

“She learned that watching a film, over and over again on The Million Dollar Movie on our living room TV set. The Lady Eve.”

We have a color TV, you know,” said the girl. But the film is in black and white.”

“Those are the best colors,” said the uncle. Your mother is wearing them now.”

“We’re filming a burial scene, said the mother. I play Dolores, the wife of a man murdered in a gunfight. An argument over a woman.”

“Can I guess which woman?”

She smiled, and took out her compact.

“We’ll be landing in 40 minutes. Go to the girl’s room, darling.”

“I don’t need to go.”

“Just sit on the potty for a minute. It’s like magic.

+++

July 24. The Bronx

When he got home from day camp, his stepfather and mother were waiting in his bedroom. It was early evening. His stepfather was still in his greased-stained overalls. They once were powder-blue.

“Nene, sit down,” asked his mother. The boy perched on his bed.

“Daddy and I want to talk about the trip.”

“I’m still going, right?”

“Yes, I bought you some clothes today.”

“It will be good,” said his stepfather. “I … we just want to talk.”

“OK.”

“About your uncle.”

“OK.”

“Actually, there are two things.”

“Is this about the drinking?”

“Uh, yes.”

“He does drink a lot.”

“Yes. And it hurts his judgment.”

“Mom says he became a drinker after the war. He was damaged.”

“He had a nervous breakdown,” said his mother.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure. But that’s why he travels so much. The government gave him a nice retirement, even though he’s still young.”

“He loves you,” said his stepfather.

“I know.”

“Because he never had children of his own.”

The boy pondered this. Of course, he knew that about his uncle. But now he saw it in a new light, with the travel and all.

“You’re afraid he’s going to kidnap me?”

His stepfather held back a laugh. He signaled to his wife. She might have to lead the rest of the conversation. She looked annoyed.

“We drop you off at your uncle’s house almost every Sunday in the summers,” she reminded him.

“I can still go this weekend?”

“Yes, nene. Ever notice something funny about the house.”

“It’s filthy.”

She smiled. She was glad he thought so, too.

“Anything else? Something funny?”

“Funny?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t think of anything. Except it’s kind of sad.”

“Why?”

“It’s OK. I like sad.”

You like ‘sad’,” asked his stepfather. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t mind it. He laughs a lot, but cries a lot, too. I’m OK when he cries.”

“Nene. Does his roommate Uncle Davy cry, too?,” asked his mother.

“No. He takes care of him. He rubs his feet and shoulders, and he stops crying.”

“Nene. Your ‘Uncle Davy’.”

“Yes.”

“He’s not your uncle,” said his mother. “He just lives with your uncle.”

“Your uncle doesn’t like girls,” said his stepfather.

+++

August 7. Bayamon

When he woke, it was still dark. His uncle’s twin bed — on the far side of the room — was empty. All he could hear is the wind and the coquis in the neighborhood. He checked the clock on the wall. A quarter to five. In thirty minutes the sun would come up, according to the Farmer’s Almanac his grandfather lent him when they arrived by limo the week before. The boy had spoken with his uncle right after the ride.

“The actress — she’s so beautiful. And you got along well with her.”

His uncle shrugged. “She’s not my type. How was your date.”

“Too young.”

“Good answer.”

Now, the boy dressed in the same outfit from yesterday, the melon guayabera and plaid shorts. It would be a perfect day for this uniform. He completed the look with leather sandals. He peed, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair back with his uncle’s Brylcreem. He walked into the kitchen. His grandmother was making coffee, as she always did before sunrise, a legacy of the Tainos, according to his uncle, whose skin was as white as snow.

“Nene, can I make you breakfast?”

“Eggs? Abolita style?”

“OK.”

She scooped a tablespoon of Crisco and melted it in an aluminum saucepan. She cracked two eggs into the pan, tilting it slightly to set the yoke of the eggs with the burning fat. She slid the eggs onto a large plate with images of hens on a farm. She cut a fat slice of Italian loaf — a gift from New York City— slathered with butter, and placed it on a smaller plate. She fixed herself a cafe con leche, and poured a glass of mango juice for the boy.

“Eat well. You got up early. You’ll need the energy.”

When she cleared the kitchen, the sun was coming up. He packed his shoulder bag for his morning activities. A large towel, an open bag of plantain chips, something to drink, and the old binoculars his uncle had given him yesterday, his birthday. His uncle had made a point.

“These are not toy binoculars. They’re for big boys. They’re from the Korean War.”

The boy went outside. He first checked out the front lawn. It needed mowing. His grandfather was already sitting on the porch, memorizing Corinthians 13:4–8. He’d be there all morning, his short-term memory not being what it was when he built schools, churches, and homes throughout the island. He was a master carpenter, and he took pleasure crushing your hand when you tried to shake his.

The boy then walked to the side of the lawn, where he checked on the morivivi (mimosa pudica), a plant that closes its leaves when you touch it. He grazed his hand against a wide swath, and watched the leaves go back to sleep. The name was a Spanish phrase, truncated by the Puerto Ricans, as they often did, either to speak faster or to let the moment linger. Morivi. Morir y Vivir. To die and to live.

He walked to the side of the house, where a telescoping ladder led to the roof. He climbed carefully, so as not to alert his grandmother. He emptied the contents of his bag, and sat on the towel which couldn’t quite protect his rear from the gravel. He used his binoculars to examine the backyard. His grandfather has laid down a large concrete floor so that the kids could swim in the inflatable pool. But it might have been to protect his wife’s garden, which she tended to alone when the boy was not pestering her. She grew red and yellow aji dulce, sweet peppers for her sofrito. She grew culantro, a leafy herb similar to cilantro, but earthier. She had mangoes, guayaba, and avocados. And she raised her own manzanilla, a bitter tea, known better for its ancient medicinal properties than as a flavorful drink. His uncle blamed the Tainos.

His grandmother appeared on the side of the house.

“Nene, hace daño.” He would hurt himself on the roof, as she had warned before.

He pretended to not understand. But he would be careful not to fall. He opened his uncle’s Thermos that he had filled after breakfast. Ice, mango juice and two cups of Don Q Blanco. He drank it through a straw slowly, admiring the watermelon sky.

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