A Nation of Amor Read online

  Mama will be all beaten to know I have everything now and don’t even need her. My sister will be jealous. Mama will sign the paper and ask me to come stay by her so she could love me and be close to the baby, her first grandchild. But I am too strong to ever let her near. I’ll take the paper out of her hand and look at her nice like I wasn’t hatin’ her and be about maybe I’ll pass by and let you see the baby sometime. Laughin’ inside until she begs me to stay. Then she will promise never to call me a cunt no more. Mano will put his arm around me and never let me go, never let that bitch or others speak to me like that again. He will step to Mama, we’re done with you now bruja. We will walk off like that …

  But Mano won’t come in, he waits in the car.

  Mano says,

  “I ain’t seein’ that old witch.”

  I walk in bold, only a quick look at my little sister. Not even lettin’ her talk any shit, not worried because when it’s over I will get in my man’s car to leave in a screech. I ain’t seen Mama for a month, but she be right there, drinking Bustelo like some straight up Puerto Rican. Smokin’ a square, looking up at me through her ratty old hair, ugly gray smoke curling around like the roots that was startin’ to show. Her eyes kinda shut and red like she just got out of bed. Her lip curling up at me in a snotty way. Is that what it gonna be about? Lista? C’mon bruja! But she sits and smokes, eyes big, wet, and wrinkled through the red.

  I say,

  “Mommy, sign this for the aid peoples.”

  Without reading she signs it real quick. I take the paper back and she stands up, in her slippers her eyes only come up to my chin. Then it come down on the side of my head, like a baseball bat or some shit, and she’s all beating on me.

  Mama screams,

  “Vete! Out of this house!”

  A piece of pipe in her hand, beating on my head, not beating me like she used to, slaps and preaching, but banging it down on my brains. I feel my hair getting warm. I scream for Mano and he isn’t there. She beats me out of the house to the ground in front where everybody out on the street can see me.

  Mama yells,

  “Putita, whore!”

  And spits on me. Mano’s out the car dragging me away from her and that pipe. He throws me in the front seat and we’re gone. Mano saves me from Mama, just like I knew he would. I feel ok, not too bad, the warm all down the side of my head now. I smile at him but he won’t look over at me. He pulls in the alley and stops. A face like stone, then the back of his hand up across my mouth like a shot I couldn’t even see comin’.

  Mano says,

  “You start minding me now. I told you, I want nothing with that old lady.”

  I can’t stop crying and Mano slaps me again and again like I was a baby.

  Mano says,

  “She don’t want you, nobody else want you. You ain’t got nothing but me cunt.”

  But I ain’t no cunt … That’s Mama’s word, her style. To only be this hole that is all up the middle of me for men. Mano sees Mama be like this and he will think that I don’t love him for real. That I want to be like Mama and hate him and play him dirty. That our love is like a credit card that I charge him to use. Mama always was in business like that with mens. Mama tried to teach me to act like a cunt, watchin’ her dress at night when she didn’t have a man. She’d ask me to help her, sittin’ in her room that always smelled like nylons. She’d put on these red drawers and bras, then in front of the mirror to paint up her face real slow, dark lines around her eyes, thin black and crackly. Her lips making kissing shapes as she put bright red lipstick all over them. Until her face was so hard and smooth I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying underneath. Stuffed herself in a girdle until she was all curves. My job was to pull the zipper without ripping her dress, that was not easy. Walking back and forth on high heels, scrunching her eyes when she looked back at the mirror like she was trying to decide to buy a chicken. Never sayin’ what her body was tellin’ me, until they both came home at night knockin’ into things and laughing. When I heard them I knew it would be a long time before I got to sit with Mama in her room again and I would cry about that. Then I would cry too loud and some man I never seen before would come back to my room and jack me up until if I didn’t stop crying I thought he might kill me …

  That’s her life not mine. If I don’t believe that’s all I’m worth then Mano won’t either. It’s tough enough in this hood. Because then I would believe I was a cunt. That all I am worth to Mano is a hole. And Mano’s love ain’t for no hole.

  THOMAS STOLARZ

  September 21, from a window above Division Street

  Humanity scurries past my toes. My Weejuns are firmly propped on the new boss’s windowsill. Beyond them I can see Division Street coursing toward the setting sun and boring into the horizon. I want to commandeer an image, snatch a fleeting scrap of this foreign, hostile world, examine it, deconstruct it; then mount the image with ball-headed pins on the Styrofoam walls of my mind and neatly label it by genus and species. I want to understand.

  But my sight is fogged by long dissipated smoke, tainted by windblown ash. Everywhere I look I see some charred remnant of the fires that raged after the riots of over a decade ago. These omnipresent fire stains mar every brick, every stone in Westtown, these black scars are like a conduit which wraps and defines this neighborhood unto itself, insulating the organ of Westtown from the body of Chicago. I suppose that I too bear scars, for down Western Boulevard is the house my grandfather built, where he died of a coronary as he watched the riots from his bedroom window. My house now, and neither my diligence nor my money has enabled me to eradicate the black streaks from its limestone foundation.

  My mansion is on Western Boulevard, on a grand row with all the other mansions which were once inhabited by the good and the gracious. But now, the rest are shells, broken and battered into tenements where tramps and winos huddle behind torn sheets nailed to the window frames.

  There are my neighbors, on the corner near the liquor store, congregated beneath the limbs of a struggling weed tree which has inexplicably grown in a grassless parkway of dust, cigarette butts, and bottle caps. They sit on empty milk crates situated in a crude circle, but milk crates are scarce, and the waning summer heat has drawn a dozen shabby members to convene, so latecomers are forced to stand. Each man possesses a clear plastic cup which the corner liquor store doles out with a shot from whatever bottle the proprietor opens for the day, 50 cents a hit. One is asleep, stretched out on a cardboard box which he has disassembled into a smooth plane of beige pressed paper to cushion him from the gritty sidewalk. Little buffer, the cardboard, the booze, even the forum, for they, like Westtown, also wear the marks of the fires. They are filthy, charred as if the soot left from the fires has, over time, slowly settled, as with chimney sweeps, into the creases and grooves of their faces.

  This Westtown council is on one corner; the younger generation is also present for across the way are the street gang members. On one corner the wino senate, on the opposite the juvenile delinquent house of representatives.

  Youth, clad like black-hooded monks, eyeball approaching cars, then dart into the alley to sell sacraments from plastic bags. Black goatees jut from pointed hoods, wispy shreds of facial hair the only visible portion of their profiles as they bow to receive money through the car window. They also manifest the charred marks of Westtown, not with the sooty visages of their elders, but by brandishing it with their black all-stars, black shoelaces, black pegged cords, black hooded sweatshirts, black leather gloves with zippers up the backs and a big gold loop at the end.

  And there, in the vacant lot, children frolic upon a garbage heap while they wait for their mothers to finish in the public aid office. Likewise, the children are too young to have been stained by the char. Yet they play in the refuse, seemingly compelled to accumulate a sooty coat as if it were demanded by some natural selection.

  A boy chases an unraveling baseball past his drug-selling older brother, discovers the dented, co
rk core, and displays it to his uncle across the street. By the time his mother emerges from the public aid office to collect the lad, he is burnt and dusty. His mother dabs a spit-moistened tissue to his smeared face, a vain attempt to slow the metamorphosis.

  They burned their own homes. The riots erupted and then they set Westtown on fire. They scorched a black, self-flagellant brand into this neighborhood, that seems now, after all these years, like a torch of fate passed from generation to generation.

  A Simonized Buick sedan, with scrubbed whitewalls and an impertinently audible car stereo, halts curbside opposite me on Division Street. A young woman tries to escape via the passenger’s door, but the driver, sans hood, with a thicker, more mature goatee than the younger gang members, grabs her arm and restrains her. She kicks herself free and slams the car door shut.

  Frighteningly beautiful, she is dark-complected with kinky, natural hair, close-cropped and parted to one side. She glances embarrassedly to the doors of El Cuarto Año Alternative High School, hoping that none within witnesses the scuffle. She appears momentarily relieved; Rosa the receptionist has just left for the day. Rev, likewise, has gone home. I’m the only employee present. Her eyes drift upwards and she notices me as I watch her compose, hiking her bag over her shoulder, straightening her denim jacket, smoothing her short denim skirt over copper legs. Instinctively, she offers me a cursory upturn of her mouth, a demure apology for her graceless arrival.

  Her frame is tall and lithe, moving not with the nubility and bounce of adolescence but with the grace and stature of adulthood. Without make-up, the waning Indian summer twilight shimmers upon the natural beauty of her features; full lips, ebony skin, high cheekbones, cat’s eyes with crescent brows lounging atop them in two sensuous curves as if lazy question marks frame her face.

  The boyfriend scrutinizes the school and notices me, a voyeur, observing their domestic tiff. He leaps from the Buick and the girl halts in his path, raises opened palms, and cowers for expected blows. He calms down and appears to be appeased. She opens the passenger door and re-enters the automobile. He stomps around the car to the driver’s side, wearing a yellow dago-T, black sweat pants, a beeper hooked into the waistband. A drug dealer no doubt, but not a monk on the corner, he has ascended to Monsignor perhaps, his tools a counterweight scale and the telephone. His face, obscured by the goatee and reflecting sunglasses, resembles that of an immense housefly.

  Consolingly, she reaches for him, strokes his thigh, slides across the bench seat and straddles the hump made by the transmission housing. He looks away from her, indulging his machismo, an elbow hammily set upon the car door, biceps methodically twitching. He shifts his eyes to mine and I smile at him. His body bristles at my insolence, prompting the woman to increase her placating efforts. She kisses his arm, his shoulder, neck, until he veers his attention away from me. Her head descends to his lap and he acknowledges her; stroking her hair, murmuring to the nape of her neck.

  Unconditional surrender soon accomplished, she is allowed to rise and restore an earring. She attentively maintains eye contact while accepting further instructions, gives him a doting kiss, then quits the car and quickly dons an identical pair of reflecting sunglasses. As she waits for the traffic to thin she consciously lowers her eyes, refusing to return my gaze. Dissatisfied, he calls her back and she leans through his window, revealing the backs of her thighs as she bends toward him. Another kiss, smiles, nods, affirmations; she turns, thumb dabs the corners of her mouth, and walks toward the doors of my school.

  How will she deceive him? Stride through the empty foyer and fade behind the sunlit reflections on the front windows? Stand in the open doorway and mouth words to an imaginary voice in the rear classroom? Regardless, he accepts a quick all’s clear signal, falsely assured that another woman is in the building, and races down Division Street in his chrome-laden playpen, a cacophony of house mix and tire music in his wake.

  I find her downstairs, waiting behind a partition in one of the classrooms, hidden from street view. Like the boyfriend, she sports a dago-T but hers is white and unribbed, a designer imprinted garment purchased well beyond the fringe of men’s clothing stores on Division Street. The gaping arm holes of the man’s shirt expose the sides of her breasts. She is cool and assessing, far different than the other prospective students I have interviewed. No nail gnawing or hair teasing, the foot at the end of her crossed leg is motionless. Oddly bereft of gold, she displays none of the totemic zeal signified by self-pierced rows of earrings, neck dangling razor blades, Zodiac symbols the size of license plates, or knuckle camouflaging rings.

  “I’m Tom Stolarz, one of the teachers here.”

  “Can you get me into college?”

  The question is immediate, impatient, and slightly distrustful.

  “That’s my job. But an analysis of your particular needs may take longer than the time your friend will allow us before he doubles back.”

  She straightens, then recrosses her legs.

  “Bugsy,” she says.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My … friend. His name is Efraín Ruiz. Most people call him Bugsy. You never heard of him?”

  “No. I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Really …?” she purrs.

  No, I shouldn’t allow her to attend this school, to sit in a row among a score of hormonal malcontents obsessed by street gang confrontation and pubescent reproduction. She may reside in Westtown but her appearance, her assurance, are of someplace else. She is the most un-Puerto Rican, Puerto Rican woman I have ever seen.

  “I need to ask your age?”

  “I’m twenty.”

  “Marital status?”

  “Get real!”

  “Hmmmm, most unfortunate. We only accept teen brides. But I can offer a personal counseling and referral service.”

  A barrier breaks, she allows herself a smile, an amused crinkle forms at the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s a bit late,” I continue. “I was just about to close up. I have to meet some people for a drink …”

  No response.

  “I don’t suppose you could come back tomorrow?”

  “It’d be hard making a habit of just passing by here,” she answers.

  “Hmmmm, I’m just thinking out loud for a moment … I suppose I could lock the door but leave all the lights on, all the trappings of a still operating school. We could leave through the back. You’re more than welcome to join me, please join me for a drink. We can talk. Plenty of time to get back for your … Bugsy. Merely a suggestion. The choice is entirely your own.”

  She laughs at me. A light burst of air, like a soft sigh, yet undeniably mirthful, her lips broaden to reveal rows of fine, white teeth.

  “Okayyy,” she drawls, nodding her head slowly, relaxing her body and easing it into the chair. “But you don’t act much like a teacher.”

  “No? What do I remind you of then?”

  “A cop.”

  “A cop?”

  “Yeah, cops never want to discuss my case in the station either.”

  Can this two-bit storefront school suit her aspirations? Does she really want to sit in one of these absurd little desks and learn to subtract fractions? Maybe she just doesn’t know. How could she? El Cuarto Año Alternative High School, another market niche, an over-the-counter clearance of knowledge parceled in two-tone generic wrapping paper. I’m no more than a street hustler, lining up the suckers, flogging Charnel perfume from bulging sport jacket pockets, Rolecks watches a dozen to each arm. All because the clientele can’t spell; a GED smells the same as an MBA in Westtown, Harvard and Eureka are both colleges.

  I bolt the back door and we head down the alley.

  “My place is just ahead,” I inform her. “We’ll get my car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Club Lucky.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  My pace is challenging; in her thin sandals every step becomes a game of chance to avoid gallon-sized
potholes. She glances about, searching for the eyes of a compatriot spy lurking behind a garbage can. She takes my arm, steadying herself as we progress. If it were winter and I were wearing an overcoat she would have merely clenched my sleeve for balance. But it is a sweltering hot day and she firmly grasps my forearm with her palm. I extend my elbow and she sidles gently to me.

  Against the sky before us, the turret-shaped roof of my bedroom looms, piercing the setting sun like an immense dunce cap.

  “You live there?” she asks.

  “I’m renovating it. My grandfather left it to me.”

  She applies hands to hips and re-examines me over the upper rims of her sunglasses.

  “You live in that whole thing by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is your Mercedes?”

  “I’m leaving the top down. Do you mind?”

  “How old are you Mr. Tom Stolarz?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Her mirror lenses cast my distorted reflection. I can’t determine if she is looking at me or beyond me as she settles into the passenger seat. She reclines, nape of her neck against the car door, legs crossed at the knee.

  “Why the hell do you live in Westtown?” she asks.

  I pull out onto Western Boulevard, following the thoroughfare northward, the bankrupted mansions of the widened street enlarging before us. Down the middle of the boulevard is a still green parkway, but the landscaping has been unattended for seasons, liquor bottles and refuse dot the overgrown foliage, branches of shrubs catch windblown candy wrappers like filia.

  “I’ve always wanted to live in my grandfather’s house. When I was small he would walk me up and down this boulevard and tell me about all of the robber barons who built these mansions.”

  She appears to be listening, but I can’t be certain.

  “Architecturally, this neighborhood is unique not only to Chicago, but to the country. The extent of the workmanship in these houses, the different designs, the prewar construction, you can only find these things here. Westtown is a treasure from a grander, more refined era.”