IbarionexPerello

8 My grandfather was dying. The man at our door had come to tell us. It was the middle of night when he knocked, and I was asleep on my cot beneath the counter of the bodega that Mami owned and ran. The man’s lantern glowed through the wooden slats. Yellow shafts of light drew faint lines across the floor.

“He is gravely ill,” the man explained toMami.

He held a hat with a large hole in its crown. Graspingthe brim, he turned the hat over and over. “Marisela wants him tocome to Dajabon as soon as possible.”

It was the first time I hadheard the name of one of Papi’s sisters, though I knew I hadgrandparents and two aunts. Papi didn’t speak about them, and,though I was curious, I was never brave enough to ask.

“Pablo isnot here,” Mami said. She leaned against the door for support. Herleg had been bothering her more and more. She hadn’t had anotherstroke since the one she had suffered giving birth to me, but itsdamage—her weak leg and arm and the frozen side of herface—became more pronounced with each passing year. “I don’tknow where he is, but I’ll let him know when he comeshome.”

Mami offered the man something to eat. He declined atfirst but accepted when she insisted. She gave him some pastelitos,which he ate standing at the counter. He ate them quickly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mami asked

“The old man, he’sdying.” The crumbs from the pastry fell onto hisshirt.

“That’s sad news.”

“It’s never good,señora.”

* * *

The next morning, Papi still hadn’t come home.It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes we welcomed it. He was often drunkwhen he did return and eager for an argument. Many nights he woulddrag me out to complain about things that I had done or he’dimagined I had done. He would beat me, slapping and punching me,threatening Mami with worse if she tried to intervene. Even when shedidn’t, he would sometimes beat her anyway. I wanted to run away,like my brother, Bolivio, but I had to stay so he wouldn’t take itall out on Mami.

I went to look for Papi at the house ofhis drinking buddy. Juancho was sitting in his backyard stringing aguitar. He looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot. An open bottle ofrum sat at his feet.

At first he said he didn’t know where myfather was but when I told him the news, he put down the guitar andwalked into the house. After a few minutes he returned wearing astraw hat. He picked up the bottle and walked out of theyard.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he called. “Come on.”

We walked into the country and made our way through a fieldof sugar cane. Juancho said nothing. He sang to himself, occasionallystopping to take a swig from the bottle. We finally arrived at asmall shack.

Outside, a little girl was playing in the dirt. Shewore only a tattered shirt that hung just above her thinankles.

Juancho told me to wait and he walked into the shack. Thelittle girl walked up to me and offered me the stick she was playingwith. I took it and began drawing pictures in the dirt.

Papi cameout, followed by a thin dark woman with short coarse hair. He calledto me. As I came to him, the woman turned her headaway.

“What’s this about someone coming to the house?” Papisaid.

I explained about the visitor and that his family wanted himto return home.

“Are you going to go?” Juancho asked.

“Whatchoice do I have?” he said. Papi asked me if I was hungry. Inodded. “Feed the boy, Myrtha. I need to see how I’m going to getto Dajabon. Bring me my shoes.”

Myrtha returned with Papi’sshoes. He sat on an empty wooden box while she put them on his feet.

Juancho offered Papi the bottle. He took it but didn’t drink. Hesquinted into the bottle’s mouth as if he were expecting somethingto crawl out of it.

“You stay here until I get back,” he said.Then he and Juancho walked away into the field.

I turned to Myrtha,who had been staring at me. She looked away again. She walked intothe shack and tended to a small pot sitting over a fire. I stood inthe doorway, not sure whether I should go in or stay outside.

Ifelt a tugging at my pants. It was the little girl.

“Do you havecandy?” she asked. “Papi always brings me candy. Do you havesome?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t haveanything.”

“Azalea, come into the house.” Myrtha called out.“Don’t bother him. Come here and sit down.”

Azalea obeyed andsat on a mattress. It was nothing more than layered canvas sacks.

Ilooked back over the field, hoping to see Papi and Juancho returning.Then I walked into the shack and sat down on a box, my back againstthe wall.

The shack’s walls were made of bamboo; you couldsee the large field around us through the gaps. There was the one bedand a small table made of an old crate.

In the corner there was apile of clothes. I recognized a shirt that had once been mine. Ithought that Mami had thrown it out. She always complained that itwas too worn for me to wear in public.

Myrtha brought me a bowl ofsancocho. She handed me a wooden spoon and I thanked her and beganeating. It wasn’t as thick as the one Mami made. It was thin andwatery, but I ate anyway. I thanked her several times more. Shesmiled and nodded.

“Do you want some more?” she asked afterI’d finished. I shook my head. She took the bowl from me gently, asif it were something fragile. Along her arm, I saw a pair of smalldark bruises. She caught me looking at them and quickly turned away.I cast my eyes onto the dirt floor, feeling ashamed.

“Which oneare you?” Myrtha asked as she sat next to her daughter. Azaleaembraced her mother’s arm, leaning her head against thebruises.

“Pablito,” I said. I kept looking through the doorway,waiting for Papi to return.

“Oh,” she said, then paused.“You’re the one. He talks a lot about you.”

It looked at her,expecting her to tell me more. She was a young woman, not much olderthan some of my friend’s bigger sisters. Her face was frozen into apermanent frown, like her mouth was too heavy and she lacked thestrength to turn it into a smile. She was dark-skinned. If itweren’t for her Spanish, I would have thought she was Haitian.

Iwaited to hear more of what Papi said about me. I wanted to ask herquestions, but I kept my mouth closed.

“How old are you now?”Myrtha asked.

“Fourteen,” I said.

“I’m three,” Azaleasaid, extending three fingers into the air. She closed her fist andstarted uncurling fingers as she counted. “Unos, dos, tres.” Shesmiled, proud of herself.

I started to smile back but caughtmyself.

Myrtha caressed her daughter’s short hair. I stared atthem, wondering if I had ever seen them in town before.

“Are youmy brother?” Azalea asked.

Myrtha shushed her, shaking a fingerin the girl’s face. Azalea scowled, looking hurt. Myrtha beganapologizing to me.

“She’s a silly little girl. I’m sorry. Shedoesn’t know any better.”

I raked my finger across the box thatI was sitting on. I felt the coarse wood beneath my fingertips. Iknew I was risking a splinter, but I didn’t care.

“Would youlike some water? Mija, go get him a cup of water.”

Azalea ran andpulled a small metal cup from the table and dipped it into a ceramicurn on the floor. Slowly and carefully, she cradled it and walked tome. She kept her eyes on the cup as if her gaze could prevent even asingle drop from spilling to the floor.

I took it from her smallhands and our fingers touched. The corners of her eyes were filledwith sleep. I reached out my finger and rubbed themclean.

“Pablito,” Papi’s voice called out to me. Outside ofthe shack, I saw him standing at the edge of the field. He didn’twait for me to follow before he turned and disappeared into the tallstands of cane.

I had almost reached the field when I realizedthat I had not said goodbye. I turned to see Myrtha and her daughterstanding in the entryway. Azalea waved her handfuriously.

* * *

We traveled to Dajabon in a pickup truck. I satin the truck bed that was filled with wooden crates stuffed withchicks. There were hundreds of them squeezed in palettes that werestacked one atop the other. Their chirps and small feathers filledthe air around me. I kept my hand over my mouth and nose, afraid thatI would inhale the floating yellow feathers that stuck to my shirtand pants. Papi sat in the cab with the driver.

After noon,we arrived to streets filled with vendors loudly negotiating theprices of vegetables, fruits, and meats. Though some vendors satwaiting for interested passersby, others called out to anyone whoeven casually looked in their direction. “Come over here. Don’twalk away so quick. It won’t cost you to look.”

I stood by theside of the truck as the men unloaded the chicks, little puffs ofyellow. I could see that many were dead, crushed in the overstuffedpalettes.

“Come on,” Papi said, grasping my arm. As we walkedthrough the crowds several people approached Papi, having recognizedhim. Some looked approvingly at me, asking my name and age. Papianswered for me. I kept quiet and stood behind him.

“Come overhere. Let people get a good look at you.” He pushed me in front ofa man with short-cropped white hair. “He’s a little thin, butdon’t let those chicken legs fool you. He’s a strong one.”

Wewalked from the open market to the house of Papi’s oldest sister,Marisela. She lived in a two-story house with a large porch. I lookedat Papi to make sure this was the right house. I couldn’t believethat someone we knew, someone I was related to, could own a home thisbig.

Before walking up onto the porch, Papi grabbedme.

“Don’t do anything to embarrass me,” he said. “Idon’t want you to give me any trouble while we’re here.Understand?” I nodded and we walked to the open door.

A shortwoman with a blue bandana wrapped around her head stopped sweepingthe floor when she saw us.

“Dona,” she called out. The sound ofher voice echoed, making the house seem even bigger. “They’vearrived. Your brother is here.”

Marisela was a thin woman with along, angular face. The dress she wore seemed to float around herbody. She flew across the floor as if the wind blew her, and tookPapi into her slender arms.

She repeated his name over and overagain, trying to keep from choking on her tears. Though most of herhair had turned gray, her face was smooth.

I felt embarrassedwatching. Papi embraced his sister with one arm, leaving the otherhanging at his side.

“It’s good to see that you’re gettingold like the rest of us,” Marisela said, taking his face in herhands. “I always remember you as a little boy.” She took himagain into her arms and began laughing.

As the tears fell down herface, I searched for a resemblance to Papi or even to me.

Mariselasaw me then and let out a cry. She hugged me with such fiercenessthat I could hear my breath rushing out my mouth. She smelled clean,the scent of soap coming off her skin and hair.

She grasped my faceas she had Papi. Her hands felt moist and soft against mycheeks.

“Which one are you?” she said.

“He is, he was myyoungest,” Papi said.

She reached into my hair and pulled out afeather. She held me out at arm’s length and looked me up anddown.

“What’s wrong with him?” she said. “What are allthese feathers?” She plucked at the dozens of feathers that werestuck to my pants and shirt. Feathers were now stuck to the fabric ofher dress. “We can’t have walking around like this. He needs achange of clothes.”

* * *

The servant who had met us led meupstairs to a bedroom, where she laid out a fresh set of clothes. Theshirt and pants belonged to her son, but they were several sizes toobig for me. I rolled up the pant legs to my ankles.

Therewas a large bed in the center of the room. The mosquito net flaredout from a point in the ceiling and swept over the edges of themattress and onto the floor. I got underneath the netting and sat onthe mattress. I pressed my hands into its softness, building up thecourage to fall backward into it. I hoped that we would stay longenough so that I could sleep there.

I walked down the stairs andfound Papi sitting at the dining table, his head in his hands.Marisela stood over him, her hand on his shoulder.

“You couldhave not come, but I’m so glad that you did,” she said. “I waspraying that you would. I prayed to Santa Alta Gracia that she wouldsee to it that you came, and you have. Thank goodness. ThankGod.”

“I’m only here because he asked for me. Otherwise, Inever would have come. Graciela—”

“Never mind Graciela,”she said. “You would think that age would soften her heart, butit’s only softened her head. But that doesn’t matter. He wants tosee you. It doesn’t matter what she thinks. Notanymore.”

“She’ll think that I’ve only come back for themoney.”

“Pablo, don’t talk like this,” she said, shakinghim gently. “You have to put the past aside. El Viejo isdying.”

“I don’t care about the money. That’s not why I’mhere.”

“I know. He’ll be so happy to see you.”

I stood atthe foot of the stairs, watching them as they talked. Even though Iwas in the house of my family, I felt like an intruder, astranger.

* * *

After eating a meal of platanos, eggs, bread, andcoffee, the three of us walked together to Graciela’s house. Herhome was as big as Marisela’s, but where Marisela’s house wasmodestly decorated; this house announced that good fortune had fallenon its roof.

The floors in each room had large woven rugswhose bold colors and patterns leapt from the floor. Each room waspainted with bright, warm colors. The items in each room from thetables, chairs, and even the oil lamps seemed to have beenspecifically created for its space. I felt as if I were walking intoa special kind of church. I was afraid to touch anything.

A man whointroduced himself as Graciela’s husband, Ernesto, met us at the door.He was a tall man with a thin, neatly trimmed mustache. A set ofwire-framed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

“Gracielais upstairs with him,” he said. He snapped his fingers and aservant carrying a basket of clothes stopped abruptly in mid-step.“Where are those sheets the señora asked you for? Are youexpecting her father to suffer in dirty sheets?”

“I’msorry,” she said to his back. He hadn’t bothered to turn aroundto address her. “They’re not dry yet.”

“I don’t pay youto make excuses,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She scowledbut quickly turned away when she caught me looking at her. Shecontinued up the stairs.

“I’ll go help Graciela,” Mariselasaid. “I’ll send for you in a few minutes. Ernesto, please keepthem company until we’re ready.”

Ernesto looked at us as if wewere two stray dogs that had found their way onto his porch.

“Icould do with a drink,” he said and walked into the next room. Wefollowed without being invited.

He removed a bottle and two glassesfrom a cabinet. Light from the window danced in the glasses as hepoured the amber-colored rum. He was already sipping his drink whenhe extended the other to Papi.

Papi took it but didn’t bring itto his lips.

“So, you’re the baby,” Ernesto said. “Ididn’t think that I’d ever meet you. When was the last time youwere here?”

“It’s been a long time,” Papisaid.

“Graciela and I have been married for 16 years now. It’sfunny. I didn’t even know she had a brother until our eldest wasborn. We have four sons.”

“Then you’reblessed.”

“It’s what any man would hope for: a good son.I’m lucky to have four of them.” He swirled the rum in his glass.“So, this is your son? Boy, you should have some clothes that fit.You look like you’re shrinking in those pants.”

I looked downat my feet, embarrassed.

“How long has the old man been sick?”Papi said.

“On and off, two years, I’d say. He took ill soonafter his wife died. He’s been living here for the last six months.We actually had to carry him over here, bed and all. It was quite ashow. We had eight men carry that bed across town, the old mancursing all the way. He didn’t stop calling God’s name in vaineven when they passed the church. If he’d had the strength, he’dhave crawled back home. Incredible. At least I know where Gracielainherited her stubbornness.” He looked down at Papi’s hand. “Isthere something wrong with the drink?”

“No,” Papi said,looking down at the glass. “It’s fine.”

“It’s very good.I bought it in the capital last month. It’s better than the shityou have to drink in Monte Cristi. I can’t understand how anyonelives there. The heat is unbearable. It’s what hell would be likeif it had shade.”

“It’s not that bad. You get used to it.”Papi kept looking toward the stairs. The ice clicked in hisglass.

“Yes, I suppose you can get used to a lot of things whenyou have to. What is it that you do there, anyway?”

“We own abodega,” I said. Papi glared at me, ordering me to be quiet. But Iwanted to say something. I didn’t like this man and I wanted Papito do something about it. I knew that it was wrong to disrespect aman in his own house, but I didn’t want to feel so small, soinsignificant.

“A bodega?” He drained the last of the rum fromhis glass. “You should see about buying some of this rum for yourstore. You’d do well with it. I know the distributor if you’reinterested. I could get you a good deal.”

“Do you think we cango upstairs?” Papi said. “We’ve traveled a longway.”

“Don’t you want to try the rum first? I’ve heard youfavor the drink.”

Papi put his glass down on the table.

“Iwould like to see my father, please.”

Ernesto looked at the glass and wagged his finger at it. “You don’t know what you’re missing, but I guess that’s all the better.” He took the glass and swallowed the rum in a single loud gulp. “It’s a good thing for you not to drink, anyway. For some men it never amounts to much good.”

* * *

Ernesto led us up the stairs and directed us to a door. He excused himself, and Papi and I walked into the bedroom where my grandfather lay dying. He was in the center of a large bed, looking like a small child about to be swallowed by the mattress and white sheets. His hair was like tufts of cotton, and his head rested on an oversized pillow. Beside him the servant we had seen earlier fanned him.

On the other side of the bed sat Graciela. She was heavier than her sister. She wore her hair down, and her lips and cheeks were flushed with makeup. Her brightly painted nails rested on her lap. She didn’t look up as we walked in. Papi and I stopped at the foot of the bed.

Marisela walked past Graciela and leaned over the old man. “There’s someone here to see you.” I could see the slow rise and fall of the sheet as he breathed. I wondered whether even the weight of the thin sheets was too much for his chest to bear. Marisela waved me over. “It’s your grandson Pablito. He’s come all the way from Monte Cristi to see you.”

I moved beside the bed and looked down at the old man. He had wide nostrils from which long gray hairs sprouted. Blemishes covered his neck and face. Yet when he turned to look at me, his eyes shone with a brilliance that surprised me.

He stretched out his hand and grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer. He brought my face close to his. His breath smelled stale.

“Mijo,” he said.

“He’s named after his father Pablo.”

He tightened his grip and shook my arm. I was afraid he’d try to draw me closer.

“Don’t just stand there. Say something.” It was Graciela, who until then had not uttered a word.

“Hello,” I said. I realized then I didn’t even know my grandfather’s name. “It’s good to meet you, sir.”

“Where is your mother?” the old man said. “Andrea. Where is she? Andrea?”

“No, no.” Marisela said, resting her hand on my shoulder. “This is your grandson. See, there’s Pablo.” She pointed at Papi. “He’s come to see you too.”

The old man stared at Papi, who stood with his hands buried deep in his slacks. The old man shook his head and returned his attention to me.

“I want your mother, Pablo,” the old man said. “Please, bring her to me. They won’t let me see her. You’re a good boy. You’ll bring her to me, won’t you?”

“I told you this wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Graciela, slapping her thigh. “Get them out of here. They’re only making things worse.”

“Be quiet,” Marisela said.

“Don’t tell me what to do in my house.”

”Promise me, mijo?” the old man said to me. “I know you’ll keep your promise. You’ve always been a good boy.”

I tried to pull away, but the old man held me tight.

Papi moved to the side of the bed opposite Graciela. The servant moved to the foot of the bed. She continued fanning, though I couldn’t feel the breeze.

“It’s okay,” Papi said to the old man. “Everything is fine. I’m here.” The old man didn’t respond, his gaze intent on me. Papi touched his shoulder and leaned forward. “It’s me. Pablo. I came back to see you like you asked.”

“Leave me alone,” the old man yelled, pulling away from Papi. He grabbed my shirt. “Pablito, why are they doing this to me? You have to help me. They keep telling me that your mother’s dead. I know it’s not true. She’s home, but they won’t take me back there. They want to keep me here. Take me home. Take me home.”

His nails dug into my skin.

“That’s enough!” Graciela yelled. “There’s no point to this.” She stood up from her chair and pointed a finger at Papi. “Is this what you came back here for, to finish him off?”

“He wanted to see me.” Papi said.

“He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s sick. Can’t you see that?”

“I came because he wanted me to.”

“Why would he want that?” Graciela spat. “What use does a dying man have for a drunk? Tell me that, why don’t you. Tell me.”

“Shut up, the both of you,” Marisela said, pulling her sister away from the bed. “Both of you stop.”

“Mijo, take me away from here,” the old man said. “They’re all crazy. Take me home. I want to see your mother.”

“I’ll help you, but you have to calm down.” Papi tried to unclasp the old man’s hand from me. “You’re hurting him. Let him go.”

“Stay away from me,” the old man yelled. Spit flew from his mouth and landed on Papi’s cheek. “Stay away from me. I won’t let you take my son away from me. I won’t let you.”

“It’s me.” Papi said. “I’m your son.”

The old man let me go, turned and slapped Papi hard across the face.

“Go to hell. Do you hear me? Go back to where you came from! You want to take everything away from me. That’s all any of you want to do. I won’t let you.”

The room erupted into yelling and cursing. The servant remained silent but her arms beat the fan more vigorously.

Ernesto walked into the room and managed to draw Papi and his sisters out, leaving only the servant and me.

The girl walked to a washbasin, where she moistened a towel. She dabbed it across the old man’s head, neck, and chest. The rag soaked up the tears that ran down the old man’s face and into his ears.

“Everything will be all right, seرor,” she said. Her voice was gentle and soft. His breath slowed as she pressed the towel against his skin. He let out a long sigh and he reached out his hand to me. The servant looked at me and urged me to take it. I did.

“I’m so tired,” he said. “I just want to go home. Promise me that you’ll take me home.”

“I promise, Papi,” I said. The servant smiled at me and nodded.

The old man rested his head on the pillow. He began to cry again.

“You were always such a good boy. I don’t ever want you to leave again. I was so wrong for sending you away. I was just so angry. I just wanted better of you, for you.”

“Everything is fine,” I said.

“Your mother is still angry with me for turning my back on you. She doesn’t understand what I was trying to do. We have to go back home. When she sees you, she’ll forgive me. I know she will.”

“Yes, Papi. We’ll do that.”

“I need to sleep,” he said. “I have to get some rest before we go, but you stay here, right here, next to me.”

His grip on my hand loosened and he fell asleep. I squeezed his hand.

When I walked downstairs, Papi was standing on the porch with Marisela. Graciela and her husband were nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve leaving,” he said when he saw me.

“Papi, I want to tell you something,” I said.

“Go on, boy. Get outside.”

“But, Papi.”

“Shut up,” he yelled, raising his hand in the air. Marisela grabbed him.

“Please, Pablo,” she said. “Don’t be like this.”

“No, Graciela was right. I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He pulled away from her and moved to the door.

“Don’t say that. We’re family. She’s upset. El Viejo is dying. You have to understand.”

“We’re leaving, Marisela.”

She opened her mouth to say something but didn’t. Instead, she walked up to him and hugged him. This time Papi took her in both of his arms and held her for a long time. She then embraced me.

“I’ll have the clothes sent back to you,” Papi said.

“No, keep them. He’ll grow into them.”

Marisela nodded and walked upstairs.

We had stepped out into the street when he grabbed me by the shoulder. “What happened while you were up there?” he asked. “Did he say anything?”

Papi wasn’t looking at me, but instead back toward the house. I looked up at the side of his face where the old man had slapped him. I wondered whether Papi still felt the sting of the blow.

“Well,” he said. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He was tired. He just went to sleep.”

Papi looked at me for a moment and then released his grip. He told me to wait and then ran back into the house. In a few minutes, he was beside me again. Ernesto’s bottle of rum was in his hand.

“That son of bitch was right,” he said, shaking the bottle. “This is damn good rum.” <

Ibarionex Perello is a writer and photographer living in Altadena, California. He was a 2003 PEN Center USA Emerging Voices Rosenthal Fellow. His story in the current issue is his first published work of fiction. It will form a part of his novel, Memories of Flesh and Bone.

Originally published in the summer 2005 issue of Boston Review