SELFLESS (8 page)

“You like to party, Pumpkin?” Cocoa asked, noticing my lingering look at the bar. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

I shrugged. “A little.”

“Some girls like to, here,” Cocoa said. “And never turn down a drink if a customer offers to buy you one. If you really don’t want it, you can take a couple sips and give it to Blue to dispose of. She’s one of the bartenders.”

We started up the steps.

“Cocoa? Pumpkin? Where are you girls going?”

We turned to see Mama emerge from the office, dressed in a terrycloth robe. She’d shed her cocktail dress that she’d worn for the night already, but her hair and makeup were both still intact.

“I’m going to show Pumpkin upstairs,” Cocoa said. “You know. Give her a real tour of the place.”

Mama raised her eyebrows. “Well, as soon as you come back downstairs, why don’t both of you step into my office,” she said, jerking her thumb over her back. Warm light from inside the office bathed the darkened floor, a yellow wedge in the inky blackness.

“Sure thing, Mama,” Cocoa said easily. “Let’s go, Pumpkin.”

I continued to follow her up the stairs, wondering what the exchange between her and Mama was about.

“This is upstairs,” Cocoa said, her voice a little softer than it had been in the kitchen. It was a long hallway, much like the boarding house area on the opposite side of the building, with all of the doors closed. There wasn’t a single sound up there.

I took it that upstairs meant a lot more than simply being at the top of a set of stairs. Her voice was respectful, almost reverent, but there was an edge to it. Upstairs might have been a place, but I suspected it was also a practice, of sorts.

When Cocoa opened the first door, my suspicions were confirmed. It was furnished too sumptuously to be a bedroom for anyone actually staying in the boarding house, velvet curtains obscuring the window, a big bed raised on a platform in the middle of a room, its coverings gleaming in the mood lighting.

This was as good as an office for the type of business it hosted.

“You sleep with the customers,” I said, my voice hushed.

“Smart girl,” Cocoa said. “You’re correct. Upstairs business is part of business. We make the real money up here. Mama gets a cut, of course, but you can make some serious cash.”

I pressed my lips together and kept my face carefully blank. Was this what I’d fallen into? Out of my home with my family, away from my abusive addict boyfriend and into a life of prostitution?

If Mami and Papi of the airport red kisses could see me now. The thought was a bitter, confused one—they wouldn’t likely know who I was if they could see me now. They hadn’t seen me since I was very young—too young to form accurate memories of them.

They’d wanted me to stay in New York to get my education, but instead, I’d dropped out of school to flee from my boyfriend and taken up residence in an apparent whorehouse. The thought of it was so ludicrous and desperate that I wanted to shout and scream and laugh and cry all at once.

But I didn’t. I never made scenes. I was too shy.

I pressed my lips together and looked at the fine comforter, tracing the lines of the duvet with my eyes.

“Pumpkin?” Cocoa prompted gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Cocoa said, her voice grave. “If you don’t want to have upstairs business, you don’t have to. You can make plenty of money downstairs, just not the kind you can upstairs.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, and turned around to go.

“Just give it time, Pumpkin,” Cocoa said, following me out the door and shutting it behind us. “I know you’re coming from something bad. But give life a chance to get better for you.”

My eyes had been open this entire time. I’d seen the way Mama’s girls dressed, the way they lived, and the way they worked. I observed. It was what I did.

And I wasn’t sure that Mama’s nightclub was going to be the better thing my life was waiting for.

We walked back downstairs and Cocoa knocked on the door to Mama’s office. Mama called for us to enter, so we did. It was a small, cluttered space, ledger books stacked to the ceiling. Mama sat behind a desk covered with papers, counting bills from a money box. She stopped when we entered and snapped the box closed.

“Well, Pumpkin,” she said, looking up at me and beaming. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice,” I said simply, an ambiguous answer that I learned could easily throw people off of your true thoughts.

“Thank you, honey,” Mama said. “I’ve worked hard to have a place like this my whole life. I keep it up as best as I can.”

“Mama, about the upstairs business,” Cocoa said, clasping her hands and leaning forward earnestly. “Pumpkin wants to take it slow before she gets into it. Give herself some time to think about it.”

Mama’s brown eyes flicked back to me, calculating, shrewd.

“I think that’s prudent,” she said. “Test the waters before you dive in. Give yourself a chance to get adjusted.”

Mama’s eyes fell from my face to my neck, carefully noting the bruises around my throat. I resisted the urge to cover them standing as still as I could.

“Let me ask you something,” Mama said. “Do those marks have anything to do with your decision?”

I swallowed. I couldn’t talk about this. It was too fresh. I didn’t think I could ever talk about it.

“In a way,” I said finally. It wasn’t all the way true, but I didn’t know how else to explain it. I didn’t want to get into the fact that I would be a disappointment to my absent parents, that I missed my obnoxious female contingency, that I wanted to go back to the man who tried to strangle me.

That I thought this was all a big mistake.

“I understand,” Mama said. “We’ll start you off tomorrow night then. You’ll shadow Cocoa to learn the ropes—of the downstairs business, not the upstairs business.”

“Okay,” I said, staring at my feet.

“Mama, Pumpkin is gonna need a few things,” Cocoa said. “She came to us with a few clothes, but she’ll need to go shopping.”

Mama clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming. “Sugar, we’re gonna get you all dolled up,” she said. “Make sure everyone at this establishment knows what a fine ass you have. Cocoa, honey, I don’t wanna knock you off your pedestal, but I think Pumpkin can give you a run for your money.”

“Aw, Mama,” Cocoa said, laughing. “You’re gonna start a roommate rivalry.”

“Customers won’t know what hit ’em,” Mama said, winking at me. I blushed in return. This kind of banter made me miss the female contingency especially.

“Well, girls, I’ve got some more things to do before I turn in,” Mama said, taking out a flask and pouring herself a nip in a small glass on the desk. My mouth watered stupidly. I needed to forget about that drink. It wasn’t going to happen.

“We’ll get outta your hair, Mama,” Cocoa said.

We left her to her box of money and closed the door behind us.

“Come on,” Cocoa said, hooking her arm through mine in an easy, intimate gesture that made me jump a little bit. “You’re going to get something to eat whether you like it or not. You just look like you need something.”

I needed lots of things, but nothing that I believed this place could give me.

“What do you like to eat?” Cocoa asked as she ripped open the door to the refrigerator again in the kitchen. “I make a mean breakfast. And mostly simple stuff. I could make tacos! We have ground beef.”

She announced menu possibilities as she moved things around in the refrigerator, glancing at me every so often over her shoulder as she moved things around. Cocoa was bending over backwards to try to make me feel at home here. I gave myself a little push outside my comfort zone to try to meet her halfway.

“Tacos?” I asked. “I’m Puerto Rican, not Mexican, and I bet you’ve never had a real taco before.”

Cocoa straightened slowly from her exploration of the lower shelves of the refrigerator and turned around, placing her hands on her hips as she did so. She was grinning, and I had to smile back.

“Well, hello, Pumpkin,” Cocoa laughed. “It’s good to see you out of your shell.”

I took a deep breath. If I wanted anything here, I was going to have to ask. That was clear to me. I needed to start standing up for myself. I didn’t have the female contingency to protect me anymore.

“Tell you what,” I said, eyeing the inside of the refrigerator before taking stock of all of the pots and pans and utensils in the kitchen. “If you can rustle up some beer, I will make you real tacos. I have to warn you, though—once you’ve had Puerto Rican tacos, you’ll never go back to those sad, sad substandard things you used to call tacos.”

“Look at this sass,” Cocoa said appraisingly. “You get those fancy tacos started. I’ll be back.”

I pulled a huge pot from beneath the countertop and started heating oil in it. It needed to be nice and hot for what I had planned. Then, I started gathering the rest of my ingredients—the ground beef, an array of spices from a rack, and others. I wasn’t expecting to find any
masa
in the kitchen. That would’ve been a miracle. But I could make do with cornmeal.

Within a few minutes, I had a nice dough—something I’d been watching my sisters and
las primas
make them for years. It was time for me to translate all of my observation skills into action.

I left the dough to sit and tested the oil in the big pot. It was getting there. I transferred a little of it to a skillet and caramelized a couple of onions. I added a few other vegetables I found, including some hot chili peppers, to the mix. The ground beef got seasoned as it was added to the same skillet, and I stirred it continuously, making sure every piece got cooked.

It was a joy to be focusing on something other than my worry and misery. Cooking reminded me of home, and I was excited to share it with Cocoa.

When the meat was done, I pulled the skillet from the flame and looked back on the oil in the big pot. It was perfect, waves of heat drifting up from it.

I pulled off a piece of dough and spooned some of the meat and vegetable mixture into it before closing the dough over it, pinching the edges to make sure none escaped. Using a slotted spoon, I dropped the taco down into the oil, smiling as it sizzled and a plume of fragrant steam drifted up. If only the female contingency were here, hooting and gossiping and squealing, it would be just like home.

A small sound made me look over to the kitchen door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. No fewer than a dozen girls had gathered at the door, all of them watching me cook.

My hand flew up to my mouth in my surprise. What did they want? How long had they been standing there?

“Excuse me,” a voice said from the back. “Pardon. Blue, you choose one way, I’m going the other. Scoot, scoot, scoot.”

Cocoa was sidling through the small crowd of girls, holding a six-pack of beer. She looked at the girls, then looked at me.

“What’s going on?” she asked slowly.

“Something smelled really good,” Blue said, her mouth hanging open.

“We had to come down to investigate,” said another girl, her skin as pale as snow—Cream, that was what her name was.

“I’m making tacos,” I said, removing the perfectly deep-fried delicacy from the oil, the dough golden and crispy on the outside. I knew that on the inside, it would be soft and flavorful from the juices of the meat and vegetables. My own mouth was watering thinking about it. I couldn’t even imagine what everyone else was thinking.