The Accidental Native (10 page)

“She's waiting for you,” she said, with a wide grin.

Julia was at an enormous crystal desk, focused on some paperwork, her hair tucked behind her ears. She looked over her glasses toward me. I threw myself on the sofa, picked up a copy of
The Nation
from the coffee table. Behind her, through the large window, another row of buildings gleamed in the tropical sun. It was a big corner office, fitting Julia's stature, with all the expected
amenities, including a small bar, but what stood oddly apart was a painting of a rustic Puerto Rican scene.

“Everyone's so happy here,” I said. “Did you give out bonuses?”

“No,” she said, returning to the paper in front of her. “I showed them your photo. They've all wanted to meet you.” She looked up and laughed when she saw my smirk.

“Come here and give your mother a kiss at least.” I went over and pecked her on the cheek.

“Let me sign these and we can go … I'm starved. You hungry?”

I nodded and waited as Julia went through her going-out ritual. She turned around a few times, gathered glasses, cigarette case, cell and threw them all in her purse. She padded her pockets, made sure her glasses were on her nose. On the way out, I asked her about the curious painting she had there depicting a wake for an infant.

“It's a reproduction of Oller's painting. It keeps me grounded.”

On the way to the elevator, more smiles from the staff, and this time I couldn't help from blushing, knowing that I was the show.

“Some attractive women working here, wouldn't you agree?” Julia said with a sly smile.

“Yes, and single, I bet.”

This sudden outburst of interest in me by Julia's underlings should have been a signal she was up to something. We arrived at La Trattoria, one of Julia's favorite eateries, and minutes into our conversation—mainly about the upcoming Thanksgiving family gathering in Lares—an attractive young woman joined us at the table. Yasmín Roselló, junior associate at the firm. She came over allegedly to say hello. “Come join us,” Julia chirped, and she introduced us without batting an eyelash. Ms. Roselló extended a manicured hand as I sat there speechless. Of course, she was exceedingly good looking; uncanny, I thought, how in such a short time Julia would figure out my type. Ms. Roselló shook my hand and sat her long-legged, slender, well-shaped figure right across from me.

I hated that I liked Ms. Roselló, that I liked the way her brown eyes smiled, how smart she looked in a suit and how her graceful hands moved to make a point. I liked her, despite her being another
career woman conflicted over marriage and motherhood. Our conversation, to which Julia occasionally, I would even dare say strategically contributed, flowed into sticky terrain. When I asked Ms. Roselló what law she practiced to make money for my mother, she answered, “mostly divorce.” And this led to marriage, motherhood and grandchildren. The irony didn't seem to hit them.

“It's a cliché, I know,” said Ms. Roselló, “but I feel the pressure.” She smiled sheepishly.

“I think it's to your credit,” Julia said. “To talk about it openly without sounding desperate.”

“I'm sure you will be able to handle the pressures of motherhood and career,” I said. “Look at my mother.” I tapped Julia's hand. And she did that gesture of hers, when she probably wants to slap you and controls herself by twisting her neck and looking up with a smile.

“She could be your model,” I added.

“Licenciada Matos is a great mentor in so many ways,” Ms. Roselló said. I noted: loss of points for ass-kissing.

“I would love to have grandchildren,” Julia said, laughing at me and Ms. Roselló.

I felt my face blush, and thankfully the food came at that moment and that subject dropped to the table like an unwanted side dish.
Yeah
, I thought,
perhaps you can be a better abuela than mother
. But it stayed in my head, like other thoughts better censored during the remainder of that meal.

I walked a tightrope between anger at her conniving maneuvers and genuine pleasure at having an unexpectedly delightful lunch date with an intelligent, appealing woman. What restrained me was the memory of that unfortunate restaurant outing in Lares, which I preferred not to repeat. So, I went with the flow and enjoyed the company of Ms. Roselló, who was, after all, an innocent bystander.

Ms. Roselló slid over a business card with her home number on it while Julia was in the ladies' room. I took it with a smile and a “thank you.” I would never call her. She could be my soulmate, for
all I knew, but I wasn't ready to accept yet another one of Julia's guilt-ridden offerings, this one more insidious than the others.

I didn't respond to Julia's chit-chat in the car. When I parked back at her building, I looked straight at her.

“What the hell was that, Julia?”

She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue. “Is it so bad that I introduced you to a beautiful, ambitious young woman?”

“Did I ask you to pimp for me?” A stern look.

“Where do you get this mouth of yours?”

“That's what it feels like.”

“Fine. I won't do it again. Live your miserable lonely existence.”

“Hey, I'm doing okay, thank you.”

“You don't look happy, René.”

“Maybe that's because I'm not, okay?”

There was a moment of silence and then she went for the door.

“You know, I'm trying to do my best,” she said, looking out the window, still holding to the door handle. “But I'm really getting tired of your hurt-child drama.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she said turning around, facing me directly. “Grow up, René. People make mistakes, everyone has to move on.”

With that, she seized her purse and bolted out of the car.

It's a given that a single guy in a relationship must at some time introduce the girlfriend to the parents. At the point when we were quasi-living together (an arrangement involving personal toothbrushes and a few articles of clothing burrowed away in one drawer in each other's apartments), Erin and I decided to “share our happiness” (her words) with family. We didn't think much of it. Erin's folks were liberal New Englanders who only gave me a hard time for being a Yankee fan. Dinner at her folks was pleasant, full of good conversation and excellent wine. We both thought we had jumped over the biggest hurdle, because I had always bragged about how open-minded my parents were. And despite their political liberalism, Erin worried that her parents might harbor issues with her dating a Puerto Rican. She and I both knew progressive politics don't always immune people from fear of difference. So, we were both very happy when Erin's dad welcomed me to the family. Actually, it was scary for me because I realized that the meet-the-parents visit was this significant moment in a relationship full of expectations. But it was still a promising event. And we both kind of assumed that if the McMahons were on board, the Faltos would be a piece of bizcocho.

I told my parents that I would be bringing Erin to Thanksgiving dinner, or La Cena, as it traditionally known in my family. I spoke to Mami, and the silence on the phone was deafening.

“Who's that?” Mami asked, finally.

“Erin, you know, the girl I'm seeing.”

More silence, then, “Ay, Rennie, you know La Cena is a family thing.”

“Mami, I'm serious about Erin. I think you and Papi should meet her.”

“You planning to marry this girl?”

“I don't know—maybe. We haven't broached that topic yet.”

“Well, when you decide, then you can bring her to La Cena.”

“Jeez. What's with the formality? It's Thanksgiving dinner, for God's sakes.”

“I don't feel comfortable with strangers in my house, Rennie.”

“She's not a stranger to me.”

“But she is to me.”

“Well, I'm bringing her or I won't go. Mami, I've been over to Erin's parents' house, and they welcomed me with open arms. I can't believe you're acting this way.”

She sighed into the phone. “This girl isn't Puerto Rican, is she?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Is she Latina, at least?”

“No, Mami. She's American, like the rest of us.”

“Don't get politically stupid on me, okay. You know what I mean.”

“Look, I'm just calling to tell you I'm bringing her along. You got a problem with that or not?”

After a few seconds of hesitation, she conceded. I hung up the phone in shock. Where was my liberal, open-minded mother, who talked freely with me about drugs, alternative sexual lifestyles, sex and STDs, and other topics most parents would prefer to avoid?

She must have disappeared into the ethnic meal she always prepared for La Cena. A Puerto Rican Thanksgiving is a hybrid of American and Boricua culinary tastes: a turkey covered with pepper and spices to approximate its otherwise bland taste as much as possible to lechón, or roast pig; it is accompanied by arroz con gandules, or pigeon peas in yellow rice; candied yams; pasteles, that is, Puerto Rican style-tamales in banana leaves; and potato salad, which must include heaps of mayo, eggs and, for that Spanish touch, red peppers and olives. The typical pies are served, of
course, but it wouldn't surprise anyone to find some flan, tembleque or arroz con dulce as desserts.

Erin was amused by all of this, and she committed the biggest faux pas: she ate very little. Wouldn't touch the pasteles, nibbled at the rice, ate a sliver of turkey, and afterwards confessed to me, with a whiny voice, that she missed the traditional dinner. For some reason, that bothered me, and her finickiness did not go over well with either one of my parents.

They were both pleasant, but the conversation was thin, too guarded for a holiday meal. My usually garrulous parents, who loved to tease and laugh, and on these occasions were known to get up and dance to a salsa tune playing on the stereo, remained as reserved and laconic as any WASP family ever seen on television or film. Erin had this stupid, fake smile screwed on her face the entire evening, even as she picked through the food, setting the red peppers and olives from the potato salad to the side. I wanted to bang my head against the table at one point.

The only amusement for me, I hate to say, during the entire evening was watching Tío Bennie, the only other dinner guest, drink himself into a stupor, as he did every Thanksgiving. He wasn't really an uncle, but my parents had known him for decades and I grew up calling him
tío
. After his wife died and he sunk into depression and alcohol, my parents occasionally invited him to weekend dinners and holiday meals. He would drink like a mad man, chugging beer after beer, and at one point while sprawling on a recliner would start blabbering and then crying. Soon after, he would fall into a sonorous sleep, his jowls shaking from the jagged breathing.

“That didn't go like you wanted, did it?” Erin asked me on the drive back from Jersey. She had been quiet, staring out the window. Unusual for her; anytime I drove her car, she was super vigilant to the point that she sometimes made me so upset. I stopped and turned over the wheel to her.

“You think?” I answered.

We both laughed, but it stung me a bit. I felt bad for Erin, but I couldn't or wouldn't apologize for my parents. She wasn't exactly endearing herself to them. There had been some type of barrier in that dining room, where it came from I don't know. But I knew
the silences and inability to converse freely went deeper than lack of topics. We were all liberal, well-educated, intelligent people, but something happened, and I did not know what.

I visited my parents a week later. They had not mentioned anything about Thanksgiving, even in our telephone conversations that followed. I filed the incident under lack of chemistry, but when I sat down for a cup of coffee, both of them sat down at the kitchen table, hands folded, their faces solemn like someone had just died. They wanted to talk, my father said.

“That young woman, Erin,” my mother began. “She's a good person and whatever decision you make we will respect. It is your lives, after all.”

“But,” my father interrupted, “she doesn't exactly have the mancha de plátano.”

This was the phrase for someone who looked Puerto Rican, or even Latino. So called because you can no easier rid yourself of your Puerto Rican look than erase a plantain stain.

“I told you she was white.”

“White? M'ijo, she's like a walking bag of flour,” this from my liberal mother. They both laughed at this.

“She's in dire need of some sun,” my father added.

“This is racist, you know that, right?”

“Ay, please. We think she's all right. We're just having fun at your expense.”

“But,” my father again interrupted, “have you really thought the possible consequences of marrying someone not of your culture?”

I stared at them like I didn't know them.

“I can't believe both of you. Where does this come from and where's it going?”

“We're not opposed to you marrying her, Rennie. God forbid, we would never.”

“But,” my father interjected, “let's not be blinded to the differences and what they might mean.”

“Like what?”

“Will she be willing to raise our grandchildren to know their Puerto Rican heritage?”

“Grandchildren?”

“Rennie,” my father again piped up, “ours is an oppressed, colonized people losing its culture and history. We can't marry and blend and forget our roots. Where will we end up?”

My mother started crying, to my amazement. “Oh my God,” she said. “What if they turn out to be asimilaos, ashamed of their Puerto Rican grandparents?”

“Then they'll be just like their father.”

I snatched my jacket and keys and went for the door.

“You're not an asimilao!” My father blocked the door, wagging a finger at me. “We have both taught you about our history, our language,
your
roots. This is a Puerto Rican home, and we're proud of who we are, and we've taught you to be just as proud.” The fierce look scared me—I had never seen it on my father.