The Accidental Native (22 page)

“How do you manage to receive such a small amount of mail?” he snarled.

“I don't have as many friends as you, Micco.”

There was an awkward silence, and I thought he was losing his wit and sharp tongue. But he looked at me with disturbed, sad eyes.

“Rita Gómez is in the hospital,” he said. And I knew where this was going.

“When?”

“She found out a few days before classes ended, and she has really deteriorated, Rennie.” He continued looking at his mail. “Some of us are visiting her at the hospital tonight.”

“Count me in,” I said. He nodded as he threw a handful of brochures in the garbage.

“Eight o'clock. HIMA in Caguas.”

I had not known Rita as well as I would have liked. She taught Business English, and I did not really have any common ground to start a conversation. Right before she became ill, though, we
had a few coffees together, short conversations in between classes when you're drinking your coffee and you chat. Her English was hard to understand at times, but everyone agreed she was a dedicated and effective teacher. Short and thin, she came across as timid, but Micco called her “una mosquita muerta,” someone who seems to be timid, but once you knew her better, you realized she was pretty slick. Once she felt comfortable with you, she became animated and funny. At one dinner party, she got a little tipsy, pinched my butt and spent the rest of the week apologizing. Now, she was one of the increasing number of cancer cases at the college no one wanted to discuss or link together—she was part of this “growing coincidence.”

I was not prepared to see Rita in the hospital. My last image of her was of a smiling petite woman, holding a coffee cup telling a bawdy joke, and then running off in her spike heels to cover her Bus Com class. Now, she lay still, tubes coming in and out of her body, a wool cap covering her bald head, her sunken face sallow, her teeth protruding, her breathing troubled.

The cancer was claiming her, and we all knew it would not be long before fully owning her. At first I could not look at her. I could not look at my own parents' mangled bodies, preferring to bury them without seeing them or touching them one last time because I would not recognize them and the horror of having to see them in that state would overwhelm whatever grief I had, would swallow any words I had to say farewell. But like the others, I went over and grabbed Rita's cold hand, and she squeezed it, and I wanted to cry. Her way of saying goodbye, I knew. I kissed her forehead, but could not say spirited, empty words, like the others. In our short conversations, I began to sense that we had that in common, a b.s. detector; we both saw the world cynically and shared a black humor that other colleagues could only shake their heads at. She and I both knew she would not get up from that bed. With tears in my eyes, I just said, “Love the cap.” And she squeezed my hand harder.

In the hospital cafeteria, while drinking coffee, I told Micco something had to be done.

“Like what?”

“I don't know, Micco, but fuck, this is getting ridiculous.”

“Easy, Junior, I'm on your side.”

“It might be a coincidence, but the college should take a more active role.”

“What are they supposed to do?”

“How about they secure our safety, Micco?”

He nodded, and sat back on the chair. After a few minutes staring at my coffee, I told him I was going to organize a committee of faculty, employees, students and community people.

He shrugged a shoulder.

“I'll start by contacting the Congreso leadership,” I added.

At this, he leaned forward. “They're agitators, Rennie. They don't think through issues.”

“They get results. We'd have zero benefits if not for them.”

“Junior, don't mess with things you don't know about.”

I looked at him, a bit quizzically. “Don't you think something should be done, Micco? You could be next.”

He was a morbid hypochondriac, the type of person who asked you how a particular mole looked, or if his tongue looked weird, a man who obsessed over nuclear warfare. The thought obviously bothered him. He drank the last drop of coffee in his Styrofoam cup and stood up to leave.

“Will you join us?”

“Let me think about it,” he answered.

That was Micco saying no way. Typical, I thought. Complaining about the situation and not willing to get off his ass and do something. Typical of him, typically Puerto Rican. His non-reaction pushed me even more. The college had to at least entertain the possibility that something may be happening on the campus. The radioactive material was there and, although the Department of Defense was doing something, the college community was being kept in the dark and people were getting ill at an alarming rate. We deserved explanations and answers. First thing in the morning, I would contact the Congreso leaders to form a special committee.

On my way out, I bumped into Mari. I had not seen her since the Christmas party. She, too, had been vacationing. Her usual bronze skin had acquired a copper hue. She had let her hair grow
and now it curled around her face wildly. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, something I always found sexy, and her eyes shone big and bright.

We gave each other awkward hellos, I informed her of Rita's situation. We then fell into that sad silence reserved for when someone you know is dying and words are futile and superfluous.

“You look very relaxed,” I said.

“Been doing some thinking and I'm in a good place.”

“I've been thinking, too. But you want to see Rita. We'll talk.”

She stared at me, not knowing exactly where I was coming from, because I myself didn't know how to express what I was feeling. I was willing to talk, though. Anything to see her again.

“Sure, we can talk.” She waved, and my eyes followed her walking away.

Later that night, I received a call from Julia. She had found out about my situation with the squatters and was upset that I had not asked her for help.

“Don't worry how I found out,” she responded to my inquiries. “By now you should know this is one tight island. And lawyers talk—a helluva grapevine.” She sighed, and her voice cracked a bit when she said, “Rennie, please, don't shut me out.”

“It's my problem.”

“But, damn it, I can help you. On this one, I can actually help you. Why do you refuse to reach out to me?”

“How can you say that? I'm here aren't I?”

Silence on her end.

I wasn't in the mood. I was tired. Images of Rita kept running through my head. Anger started creeping up my body. Mari's tanned face staring at me, half interested in what I said and maybe I was reading too much into it, but there was a spark of hope in her eyes.

“Fine, Julia. Help me in any way you want.”

“My goodness, René, don't ask as a favor to me. I am just being a mother who cares, not someone trying to gain points.”

I exhaled. “I'm sorry. Yes, it is getting to me, these squatters. I don't know if Ledesma is in over his head.”

“Martirio is good, but it doesn't hurt to give him a bit more help. I'll call him. You sound tired, get some rest.”

Before she hung up, she asked about Mari. Normally, I would be evasive, but after this conversation, and because I needed to talk to someone, I told her about our current situation. I expected her to say move on, or get a younger girlfriend.

After a pause, she said, “Love's hard to come by, René.”

“Excuse me?”

“No seas bobo,” she said.

And she hung up after throwing a bendición and some kisses my way.

A week later, when the second semester began, I went to the department office to pick up mail on the first day of classes. There was a letter from the Institutional Personnel Committee, which I tore open. They had recommended reappointment, a one-year renewal on the tenure track.

When I finally got around to writing the defensa, I had kept it short but real:

Dear Committee Members:

I am a first-year professor. I accept that I need to learn more about my students and how to teach. But my dedication and commitment to them cannot be questioned. The student evaluations speak for themselves. The remarks of the other Committee members speak for themselves. I ask that Dr. Roque and the Institution support my efforts to improve by giving me formative criticism and opportunities for development
.

Sincerely
,
René Falto Matos

Micco questioned the brevity of my rebuttal. He thought I should respond to every single point made by Roque and Carmela López. But when I sat down to write it, I was exhausted, despondent over losing Mari, and I felt the entire thing was so much bull-shit. I wasn't going to validate their criticism by responding to it.
I guess my words had some sway with the Committee, or Foley's had more.

I turned to go into Roque's office, not to gloat but to make sure that he was aware of the committee's decision. I wanted peace with this man.

“He's not there,” Nitza said, a bit bothered.

“He didn't come in today?”

“No, Doctor Roque has taken a leave for the semester.”

I didn't believe her. I opened the door, and the office was bare of all Roque's possessions, minimal as they were. Not even the crucifix. The office looked like no one had ever occupied it.

He appeared at my office door like a ghost, almost transparent, furtive and quiet. I flinched as his blue eyes locked into mine. He didn't even laugh or smile at my being startled; he was probably used to making people jump.

“Jesus, Foley, can't you knock or something.”

“The door was open,” he said, pointing to it and speaking in that tone he always used, soft and self-assured, as if everything he said was obvious and understated.

“I'd like to invite you to dinner.”

Now he smiled, those perfect white teeth gleaming. Was he trying to be charming? He stood at the doorjamb—why he didn't just come in I don't know. Dressed in his typical suit and tie, he carried this aura of authority. Arms crossed, he stared at me with those hardened eyes, waiting for an answer.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Foley?”

No smile. “I'd like to talk to you about a few things, and I find it more pleasant over drinks and food, rather than here.”

“Oh, so, you're going to tell me some unpleasant things?”

He crossed the doorjamb, made a sound that sounded like a chuckle and put his arm on top of my file cabinet.

“Why do you have to bust my chops? It's an invitation to drinks and dinner.”

“To discuss important matters?”

I thought he was trying to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He kind of bit his lower lip and looked away.

“Let's just call it a friendly dinner, shall we?”

I laughed, loving that I was apparently pushing some buttons. “That sounds ominous, Foley, I don't know.”

He bent into me, his eyes now turning a darker hue as his eyebrows closed in, all traces of a smile gone now.

“Listen,” he whispered, “don't fuck with me. I'm too old for games. I'm telling you we should talk, okay?”

There was something in his voice, confident, full of urgency and import, that intimidated me. And those eyes, which he should have insured as tools of whatever trade he was plying. I had been slouching in my chair, and I raised myself a bit, as if the eyes and his hard stare had lifted me up.

“That sounds serious, Foley.”

“Enough with the formality. It's Jake, call me Jake. And, yes, it's on the serious side. But,” and here he paused, smiled.

At that moment I entertained the idea the man may have had schizoid tendencies.

He added, “That doesn't mean we can't have a pleasant date.”

Smug with his little joke, he turned around to leave. “Seven p.m., my place, this Friday,” he said with his back to me and raising his finger in the air.

“Is it about Roque?” I blurted at his back, which made him stop, look up and exhale.

He turned to me, his arms akimbo now, looking at me amused, but, I could tell, also bothered. He was about to speak but then turned around and shut the door.

“You received your letter, right?”

“Yes, and if you had anything to do with that, thanks. But where did Roque go?”

He seemed exasperated. I was asking too many questions. He pulled Micco's chair and plopped himself down, straightened his tie, knitted his fingers on his lap and slouched toward me.

“You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

I was going to protest, but he held his hand up, eyes closed. It looked like I was giving him a headache to boot.

“Sometimes you should just go with the flow, Rennie. Be thankful you received a renewal.”

“I am grateful. But it's strange that he disappeared. Is he okay?”

He tugged his ear and smiled. “Magnanimous of you to worry for him after the shit he pulled on you.”

“I don't like him, and the feeling is mutual, I'm sure, but I don't wish him any harm.”

“You're a good kid, Rennie, and I say that with earnest affection and no disrespect. I could wax on how you remind me of myself when I was younger, blah, blah. But bottom line is you're a wise-ass, and I kind of like that. But that can land you in trouble.”

“I sense a preview of Friday's discussion.”

“Yes, we'll hold on that. As for Pedro …” He looked out the window and then back at me, that creepy grin on his face. “Let's just say that he had cultivated enemies who had serious capital on him, and they cashed it in.”

“You're losing me.”

“Well, your friend and ex-officemate, for one. He had some information on Roque's credentials. Doctor Roque isn't a doctor. He managed to get hired and promoted without a doctorate.”

“How the hell?”

“The university system at its finest. He had enemies, for sure, but loyal friends, too, and they helped him get in, didn't even check the credentials, and when everyone called him Doctor Roque he never corrected anyone. For all those years he kept it a secret, clearly in violation of institutional policy and regulations.”