A Housekeeper's Hand

I remember the drive in the black Honda from Puerto Plata to Santiago. The car was filled with a cool lime scent. My bro had gotten sick so my aunt whipped the car to a stop at a pulperia to get a whole load of limes. In the car, she reached into the compartment board and took out a heavy vaporous rubbing ointment. Abuela holding el “bee-baporu” (a.k.a. Vicks Vaporub) opened its green lime-colored cover and dipped her index finger in it and passed it along Charlie’s forehead, rubbing it in with her palm. My face in the backseat got the intense Caribbean terrain-laced breeze full blast. Not surprisingly, the same air got the best of my bro. As I was nodding to sleep, the car came to a sudden stop again. The front passenger door opened, and bro barfed. Three times he went. The yellow-orangey splashes of chunk and acid showed of the pumpkin pie, mashed potato, gravy and Salisbury steak from the airplane trip. He dislikes long travels and dreads heights. My abuela yelled, “Dale ma limon, el pobre Charlie!” his face turning pale and flushed after the episode.

When we arrived at my aunt’s, they sat him in one of the patio’s heavy steel rocking chairs, horizontally patterned with yellow and white rubber straps, smelling lightly of guava and kiwi. My aunt’s housekeeper came with a bowl of warm water and wash cloth. She soaked the cloth and placed it on my brother’s head. Charlie couldn’t see all of her. His head was leaning way back, but I bet he liked her touching his face the way she was. I first noticed, among other things, her unkempt brown hair, but smooth trigueña complexion, her thin, white blouse, transparent, showing her black bra. Her quick walk in her tight beige pants almost stopped me in my place.

My shoes smacked the linoleum tiled floor of the patio; I almost tripped at the main entrance where the floor met the thicker marble tiles of the living room, inviting and plainly furnished. I saw a large dark maroon leather sofa with a complimentary love seat—surprisingly not covered in protective plastic. My ma back home had plastic covers on her sofas to prevent spills on them. White walls held acrylic depictions of the Caribbean landscape, mixtures of bright green coconut trees, at beach coasts and seemingly morphed settings of the sun in yellow, orange, red. A coffee table served as a center-piece with a glass plain and engraved wooden platform; a crystal chandelier hung from the roof; and a pristine television set that was flat and wide sat still on a cabinet foundation.

Walking further in, I went down the long corridor, decorated with baby pictures and portraits of “la Doña del las casa Rodriguez.” Finally, I found the master bedroom where the kids usually slept with their mother on a king-sized bed pushed against two walls, one of which contained a small window with persianas made of metal, wedged in.

When the kids were done playing outside, the housekeeper guided them into the room for grooming and drying. I caught sight of her again, this time in a somber swing trying to grab my younger cousin in a large blue towel as he escaped her every attempt on top of the bed. My older kid cousin grabbed at the lever of the persianas and trigger-happily made the blinds clap.

When we arrived at my aunt’s house, I met my kid cousins for the first time. They were six and three, dirty and wild. I caught sight of the older one with a green hose, cut in the front, wetting the foregrounds of the residence. He stepped into a small frame of flowers growing off to the side, all in his underwear. The younger one clung to the bars of the gates that blocked the front portion of the house; soon he ran off along one side of the house, down a narrow path with a stony cement wall, seven feet high, with a grassy hill before it. It leads to the backyard. The house, in its simple structure, seemed small, but was in fact deep and long: two green decorative pillars at opposite ends held up the patio’s ceiling, creamy white in color as was the rest of the rectangular house.

I didn’t assume that I would be staying at my aunt’s house; she was too cool. Ma, who even from New York would impose on Charlie’s and my life, thought we were no good on our own, or without her watchful eyes hovering over us. Because my aunt lived just thirty minutes from the city by car, on past visits, Charlie and me would leave in the car late at night to see monuments and popular sites in the city side. That very afternoon of our arrival, supposing we’d be just as ambitious during our vacation, my ma called my abuela and told her to tell us to stay at abuela’s house. In her usual rant, she declared abuela couldn’t stay alone. My aunt has too many things going on in her life, that she needed privacy. My aunt’s children are wild enough as it is. That Charlie and me are “malcriao” (literally “badly raised”; I never got why she’d spit the word out so often because of what it suggested). She even said who knew what crazy things my bro might think to do with the house keeper, what a disgusting person the house keeper was (abuela mentioning once before that the housekeeper was an “aquerosa mocosa”, because she tended to wipe her nose frequently with the top of her hands). On and on she went. She gathered all the happenings of the household that abuela fed her like a dirty sponge and squeezed the dirty grime right out of it with violence, the splashes again catching the best of my bro.

After the call from my ma and from all the throwing up, my bro swayed me to stay at my abuela’s with him. He was in no mood to go out—I figured by his flushed face. I wanted to feel settled in, anyway, whether it was in my aunt’s or not. My aunt was in and out the house, often on the go. She readied herself to party in the old Santiago night scene almost every night that my bro and I were in D.R. In fact, her fast drive from the city on the day of our arrival to the rural area where she lived fascinated me. I lost myself looking up into the moving sky from the back seat; I remember sitting up, putting my hand out the open window and slowly grabbing at the intensity. The change from paved roads to unpaved ground of bulky terrain made no difference.

The afternoon passed by rather quickly too with the commotion of talk. Night settled quietly, softly on the terrain of grass and cement before the houses. In the evening, my aunt finished powdering her creamy face, straightening her blonde colored hair, heavy mascara, high heels, blouse and jeans and jean jacket. She was so rapturously outgoing. One of her first comments to Charlie and me was that she’d take us to the best parts of D.R. and that we’d meet some very cool and important people.

As she prepped to leave, her housekeeper set aside the children’s clothes and was getting them ready for a bath before bed. When she was ready, my aunt left the house, leaving her scent in the air. As she hopped into her car, she waved goodbye saying “Hasta las quince” and in no time I saw the Honda’s tail lights lost in the deep darkness. I waited around amusing myself with the sound of the darkness. Small rustling and crickets were musical. As soon as I noticed myself standing there, staring, I felt compelled to say goodnight to the house keeper. I walked away to my abuela’s house.

Abuela and my elder cousin lived down the road from my aunt’s place. The house they lived in was paid for by my ma. It’s comfortable living, although I get why she wouldn’t want to stay alone in the house for most of the day, or night. Neighborhood was occasionally terrorized by robbers. And my cousin was usually working at his electronic shop late. When he got home he usually watched T.V. for a bit before knocking off.

The furnishing at my abuela’s house seemed fashioned in imitation of my aunt’s place; the couches, chairs, kitchen table, cabinets, even silver wear, all the same. Of the many settings of the house, I can say that the patio was different. At my abuela’s place, it’s elevated, three steps leading towards the top, towards the entrance of the house, and a low rise gate patterned in coupled short and long posts, spiked at their ends, surrounding the entrance like the bottom jaw of a shark. Flower bushes grew within the gated frame of the house.

When I got there, I caught my cousin’s head bopping to sleep on the sofa, as wrestling was showing on the T.V. He straightened up on the couch and asked, “Y porque el no habla?” throwing his chin at my direction. He spoke with my brother as if I wasn’t in the room.

My brother was in a melted position on the love seat and lifted his cocked head.

My brother looked at me saying, “Yo, he’s asking why you don’t speak”.

“I know what he asked”, I said. I felt like wrestling my brother to the ground and punching him in the bolas. He knew I sounded like a gringo when I spoke Spanish.

“¡Hablan en español carajo que yo no entiendo esa baína de Inglés!” (Speak in Spanish, damn it; I don’t understand that English shit!), my cousin sneered.

“Yo no se. Yo tengo que practicar”, I said.

My cousin chuckled and said to Charlie that we would be going to his friend’s house tomorrow, to visit his friend who spoke English, that that would be convenient.

“ Porque tu no practicas? Tu deberia saber un poco. Tu no habla con tu ma? (Why don’t you practice? You should know a little. You speak with your mom don’t you? ) He looked at my bro who shook his head.

“Aye, mañana, mañana! I’m goin’ to sleep man”. I walked away and moved along the corridor, passing abuela’s room with the door closed. I thought her fast asleep.

I found the bed that I was supposed to sleep on. It was in the guest room. I turned around and returned to the living room. I caught my brother on his feet. “Are we sleeping in the same bed bro?”

“Yes”, he said. “Actually, I’m going to sleep right now. I’m tired”.

My cousin pressed the power bottom on the television and walked behind Charlie and me.

“Aye, maaaaan”, I grunted.

“I’m sleeping next to the wall” Charlie said.

“Whatever. You better not kick me when you’re asleep”, I said.

There were two large, stiff pillows and one soft sabana folded at the end of the bed. Charlie threw himself on the bed in a stretched and extended position, almost touching each corner of the bed. He looked at me. “Cheer up, fool”. He rowed to his side of the bed and closed his eyes.

I took off my sandals sliding them a little under the bed and sat on top, bouncing in place. I laid down, but the light was still on. As I’m getting up to close it off, my cousin comes into the room, opened one of the drawers of the big biuro and got a blanket out. As he exited the room, he said “Buena noches, pendejos”. We laughed.

Although my cousin left the door to the room open, in the dark, the light from outside came in, past the window panes and helped me catch the sabana in my hand. I covered myself with it.

During the night I couldn’t stop turning in bed. I got up, slipped into my sandals and walked around alone in the quiet house. I walked outside to the patio.

From there I saw her standing just a bit beyond the patio’s gates. It was my aunt’s housekeeper. Strangely, the glowing light of the moon seemed overwhelmed by shadows of nearby trees and bushes. I caught the thrust of a heavy gulp in my throat, when I saw the housekeeper from afar. She stood in front of my aunt’s home. She smoked a cigarette that looked like a tiny fire ant dancing in the air. I stood there watching, watching, till I got the nerve to approach. As I was walking, the rocks bounced on and off my sandals. I startled her but she recognized me.

“Hola”, she said.

“Hola”, I said.

Her sweet smoke found my nose.

“Que tu haces afuera al esta hora?” she asked.

I smirked. It was strange to hear her voice. She asked why I was out so late and wasn’t condescending about it.

I wanted to go up to her, grab her by her hips, have each other’s melting kisses, use my hands to grab and feel her, make myself known to her. But I backed up into the darkness.

She said wait don’t go.

At this point I tried clearing my throat, but saliva had made its way down the wrong pipe. My chest pained. I coughed. “No podia dormer.”

I must have maintained a smile, or particular glow on my face, because then and there she threw her cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, grabbed me by the arms, just below my shoulders and pressed her kiss on mine. It was sensuous, and saliva sweet. We were there for a short period when I noticed my legs walking backwards and she pushing me.

We approached the gates of my abuela’s house. We passed the spiked gates holding each other. She held my cheeks lightly, but I held her hips tighter. Moving under the door frame, I was suddenly pushed upon the love seat, and she sat on me with spread legs. Mine were shaking under her at this point. I breathed deeply to calm my nerves. Her lips pressed upon mine for long periods. I grabbed her ass, pushing her closer. I felt the heat between her legs.

Her face was warm and her hair gave way to a particular scent of flower as she began to thrust her hips. She threw her head back. I grabbed the back of it and lunged forward setting wet kisses on it.

My eyes were closed, but at this point I sensed a sudden beam. I opened them, and adjusting to the light of the room, I saw my abuela standing in the doorway. She asked why the heck the door was open. In my daze, I told her I was unsure and that I must have opened it in my sleep. I stood up, noticing the change in my breathing. Feeling the cold tile under my left foot, I looked throughout the room, and noticed one of my sandals down the quiet corridor. I hurried to it. 

“Buenas noches abuela”, I said

I headed back to my room, slipping on the sandal and sweating. There, I stared at the stillness of the empty room, laid on the bed; intently looked up at the untouchable ceiling, and closed my eyes. What a day.