Touched, Chapter 2
"There's no one in town I know
You gave us some place to go.
I never said thank you for that.
I thought I might get one more chance.
What would you think of me now,
So lucky, so strong, so proud?
I never said thank you for that.
Now I'll never have a chance.
May angels lead you in.
Here you meet my friends.
On sleepless roads the sleepless go.
May angels lead you in."
-Jimmy Eat World, "May Angels Lead You In"
Armando Hernandez Villalobos was not a feline easily pushed off-balance. He was large, for a feline, standing at well over six feet and built like a linebacker, this Havana pocket-thief had been one of the thousands on the Marial boat lift of 1980. Though, as much as he would like to say that he was there as one of the innocent, it was not true. He was a sixteen-year-old detainee in a rough Havana prison at the time, but nobody told the US Government that. And he wasn't about to do it himself. He had an opportunity at that point to turn over a new leaf and prove he was worth something.
The man that sat in a worn-out La-Z-Boy by their modest television in the Florida room that evening was the product of that decision. He had entered the Navy officer's program with some clever, if not totally legitimate, paperwork that not only affirmed his age at 18, but that he was a graduate of Florida's fine public education system and had quite a slew of extracurricular activities under his belt. It also helped that his half brother, Ernesto, had already lived a good decade in the states, first as a Navy officer and then as an NJROTC instructor at a high school in South Florida. He knew the connections and pulled the strings, and landed Armando in the system and well on his way. The hardest part had been the language barrier, as Armondo had four short months to go from a street-talking Havana thug to an eloquent English speaker. That, he reminded all who would listen, was his proudest achievement, for as he entered his first day at the Naval Academy, he was able to speak extraordinarily well, even with a Cubano accent.
After that, it was four years of school and twenty of exemplary service. There were three photos with three different presidents hanging on the walls in this house. There were pictures from Iraq, both the first and second times they were there, from when he was sent to the ground to coordinate with the Army Core of Engineers to help bring all military branches into sync with each other. There were photos from Tokyo, the Philippines, Indonesia, Morocco, South Africa, the Sahara, half of Europe (even Moscow! He loved showing that off, a free American coming back to the heart of the communist oppression he knew as a child), Peru, Brazil, Mexico and, of course, Guantanamo Bay, where for the first time he could look upon the land of his entrapment only a short distance away. Even if he hadn't been to that part of Cuba before touring the world in the Navy, he still felt tempted to cross that line, he confided in Yesenia once. The aching to go home, as he always said, was a dull throb that would never go away.
It was because of all this that Yesenia longed to see him ranting and screaming, giving her stern shouting lectures on honor and responsibility. He had never downplayed her status as a mere grocery store cashier. She had a job, and there was pride in that. He should have been berating her in front of her cousin and his mother (widow to Ernesto), her grandmother, and maybe even her own mother, all of them solemnly agreeing with the shouting Armando. There should have been hushed swearing as he took breaks from yelling at her to look out the sliding glass door into their small yards as he goes into fits of "street talk", as he had a habit of calling it, where choice words of nefarious origin could be heard uttered under his breath.
This was scarier.
Armando sat in silence, his favorite chair now positioned to look directly at the love seat in which Yesenia sat. There was nobody in the Florida room, and nobody in the kitchen that connected to it with a beautiful open floor plan. The oven was cold (a rarity, considering Yesenia's mother's almost sick need to keep the house constantly feeding everyone, even the possible guest that may or may not show up later on). The television was off, even though that meant Carlos was missing some of his favorite TNA shows. It was only Yesenia and her father, with a lingering cloud of acrid blue smoke hovering around his head. He hadn't said a word since he asked her into the Florida room.
The cat was out of the bag, now. Yesenia had beaten her father home, with the news of what happened on her heels. She had snuck out of the store immediately after she recovered from the incident in the break room. Her mother had picked up the phone before she could and was told Jess was fired. Since the manager refused (although politely, of course) to give her the details of the termination, Pilar whirled on her daughter, clutching the phone like it was a club she would have to use to beat the truth out of Yesenia. The resulting shouting match was a half hour of curses and accusations, while Pilar gradually worked the truth out of Yesenia, step by horrible step.
It wasn't long before their words were nothing but loud arguments in Spanish, back and forth, as the two of them dueled, all the while cooking up dinner in the kitchen. Finally, the whole story was out, and Pilar turned on her daughter, her eyes fiery, her short, five-foot-even frame looking like a ferocious ten feet tall, hands on her hips, that she lashed out at Pilar with the fatal question: "Why the hell would you care if that puta called you un maricona?!"
"Because I am one, okay?!" she shouted back, her hand immediately moving to her mouth to cover it in shock. She sort of backed up, her butt hitting against the counter and keeping her from totally falling over. Thankfully, nobody else was in the kitchen or nearby (a small miracle, considering it was seven people packed into 2,200 square feet), most of them having been driven off by the shouting, as it stopped being entertaining about fifteen minutes in.
The silence that lingered between herself and her mother after that continued into this moment. The dinner that she and her mother had prepared had been finished up by her mother in stony silence and set into the refrigerator for others to partake later on. The tone of the house seemed to just drip with the knowledge that nobody was to come near the kitchen/Florida room for a long while.
And yet, even with all of these disasters of the day, the one thing that stuck in Yesenia's mind like a thorn was the bench. How the hell had that happened? Such things didn't do that. It just didn't make sense. Yesenia was going through another cycle of thought focusing on this strange occurrence when Armando finally spoke.
"Is it true?" he said, his voice hoarse and choked. He lifted his cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag. This was his fourth one. Normally, he limited it to one after dinner and one before bed.
"Yes," she said simply, looking down at her hands after having been brought spiraling back into the moment. She didn't want to be here. This was too much, having to have her father stare at her like some alien specimen.
And yet, there were no other words. There was no yelling. There was no lecture. He just took another drag, put the cigarette out in the ash tray, and stood, two streams of blue cigarette smoke firing from his nostrils as he does so. He picks up a small crystal glass of fine scotch he'd had on hand for years, from when times were better, and downed the last of it. With that, her father left the room, crossed the living room, and went to the master bedroom. Nothing more had to be said.
The entire journey back to her room, in the opposite corner of the house from the master bedroom, behind the garage, Yesenia was trying to reassure herself this was a good response. It was not as bad as she thought. She was still her daddy's girl.
Right?
It was August 2nd, according to Yesenia's alarm. Instead of hitting the screeching function for her alarm, she had left it on the radio. Often, if she actually needed waking, the radio was too soothing to get her out of bed. Today, however, it didn't matter. It was going to be her third workday of the week for the store, but that wasn't going to happen now. Even though it was getting into the final weeks before the new term, it didn't matter for her. There were no more classes for her to attend. She had spoken to Melinda about the events of the day last night, and they both cried to each other. That was, until her mother came pounding on the door, saying it was too late to be making phone calls. She quickly said goodbye to Melinda, knowing this sudden imposition of a rule that hadn't been in existence since high school had everything to do with the fact she was speaking to someone that could be her girlfriend. Accurately enough, her mother's assumption Yesenia was crying to her girlfriend was entirely right.
Today, however, there was nothing to do. Tomorrow would be the same, and Sunday would mean getting up just to go to church. Yesenia literally had no reason to get out of bed that day, nor did she feel the need to. It was not until her stomach began to hurt--not just grumble, outright hurt and clench like she was in a camp--that she finally sat up. The house was quieter now. Her mother was probably off cleaning houses, and Carlos was probably off doing something of legal dubiousness with his "friends". Her father was working a major concrete pour off on Dodge Island. The tunnel they were building for the Port of Miami would keep him distracted for weeks on end.
Yesenia had never before felt herself so hungry as she was now. She almost doubled over as she passed the laundry room, entering the main hallway that led towards the dining room which, like the kitchen, had an open plan, and opened onto the living room. In the living room were Michael and Gabi, the two renters who stayed here so they could go to school at FIU only twenty minutes away. They were friends before moving in, and the same major. Michael was a handsome wolf fellow who always dressed like he was going to an interview. Jess had to constantly remind herself accountants were just anal-retentive like that. Still, there was still a certain appeal in a guy who worked out obsessively and always wore good clothing. He just exuded this confidence so few males held nowadays. His silver pelt only augmented his brilliant blue eyes, and he made girls swoon at FIU.
Gabi was every bit of business-first as Michael was. She kept herself neat and pressed, even if she couldn't match Michael's clothing budget. She was a hare, with a pleasant light brown coloration. Her long ears were always tied back with a silver clasp and her mocha-brown hair was cut just short of her shoulders. She was everything Michael valued, except for the fact she was a female.
Many a time had Pilar commented on how sad it was that a "wolf like him" would have to go to waste. Of course, she never said that in front of the pair of renters, who were practically and for all intensive purposes attached at the hip. They supplied a significant portion of the household income. Which is how the family always thought of it--the household income--nobody earned their own wage under this roof. Maybe four years ago, that was the case. But now, it was all about what you could pony up to the house. The only two people who didn't work (three, Yesenia realized) were Carlos' mother, Paola, and her own grandmother, her father's mother, Yesenia, who she'd been named after. Of course, grandma Yesenia was simply abuela, and that was for everyone in the household, even Gabi and Michael.
"Hey, Yesenia," Michael called unnecessarily. Jess was only a few yards away, and cringed at how formally he referred to her name. Gringos never said it quite right. It was always too much "y" or, when they found out there was a "j" sound in there, too much "j". She smiled pleasantly enough, crossing her arms over her chest even though the hunger pains were like stab wounds in her stomach.
"What's up?" she said pleasantly enough, managing the best smile she could given the circumstances.
"You don't have to pretend to be okay, you know," he said, stopping short, seeming more taken aback by her pleasant attitude than the look of miserable pain that had been painted across her face only moments before.
"What do you mean?" she demanded more than asked, weary of the tall wolf that was stepping close to her.
"I mean... it gets better," he said with a light, reassuring smile. It was the kind of smile a therapist would give.
"What gets better?" she asked, genuinely wondering what the hell he was talking about.
"I mean... being gay," he said, but he mouthed the two words. "Gabi and I... we sort of overheard the conversation. We were curious about the smell of the food, since we'd been working on a PwC competition packet all day and had forgotten to eat... and, well... yeah," he finished lamely, not seeming to know how to say that they heard her yell at her mother that she was a lesbian. "I just wanted to say, you know... It gets better." For once, Michael seemed less the fierce, competitive businesswolf and more a bashful, albeit genuine, friend.
"I..." Jess began, looking to Gabi, who suddenly seemed to find the grain of the wood on the table they were working on more interesting than the conversation. It was obvious Gabi had a huge thing for the silver wolf she referred to as her "business partner". Jess looked back into Michael's face and, for a moment, felt a twinge of warmth touch that cynical, bruised heart of hers. "Thank you, Michael," she said with the lightest touch of a smile at the corners of her lips.
Before she could even know what was going on, Michael swept her up in a tight hug. "Listen, if you need anything, any support networks, knowledge about the scene in Miami, or whatever else, just tell me, okay?" he said, pulling away and letting a hand remain on her cheek for reassurance. Jess normally didn't like being touched at all by others unless she absolutely and completely trusted them. But for a moment, her guard was down, and the smile on her face warmed up just a bit more.
"Okay... I just--"
"Need some time, I know. Until you come to me with questions, you have to say nothing more. I won't bring it up again. I just wanted you to know that there are those who will love you for who you are."
I know, Jess said, thinking now of Melinda and feeling ever so thankful for her. "Thank you," she said. Without another word, Michael turned back to the table on which he and Gabi were working, and Gabi was staring daggers at Jess. Jess didn't care, though. Her stomach was going through another bout of hunger pains that were literally making her dizzy.
Getting into the kitchen, Yesenia thanked god her grandmother was out for the day, doing something with the church, and that her mother was busy cleaning peoples' homes. Carlos' mother was mostly useless, preferring instead to glue her eyes to Telemundo all day wsatching garbage telenovelas. This meant that she was alone, and she could make and eat what she wanted...
Two hours later, Yesenia lounged on the couch of the Florida room. She'd put down ten breakfast sausages, five beef empanadas, and even whipped up a batch of pancakes, offering some to Gabi and Michael, but eating around half of the thirty-odd pancakes she had made. And yet, she felt like she could eat more. Sitting up, she stared outside as the sky blackened relatively early. Tropical moisture had found its way across the peninsula, and they'd be getting plenty of wind and rain for the rest of the day. What the hell is wrong with me?