Silver Lamé and Green
Tree Frogs
by Noelle Wall
When the sixties ended—an event we managed to postpone until 1978—after Jake and I had fled to the Adirondacks to escape disco and shopping malls, and I had fled back again, alone, to find salvation through indoor toilets and shopping malls; when 1978 rolled around and Jake blew his brains out after a two week bender, I was left in Schenectady with a two-and-a-half-year old daughter, and one hell of a bootleg Dead collection. Exactly six weeks, to the day, after the funeral, my mother called me up from Connecticut and asked me to go to Puerto Rico with her.
"A trip would be good for you," she said, "brighten your outlook." Easy for her: life sucks—take a trip to the Caribbean. I was incredulous, but only for a moment. When I was homeless, sleeping in doorways, she gave me magazine subscriptions. When I was drugged out, flashing in the john, pupils pinned, she sent me Helena Rubenstein make-up. When Sarah was born and we lived in one room with no phone, and I got her baby clothes from Goodwill and stole formula from the Grand Union, tucking it under the mattress of the carriage I salvaged from the side of the road—and when the baby was sleeping in the carriage because we had no crib—my mother sent me a photograph album to keep the pictures in that I couldn’t take because I didn’t have a goddam camera!
Of course, I said I’d go.
* * *
I had just landed a job. "Oh they won’t mind," she said. The authority on jobs. She had one once the summer she was 20; a reporter for the Milford News; without a car, she filed stories about clambakes on the beach. Not that she didn’t talk about working, want to work—to fulfill her soul—but she never quite got around to it. Why should she?
I, on the other hand, was pulling minimum wage as a teacher’s aide in a special ed class for emotionally disturbed children, eleven and twelve-year-old boys. A new start, I had thought on my first day; I can help these kids. I can get up each day at the same time and take Sarah to daycare and help these kids learn and pay my rent and maybe even go back to school and become a teacher and invite friends over for dinner and give Sarah piano lessons—someday. That’s what I thought on my first day.
BOCES had us tucked away in the basement of the old junior high school, near the shop classes. They were hiding us, I soon discovered. In the few weeks I’d worked there, I’d been sworn at, spit at, come on to and locked in a closet by a sixth grader who weighed thirty pounds more than I did and then ran away to a nearby pizzeria and stole a pizza waiting for pickup. It was a shit job. They were miserable kids, and it was a shit job, but it was a job, and I figured that I knew at least as much as those kids about misery.
The day after my mother called, the teacher and I took the class to the pool at the Y to swim off some of their psycho energy; thrash and burn, we called it. I stayed on the sidelines—no bathing suit for me with that wild bunch—but Phil liked to swim with the kids. He cannonballed in, splashing water over the side, getting the cuffs of my pants wet. The air was hot and heavy with chlorine. You could see the kids loved him, Mr. Jacoby with his floppy grin and show-off dives. He was broad in the shoulders and slim-hipped, a swimmer, and he wore one of those little European stretchies, electric blue no less, that barely covered his dick. I looked away—there was something sinister about seeing his cock hidden but distinct behind the spandex, like a secret spread in whispers. Not that I hadn’t seen it before. I’d been sleeping with the teacher since my first day in class, staying after for a quickie when the last kid had climbed the steps to the bus, or letting him into my apartment at night once Sarah had fallen asleep in my arms and I had gingerly lowered her into her crib, tucking her blankie around her. Jake would have blessed the act—If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with—but not the player. I could picture him sneering at the Speedo, and my own doubts coalesced into that single objection. What kind of guy would be seen in one of those things anyway? Jake had worn boxers, loose on the hips and faded with salt—or better yet, nothing at all, grasping my hand in his, streaking recklessly out a weathered dock late at night, trailing exhalations of defiance, feet barely touching the moon-silvered boards.
"I’ll be away for a week," I said. The teacher was between dives, the greenish water sheeting off him into the thin furrow that ran around the edge of the pool.
"Huh? You can’t just take off," he said, smoothing back his hair with both hands. "What about the kids? You could lose your job." I looked at the pool, the roughhousing boys already fading away from me in the steamy air, 150-pound boys who could lock you in a closet and run away.
"Don’t worry, you’ll do fine without me; I’ll buy you a puka shell necklace," I said.
* * *
"Bring plenty of evening clothes," my mother said, "the casinos are formal." My entire wardrobe consisted of one pair of cut-off jeans, one long skirt made from a pair of jeans with an insert of calico material sewn in front and back, one black bodysuit, two halters and a green plaid flannel shirt. I also had my work outfit, a pair of black slacks and a white blouse, as well as sandals, clogs and a black crocheted shawl with fringe. The only formal clothes I had ever owned were my high school prom gown from ten years ago, which I sent to my best friend her first year at UCONN and which she threw up on during a sorority pledge party, and the turquoise and lime green bridesmaid gown I wore to my sister’s wedding and promptly thereafter threw away. Luckily I had recently become friends with Lisa Valentine, who’d had an affair with Jake’s best friend Peter when she was working as a nanny for the kids down the street and Peter was painting their house. Lisa was weird in a very cool sort of way; she was one of those people who always seemed to be on another wavelength that you couldn’t quite tune into, but wished you could, and she had more clothes than anyone I had ever known. Later on I figured that she must have stolen them, or the money to get them, but at the time I just thought it was very cool of her to invite me to take my pick.
I went over to her house when Sarah was still at daycare. It was a chilly afternoon, but she was dressed in a spandex tank top and white cutoffs that were artfully ripped along the front pocket to reveal a slash of white flesh. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, loose ends falling around her face. She worked for a widower, taking care of his two girls, eight and ten years old, in a big old Victorian house where she had a spacious one-room annex to herself--more like an apartment with her own bath and separate entrance. She shared the space with Matthew, her two-year-old part-Husky, part-German Shepherd and her room smelled faintly, but not unpleasantly, of dog. I had gone out with her boss once, the year before, when Jake had split to play roadie for a band in Florida. The boss had a certain look, myopic eyes, overly full lips, that appealed to some women, but not to me. Still, it was a chance to go out, and he seemed harmless. We went to see King of Hearts at the Spa Little Theatre and during the movie he stretched his gangly arm around me and tried to fondle my breast. As soon as the film ended, I pled a migraine and told him to take me home, but he tried to push his way in and I had to threaten him with the police. All this in front of Sarah and the sitter. So I was glad for Lisa’s separate entrance.
Her room was painted black with a Chinese red ceiling and six-inch wide red stripe around the walls at eye level. A few outfits were sprawled across the bed, but most of her clothes were hanging on metal racks, like the ones in department stores, lined up three deep against the wall. I had never seen so many clothes in one person’s room. One entire rack was devoted to formal wear and Lisa insisted I try on and model each gown, from fluffy balls of tulle to chanteuse-style cylinders. I stripped down to my panties and bra while she started pulling out dresses, recounting their features like a salesclerk in a smart boutique. Matthew jumped onto the bed to recline in canine contentment across the half dozen or so red and purple pillows at the head. As I looked around the room, the walls seemed to fall away, and all I could see in the dim light was the red stripe, as if it were suspended in space. Suddenly I felt self-conscious, out of place, as if I had walked around the corner of a city block and found a forest, or stepped onto the stage of a play where I didn’t know the lines.
Lisa and I were close in size, both petite, but my breasts were fuller, and that narrowed down the choices. Finally, I tried on a long slinky black Elvira gown with silky fringe dangling from the shoulders and low-cut bodice. Fleetwood Mac was playing on the stereo and Lisa said I looked just like Stevie Nicks…Dreams of loneliness, like a heartbeat… drives you mad; in the stillness of remembering what you had, and what you lost…Jake had always had the hots for her, raising one eyebrow and winking when her songs came on, because he knew it made me jealous. Then, before I could sulk, he would grab my arm and kiss it Gomez-style from my hand to my wrist to my elbow and all the way up to my shoulder, until we were tangled in each other’s arms, kissing and laughing. I tossed back my wavy hair and set the dress aside as a keeper. I also selected a red beaded mini-dress with a matching chiffon neck scarf that hung down my back and a simple cotton sundress in a daisy print.
"Now for the pièce de résistance," Lisa said, disappearing behind one end of the racks. When she reappeared, she was holding a shimmering length of what appeared to be liquid silver. It was a clinging sheath of the sheerest lamé, held up by tiny silver chains to go over bare shoulders.
"I could never wear that," I protested, but she insisted I try it on and I was into it now. The room, the clothes, laughing with a friend—it all had its effect.
"No, no, no" she laughed, as I reached for the gown, "this is one dress you can’t wear anything under." I slipped off my remaining garments and stood naked in the center of the black and red room while she pulled the dress over my head and slithered it down over my body, stretching it smooth over my breasts and hips, as if she were pulling on a stocking. Maybe I should have been embarrassed, but what the hell—I had caught a glimpse of myself over her shoulder, in the mirror.
"Wow," I said.
"Wow," she echoed, pushing me toward the mirror to get the full effect. "You are breathtaking."
The image facing me in the mirror was indeed breathtaking. The gown poured over my body, hugging it in all the right places. Even my breasts, which had dropped a few inches after a year of nursing Sarah, seemed higher and firmer, drawn up by the tight-fitting bodice. As I turned one way and then the other, the silvery fabric accented the highlights in my hair so that it shimmered in sync with the shimmering planes of the dress. The entire effect was exquisite, even slightly other-worldly. I felt a chill rush over me, a chill and a flash of adrenaline that caught in my throat. Again I had a sense of disorientation, but this time it was an awakening, as if from a dream. I swallowed and looked around. Matthew was panting gently, his tail thumping against the pillows. Fleetwood Mac had been replaced by Gracie Slick on the stereo. Lisa smiled approvingly at the mirror. I swallowed again and turned back to the reflection. I couldn’t help staring.
My eyes seemed brighter, my lips fuller, my hair shinier in the reflection of the luxurious gown. It was the dress, of course—it was striking—and the dim lights; together they made me look better than I really was. I leaned closer to the glass. I’d been depressed these past six weeks—it didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure that out—but now I realized I’d gotten used to seeing myself at my worst. In the dress, all that changed. I was jolted out of my grief, my self-image jumpstarted. I stretched up on my toes and twirled around. My reflection looked back at me and laughed. It was the dress, of course, but it was more than the dress. It was how I looked in the dress—and I liked it.
* * *
Raul was all sharp edges and constant motion. His arms and legs jutted here and there while his fingers pushed and pulled at the strings of the worn, but polished double bass he played in the hotel band. With the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt rolled up, sleek black hair falling over his shoulders, and a white bandanna tied around his head, Indian-style, he fit right into my image of a Latin musician-slash-Zorro. My mother and I had arrived that afternoon and checked out the casino, beach and pool before dressing for dinner. We were staying at the El San Juan, one of Puerto Rico’s most exclusive old hotels. The rooms had been recently renovated, though the open lobby retained its intricate tile work and old world elegance. Our room was straight out of an ad brochure with pink marble accents and native mahogany woodwork enhancing the decor. An intimate terrace overlooked a garden of flame-trees, tulip trees, lush hibiscus and golden trumpet flowers that perfumed the air. It was not my natural habitat of late.
We sat side-by-side at one of the long tables in the dinner club, digging into the prime rib and lobster combo (included in our package), while the seven-piece band played soft jazz. I wore the black Stevie Nicks gown and was poised for adventure. Raul had staked me out during the band’s break and we made plans to meet in the casino when he was done playing at two. I don’t know which was more sensual, watching him or eating the lobster, cracking through the bony claw, picking out the delicate meat, dipping it in the silky butter, sliding it into my mouth. It left a shock of pleasure on my tongue. I glanced up at the stage. Ba-bomp, bop-da-dop. The band had switched to island music; Raul’s long arms now caressed a cherry red electric bass. Between sips of frozen pina colada, I tapped my fingers to the beat, practicing nonchalance. So there really was life beyond Schenectady!
"C’mon," my mother said. She threw her napkin on the table and grabbed my hand. I trailed behind her as she rocked her way to the limbo line on the dance floor, her brightly colored sarong opening with each step to reveal her still shapely thigh.
"I told you this was what you needed," Mom shouted over the music as we danced in line awaiting our turns.
"Yeah, like who doesn’t?" I said and bent backwards to slip easily under the limbo bar. But hey, I wasn’t in a coma. Along with the balmy breeze, the throbbing music and the dazzling people—not to mention the food, Oh glorious food that was neither Kraft macaroni and cheese nor Spaghettios—there was definitely promise in the Caribbean air.
Later, Raul and I showed up for the night scene of San Juan. I encouraged him at the black jack tables, gyrated opposite him in sleek discotheques, swayed along side him in a beach-side cafe, both of us mesmerized by the haunting horn of an ancient blues player. And just beyond the music and the crowds was the mysterious beat of the night, a high-pitched hum that was everywhere, but seemed to come from nowhere, a seductive island song that both warned of secrets and soothed the soul.
"What is that I hear?" I asked Raul. We were sitting in the sand, the giant horseshoe of the shoreline stretching out on both sides, the star-studded sky a panorama before us. The stars seemed to glow their brightest as if to ward off daybreak, and a shooting star dove into the ocean as I spoke.
"It’s the tree frogs," Raul laughed. "El coqui. Puerto Rico is infested with them."
"What a far out sound," I said. "But it must be eerie, having them sing like that all the time."
"Not to the islanders. According to legend, the coquis bring happiness, you know?" He pulled me close and for a while we swayed back and forth to the hypnotic rhythm of the tree frogs.
"Their song can make el loco—a crazy man—calm, a barren woman conceive, and a hungry baby full," Raul said softly, "but it can’t make a blind man see." I picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through my fingers. It gave off the same scent of salt and flesh and heat as Raul.
"I don’t get it," I said. "What do you mean?"
"Listen." He cupped his hands around my ears. "The coquis sing one long lullaby, forever lulling the island to sleep. You know—what do you call it?—white noise, covering up the sounds of misery."
* * *
Each morning, I stumbled into our room moments before my mother woke up refreshed and ready for the day’s sightseeing. I didn’t usually drink coffee, but I chugged it down that week, hot coffee, iced coffee, coffee frappes, anything to keep going while we explored the narrow streets for chic boutiques and delved into crumbling churches and historic forts. Who could sleep when the island was waiting to be discovered? Besides, I wanted to please my mother. I always had. Even as a kid, I used to draw pictures to cheer her up when I found her crying, or bake cookies to comfort her when my father, too drunk to make the train from the city, "forgot" to come home, and she tearfully threatened to leave him—or worse, to leave us all. Now, pleasing her seemed like the way to forge a new relationship, or maybe I just thought it was the least I could do to repay her for bringing me to that paradise.
Three nights in a row I met Raul after the band’s last set and stayed with him until morning. Then we’d do a few lines to stay awake and watch the sun come up while the coquis sang the last bars of their night song. Raul reminded me of Jake, not so much the way he looked, but his attitude: confident, cocky, entitled. I could go a long way on attitude, and had. It’s what hooked me on Jake the night we met, when everything was still possible, and I looked down from his smiling eyes to read the legend on his faded T-shirt: "Mustache rides 5¢." I had gone to the bar and changed all my cash—almost six bucks—for nickels, and poured them into his open hands.
Three days in a row, I trudged along bleary-eyed with my mother until mid-afternoon. Then we changed into our suits for a dip in the pool and an hour or two of sun. That’s when I slept. By the fourth day, I had racked up a total of six hours sleep. My neck and back ached. My eyes were dry and sore. I couldn’t look at food. My head was fried. My legs were red and burnt from falling asleep in the sun. In short, I was having a wonderful time.
I saved the silver dress for our last night. My mother was scanning the gift shops for last minute souvenirs, so I had the room to myself. I slid the gown off its hanger. It poured over my arm like a silken waterfall. I held it up in front of me before the mirror. The dress was beautiful, but behind it I looked tired, wasted. I laid it across the bed and stepped into the shower. The water felt good, and I stood there for a long time, stretching my neck and shoulders, letting the steaming jet penetrate my sore muscles. The heat made me even more tired; I just wanted to lie down and close my eyes. But as soon as I stepped out of the bathroom, the dress beckoned me with a thousand tiny planes of light. Taking a deep breath, I gently lifted the gown. It enfolded me like a serpent, slithering over my head and around my body. A shiver passed over me, and I rushed to the mirror. As I stood there, under the bright make-up lights, the puffs under my eyes seemed to smooth themselves away.
Raul took me to a private club where we lounged on batik-covered couches and sipped homemade sugarcane rum. Big ceiling fans turned lazily overhead. As we slow-danced to a mellow guitar, the silver lamé dipped and swirled with my every movement. There I was in that cool place with all those cool people, and I was one of them. Raul wove his fingers through mine and whispered into my neck, lamenting my leaving. I listened to his words and wanted them to touch me, wanted to feel them deep inside. But the words skittered across the surface of my awareness, my senses too detached, my mind too frazzled to respond. Tomorrow I would be gone, and tonight he was already fading away. What do you do when you can’t say something matters, and you’re unwilling to say it doesn’t—in case later on, when you’re not wasted, it does?
Then I heard it; the coquis were chirping their song directly to me: you’re alive; you’re alive; you’re alive… I pressed my body against Raul’s.
"Let’s go," I said. On the beach I unzipped the gown and let it fall, shimmering beneath the crescent moon, to the sand at my feet. We made love desperately, fiercely, the kind of primitive sex that finds its rhythm from turbulent oceans and ancient drumbeats. We fucked our brains out in an attempt to find each other at some primal level—at least that’s what I did; I’ll never know about Raul.
The next morning, while my mother checked us out of the hotel, I dialed Raul’s room to say good-bye. He and I had made plans the night before. He would come to the mainland and find gigs in Atlantic City and on the Cape. He said he wanted to meet Sarah, and I could picture the two of them running on the beach together—his long, muscular legs and her short chubby ones—or her giggling over a song thumped out on his deep bass. I have faith we will be together soon, mi pequena coqui. I could work and go to school during the week, and Sarah and I would take off to wherever he was playing on the weekend. Hell, I knew plenty of people who followed the Dead and made it work.
There was no answer in Raul’s room and no voice mail picking up his messages. I tried again, punching the numbers nervously, then called the front desk.
"Las musicos? Si Senorita, they left early this morning for Coamo," the clerk said.
"Coamo? Coamo? Where’s that?" I felt the knot twisting in my stomach. "When will they be back?"
"Oh no, Senorita, we have a new band tonight, Pearl in the Oyster; they are very good, si."
I clutched the phone with both hands. Somehow she was missing my drift.
"But where’s the old band?" I said.
"Coamo, senorita. It’s on the other side of the island. They are playing there all week for the Festival of San Blas." I dropped the phone and stared at the room, the beds, the dresser, the chairs, all empty now, with no trace of our ever having been there.
"C’mon honey," my mother called from the doorway, "we just have time for breakfast before the shuttle takes us to the airport."
* * *
"Your father never understood how much you have to pack for a trip like this," my mother said. She had brought two full suitcases plus a hanging bag for the five days we were there.
"I know Mom, you never know what the weather will do." We were in the dining room, eating our last breakfast from the elaborate buffet. "Listen, I’ve been thinking—"
"What honey?" my mother said. She was slathering butter on her brioche while keeping an eye on the live parrots and other exotic birds that were perched around the dining room, giving it an authentic Caribbean flair.
I took a bite of fresh pineapple. It was startling in its sweetness. "I was thinking maybe I should move back to Connecticut and try to go back to school."
"It’s always good to have your degree," she nodded without looking at me. She was afraid one of the birds would swoop down and leave droppings on her food.
"Maybe Sarah and I could stay with you for a while, just until I get a job..." I felt some strength—enthusiasm even—coming back as the plan took form in my mind.
"Honey, I know just how you feel. After your father died, I hated staying in the house alone, but you shouldn’t rush into anything. You have a life in Schenectady."
"Mom, that’s just the point, I don’t have a life in Schenectady." This was my chance and I wasn’t going to blow it. "Listen, Mom," I pleaded. "We’re on and off welfare. I can’t get a decent job. Everybody I know is burned out. We’ve moved three times in two years; I can’t buy shoes for Sarah; I can barely keep her fed."
"Well, I’m sure she’s eating fine. You were always a good cook. I remember when you were just a little girl—you couldn’t have been more than eight or nine—and you got up one Saturday morning before anyone else and baked a cake all by yourself. Then you served it to us in bed—do you remember that?"
"Mom, I’m trying to tell you, the baby and I really need to get out of Schenectady. Mom, I need some help."
"Honey, that’s why I brought you here. Do you think I don’t know what it’s like?" she said. "I thought I was lost when Paul died."
Lost? I thought. What about all those years when you told me that I was the only thing standing in the way of your leaving him, the only thing in the way of your happiness?
"I know you were upset when Daddy died," I said, "I was too, but he was almost seventy years old. He led a full life, and he died in his sleep.
"Jake wasn’t even thirty," I continued, determined to get through, to make her understand. "He never had a life—and he killed himself for no good reason, except he was a drunken bastard who couldn’t get over Vietnam and didn’t care about what it would do to me or Sarah."
"Calm down. Sarah will be all right." She sipped her mimosa through a pink plastic straw.
"Not to mention, Daddy left you with a house and enough to live on comfortably for the rest of your life." It was her fault I had come here, I thought, her fault that I had allowed myself to feel hope.
"Listen here, I earned my independence; I did my share," she said. "But even so, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and so are you. I’m doing temp work now, you know, three days a week.
I looked up at her; I hadn’t known she was working.
"I can give you a rest—show you a new perspective," she said, "but I can’t change your life for you. If you aren’t happy with your life, you have to change it yourself."
"But that’s what I want to do," I protested. "I want to change everything. I want to move; I want to go to school—"
"…You can’t just go rushing into making decisions," she went on. "I did exactly what Paul always said I should do and waited two years before deciding to sell."
I looked at the birds, the foliage, my plate, anything to postpone the inevitable question, "You’re selling the house?"
"I sure am. I found a great little condo down by the marina, walking distance from the beach."
For a moment I didn’t say anything. I was wondering why she had invited me to Puerto Rico, if this was the real reason—to tell me she was selling the house. But I knew better; she was finally striking out on her own, as she always said she would, and there was no room for me in her plan.
"That’s great Mom," I said. My stomach twisted in knots again, and I silently berated myself for asking for her help. It was up to me now—again.
"Now don’t tell me it’s not a smart way to spend my money," she said. "I’m looking forward to having a place that’s all mine."
"No Mom, really; it sounds great."
* * *
Sarah had never been left before for more than a day, and she was pissed at me for taking off without her. Nana and Papa, Jake’s parents, had given her a great time: swimming at the lake, the park every day, ice cream every night, but that didn’t get me off the hook. She greeted me with a kick in the leg and then fell down on the floor screaming. Welcome back. I tried to make up with her by taking her to McDonald’s with my last few bucks and buying her whatever action figure they were pushing at the time, for which I had to get down on my hands and knees and scrape together the change under the seat of the car, but she accepted my offering with squinty eyes and a toss of her curly blonde head.
She was still cranky when we got to our apartment. Home at last, sanctuary for the weary. Yeah, right. We lived in a tiny attic walkup over two railroad flats. It took three trips to get Sarah and all our stuff up the fifty-two steps to our door. The hallway was littered with mail, mostly junk, but as I scuffed through, I picked out two envelopes that said "final notice." When I opened the door, we were hit by the stink of milk left out on the counter to sour. I looked around at the cheesy paneling, the unmade bed, the sink full of dishes, and now we had a suitcase of dirty clothes to add to the heap already on the bathroom floor. My life was waiting for me, just as I had left it.
As if to rub it in, Sarah whined "Daddy, I want Daddy," and reached for a photograph of Jake and me camping, perched on the cinder block-and-plank shelf along one wall. It was taken the summer we met, when he still had his Low Rider, and in the picture we were sitting spoon-style on the bike, with his arms wrapped around me.
"Daddy’s not here, Pumpkin," I said, but she had already thrown down the picture and started crying for her blankie. I had a sinking feeling we had left it at Nana’s, but I went through the motions of searching through her things, silently cursing Jake for the millionth time. For all his misdemeanors, Jake had been a natural father. Where I’d get impatient, he’d spend hours teaching Sarah to build blocks, showing her how to put one on top of the other and doing it over and over again when she knocked them down. She never wanted her blankie when he was around. He would rock her and sing to her—Sugar Magnolia, blossoms blooming, head’s all empty and I don’t care...—until she fell asleep.
Who can predict what innocent thought, what innocuous image, will prove unbearable? One summer Jake worked clearing land for a construction crew. He carefully calculated how each tree would fall, because once it started over, there was no stopping it. Now the image of Jake rocking Sarah hit me like a falling tree. How could he bear to leave her, I thought. How dare he do this to Sarah and me? I stumbled across the room, and dropped onto the waterbed. I had viewed him in the coffin, ridiculously dressed in suit and tie, and kept my cool. At night I had imagined I could smell him next to me and had reached for the wiry strands of his beard, the soft fur of his chest. In the morning I had awakened amnesic, only to remember with a jolt that he would never again barrel down the road racing the night, speed molding his wild hair against the wind. Still, I had gotten up each morning, done what I had to do, fed Sarah, changed her, eaten, slept again. I sobbed helplessly into the pillow…Sweet blossoms blooming under the willow; we can have high times if you’ll abide…The bastard hadn’t even cared enough to stick around. He didn’t care about options. He had given up. How could I go on?
"Don’t cry Mommy," Sarah said, pulling clothes out of the suitcase and throwing them on the floor. I couldn’t tell her I wanted to cry; in fact, I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream at her to go away, to leave me alone, but it was the world I wanted to go away.
"Sary help Mommy unpack," she said. I took a deep breath; I didn’t have the option of giving up; I pulled myself up on one elbow.
"No, honey, Mommy has to do that," I lifted her onto my bed and held her close, kissing her little nose and ears and lips.
"No, Sary has to do that," she said wiggling out of my arms and climbing down." She went right for the silver fabric that shimmered around the edges of the other clothes.
"Sary’s blankie?" she said, pulling out the gown. I laughed and took the gown from her. It shimmered in my arms like the sky over the Caribbean.
"Look, Pumpkin-Pie, do you want to see the pretty dress on Mommy?" She plopped on the floor and nodded. I pulled off my clothes and put on the dress. It slid over me like water over dry land.
"Ohhhh, Mommy, you look pretty," Sarah said. I stepped to the mirror. The redness was gone from my eyes, and they had caught a sparkle from the dress. I remembered the souvenir my mother had bought for Sarah and found it in the suitcase, a stuffed tree frog, green and smiling. She clapped her hands and laughed when I gave it to her, then hugged it to her chest.
I picked her up and held her in my arms in front of the mirror. We stood there for a while. I don’t know how much time passed while I watched myself holding my baby, watched myself smoothing down her curly hair, rocking her. She nestled in my arms, the coqui clenched in her fist, her cheek resting against the shimmering fabric, and I began to sing:
"Sugar Magnolia, blossoms blooming…"
When her eyes closed, I carried her to the waterbed and got in with her, curling myself around her, the silver gown glowing like a crescent moon.
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