Love War Stories Read online

  Published in 2018 by the Feminist Press

  at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center

  365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

  New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Ivelisse Rodriguez

  All rights reserved.

  This book was made possible thanks to a grant from New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  This book is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First printing July 2018

  Cover and text design by Suki Boynton

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Rodriguez, Ivelisse, author.

  Title: Love war stories / Ivelisse Rodriguez.

  Description: New York: Feminist Press, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017049761 (print) | LCCN 2018000050 (ebook) | ISBN 9781936932283 (e-book)

  Subjects: LCSH: Girls--Puerto Rico--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.O35825 (ebook) | LCC PS3618.O35825 A6 2018 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017049761

  For Holyoke girls

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  El Qué Dirán

  Holyoke, Mass.: An Ethnography

  The Simple Truth

  Summer of Nene

  Some Springs Girls Do Die

  The Belindas

  La Hija de Changó

  The Light in the Sky

  Love War Stories

  Acknowledgments

  Credits

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY FEMINIST PRESS

  ABOUT FEMINIST PRESS

  EL QUÉ DIRÁN

  You belong to your husband, your master; not me; I belong to nobody, or all . . .

  You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you; your husband, your parents, your family, the priest, the dressmaker . . .

  Not in me, in me only my heart governs, only my thought; who governs in me is me.

  —JULIA DE BURGOS, “To Julia de Burgos”

  “She still waits,” they joked—men sitting around a bar who, perhaps, never had to wait for anything, who saw women as handkerchiefs they carried in their back pockets, their initials stenciled into the fine lace. When Lola made her appearances outside of the house, they did not wait until she passed by to erupt. She was the observed of their keen eyes; her waiting more legendary than their love affairs.

  She didn’t fall from the sky, but Tía Lola was the woman on the ground. Her wailing outside my window pulled me out of sleep, eclipsing the clanging of the cowbells—a sound I had become used to over the past fourteen years. Glancing down at Tía Lola, my first thought was that something must’ve happened with Tío Carlos. Perhaps he was dead, or worse: the letter the whole town had been waiting for, the one stating he would never return, had finally arrived.

  My bare feet slapped against the kitchen floor, and I had to hold on to the doorknob as I slipped rushing outside. I didn’t feel the concrete of our porch or the cold grass on the soles of my feet, or the morning dew seeping into my nightgown when I fell to my knees.

  She clutched nothing new in her hands. No letter, no photo, no fresh accoutrement of hope or rejection—only the old yellowed letters. And the way her body undulated, I knew it was all the memories.

  I had always wondered how long the heart could stop and start before breaking.

  “Tía, what is it?” I asked.

  Not even glancing at me, Tía Lola mumbled about how she met Tío Carlos at her quinceañera and repeated things I already knew. “Did you ever think he would come back?” she asked. She said all this as if she were talking to another Lola—one above her. I stroked her hair to assure her of my presence and held back my tears so hers could flow.

  My back stiffened when I heard the door open and realized how I must look without a robe on to any passerby in the street. My long nightgown immediately felt too short, too sheer.

  “Noelia, go inside and get dressed. I’ll take care of Lola,” my mother said.

  Thankfully, that was all she said. The closer to my quinceañera, the more my mother loomed over me, huge wings spreading in a small nest. My mother feared that Tía Lola’s misfortune would somehow rub off on me, and my mother couldn’t, wouldn’t, imagine another woman without a husband in this house.

  I quickly whispered in my aunt’s ear, “Don’t worry, Tía, he’ll come back.”

  He said he would come back. It was a common practice, nothing for her to worry about. They drove all the way to San Juan because that was the only airport then. Lola cried, laughed, held his hand, kissed it, and said, “Te espero. Para siempre.” She touched her stomach and corrected herself, “We’ll wait.” It was a year after Lola and Carlos had married. He left to make a better life for them in the United States, and before he boarded the plane with a flurry of kisses, waves, and promises he said, “Lolita, I’ll make you proud. By the time I come back, your father won’t have anything to say about me, about us.” For seven years, the letters came and every time one arrived, Lola held it up as a beacon of his love. She ignored the tales of Carlos’s life over there from those who returned without finding their fortune.

  When she sat on the veranda and saw the dapper young men court her neighbor Celi, when she saw the Plymouth Roadking he once dreamed of owning, or when she saw the high-class ladies with their pearls, she thought only of Carlos. She told herself it was okay that he couldn’t make it for their son Julio’s birth and death, that she must live with her sister, that the neighbors wove tales behind her back, and that he promised and promised but never kept because in the world Lola configured, her waiting ceased.

  2,555 days stacked. Finding movement everywhere. Lola could see him, reenvision him from a smell, a touch. Carlos, so memorable in his absence.

  On the surface, the memories acted themselves out in Tía Lola’s room. Always whiffs of perfumes, scents of last meals, laughter over love letters. The room, pregnant, was always ready to burst. The letters, normally bound, in order by date, by year, were scattered on the floor. They inhabited a white box overlaid with gold, its lid always slightly askew. Lovingly wrapped around the cluster of letters, a ribbon for each year. The red ribbon was for year two. Pink ribbon for year five. Year three: blue.

  In Tía Lola’s room, sheer curtains were tied back so you could access the smolder of the moon or the sun. There was always something from the outside that could be captured in this room, something always welcomed. She had a decorative mosquito net—interlocking swans embraced—she had sewn herself. Perfumes that looked like they were contained in handmade bottles lined her dresser. The room, as I will always remember it, was candlelit for moments ready to be captured and memorialized. But the centerpiece was always that box, with accumulated letters spilling out.

  Tía Lola sat in her window seat. Already she seemed different from that morning. She looked like she had cried out each hurt, each tear. Her hair was neatly down, and she had a dress she had often been photographed in—a white halter dress tied at her waist.

  I tiptoed to Tía Lola’s bed, near the strewn letters. “I was worried about you
all day,” I whispered. “How . . . do you feel? Did you hear something?”

  She shook her head. “There was nothing new to hear,” she mumbled. She wrapped her arms around her legs and put her head on her knees.

  Just yesterday, I was so excited because we were able to bring my quinceañera dress home, and it was exactly how I had imagined it for the past three years. When everyone went to sleep last night, I sat with it, touching the glimmering rhinestones on the full-bodied tulle skirt. Slipping it on, I practiced the dance I would do in a few weeks. The material making a musical swish-swish sound while I counted my steps and held my arms out to an imaginary man.

  Tía Lola’s dress was pulled up; I could see her legs. She used to tell me how beautiful they were—her asset, besides her pretty face. But tonight, they looked thin. I saw the wear on them, like they had walked for too long. She absentmindedly rubbed them while we talked.

  “Doña Santa’s husband came back,” I chirped.

  She gave me a faint smile. “And what was he like after all those years?”

  In the novela El qué dirán, which we had watched every afternoon for the past few months, Santa Dávila was like Tía Lola—she waited and waited. And just today, José Dávila had returned, smile broader than their distance.

  “He was even more handsome than when he left, and he loved her even more.” I picked up the most worn letter near my foot. The letters from the early years—those were my favorite. I imagined that Tía Lola lay on those letters to surround herself with his love, even today.

  I filled the heavy air with his words:

  Cariño, the world moves so fast here. The factory job Ignacio helped me get has been long and tiring. But I save money from each paycheck. As exhausting as it is, I wish I could get two jobs so that I could come home to you faster. I won’t let you down. What you’ve heard isn’t true, I don’t have time to do much besides have one drink a week. I work and sleep. We’ll have the great life we should have. I’m sorry this is what our second year of marriage looks like. I would rather be home kissing your face. I have to cut this letter short. I’m exhausted from all this work. Tomorrow I said I would fix the furnace for the landlord. He said he would give me a discount on the rent. Let’s count the months and maybe this time next year this will all seem like a long-ago memory.

  “He never loves you less,” I said, placing the letter back with the others.

  The first time Lola fully immersed herself in her suffering was right after Julio came into the world stillborn. Carlos said that he would be there for months and weeks. And when her water broke, Lola tried to hold it in, to give him more time to arrive. Right before she went into labor, it flickered through her mind that he would not come.

  The day after she was released from the hospital, Lola marched over to Carlos’s parents’ house to confront them and has not suffered in silence since. Passersby heard her shrieks and that was the first day the townsmen began their snickering. And it was the last day the women she had come to love—the ones also waiting for husbands—grieved with her. They promulgated and led the worst jeers about Lola.

  Since then they have not stopped, but that does not matter to Lola, it has never mattered. The only thing that mattered was Carlos’s return.

  To avoid explaining Tía Lola’s behavior, my mother declined to go to church but ordered me and my father to go regardless because after the services, we would rehearse the quinceañera mass with the priest. At least at the church, there would be a sense of tranquility. No threats. I had woken up for eleven days to the noise of Tía Lola, and then that of my mother.

  My father and I rarely spent time alone together, but for the months leading up to my quinceañera reception, we continually rehearsed our waltz. Because of that I have come to see the man my mother must see. Perpetually elegant—his hair normally parted and coiffed to the side, all his suits bought in the capital from the same stores the Americans shopped—wealth shimmering off of him.

  I would invariably take a step in the wrong direction. “Don’t worry, Noelia, you’ll dance beautifully soon enough.” A man with a calming presence. Without him, my mother would have come undone over Tía Lola’s spectacle. For the first time, I felt like his daughter. His. In our house, he stood behind my mother and my mother only. Not because he was a weak man, but because she was his wife, first and foremost. My mother had always had my father, and I had always had Tía Lola.

  Doña Olga, Ricardo’s mother, was the first person we encountered when my father and I arrived at the mass. Ricardo was my partner in my quinceañera and, hopefully, soon in life. My father quickly acknowledged her presence. Behind my father, I peeked at Doña Olga’s face to determine if she had heard about Tía Lola’s wailing. She asked about my mother and then simply smiled at me, and I knew I had been dismissed. Doña Olga had never been kind to me, nor outright cruel. My mother suspected that she found me unsuitable for Ricardo because of Tía Lola, but tolerated our pairing because we are an established family. I had even overheard my mother talking about Don Andres, Ricardo’s father, being in financial trouble because of drinking and gambling. Sometimes my mother thought we had the upper hand, sometimes she thought Ricardo’s family did.

  As soon as the mass was over, I rushed to the damas. All of us girls sat clumped together and talked among ourselves. What we were really doing, though, was conversing so that every now and then we could consider the boys who sat in the pews across from us. Even if they had never met before we started preparing for this quinceañera, each girl had taken to fantasizing about her partner. Alisa pined for Jose; Rita gazed at Luis; Yvette pouted at Pedro . . . All fifteen of us girls took turns dreaming.

  Ricardo. Each time, I was struck by his beauty—dark wavy hair and dimples. Broad-shouldered and a self-satisfied smile. Other girls said he reminded them so much of the new American movie star Marlon Brando. I had even caught older women flirting with or gawking at my Ricardo. All our lives we had lived across from each other, and all my life I had known that one day we would be here. If any of these girls in my quinceañera could change escorts, they would choose him because he was the handsomest.

  I slowly smiled at him, lowered my eyes, and glanced away.

  “Lola,” he mouthed when I looked at him again. The silent volatility of the word. The way he stretched out the name matched the snarl in his eyes. That face—beautiful one moment and the next: rigid eyes, blazing nostrils, coiled lip. I’d seen that visage before, when he’d grabbed my arm at school, turning my skin red under his fingers.

  I flipped my hands up in front of my chest, palms facing the sky. I shook my head. Even my mother can’t restrain Lola.

  I closed my eyes tightly and imagined my quinceañera: Ricardo holding me in his arms, our bodies touching. He was the one dancing my confirmation dance with me instead of my father. Regardless of the ceremony, it was he, not my father, who would make me a woman. And after the quinceañera, that was the day I would most look forward to.

  The priest called us, and we began the rehearsal. I watched the damas go down the aisle with their partners, anxiously awaiting my turn.

  When my mother, small and stern, came downstairs, her perpetually stony face was red and her hands shook. Tía Lola had scratched her—a brutal, swollen slash across my mother’s right cheek. Droplets of blood dried on her face. I stepped back, melted into the wall. Tía Lola had never harmed anyone, only herself.

  I hovered next to our living room. It was cordoned off for adults and everything always remained the same there. The tiny doll statuettes my mother collected lined an oversized bookcase. She dusted them herself to ensure they remained pristine. The domino sets my father loved were displayed on the coffee table. And every day, regardless of what was happening in our house, my father sipped his coffee in a cherrywood rocking chair his grandfather made before starting his furniture business fifty-two years ago. I would peek in on the two of them when they were in this room; it’s like they became different people in there.

 
“¿Qué pasó?” my father asked in an even tone that still conveyed his concern.

  My mother’s silent anger was screaming, but I could no longer hear Tía Lola’s cries. For once, I was thankful. In the same way Tía Lola had spent seven years dreaming about Tío Carlos’s return, I had spent those same years waiting for the day I became a woman.

  “I can’t deal with her anymore. She makes a spectacle of herself, and I’m trying to help her,” my mother said.

  I thought I heard a cluster of tears in her throat.

  My father held her. “Ya, ya, ya,” he said as he stroked her hair.

  I’m always amazed to see her softness under his touch, all that magic contained in his hands.

  “My father would die all over again to see this, a world where men leave women and never come back. Nobody says anything about Carlos. If not for him, none of this would have happened. Then everyone just stands around and laughs at her. But where is the reproach for him? He’s the one who left her and she suffers for it all. She would never have done this before Carlos.”

  “Good thing you have me,” he said, kissing her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing. She’s done this before.”

  They are different people together. Ones I don’t know or have access to. Layers you would never see otherwise.

  “Yes, but not this bad and not for so long. And I’m the one who has to answer for her. I’m the one who has to endure the whispers about her,” she said and squelched any traces of fury in her voice. She turned to me, impatience growing on her face. “Stop talking to her. Stay away from Lola until after the quinceañera. No communication. None.”

  I stood small in front of her. “Yes, Mami.” As always, her wishes would be respected.

  Unabashed, I blasted simmering looks at Ricardo and Estefania. I raised the peanut butter sandwich the Americans brought to our school menu to my mouth, but that’s where it stayed. The smell choked me. The sun, it boiled our wooden table.