Love War Stories Read online

  I wanted to reach for Ricardo, but he was already swimming away from me.

  Lola knew it was different this time—the wailing. It came from some other place. No longer that yearning for Carlos. For the past several weeks, since she had been mourning outside, she had returned to her room afterward, scarcely eaten anything, and barely spoken to anyone, and she unraveled the letters, one by one. And there were many. More than one would expect for a woman who had surely been abandoned. And in each one she had tried to recapture that beautiful pain in her heart that had defined her as a woman in love, given her a place in this town’s history as a woman who had been left behind. She knew she would go down in stories, and there was nothing more fascinating to her than to be a woman not forgotten.

  She studied those letters to resurrect her heart. What beautiful words he wrote.

  She traced his words and remembered the loops of his l’s and the caresses of his e’s, but the words now lay flat on the page. She couldn’t conjure anything; whatever he said began and ended on those pages. All of her senses were dead. There was no longer anything in those letters that could jump-start her heart. No more sweet fantasies during her afternoons on the veranda. Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all. The end of the dream seemed much more intolerable than the past seven years. Her love for Carlos, her yearning: gone. Now she would have no one, or nothing, to love.

  I unfurled long, cruel, deeply held screams at my mother, “You promised everything would be okay if I just stayed away from Lola. You promised. You did nothing. Nothing. You just stood there!” I felt like a statue cracking, rattled by an earthquake.

  My mother, at first taken aback, stood up straight and slapped me across the face. “Young ladies do not speak to their mothers like that.”

  I didn’t stop. Nothing could have stopped me. “That’s always your response,” I yelled at her. “You lied to me!”

  “You think this is my fault? Mine? I did everything I could to make sure your quinceañera would be perfect. No, no, Noelia—I told you all your life, all your life how to behave. But it was only this year, the most important year of your life, that you decided to pay attention. This is your fault; you were always after your aunt. Let me tell you, as I have always been the one to steer you onto the right path, that it was your aunt, your beloved Tía Lola that you should be having this conversation with. She is the one who has taken your dream and crumpled it. She is the one, not me. I have always been here to support your dreams. Me. Not her. And you have the audacity to stand here and berate me. Sinvergüenza.”

  “Why did you do it? How could you?” I screeched.

  Tía Lola sat at her vanity and did not turn around. “I didn’t want you to be a woman. It is a terrible thing to be a woman. One day, you will thank me.”

  I threw one of my high heels at her head. I missed, and the vanity mirror cracked and crumbled.

  But Lola remained unfazed; she did not flinch or turn to look at me. “Trust me, Noelia, trust me.”

  Nights after Lola stole my dance, I went out by the cows, waiting for Ricardo, and when he arrived, he kissed me and undressed quickly. I watched Lola fling what looked like confetti from her open window. The white paper illuminated against the blue-black sky. I pushed his shoulders up, so I could look at him one last time. Then he entered me. And I wondered what her room felt like now, devoid of its past. Had it sunk? Or risen again?

  I felt shipwrecked. I imagined myself as the one landing on the untouched beaches of Puerto Rico. There is Arasibo.

  He welcomes me, not knowing what I will bring.

  HOLYOKE, MASS.: AN ETHNOGRAPHY

  What promise she had. Incorporated in 1850, she was awarded medals and monikers: the birthplace of volleyball, “Queen of Industrial Cities,” one year she was the “Paper City of the World.” Of the world.

  Paper was like gold here. The mills opening in 1849 started everything. Twenty-five paper mills at its zenith. The people boomed from 4,600 to 60,000 inhabitants from 1885 to 1920.

  The streets teemed with Irish and Polish immigrants and with refined people who were able to make this small western-Massachusetts town a city where Broadway shows were previewed. A place that was about to come into its own in the shadow of New York City, but without any of the city tribulations.

  That was then.

  Today, there are new monikers, new people: “Highest teenage pregnancy rate in Massachusetts,” “crime rate above the national average,” “highest concentration of Puerto Ricans anywhere in the world outside of Puerto Rico,” and girls like Veronica.

  What I notice most about her is her ripe body. The way her tits stick out and everything curves down the back of her skirt. She wears black sandals from Wild Pair that expose her orange-painted toenails. Gold rings populate three of the fingers on her right hand, her punching hand, and two on her left. Her lips are maroon colored, the prerequisite for any Holyoke girl. Her hair is dyed lighter than nature had ever intended and the texture has evolved. And if I sat behind her and traced the history of her hair, I would get her life story; it has gotten harsher and coarser over time. Believing it is happier at each stage.

  I observed her first in the book The Boys and Girls of Holyoke. There were girls and boys who said they wanted to be doctors, nurses, lawyers: all the careers you see on TV. Sometimes I think Holyoke people are a cliché. Nobody will burst out dramatically here.

  And who was this idealistic ethnographer anyway? Writing on a place he knew nothing about. Maybe he was from Vermont or New Hampshire, from a place that was supposed to be quaint like Massachusetts and actually was. He wasn’t from around here, though; hadn’t spent his life in Holyoke. But I thought it interesting that some outsider would write a whole book about us. That somebody thought us worthy enough to say over and over again, “They have hope.” He came for a few days to shoot pictures and took those few precious moments caught between his eyes and the camera lens as proof of his hypothesis. But his photos, notes, observations, would be all that he was able to unearth about Holyoke, Massachusetts. Not like me, I know the ins and outs of these streets, of these people. My ethnography is the truth.

  And I remember her in that book, her smile, subtle, closed mouth, and her unadornment, showing that life hadn’t gotten to her yet. Perhaps she even shared the dreams of those other kids. Perhaps. She still has the same smile today, but now it shows a sexiness. Sexy at fifteen.

  Whenever Miss O’Donnell calls on Veronica, all she can think of when she opens her mouth is: tramp, whore, floozy. While Veronica is no more susceptible to becoming pregnant than the other girls in her class, Miss O’Donnell sees how everyone desires Veronica’s beauty. And it is not her prettiness that Miss O’Donnell detests, but rather the admiring, the whispering, the rustling, and the shifting done whenever Veronica is in anyone’s presence. But Miss O’Donnell knows something they don’t: while Veronica is hot shit here, she wouldn’t even register in someone else’s world. Nowhere else would girls compare themselves to Veronica to see how their jeans matched up, their shoes, their lipstick color, their right shade of hair. Only here, especially in Miss O’Donnell’s class.

  But lucky for Miss O’Donnell, she doesn’t have to call on Veronica too often. Veronica is one of those girls who doesn’t talk much in class. Since kindergarten, Veronica has rarely raised her hand, and this pattern of barely doing anything has followed her into her high school years and will inevitably follow her for the rest of her life. She usually sits there with a hard expression on her face, popping her gum. Any ounce of intelligence she may have had at birth will surely never surface and rescue her from this life.

  For a bit of amusement, Miss O’Donnell chooses Veronica today. When Veronica is called on in class, butterflies gnaw at her stomach, and it’s sometimes worse than being with boys. Veronica wants to ignore Miss O’Donnell, but she is one of those teachers who will call you out. Mad before class even starts. So Veronica speaks inaudibly, but then not being able to discern Miss O’Donnell’s facial e
xpression, she speaks louder, rushing forward with her words.

  What Veronica doesn’t know is that Miss O’Donnell is really just mulling over how she will unwind in front of the TV tonight. As soon as she gets home, she will forget about this day, this week, and will undoubtedly calculate how many days to retirement, even though she knows the number is 635, but each day she likes to count again. Sometimes she doesn’t include the weekends or holidays when she needs a bit more to hold on to. She will dream about her life after all of this and assure herself that it will not be too late to be happy. She will flip through cruise and vacation brochures (she makes sure to receive new ones each month) and imagine herself in an exotic place. She sees Puerto Rico on the list of destinations, and while she wants to stay far away from anything Puerto Rican, it looks so pretty in brochures: beautiful beaches, pink and yellow houses, grand hotels, and plenty of white people. And she can’t fathom these Holyoke Puerto Ricans with that place. But maybe the Puerto Ricans there are different, more couth. When Miss O’Donnell goes to sleep that night, she will dream of herself with another retired teacher, pink and plump just like her, turning red in the hot Puerto Rican sun. They will laugh at the people who work at their beach resort as they rub suntan lotion on each other and discuss how yes, they are different, so much more polite and unnoticeable than the Puerto Ricans in Holyoke. And there, she will not see anyone like Veronica. Finally, in the streets, Miss O’Donnell will be the one looked at.

  When Veronica notices the dismissive expression in Miss O’Donnell’s green eyes, her words, like always, trail off to the inaudible. But no matter, her classmates are certainly not concerned with Miss O’Donnell and what she considers important. What they want to know is who Veronica is fucking and if it’s true that she once gave Ralfy a blow job at the Holyoke Mall.

  Maria slips Veronica the question book that has been passed around the classroom since Miss O’Donnell took roll thirty-five minutes ago. There is a question on every page and everybody has chosen a number as an alias. Page three asks, Who will get pregnant next: Veronica Diaz, Tiffany Suarez, or Elizabeth Gomez? Veronica stares down at number four, number nine, and all the other numbers on the page who have one simple answer to that question: VD. Veronica scans the room and realizes that her classmates are watching to see her reaction.

  She reviews the question again, all the VDs, and the one “Ralfy fucks her all the time. She has to be pregnant.” Veronica covers her mouth with her fist, she doesn’t know why she’s the one they always talk shit about. Then she writes TS—she already has a baby anyway—and passes the book.

  What differentiates Veronica from most of the other Holyoke girls is that she’s an in-between girl. Never is she unaware of the role she has to play, she never leaves home without her hardness, she practices how to fight when she is alone, and constantly scrolls through all the other things she has to do in order to avoid even more fights. But she has this squishy little heart inside that sometimes presses on her so hard that she has to cry. Never in front of her girls because she knows that even though she has been friends with them for many years, that could change at any moment. But she lets it all out in front of Ralfy, because it’s okay to cry in front of your boyfriend, because that is what girls are supposed to do, even Holyoke girls. So now she presses her nails into her palm to distract herself because breaking down in front of her classmates would mean total dissolution, and no one, not even Cassandra, Veronica’s best friend and the most popular girl at school, could help her out. Veronica takes a moment and visualizes something she truly hates. Firms her heart up. Glances back at Maria and rolls her eyes, so everyone can see, can see that she doesn’t give a fuck.

  While Veronica is not the most popular girl at Holyoke High, she is certainly one of the prettiest, and her uncontested friendship with Cassandra ensures that very few girls will step to her. Veronica has gotten into a few fights but not since she started high school. However, if she were in the ranks of the untouchable girls, like Cassandra, people would never talk about her. The rumors about her wouldn’t have that slightly nasty tone, but she is popular enough that they are certainly not all-out malicious.

  “I like how everyone thinks I’m gonna get pregnant,” Veronica declares. Although still bothered from class, she knows she has to mention it, otherwise she will come off like a punk. She has to make sure to laugh loud at lunch, talk big, or do something that will get her noticed so no one will think she’s been affected in the least.

  “Even if you were, what’s the big deal? They could have said a lot nastier shit,” Maria replies.

  There isn’t a time when Veronica does not remember being friends with Maria. Going into high school, they haven’t been as close, but Veronica realizes that it would be worse to end things with Maria than to just go along with their friendship. There would be too much drama if she stopped talking to her. Maria is average looking, but has a great sense of style and, most importantly, she’s tough. People are less apt to fuck with Maria. She has a big mouth, and everyone knows she’s willing to get down if necessary. In short, Maria is cool. A person like Maria is what a girl like Veronica needs.

  “Anyway, have you seen Ralfy yet?” Cassandra interjects.

  “No, I haven’t seen him in like a week and he’s never on Chestnut Street when I’m looking for him. He’s been acting shady lately. I think he’s playing me. But I don’t know with who because everybody knows I go out with him.”

  “Yeah, well, you never know about these chicken-heads. Maybe he’s been arrested,” Cassandra offers.

  “Maybe, but I figured that he would’ve called or someone else would’ve told me. I don’t know . . . this shit is so wack.”

  “Are you gonna break up with him?” Maria asks.

  “No, not yet. I wanna find out what the deal is first.”

  The white girl from their class, Gail, the one who lives in the Flats—a Puerto Rican section of Holyoke, even though, if truth be told, most of Holyoke is Puerto Rican even if white people have their own neighborhoods and outnumber them—walks by the three girls and says, “Hi.”

  Maria leans in. “What about her? I heard she’s been talking to Ralfy.”

  Veronica dwells on that hi, and she sees Gail stop to talk to Frankie, the only Puerto Rican boy at this school who Veronica, Maria, and Cassandra would even entertain going out with. Veronica sees the way Gail giggles and flips her dirty brown hair. She refuses to really believe this girl could be competition. But Veronica ruptures.

  “Gail, come here.”

  “Hey,” Gail says, not sure what’s going on.

  “I hear you’re real tight with my man. Is that true?”

  Others turn to look at them in the cafeteria and Maria laughs.

  “I know him in passing, but that’s about it,” Gail says shaking her head and taking a step back.

  “Well make sure to keep it that way.” Veronica stares Gail down until she knows she has given her classmates something new to talk about. Normally, bringing fear into a white girl’s eyes is not what makes Veronica feel strong. White people don’t know how to fight. In fact, fights with white girls won’t even make a reputation. Only fights with other Puerto Rican girls and the few black girls who live here count. But today, she needs this. Veronica turns back to Maria and Cassandra and says, “She’s lucky she doesn’t get smacked. If I catch her talking to him, it’s on.”

  The Irish. What rabble-rousers. Being the first wave of immigrants made them puff up with power. They proliferated in the mill industry. And knowing they were the dominant majority, they started demanding more, more, and more. Setting off the labor unions. But all that was short-lived. The mills then purposely started recruiting French Canadians—considered to be more docile. The Irish couldn’t be rooted out though, and vestiges of the Irish still remain. To this day, everyone in Holyoke still attends the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Can you imagine anything more absurd than a bunch of Puerto Ricans at a Saint Patty’s Day parade?

  In South Hol
yoke, the Flats, Up the Hill, and on Chestnut Street, the Puerto Rican girls walk in silence, hoping for invisibility if they are alone or in pairs, but more than two and they feel safe, like they can beat anyone down, like they own the streets. Trekking home with Cassandra after school, Veronica’s heart beats erratically when she spies a group of Puerto Rican girls occupying the stoop ahead of them. This is when she and Cassandra are wary of their volume; they lower their voices and try not to rouse anyone’s attention. Cassandra’s reputation only extends so far. They’re no longer at Holyoke High, and they don’t know these girls. It’s always this way with them. Every day, the heart pounding. The only time they can be carelessly loud, throw their shoulders back, and be noticed is around white people.

  Veronica and Cassandra make it to the girls, and Veronica listens real hard to make sure that nothing is said under their breaths. While Veronica would hate to fight, she knows she must if anything was said to her or about her, especially in front of someone else. Cassandra keeps chatting; her silence would draw more attention to her, but she also knows enough to not be too loud. She’s telling Veronica about a party next week. Veronica pays attention to Cassandra, but she strains her ears to hear the other girls. Then she very softly hears, “Corny bitches.” Veronica’s heart sprints, and she slows her pace. She is about to turn around and glare at the four girls, but she glances at Cassandra and, to her relief, she hasn’t heard anything. She just keeps talking and Veronica knows she’s saved this time. She wills herself to believe that she may have misheard or that nothing was uttered at all. But Veronica’s thrashing heart doesn’t subside for another few blocks. Sometimes she wonders what it is like to be white and not have to deal with this shit every day of her life.