We Were Not the Wealthy Cubans
We lived in a house on blocks. Small ones. Underneath it were the cockroaches, old cans, pieces of unidentified metal, and once in a while someone hiding from the police. In our backyard there was a sinkhole. It was covered over with planks of wood. We were not to go near it. Grass grew around it. It was frightening. Seemed bottomless. It wasn’t. It was just a hole. Across the street and on the corner was the Tip Top. Drunks sitting outside. Doing nothing. Looking at everything. My sister was brave. There was never enough to eat. At times we would have a dollar. We were not allowed to go to the Tip Top. Rightly so. But she would rush out there, running like the wind, buy a pack of Now and Laters, and rush back. Did you get the pink ones? Yes! They had pink ones. Perfect lunch for two. One time we were in the bedroom we shared. Waiting for our parents to get back from work. I had walked myself home from Melrose Elementary. A boring, sad place. She had been dropped off after a dreadful day at some awful middle school. She had it worse than I did. We were in the bedroom. Me reading. I don’t know what she was doing. Daydreaming maybe. The front door opened. Just like that. We looked at each other and remembered the rule: if you can’t run, hide. We both got under my sister’s twin bed, terrified. Don’t even breathe, we told each other with our eyes. Someone, smoking, walked in. In the living room. In the dining room. In the kitchen. They weren’t frantic. There was nothing to steal. They just walked. Strolled. In silence. In my parent’s room. In the bathroom. In our room. Hold your breath. Hold your breath, we told one another without saying a word. We saw his shoes. He looked around and left. Just left. We didn’t come out for a while. We couldn’t move. Then my sister, the brave one, slid out and faced the empty inhabited house. How did he get in? my sister asked. We locked the door. And we realized anyone could get in. Locks meant nothing. My parents said it was probably the landlord, but their eyes said otherwise. We kept living there, though. It was the only place we could afford. Even when there was a knife fight in the parking lot behind our house. Two people having it out. What were they arguing about? I asked myself as I looked out the window. I might have been fourteen. Not understanding that they could see me. Looking. I had every light in the place on. I was afraid of the dark. And, I was alone in the house. One of the men looked right at me. I looked at him and he ran. Ran right at me. A knife in his hand. And I ran. Ran right out the front door. Ran knocking on neighbors’ doors. Please help me. Please help me. Please help me. One of them opened the door. I was safe. But we didn’t open the door for someone else. A woman who came in the middle of the night. It was the `80s. Everything was frightening in Miami. She knocked and knocked and knocked. Please help me. He is going to get me. Please help me. So sorry. My father in his broken English. I will call police. No more. No open. Her running away, crying. Later they found her purse in the backyard next door. Empty. I can’t forget her. And then there were the cats. So many cats. My sister, who has a heart of gold, adopted them all. She would pet them, feed them as she could, let them into our house. The mother cat, in particular, who had so, so many kittens. They would all stay, though full grown. When we were forced to leave that house because it was sold to become asphalt for a car dealership, we took the cats to the local pound, thinking they would be given a home, but they killed them all. I know that now. Even though they were Manxs. Cats without tails and with beautiful eyes. Sweet as heaven.
