Part 12: Luto
1960
Once Luto's feet hit the curb, he swore they sang.
There was something about the Brooklyn sidewalks that couldn't be compared, certainly not to a shitty island like Puerto Rico. Brown-stone houses, row after rows, and stores a-plenty. Nothing like the occasional marketplace and isolated homes on the Island. Their duplex had felt like a damn farm. He'd even had to feed chickens and fetch eggs in the morning.
The cobbled streets and lack of sidewalks had always put Luto on edge. The place had never felt quite real. Nothing had really grounded him. At times, he'd felt like his life was spiraling, and there was no way to stop it. Delivery boy? Pfft. No future there, and he knew it. And everyone on the island was too damn nice, and long-winded. There was a beauty to the concise rudeness of New Yorkers.
Luto whistled as he strolled along the old neighborhood. It had been five years since he'd been there, and things were pretty much the same. Sirens sounded, horns honked, disparate music floated in the air. The cacophony soothed him. Puerto Rico had been quiet. Boring.
He nodded at a young girl on the street. Alabaster skin, black hair, rail skinny. He wouldn't screw her if she paid him. She threw a polite hello at him, which he returned. Her head didn't snap back in slight surprise at his accent, not that he really had one. She didn't seem to care if he sounded "authentic" or not. She didn't automatically dismiss him as a puertorriqueno, which had always sounded like Puerto Rican piece of shit to him. It was the not-so-endearing term for mainlander Puerto Ricans like him living on the Island. That's what they thought of him over there, a piece of shit, just because he liked Chuck Berry and milkshakes.
Snobby pricks.
The door to their old apartment building featured a fresh coat of cerulean blue paint. Pink flowers spilled from planters lining the walkway. It looked... homey. Definitely out of their price range.
When he returned to the motel, Alondra asked him how the interview went.
Luto explained how he had finessed Gus, securing his old job driving a cab.
"He even said, after a year or two, I might be able to buy my own cab."
He felt his chest puff with pride. Gus was alright, for an Itie. Sometimes they would share a laugh over their crazy mamas, but it's not like they were cool enough to share a beer. Still, Gus seemed to understand what it like, proving your worth in two worlds.
Titi Mara had been all about "real" Puerto Ricans, and how Luto wasn't one. He rolled his R's like a an idiota, couldn't dance, and hated pastelios.
The day they had left her house, relief had flooded through Luto. It was then he had realized how much she had shamed him, made him doubt himself. He had walked the streets of Puerto Rico, made friends, but had always been on the outside. And he hadn't even wanted to be invited in. Not every Islander was as judgmental as Mara. Most were again, too damn nice. Underneath their kindness, they thought they were better than him. They knew what it meant to be a Puerto Rican, and he didn't.
While living in New York, questioning his place had never come up. It was easy to measure the differences between him and all the white others and say, I know what makes me me. His brown skin, dark eyes, and quick wit set him apart in a way he was proud of. To have his distinction measured by Islanders who looked like him, but could not relate to him, had affected him more than he liked to admit.
Luto was glad to be rid of Mara, all thanks to Genea. In life, his mother tolerated him. In death, she had bestowed a gift: her departure had sopped up Mara's goodwill. She had kindly but firmly refused to house them anymore. Rather than stay on an Island that didn't want him, he convinced Alondra and Natalia to return to the other Long Island, the better Island, that they had grown up on.
Now, Alondra praised his initiative, planting a kiss on his cheek. She chattered on with plans to go to start at the local college, some shit about being a teacher.
Book work, a voice inside him said snidely, sounding a lot like his father. Nothing like a man's hard work.
But Luto nodded, pretending to listen. He'd found with Alondra, the more he feigned interest, the more she thanked him later.
In the corner, Natalia hunched over a makeshift desk, using her suitcase as a hard surface. She scribbled on a piece of paper, sniveling as she went. Luto turned from Alondra so he could roll his eyes. The girl couldn't get over some boy she'd left on the Island. Wrote him a letter almost everyday.
On the other bed, Camila lay, back to everyone. After Genea's funeral, she slept a lot.
I do all the damn work around here. You're just a mooch, woman!
His father had flung that at his mother plenty of times. She had been a mooch, in short bursts. She would go from happy to sad in a matter of moments. Then, for long droughts, she would lounge on the couch, watching novellas and crying. Some nights, he heard smacking from his parent's bedroom, with his mother crying out. The next day, she was happy again, and ready to contribute to the family.
Stuck with a sudden idea, Luto silenced Alondra with an announcement:
"Here's 5 bucks. Take Natalia into the city, help her apply to a couple stores in the old neighborhood." Here, he looked pointedly at Natalia, who seemed askance at the prospect of work. "Then, you girls see a movie, buy some groceries with the change."
Both girls leapt up at his offer. They breezed out the door, promising to bring back milk and bread.
When the room had quieted down, Luto assessed Camila. He wasn't sure if she was really asleep, or merely pretending. He didn't much care. What he wanted was to show her who was boss, now that Genea was gone.
She wore his favorite: pedal pushers. Luto took it as a sign. Slowly, he approached Camila. Hovering over her prone form, he squeezed her backside. She stiffened, and so did he.
Given that she wasn't sleeping, he thought it best to skip over pretense. He grabbed her shoulder, and forced her to turn and face him.
"You're not gonna be a mooch," he informed her softly. His hand traced her collarbone. "Gotta pay your way somehow."
Her brown eyes shone with a blankness he couldn't name. She had the same look after Carmen had died.
Something moved in his line of sight. He glanced ahead, and was startled to see a young man with his hand on an even younger woman. Of course, the young man was him, but he had never realized how menacing he could look. He was starting to resemble his father more and more, he decided. The fact emboldened him.
Luto tightened his grip on Camila's shoulder. If she was bothered, he couldn't tell. Her face did not reveal anything.
Suddenly, the air around him crackled with energy. The temperature in the room dropped, which was odd given how the air conditioning hadn't been operational for their entire stay.
Like a joke, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was tit for tat; since he had ahold of Camila, someone had taken hold of him. But, he did not know who that someone was.
Their touch was warm. An olfactory presence hit him hard, reminding Luto of raw sewage. He gagged at the overpowering scent.
From the size of the hand, and really from the smell, Luto knew that this couldn't be Natalia or Alondra. Camila lay before him, dumbly staring up, waiting.
Waiting for what? he thought wildly.
Fear railed through his brain. Reason would've told him to check in the mirror. Terror refused him this very logical step. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a darkness hovering behind him. He couldn't tell who.
Very deliberately, the hand on his shoulder clamped. And squeezed.
Harder. And harder.
Luto whimpered, aware of how womanly he sounded. Whomever it was, their intentions were less than friendly.
Camila's eyes were mirrors of an empty abyss. Her lack of emotion scared him on par with the stranger's touch.
She's doing this somehow.
Luto released Camila. The grip on his shoulder lessened. Pain roared forth as feeling returned to his arm.
He turned and stumbled. There was just a carpet and a television cart staring back at him. Nothing too strange. Still, he couldn't stop drawing in ragged breaths. He glanced at Camila
Like a statue. A barely-blinking statue, laying on a bed. After a few minutes of this odd exchange, he stood.
Voice as even as he could muster, he said, "You'll earn your keep by cooking and cleaning, same as my mother did. It's only fair."
Camila stared at him. Finally, she reacted. She shrugged, and rolled over.
The crackling in the air died down.
Just like that, it was done.
Neither of them mentioned it ever again.
~*~
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