Tarnished Beauty (10 page)

“We've talked about this before, Carmencita. You know I can't leave until the children are grown and out of the house. That won't change.”

He put his foot over the threshold and Carmen spoke again. “Where are you going?”

“Where can I go?”

“You can stay if you want, you bastard. That doesn't change either.” And Louis promptly slammed the door and planted himself next to Carmen, where they stayed snuggled for the rest of the evening until they retired to the bedroom. That evening Jamilet fell asleep to the ardent, slap-happy sounds of their lovemaking, but it was the best night's sleep she'd had in three days.

T
HE BATHROOM
, with its enormous tub and bright white tile, was the most pleasant room in the house. Here, Jamilet found peace and solace from her worries, although here too was the place where she examined the mark. It was possible to see most of it if she adjusted the two mirrors over the sink so they reflected onto each other, and she turned herself halfway around and looked over one shoulder. The first time she did this, the breath caught in her throat. Under the harsh light, the mark was like red lava frozen in time, spilling over her shoulders, her back, covering her buttocks and trailing in thick ribbons down her thighs to the tops of her knees. It was worse than she remembered and appeared all the more alien when observed against the stark whiteness surrounding her.

It seemed that the weeks she'd spent not looking at the mark had affected her memory somehow, fading the horror to a mere shadow, an unpleasant annoyance. But now she had to once again accept that the mark was not this kind of problem. It was not a pile of rat-infested filth, or months of accumulated laundry that could be dispatched with a heavy dose of discipline and resolve.

It was no wonder that she'd waited so long to get on with her plans to find a job and begin saving the money she needed to be rid of it. She'd taken respite in dusting and organizing, and stirring pots on the stove, all the things she did in Mexico. She found comfort in the knowledge that at least for now, nobody knew of her disfigurement. Ashamed, but not discouraged, she lowered her body into the scalding bath and promised herself that from that day forward she would study the mark on a daily basis, from the base of her neck to the top of her knees, so she would never forget the reason she'd come north.

That very afternoon, when her aunt arrived home from work, Jamilet followed her into the bedroom and waited until she'd begun to remove her panty hose, a formidable undertaking. “Tía Carmen,” she announced. “I think it's time I get a job.”

Carmen kicked the hose to the corner of the room. “Haven't you got enough to do around here?”

“I want to earn some money I…I need to pay you rent.”

Carmen thought about this for a moment and shrugged. “I don't need help covering the rent.” She eased herself down on the bed and began to rub her sore feet. “Things have been going real good around here. Why don't you go to the community center? They can teach you how to read over there, like they taught me, and it won't take you all day, so you can still keep things up around here.”

Jamilet hesitated. This was a tempting thought, but she was anxious to get on with her plans. She dreaded saying what she knew she had to say next, but she also knew she could go round and round like this with her aunt for days, and get nowhere. “I want to get a job so I can save money, and see a doctor.”

Carmen froze in a rare moment of selfless concern. “Are you sick?”

“I'm not sick. It's…it's the mark, Tía. I want to see a doctor, and it's going to cost a lot of money to get rid of it.”

It took a moment for the revelation to register on Carmen's face. There was no doubt now, as her memory clarified with every blink of her eyes, that she had indeed forgotten all about it. “Oh
that,
” she finally said. “You still worried about
that
?”

Jamilet hardly knew how to respond. Her aunt referred to the mark as if it were a silly pimple or mole, easily hidden by a bit of makeup. Suddenly, Jamilet's anxiety was compounded by shame because the truth was that she wasn't worried—she was obsessed. The mark was like a thorn buried between her brows. “Yes,” she mumbled, red faced. “I'm still worried.”

Carmen stood up and grabbed her own belly with both hands, so that it resembled an enormous slab of meat. “Look at this,” she demanded, giving it a shake with every syllable she uttered. “I carry this shit around with me everywhere I go, and you don't see me worried. And I still got myself a man,” she concluded in a huff. She then proceeded to pull on a pair of sweatpants with a matching bright pink tube top that was two sizes too small.

Jamilet felt she might burst into tears. She'd trade her mark for a massive roll of belly like that any day of the week. In fact, she'd welcome it, and consider herself blessed. How she'd love to wake up at dawn every day and run through the streets, wearing a tank top to show off her smooth meaty shoulders to the world. She'd eat Jell-O, and broth for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That would be great. She'd love to be enormous and immensely fat, like a circus act, if that meant being rid of the mark. But there would be no more discussion that night. In a matter of minutes, Carmen was relaxing with her feet up in front of the TV, and her first beer consumed. Jamilet knew better than to question her any further that evening.

 

A few days later, Carmen came home and tossed an envelope on the kitchen counter. “Go ahead,” she said to Jamilet, who was busy dismembering a chicken for their dinner. “Open it.”

Jamilet wiped her hands on a dish towel and opened the envelope, discovering a card with words and numbers on its front and back. She looked questioningly at her aunt.

“With that little card,” Carmen said, quite pleased with herself, “you can get any job you want.”

“I can?”

“You sure can, as long as you remember that your name is Monica, not Jamilet.” She dropped her purse and proceeded to the refrigerator. “I paid good money for that. With your English, nobody will ever know it's a fake.”

Jamilet was well aware of the false documents for sale in many parts of the city. With good-quality papers it was possible to find the better jobs that paid minimum wage, and sometimes more. Without them, most people had to settle for work in one of the many sweatshops downtown that were reputed to be raided by immigration officials on a regular basis. “What if I get caught?” she asked.

“Oh, I don't know. They'll probably throw you in jail for a while, feed you bread and water once a week, and then ship your ass back to the border. And that's if you're lucky.” She turned to Jamilet, her face set hard. “So, keep the card safe, and don't show it around. Is that clear?”

 

Wearing a navy skirt that reached down below her knees, and a crisp white blouse, Jamilet felt secure that the mark wasn't visible. She then carefully placed her false identification card along with her birth certificate in a small cloth pouch, and pinned it to the inside of her bra to make sure it was safe. It would always be with her, over her heart. Her plans for finding employment were just as straightforward. The man at the supermarket had told her that with such a pretty face, and sweet smile, she'd be bound to get a good job at the department stores downtown that sold fancy clothes and shoes to the businesspeople, so that's where she was headed.

Carmen gave her the once-over when Jamilet emerged from the bathroom. “Hold on a second,” she said and rushed to her room, returning moments later with a bright pink scarf fluttering from her fingers. She circled it around her niece's neck, tied it this way and that, and then stood back to appraise her work. “They'd be crazy not to hire you,” she said.

Later that day, with one shoe dangling from each hand, Jamilet turned the corner to her aunt's house. Carmen's pink scarf hung limply around her neck as she walked with her head down, trying to avoid stepping on the dried chewing gum that was stuck to the sidewalk.

“What happened to you?”

Jamilet turned to see Eddie's brown eyes smiling down on her. This was perhaps the only moment since her arrival that she would have given anything not to see him. She swallowed hard. “I was out looking for a job,” she answered in a small voice.

“No luck, huh?”

Jamilet shook her head and swallowed again, a giant lump, thick as a fist. She longed for the quiet sanctuary of her bath, where she could assess her wounds in private and find strength in her secret visions.

Eddie narrowed his eyes with practiced good humor. “You got papers?”

Jamilet nodded, even more ashamed. She might have found an excuse in not having any.

“Where'd you go looking?”

Jamilet told him and he rolled his eyes and whistled. “Are you crazy? They don't hire Mexicans in that place. You should try down by the garment district. You'd have better luck.”

“But they don't pay as good.”

He was still shaking his head, both amazed and amused by her lack of judgment. “Lemme see your papers,” he said, extending his hand and rubbing his fingers together impatiently. Jamilet hesitated and glanced in the direction of the house. “C'mon, hand 'em over, I'm an expert,” he said, ignoring her discomfort.

Jamilet dropped her shoes and reached into her shirt for the pouch. She produced the card and handed it over, praying to God that her aunt wouldn't catch her.

Eddie studied the card, front and back. “This is good. It must've cost some bucks.” He returned the card and his gaze shifted up toward the canopy of wires above them. “I think I know of a job for you. It pays decent, but it's not for everybody.” His eyes dropped back down to Jamilet's face. “You ever heard of Braewood?”

“What is…?” She attempted to pronounce it exactly as he had. “Braewood?”

“It's a nuthouse. You know, a place where they put the crazy people who talk to themselves and shit. It's not too far from here.”

Jamilet listened to him talk about the place, noting that his easy demeanor had stiffened. She could have told him that she wasn't easily frightened, but she preferred listening to him go on about his cousin who'd just quit her job there, and how she came home every day with stories that made it difficult for her little brothers and sisters to sleep at night. He told her, while stuffing his hands into his pockets as though suddenly chilled, that his cousin thought the place was haunted, but then, she was also the type to freak out when the cat brought home a dead rat. He stopped abruptly, as though suddenly aware that he'd been talking for several uninterrupted minutes, something rarely experienced in the company of a girl. “So, you interested or what?”

Jamilet nodded. “How do I get there?”

He attempted to give her directions, but Jamilet didn't know the area well enough to understand them. “Okay, listen,” he said in a hushed voice. “If you meet me down the street, by that tree”—he pointed to a large sycamore a few yards down from Carmen's house—“let's say…tonight at around nine, I'll walk you over. It's on my way home, but it's just between you and me, okay? I don't want Pearly to find out.”

“Okay,” Jamilet said, feeling the rush of something unfamiliar and wonderful. “I'll be waiting by the tree.”

 

Standing underneath the branches so that the leaves brushed the top of her head, Jamilet felt like a creature well accustomed to the night, and an unsettling sensation born of hunger and anticipation filled her. She'd been thinking about Eddie while lying in her bed since they'd made plans to meet. Many stories came to her, leaving her almost breathless, although she lay very still on her bed. They were somewhat far-fetched, and in one version, she had to admit that she might have gone too far. Pearly had found them, their limbs desperately entwined like the thirsty roots beneath her feet, and she challenged Jamilet to fight for her man, but Eddie stepped in, concerned only with Jamilet's welfare. The drama grew more and more outlandish, with each turn serving only to confirm Eddie's remarkable love for Jamilet, and growing disgust for Pearly.

She tried to put these stories out of her mind and satisfy herself with the true knowledge that in a few moments, she'd be with him, but they conjured themselves up like a chorus of jealous ghosts, each fighting for their time to haunt her. Try as she might to resist them, she always gave in for fear that they wouldn't return when she needed them most.

Jamilet stepped out from her hiding place when Eddie approached, but he said nothing, motioning with a flick of his head that she should follow him. His stride was brisk, and for several blocks not a word passed between them. After they crossed the second streetlight, he relaxed a bit, and slowed his pace so that Jamilet could keep up without needing to break into a trot every now and then, but it was clear he wasn't interested in conversation. He grunted when Jamilet thanked him for showing her the way, and when she asked him how long his cousin had worked at Braewood, he answered, “Don't know.”

They walked on in silence, as the fantasy inspired by what could be contained within her aunt's romance novels took over in her mind.

 

Eddie's watching her, looking for an opportunity to act on his manly desire. “It can be pretty scary here,” he says. “If you're afraid, just stay close to me and I'll protect you.”

“What's there to be afraid of?” she replies with a shrug, unaware of how alluring she is to him, how the curve of her hips is driving him wild.

He opens his eyes wide, pretending to be shocked. “You're not afraid of total nutcases? Don't you know that they'll skin you alive if you give them half a chance?” In spite of his desire to stay in control, Eddie takes her hand and attempts to embrace her, but Jamilet gently pushes him away, teasing and drawing him in with her forced bravado.