Las Biuty Queens Page 9

  Niña inhales deeply. She exhales with great pleasure, cleansing her throat and her memories with the smoke.

  “Mami was the funniest,” she says, laughing.

  “Funny how?”

  “Because of what happened with the doves.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “She said not to give her any stolen dove meat, she’d only have the broth.”

  Niña and I start laughing. I stand up to serve myself more water.

  “Ay, no. Your mom sounds like a riot.”

  “The pineapple was bitter in those days.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The pineapple was bitter. Things at home were bad. There was no money. Maybe that’s why, when I was on the patio out back and saw the doves, I decided it was better for them to feed a hungry family then to be sacrificed in the name of witchcraft. I grabbed them, snapped their necks once and for all, and that was it. All of us at home ate happily, especially my mom.”

  We start laughing again.

  “Ay, my vieja, I miss her so much.”

  Niña has a big framed photo of her mother hanging in the living room. You can see it from the kitchen. I look at her from where I’m sitting and smile.

  “I need to get going. I’m going to rest and eat something and then I have to get ready to go to the bar.”

  “Remember he might call you today.”

  “Well,” I tell her, “if not today, tomorrow.”

  We say goodbye. I promise I’ll bring her the five dollars on Sunday. And if the man of my torment calls me, I’ll bring her ten. I’m tired. I wait for the elevator. I go to my room. I lie down on the bed and sleep deeply. The insistent ring of my cell phone wakes me. And what do you know? It’s him. He wants to see me tonight. It’s nine. I’ll see him at midnight, like I always do.

  I stretch out on the bed and start getting ready, beginning the ritual that will leave me looking beautiful. I think of his image at the bottom of the coffee cup and of the white doves coming and going in the window. I think of Niña’s mother drinking just the broth, hold the dove. I think of hunger and of love.

  Mother Hen and Her Chicks

  IT HAD BEEN A PRODUCTIVE DAY. Six clients for Diana and three for me. It was already 11:00 P.M. and we were ready for bed. We’d already paid for the motel room so we could stay another day. We were planning to get up so we could find at least as much work as the day before. The place where we were staying was near the edge of the Hudson River, in Fort Lee, New Jersey. All we had to do was cross the Washington Bridge from the bus station in Washington Heights, and in fifteen minutes we were in the Garden State. Every once in a while, we switched up neighborhoods to look for new clients.

  It was the middle of winter. The cold was intense that night, as was the heat in our room, so we had to leave the window open a crack to let in some cool air. On top of it, I’d just started on new hormones, Mexican injections known as cuerpo amarillo, which for twenty bucks you could get at the home of Raquel, a trans girl who lived in Queens. Every weekend she organized a party we nicknamed “the vitamins for gorgeousness party.” I was having hot f lashes like any woman during her period.

  “The only thing I miss about Texas is the climate,” said Diana, my Honduran friend, her cheeks like two red apples.

  “Texas? When were you there?”

  “Years ago. Before I went back to Honduras.”

  “What?” I asked her, surprised. “I thought you came here from Honduras and never went back to your country, just like all of us.”

  “No. I came here for the first time when I was eight. My twin brother and I came to live with my mom, who was living in Houston.”

  “So why’d you go back to Honduras? If you stayed, you’d have your papers by now. You know what it’s like to be looking for tricks here in Jersey. If an undercover cop nabs us, we’ll go straight to immigration prison, and from there it’s a kick in the ass: back to Central America for you, and for me, off to Antarctica.”

  I thought my comment would get a laugh out of her. Instead, a silence followed that was interrupted only by the sound of faraway traffic. It was one of those silences that always precede a memory.

  “We were eight years old. An uncle of ours who bred chickens took us across. Honestly, all I really remember is he hid us under the f loor mats in a cargo truck. He put the thick, hard cloth down over our faces and told us not to move or speak unless he told us to. That’s the moment when I started to miss my grandmother. She’s the one who raised me.”

  “The one you always call on the phone?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Ay, loca, please. It’s not like we just met.”

  Finally, Diana laughed.

  “As soon as we got to my mom’s, my brother and I started going to school. At first, I didn’t understand anything. But in a few weeks, I could already communicate pretty well in English, or at least I could understand everything I heard.”

  “And, more importantly, you were with your mom. She must have been so happy.”

  “I barely ever saw her. My mom worked nights, so when we left for school she was already sleeping. Sometimes she waited for us and made us breakfast. The three of us would eat together. She always looked tired.”

  “Claro, mujer. We both know working nights will destroy a girl.”

  “That’s true. She worked so much that lots of times she would fall asleep watching TV. But, in the end, that’s how she ended up paying for my brother and me to cross the border, and even a few of my uncles and one of my cousins after that.”

  “Sounds like your mom didn’t just go the extra mile for you guys, she actually dragged herself the extra mile.”

  “You could say that,” she replied dismissively. She waited a few seconds and said, “I’m just thinking about the mother hens who won’t leave their chicks, no matter what happens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My brother and I decided to go back to Honduras.”

  “But you were so young!”

  “Yes. We were ten at that point. We were eight when we got here. We lasted two years in that place.”

  “How did your mom not say anything? After she’d paid so much to bring you over? And when you were just kids.”

  “My mom was in another world. I don’t know that she really cared.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m sure she cared. And anyway, I don’t know how she let you go back to Honduras.”

  “She was like the Shakira song: blind, dumb, and deaf-mute. Head over heels for the man who lived with us.”

  “Your stepfather?”

  “Yeah, although I’d rather call him literally anything else.”

  “He wasn’t a good guy?”

  “He abused me and my brother.”

  Images and sounds of children playing at recess came to my mind. Children looking at me, children smiling. The children’s laughter wasn’t happy and it wasn’t sad. It was the laughter of children.

  “Mother hens never leave their chicks, is what I was saying.”

  “Maybe your mom didn’t know. You said she was always working.”

  My friend looked pensive. To break up the silence and bring us some good energy, I said, “At least you seem to get along well with her now?”

  “Yes, I don’t hold it against her. We just told her we missed our grandmother and she didn’t object to letting us go back.”

  “Maybe she knew the real reason and wanted you to be in a safer place.”

  “You might be right. And she was expecting that guy’s baby. My brother and I couldn’t wait to go back to Roatán, to my grandma’s house. If he didn’t abuse me on any given day, he’d abuse my brother. It was like that every day. We were so relieved when they put us on the plane to go back. It felt like we could breathe again.”

  “And your mom never found out?”

  “No. What difference would it have made? In any case, that guy was arrested for armed robbery right after we left. They killed him in jail
. I should also mention that he’s my sister Rosie’s dad, and I adore her. It’s in the past. What’s done is done.”

  “Who else have you told about this?’

  “My grandmother. Because when I was thirteen I started drinking. I’d get home pretty drunk. I barely ever went to school. One of those nights, she confronted me. It all just spilled out.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She didn’t say anything. We never talked about it again. It seemed easier just to play dumb about that kind of thing. To close your ears and your eyes and just pretend nothing’s wrong.”

  The silence that followed was intense.

  “If that guy abused you and your brother, he must have also been abusing your mom. She must have been terrified, too.”

  “A mother hen never leaves her chicks.”

  I stood up in the darkness and went to the bathroom. I turned on the cold water in the sink. I was thirsty. I offered a glass of water to my friend Diana.

  “No, thanks,” she answered.

  I went back to the bed.

  “What color hair do you think the Virgin Mary has?” she asks me out of the blue.

  I tell her I have no idea.

  “I think it must be golden.”

  We sat in silence. I could sense from my friend’s breathing that she was falling asleep. It must have been past midnight. The traffic on the Washington Bridge had thinned out. I watched Diana sleeping; she breathed like a child. A ray of golden light came through the window and illuminated the room for a few seconds.

  Sabrina’s Wedding

  THIS MUÑECA IS READY TO GO,” I say to Diana, looking myself over in the mirror for the nineteenth and final time.

  “Uf, it’s about time.”

  “Ay, it’s so much easier for you, Diana, you’re trans 24-7. Travestis have to build ourselves de pie a cabeza every single time. Now I’m done from head to toe.”

  “Isn’t it about time you started your transition? You’re sort of behind.”

  “Next year, muñeca. Next year,” I replied, wanting to change the subject. Getting started on hormones isn’t so simple, and neither are the laser hair removal and electrolysis I need to keep my beard from growing. Not to mention I’ll have to get some hair growing on the old noggin.

  “Let me just have the last beer,” says Diana.

  “That’s enough. You know you’re getting trashed at the party.”

  “Ay, who knows. This is Sabrina’s wedding we’re talking about. If she’s the one throwing the party, anything can happen.”

  “Don’t be a bad-luck bird. Everything’s going to be fine. Today our loca’s getting married, so she’ll be in a good mood.”

  “Mm-hmm, very high and in a very good mood,” says Diana, making noises with her nose as though inhaling something.

  “Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to have a little something for my nose, would you?” I ask her, touching up my false lashes.

  “Ay, don’t even bother. You know I don’t take that stuff. I just keep some around in case a client wants some. But if you want to give me a hundred bucks, I’ll give you a bag.”

  “Ya, loca, I’m not one of your tricks.”

  “Then forget it,” she says dryly, looking at her phone. “Ready? The taxi will be here in less than ten.”

  “Sí, more than ready,” I say, taking my twentieth and final look in the mirror.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  She tips up the bottle to drink what’s left of the beer. Before we leave, she comes over and asks me to pose with her while she takes photos with her cell phone.

  “I’m going to put them on Facebook. I’ll photoshop them later in the car.”

  We walk out of her apartment and take the elevator. We walk down St. Nicholas Avenue, where Raimundo, Diana’s personal taxi driver, is waiting for us. My friend isn’t just your average escort. She’s an escort who charges so much she can afford to have her own personal driver.

  It’s the end of September and a soft breeze heralds the fall.

  We take the West Side Highway. I’ve always liked to ride that way in a car. Especially at night, when you can see all the skyscrapers lit up to one side and the lights of New Jersey on the other. It’s daytime, but the grandeur of this city still amazes me and makes me feel sheltered, protected. Despite all the terrorist threats, I feel safe in New York.

  In less than twenty minutes, we’re at Penn Station. We have to take a train to Long Beach.

  We walk through halls jam-packed with people. Some of them look at us with curiosity. Diana f lirts here and there. I’m not feeling it, I’m in movie star mode, rocking the rather fake Versace glasses I bought on Broadway in Upper Manhattan.

  At the booth, we buy a one-way ticket. Once we get there, we’ll work something out with the other locas to split a taxi back to the city. Honestly, with the high we’ll be riding, we’ll be in no condition to take the train.

  They announce over the loudspeakers that our train is about to depart. We run frantically to the platform, and the second we step onto the train, the doors close behind us. We sit down in the back, where there are barely any passengers. Protected from indiscreet looks, we attend to our respective housekeeping. Diana, who has a long career behind her, knows all the tricks. Instead of going to the bathroom, she drops her pants right there and carefully tucks her penis and testicles into her tiny pair of panties. After running for the train, I’m sweating more than a little. I take out the paper towel I always keep in my wallet, take off my wig, and dry off my sweaty scalp.

  I’m just beginning to relax when the guy appears who checks tickets. I’m happy to see this forty-something white man dressed in a uniform that, even in today’s technological world, hasn’t changed colors or styles in decades. He belongs to the group of city dwellers that withstand the passage of time. They’ve always been around.

  We hear them announce that the train will stop at every station until we arrive to Long Beach, our destination.

  “This sucks. I was hoping we’d go express,” I say, annoyed, to Diana.

  “Actually, that’s better. Gives me time for a little nap, to make up for last night. I barely slept.”

  “Go for it. I’ll wake you up before we get there.”

  I get comfortable and touch up my wig. I can’t let myself relax so much that I fall asleep. I know I’ll leave the seat covered in makeup.

  As the train winds along its route, I think about how great Sabrina must be feeling right about now. She’s getting married today. I imagine her running along the beach, dressed all in white, holding the hand of her new husband, tossing her veil up so that it falls at the ocean’s edge, all wet and immaculate. I try to imagine my face on that person’s body instead of hers, dreaming that I’m the one getting married.

  I’m about to let out a sigh when they announce Long Beach is next. I wake Diana and she sits up, stretching her arms.

  “Are we already there?” she asks me, her eyes still closed.

  “Almost. It’s the next stop.”

  We stand up, and when we arrive, we exit the train. We’re greeted by a breeze that blows both warm and cool. You can feel how close we are to the ocean. Diana says we should look for a taxi.

  On the street is a line of taxis with drivers reclining in their seats, listening to music or a baseball game. They look pretty relaxed. The polar opposite of Manhattan, where they act like piranhas when they’re looking for passengers. And now that Uber’s around, they’re worse than ever. We climb into the first one in line.

  “To the beach,” I command.

  “What part of the beach?” the driver asks with his white guy from Long Island look.

  Diana and I stare at each other.

  “We’re going to a friend’s wedding,” we say like robotic twins.

  “Oh! I know where that is,” he says. “Lots of couples get married in that part of the beach.”

  “If not, we’ll just follow the scent of queens’ feathers burning.” We laugh along with
the taxi driver, who definitely has zero idea what we’re talking about.

  And that’s where we go. Through an area that seems like a neighborhood. To our right and left, only trees and houses. After driving for a few minutes, we come to a road lined with vegetation. All of a sudden, in front of us, the sea appears.

  “Leave us here,” Diana interrupts.

  “Really? You sure?”

  “Yes. Let’s walk along the beach a little. I haven’t done that in ages. The locas should be around here somewhere. I’ll just call one of them with my cell phone. We’ll find each other with GPS.”

  “Of course. I always forget you’re a twenty-first-century queen.”

  The taxi driver charges us twenty dollars. Diana pays him, we get out of the taxi, and she immediately tells me I owe her ten.

  While our driver takes off, we stand there in silence, savoring the ocean breeze. We inhale and exhale. All that’s missing from this beach is the chatter of seagulls. Sometimes I forget this ocean isn’t my native Pacific. All of a sudden, we have the strong urge to throw ourselves into the sand and not to get back up again. We’re about to let ourselves fall when we hear laughter in the distance.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, hold on.” She looks for her cell phone in her purse. “Let me call Cassandra. Hi. Yes, it’s me, Diana. I’m here with Monalisa.”

  The wind carries over another echo of laughter. Not just any laughter, but—we would know it anywhere—the laughter of locas.

  Diana stays on the phone with Cassandra.

  “What? Let me see. I see the veil over there, the wind’s almost blowing it off. Sounds good, I’ll see you in a second.”

  There’s a veil in the distance. That must be where we’re going, where Sabrina’s getting married. I think we must be late; the party’s already started.

  “Cassandra says something happened, we’ll find out when we get there.”

  As we approach, we hear the laughter more clearly. The sea breeze is exquisite. Our friends toss up the veil and let it fall slowly, with the velocity of the wind. They try to catch it only to throw it back up again. Like a child’s game. Cassandra, Pamela, and Candy. Just three women who, with their extravagant laughter, simulate a multitude.