Cocktails, Caviar and Diapers Page 4

  He looks at the sand until he can see each tiny stone and he feels that the sand is his. Then he looks up and sees the bigness of the beach. His mother is close enough to block out the sun and the bigness. He runs and puts his head on her lap, burrowing to make a hole. She rubs his head and scratches his ears.

  His hair springs gold from the peak on his forehead and she feels its roughness and the roundness of his head. The frail neck, the shoulders beginning to have a boy’s sharpness, the shoulder blades with the hollow between filled with white sand, are dear to her and she touches them with her fingertips. Legs, that will be long, splay out. Fat arms drag at her neck and he kisses her on the eye, then he proudly marches to his toy car.

  Happy, owning his motherland the beach, he scoops long, curving roads in the sand, droning a motor song as he works. Here is a garage for the car, a cover of sand. He is delighted to hide it, then find it again, in its own little house. The sand scratches and squeaks as he pushes it. Again he feels part of the sand and the hill made by the little toy car seems big as he sights along his make-believe road to the hot sky. Then he reaches for his car and pushes it, roaring, along his road. He sees nothing but the sand and the car. There is only the game and himself.

  Suddenly another hand, smaller than his, reaches for the car and rolls, wiggling and waiting for welcome, in front of him.

  “Get off my road, get off my road!” he shouts. Cords stand out on his neck, his face is flushed and tears start to his eyes. “It’s mine, go away!”

  His brother crouches next to him, feeling content. His fat thighs support his stomach and he looks at the car in curiosity. His? Yours? Mine? There is the toy he wants and his brother wants it too, so it is not his any longer.

  Born with green eyes that delight to look and live, nothing matters beyond his love of the world and the moment. Close to him, so that he half sits on it, he holds his blue ball. His? He loves the heat and the bright and believes his brother to own all days. He smiles.

  The big brother reaches to snatch the toy from his baby brother, catches his mother watching him and draws back, innocent. He jumps up and runs to another secret parking lot, scoops out the friendly sand and continues his game. He drones in front and back of the baby, tantalizing and close. The baby drops the toy and reaches for the newest game. With a flash of false generosity, the bigger boy, golden and proud, hands him the toy and spraying sand, runs for the abandoned toy.

  The beach gets hotter under the sun. Two small boys drone a motor song together looking frail on the long beach.

  To each of them, their determined selves make them feel big and each hummock of sand is another hill conquered by their racing cars. Their roads go together, then separate. They quarrel briefly, they play and then tire of the game. The big brother nestles to his mother. The baby touches her hair in greeting and sits close, barely touching.

  “It’s good, Andrée, a bit sentimental but you are a good mother,” says Evans.

  “I felt I discovered something about human beings and about each of the children. It seems symbolic to me. I’d like to write a book about real life, as I observe it.”

  “If you want to, you will. There are so many things you like to do. But why not just enjoy the children? Be content to be a good mother.”

  “They are wonderful and I love to be with them. I get restless. My friends in New York do so much, there’s so much to do in the world.”

  “Your friends would prefer being down here, I’m sure. Let’s have another baby. We make wonderful babies. You’d be busy enough then. We’ll always live abroad, and you’ll have plenty of help.”

  “Your solution: keep them barefoot and pregnant.”

  “And running six feet behind! Your place is in the home.” Evans laughs but I see that he is serious. Where did male supremacy take root in him? I never saw it before. It makes me feel uneasy, canceled out. I get tired of struggling to be something. He must be right. I love children and loving will keep me alive until I find out who I am.

  Chapter 3: Company Wife

  1957

  “Andrée, I’ve been transferred. We’ll be moving to Caracas immediately.”

  I look at him, he stares back intensely, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The heavy pillars of the old hospital feel cool to my hand, the night lights sparkle in the little town of Hato Rey. Distant meringue music drifts on to the balcony with the smell of damas de la noche[5] flowers thick and sweet.

  “Did you just find out or did you wait until I’d had the baby?”

  The fact that I’ve just given birth seems unimportant to him. I’ve dropped another kitten in the litter.

  From where I lean against the cement, I can see large Puerto Rican families noisily caring for the mothers and children. It is not the custom to have nurses here, the Puerto Ricans preferring family instead. But of course, I have no family here.

  Another move! Well, if I’m going to be a housewife with a large family, I might as well move around the world and enjoy myself. I was getting a bit tired of our life here. We’d go on acting in the amateur theater, and I would have been Blanche in the “Streetcar Named Desire” if I hadn’t gotten pregnant. We would have explored more of this lovely little island and met a few more wanderers like us.

  Well, why not?

  “I’ve even rented a huge and incredible house. Oh, Andrée, it’s an exciting new culture for us, we’ll read about it and explore. The company people look nice.” He is taut as a wire, the change has brought him to life. He’s been stuck in a routine here. His thick black hair is electric, he leans lightly forward, an athlete ready to do battle. The new baby, Sean, is like him.

  “Are you getting the passports?

  “No, darling, I’m flying back tomorrow. I’m leaving it up to you: passports, shots, the movers. I’ll take care of the Venezuelan papers there.”

  “Oh, Evans, I can’t, there’s the new baby. Who will bring me home from the hospital?”

  “I’ll ask Lael. You two are good friends and her husband will be moving up a step in the company. She’ll be glad to help.”

  “I can’t say I like the idea of flying over all alone with three small children, one not even a month old.”

  “You’ll have to do it, that’s all.”

  “I wonder if the head office has any idea what we company wives go through, overseas. They sit in their cozy American town with everything normal and expected.”

  “How dull, sweetie. We decided that wasn’t the life for us long ago. Looks like our move after this will be Paris. I’m working on it. We’ll get to our dream city yet.” Oh, Paris, I love this man. I don’t really want to say how Paris affected me on the vacation we just took there. It seemed a lilac town. I could not see the colors after my eyes had become adjusted to the bright light of the tropics. Rain and more rain, too.

  “Evans dear, you can’t say we lead a dull life. I hope the boys can manage all the changes. I hope I can get Jello and cake mix and a good maid.”

  “I think we should send them to a French school in Caracas, they can fit in with the Lycée system anywhere.”

  “Please Evans, Jock is only four. I think he should get his Spanish down a bit better. We’ll have to speak English at home or the boys will become strangers in their own country.” I think guiltily of speaking Spanish to the children when we were last in New York–to show off, I suppose.

  “I don’t think we’ll ever get back. Why not have them speak just Spanish and French. It sounds much better.”

  “You must be joking. English is beautiful. Even Ortega y Gasset[6] says that Spanish is an infantile language. They have to be able to go back to the United States. I won’t let them lose their birthright.”

  “Raise the Flag.” He looks at me cold and unsmiling.

  I will not fight with him before he goes. I can speak to the boys in English at home and he’ll never know. He’ll probably forget about it. He leans to kiss me goodbye, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. When he gets angry with me, the o
dor of his skin changes and becomes faintly metallic. My hand feels cold as I touch his cheek. I hope that he will not go on one of his long stretches of not speaking to me. It was a month last time. At least I have the children.

  ***

  So many things to do on a move, I’m exhausted but I love it. Evans has not let me learn to drive until now because the insurance was too expensive for someone under twenty–five. I’ve tried to drive the company car but there must be something I’m doing wrong. Jock told Evans he likes to drive with me because smoke comes out of the back of the car. Guess I’d better take the old San Juan bus into town to get our shots and passports.

  The natives call the bus a guagua and it’s winding at breakneck speed along the cliff road. Sean nuzzles my neck and I look out at the miserable houses and ragged children, the magnificent view of rocks and dashing waves. Bounce, bounce, higher and higher, Jock and Eric are bouncing on the old springs. The Puerto Ricans are kind and help me. They love children.

  There–the government buildings, long and low and painted in the soft green of the thirties. Palm trees wave and rustle in the perpetual trade winds. Hibiscus and poinsettia blossoms hang from bushes around the steps leading down to the finger–printing office. I love old San Juan, the meringue beat in the air from countless radios turned full blast to Raaaa-dio Puerrrr-to Rrr-ico.

  Somehow get off the bus. The boys aren’t much help but they look ready for a party in their white suits. It is a party for them. Nice black ink for the fingerprints and lollipops after the shots. For a moment they’re falsely quiet as we trail across the street.

  “If one of you leaves my side, you’ll be sorry later!” The imps! They grin! My body is on wires, anticipating their next move. The diaper bag bangs heavily against my hip and Sean is beginning to wiggle.

  “What’s Caracas like, Mummy? Do they have Indians there?”

  “I don’t know much about it but they have very fierce Indians there, the Caribes. The Borinquen Indians here are very gentle and lazy. Things will be different. They have many revolutions.” Too different maybe. Evans is getting us a cedula, an identity card with a special number. If you don’t have a cedula you cannot live. If you lose it or it’s taken away, you are not any more. If a policeman takes my cedula for a minor traffic accident and puts me in jail, I am lost. No one can find me. The thought terrifies me.

  Venezuela, ruled by a dictator. An army ready to move against the invaders - us - whenever we are no longer useful. Can’t see why he’d let us take his oil indefinitely. How do you escape? Guzman Blanco escaped in a rowboat to his Swiss bank account after ruling uneasily for a few years. Now Evans says this would be impossible, even the airplanes are heavily guarded.

  There are terrorists here in Puerto Rico, dropping bombs but it’s still part of the United States. What am I going in to?

  We advance into the building, my two little guards breaking into a run when they see long shiny floors. Ah, a receptionist.

  “Senora, por favor, I would like to get a passaporte for cada[7] child.”

  Well, alright, I don’t speak much Spanish. Another gringo from the mainland, always on the outside of every society I hit.

  Who am I? A company wife, joining her husband.

  “Why must each child have a passport? They can go on one with you.”

  “They may travel separately to visit their grandparents in New York.”

  True reason, so many plane crashes, we feel it wise to travel in separate batches so there will always be a family to carry on. Perhaps the new jets will be safer. The official at the next desk smiles at me in welcome and Sean lifts his minute face on the wobbly neck and gives him a piercing stare. All difficulties fade. Puerto Ricans love children. Smiles. Ink all over our fingers. My warning looks hold the children like a leash. Their fingerprints are so tiny, look at Sean’s! I hug his wiry little body.

  We proceed to the dispensary.

  “Señora, be sure to keep this record with your passport at all times.”

  I smile. Rules, rules, rules - there seems to be a lot of red tape involved in this trip.

  “I’ll be brave and have mine first.”

  The boys roll their eyes at each other. How is it that they’ve never seen “The Little Rascals” and behave just like them?

  The room is old fashioned in pale green with a large over–head fan blowing softly, brushing away the flies. I wipe beads of perspiration from the back of my neck. When the winds are blocked, Puerto Rico steams. As my arm swells, I wonder how I’m going to hold the baby. A very executive nurse, she is firing off information at me, proudly showing that she is a highly trained government worker. That’s another thing they don’t tell the company wives. On more remote posts you have to be as good as any nurse. I hate giving penicillin injections. Gives me the creeps. At least I’ve learned how to control little Eric’s high fevers and convulsions.

  “As you are going to Venezuela, you will need our pamphlets on worms and snakes. They have some bad ones there. You will have to purify the water with pills and wash lettuce and fresh vegetables with purified water. They fertilize with human compost.”

  Thanks for the good news! What is she trying to do, make Puerto Rico look advanced by comparison? What am I going into? I have a vision of snakes hissing on every hill, revolting worms in every mouthful. It just couldn’t be that bad.

  “Be careful not to walk in bare feet.” She shoves some more government pamphlets on me, designed to scare the hell out of the natives. I’m leaving!

  Sean is getting heavier and heavier and I heave him up on my shoulder. I think I’ll really work on my Spanish. I don’t like being so helpless. This woman only means to help. I’m sure that the company wives have the whole procedure taped.

  “Come boys! Let’s get back to the bus stop.”

  The wind whips at my full skirt. Cold or hot, wind is exciting. At least it moves. I never have enough movement going on, no matter how much I do, how many children I have. I always feel that I have untapped reserves, enormous reserves, like sitting on top of a volcano. The violence bubbles in me, flexing my muscles. Action! The world is so slow!

  ***

  Home at last. It’s as if having children has become some sort of obstacle course for me, life examination papers with a built–in handicap. Who’s afraid I’ll win? Me?

  I doze in the creaking old rocking chair while I nurse Sean.

  “Wake up, Andrée! You’ll drop my godchild!” Lael, graceful and cheerful, huge blue eyes and the manner of a school teacher from the old West. She always makes life seem possible.

  “Lael! I’m so drugged from my shots. You look all dressed up, what’s going on?”

  “Leave the boys with Edna. We’re going to the Hat Contest at the Caribe Hilton. We want you, they’ll be taking pictures. Come on!”

  “I’ll rip the poinsettia flowers off the front hedge and cover my old beach hat with them. That should do it!”

  What fun I have when Evans is away. I can giggle and do silly things. When he’s here, I can never be like this. He disapproves of me. Then there’s the company game. He’s always afraid I’ll make a false move with the bosses from the home office.

  As Lael and I get into her rattle-trap car, the children run out into the front yard and swing on the rubber tree. We wave and call goodbye and for a minute they fill my vision. It’s worth it, all of it, for them.

  “Lael, is it true that Jan is having an affair with the boss? She’s so gifted. It seems like a small game to play.” An exciting one too. She buys a house, paints it pink, sells it and buys another. She has a cute figure, wears pink dresses and gold bangles and her hair is streaked gold too. She is so sophisticated I can’t believe it.

  “Maybe her husband wants her to play that game. He could have stopped her. Gives him more pull at court, you know.” Lael’s eyes sparkle in the light, I don’t know if she’s serious. “Well, he wants to be assigned Portugal. They’ll probably give it to get him out of Puerto Rico.” Her mouth pulls t
ight. Then she does think it as sad as I do.

  “He’s a nice enough guy. He must hate it, even if it’s useful. What about his children?”

  “Oh, Jan must have been setting this up for some time. They’re tucked away in boarding schools. They look pretty lonely and afraid when they’re here, poor little guys.”

  “Is it possible that it started the other way around, that her husband insisted they go to school in the States to get a better education and she found herself so lonely that she looked for more company? What will happen to us if we’re still in South America? We don’t want our children to grow up in the colonial atmosphere. It’s unreal and corrupt.” Even a French Lycée doesn’t change the flocks of servants and the unearned privileges of an American family overseas.