加西亚家的姑娘 英文名著｜第7章

Mami, Papi, Yoyo

For a period after they arrived in this country, Laura García tried to invent something. Her ideas always came after the sightseeing visits she took with her daughters to department stores to see the wonders of this new country. On his free Sundays, Carlos carted the girls off to the Statue of Liberty or the Brooklyn Bridge or Rockefeller Center, but as far as Laura was concerned, these were men’s wonders. Down in housewares were the true treasures women were after.

Laura and her daughters would take the escalator, marveling at the moving staircase, she teasing them that this might be the ladder Jacob saw with angels moving up and down to heaven. The moment they lingered by a display, a perky saleslady approached, no doubt thinking a young mother with four girls in tow fit the perfect profile for the new refrigerator with automatic defrost or the heavy duty washing machine with the prewash soak cycle. Laura paid close attention during the demonstrations, asking intelligent questions, but at the last minute saying she would talk it over with her husband. On the drive home, try as they might, her daughters could not engage their mother in conversation, for inspired by what she had just seen, Laura had begun inventing.

She never put anything actual on paper until she had settled her house down at night. On his side of the bed her husband would be conked out for an hour already, his Spanish news-papers draped over his chest, his glasses propped up on his bedside table, looking out eerily at the darkened room like a disembodied bodyguard. In her lighted corner, pillows propped behind her, Laura sat up inventing. On her lap lay one of those innumerable pads of paper her husband brought home from his office, compliments of some pharmaceutical company, advertising tranquilizers or antibiotics or skin cream. She would be working on a sketch of something familiar but drawn at such close range so she could attach a special nozzle or handier handle, the thing looked peculiar. Her daughters would giggle over the odd doodles they found in kitchen drawers or on the back shelf of the downstairs toilet. Once Yoyo was sure her mother had drawn a picture of a man’s you-know-what; she showed her sisters her find, and with coy, posed faces they inquired of their mother what she was up to. Ay, that was one of her failures, she explained to them, a child’s double-compartment drinking glass with an outsized, built-in straw.

Her daughters would seek her out at night when she seemed to have a moment to talk to them: they were having trouble at school or they wanted her to persuade their father to give them permission to go into the city or to a shopping mall or a movie—in broad daylight, Mami! Laura would wave them out of her room. “The problem with you girls …” The problem boiled down to the fact that they wanted to become Americans and their father—and their mother, too, at first—would have none of it.

“You girls are going to drive me crazy!” she threatened, if they kept nagging. “When I end up in Bellevue, you’ll be safely sorry!”

She spoke in English when she argued with them. And her English was a mishmash of mixed-up idioms and sayings that showed she was “green behind the ears,” as she called it.

If her husband insisted she speak in Spanish to the girls so they wouldn’t forget their native tongue, she’d snap, “When in Rome, do unto the Romans.”

Yoyo, the Big Mouth, had become the spokesman for her sisters, and she stood her ground in that bedroom. “We’re not going to that school anymore, Mami!”

“You have to.” Her eyes would widen with worry. “In this country, it is against the law not to go to school. You want us to get thrown out?”

“You want us to get killed? Those kids were throwing stones today!”

“Sticks and stones don’t break bones,” she chanted. Yoyo could tell, though, by the look on her face, it was as if one of those stones the kids had aimed at her daughters had hit her. But she always pretended they were at fault. “What did you do to provoke them? It takes two to tangle, you know.”

“Thanks, thanks a lot, Mom!” Yoyo stormed out of that room and into her own. Her daughters never called her Mom except when they wanted her to feel how much she had failed them in this country. She was a good enough Mami, fussing and scolding and giving advice, but a terrible girlfriend parent, a real failure of a Mom.

Back she went to her pencil and pad, scribbling and tsking and tearing off sheets, finally giving up, and taking up her New York Times. Some nights, though, if she got a good idea, she rushed into Yoyo’s room, a flushed look on her face, her tablet of paper in her hand, a cursory knock on the door she’d just thrown open. “Do I have something to show you, Cuquita!”

This was Yoyo’s time to herself, after she finished her home-work, while her sisters were still downstairs watching TV in the basement. Hunched over her small desk, the overhead light turned off, her desk lamp poignantly lighting only her paper, the rest of the room in warm, soft, uncreated darkness, she wrote her secret poems in her new language.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes!” Laura began, snapping on the overly bright overhead light, scaring off whatever shy passion Yoyo, with the blue thread of her writing, had just begun coaxing out of a labyrinth of feelings.

“Oh, Mami!” Yoyo cried out, her eyes blinking up at her mother. “I’m writing.”

“Ay, Cuquita.” That was her communal pet name for who-ever was in her favor. “Cuquita, when I make a million, I’ll buy you your very own typewriter.” (Yoyo had been nagging her mother for one just like the one her father had bought to do his order forms at home.) “Gravy on the turkey” was what she called it when someone was buttering her up. She buttered and poured. “I’ll hire you your very own typist.”

Down she plopped on the bed and held out her pad. “Take a guess, Cuquita?” Yoyo studied the rough sketch a moment. Soap sprayed from the nozzle head of a shower when you turned the knob a certain way? Instant coffee with creamer already mixed in? Time-released water capsules for your potted plants when you were away? A keychain with a timer that would go off when your parking meter was about to expire? (The ticking would help you find your keys easily if you mislaid them.) The famous one, famous only in hindsight, was the stick person dragging a square by a rope—a suitcase with wheels? “Oh, of course,” Yoyo said, humoring her. “What every household needs: a shower like a car wash, keys ticking like a bomb, luggage on a leash!” By now, it had become something of a family joke, their Thomas Edison Mami, their Benjamin Franklin Mom.

Her face fell. “Come on now! Use your head.” One more wrong guess, and she’d show Yoyo, pointing with her pencil to the different highlights of this incredible new wonder. “Remember that time we took the car to Bear Mountain, and we re-ah-lized that we had forgotten to pack an opener with our pick-a-nick?” (Her daughters kept correcting her, but she insisted this was how it should be said.) “When we were ready to eat we didn’t have any way to open the refreshments cans?” (This before fliptop lids, which she claimed had crossed her mind.) “You know what this is now?” Yoyo shook her head. “Is a car bumper, but see this part is a removable can opener. So simple and yet so necessary, eh?”

“Yeah, Mami. You should patent it.” Yoyo shrugged as her mother tore off the scratch paper and folded it, carefully, corner to corner, as if she were going to save it. But then, she tossed it in the wastebasket on her way out of the room and gave a little laugh like a disclaimer. “It’s half of one or two dozen of another.”

None of her daughters was very encouraging. They resented her spending time on those dumb inventions. Here they were trying to fit in America among Americans; they needed help figuring out who they were, why the Irish kids whose grand-parents had been micks were calling them spies. Why had they come to this country in the first place? Important, crucial, final things, and here was their own mother, who didn’t have a second to help them puzzle any of this out, inventing gadgets to make life easier for the American Moms.

Sometimes Yoyo challenged her. “Why, Mami? Why do it? You’re never going to make money. The Americans have al-ready thought of everything, you know that.”

“Maybe not. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something they’ve missed that’s important. With patience and calm, even a burro can climb a palm.” This last was one of her many Dominican sayings she had imported into her scrambled English.

“But what’s the point?” Yoyo persisted.

“Point, point, does everything need a point? Why do you write poems?”

Yoyo had to admit it was her mother who had the point there. Still, in the hierarchy of things, a poem seemed much more important than a potty that played music when a toilet-training toddler went in its bowl.

They talked about it among themselves, the four girls, as they often did now about the many puzzling things in this new country.

“Better she reinvents the wheel than be on our cases all the time,” the oldest, Carla, observed. In the close quarters of an American nuclear family, their mother’s prodigious energy was becoming a real drain on their self-determination. Let her have a project. What harm could she do, and besides, she needed that acknowledgement. It had come to her automatically in the old country from being a de la Torre. “García de la Torre,” Laura would enunciate carefully, giving her maiden as well as married name when they first arrived. But the blank smiles had never heard of her name. She would show them. She would prove to these Americans what a smart woman could do with a pencil and pad.

She had a near miss once. Every night, she liked to read The New York Times in bed before turning off her light, to see what the Americans were up to. One night, she let out a yelp to wake up her husband beside her. He sat bolt upright, reaching for his glasses which in his haste, he knocked across the room. “¡Qué pasa! ¡Qué pasa!” What is wrong? There was terror in his voice, the same fear she’d heard in the Dominican Republic before they left. They had been watched there; he was followed. They could not talk, of course, though they had whispered to each other in fear at night in the dark bed. Now in America, he was safe, a success even; his Centro de Medicina in the Bronx was thronged with the sick and the homesick yearning to go home again. But in dreams, he went back to those awful days and long nights, and his wife’s screams confirmed his secret fear: they had not gotten away after all; the SIM had come for them at last.

“Ay, Cuco! Remember how I showed you that suitcase with little wheels so we should not have to carry those heavy bags when we traveled? Someone stole my idea and made a million!” She shook the paper in his face. “See, see! This man was no bobo! He didn’t put all his pokers on a back burner. I kept telling you, one of these days my ship would pass me by in the night!” She wagged her finger at her husband and daughters, laughing all the while, one of those eerie laughs crazy people in movies laugh. The four girls had congregated in her room. They eyed their mother and each other. Perhaps they were all thinking the same thing, wouldn’t it be weird and sad if Mami did end up in Bellevue?

“¡Ya, ya!” She waved them out of her room at last. “There is no use trying to drink spilt milk, that’s for sure.”

It was the suitcase rollers that stopped Laura’s hand; she had weathervaned a minor brainstorm. And yet, this plagiarist had gotten all the credit, and the money. What use was it trying to compete with the Americans: they would always have the head start. It was their country, after all. Best stick close to home. She cast her sights about—her daughters ducked—and found her husband’s office in need. Several days a week, dressed professionally in a white smock with a little name tag pinned on the lapel, a shopping bag full of cleaning materials and rags, she rode with her husband in his car to the Bronx. On the way, she organized the glove compartment or took off the ad-dress stickers from the magazines for the waiting room because she had read somewhere how by means of these stickers drug addict patients found out where doctors lived and burglarized their homes looking for syringes. At night, she did the books, filling in columns with how much money they had made that day. Who had time to be inventing silly things!

She did take up her pencil and pad one last time. But it was to help one of her daughters out. In ninth grade, Yoyo was chosen by her English teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, to deliver the Teacher’s Day address at the school assembly. Back in the Dominican Republic growing up, Yoyo had been a terrible student. No one could ever get her to sit down to a book. But in New York, she needed to settle somewhere, and since the natives were unfriendly, and the country inhospitable, she took root in the language. By high school, the nuns were reading her stories and compositions out loud in English class.

But the spectre of delivering a speech brown-nosing the teachers jammed her imagination. At first she didn’t want to and then she couldn’t seem to write that speech. She should have thought of it as “a great honor,” as her father called it. But she was mortified. She still had a slight accent, and she did not like to speak in public, subjecting herself to her classmates’ ridicule. It also took no great figuring to see that to deliver a eulogy for a convent full of crazy, old, overweight nuns was no way to endear herself to her peers.

But she didn’t know how to get out of it. Night after night, she sat at her desk, hoping to polish off some quick, noncommittal little speech. But she couldn’t get anything down.

The weekend before the assembly Monday morning Yoyo went into a panic. Her mother would just have to call in tomorrow and say Yoyo was in the hospital, in a coma.

Laura tried to calm her down. “Just remember how Mister Lincoln couldn’t think of anything to say at the Gettysburg, but then, bang! Four score and once upon a time ago,” she began reciting. “Something is going to come if you just relax. You’ll see, like the Americans say, Necessity is the daughter of invention. I’ll help you.”

That weekend, her mother turned all her energy towards helping Yoyo write her speech. “Please, Mami, just leave me alone, please,” Yoyo pleaded with her. But Yoyo would get rid of the goose only to have to contend with the gander. Her father kept poking his head in the door just to see if Yoyo had “fulfilled your obligations,” a phrase he had used when the girls were younger and he’d check to see whether they had gone to the bathroom before a car trip. Several times that weekend around the supper table, he recited his own high school valedictorian speech. He gave Yoyo pointers on delivery, notes on the great orators and their tricks. (Humbleness and praise and falling silent with great emotion were his favorites.)

Laura sat across the table, the only one who seem