Dominicana

by Angie Cruz

I look at my feet. I hold back my tears, slump my shoulders, and retreat just enough to show deference. I have learned a lot from growing up with animals.

Then he pushes me away to grab Juan’s neck and pull him into his house, César close behind them. They are like a centipede, one organism, lots of arms and legs.

The cottony clouds dot the blue sky. To look at the bright sun, you’d think it’s hot like back home. Why are the clouds so dotted here? What makes them that way? The cold air? Are Mamá, Papá, Lenny, Betty, Juanita, and Yohnny outside now, looking at the same sky, the same sun?

In his mind, God is for the unlucky, the poor, and the desperate.

They enter the car. It drives to the corner. It stops at the red light. And finally, finally, finally, the light turns green.

I’ll always choose you, he says, I swear, I will. Like all men who don’t want to see a woman cry, César lies. But hearing it does bring me comfort.

César is the color of the crunchy skin off of juicy roasted chicken thigh, creamy hot chocolate, buttered toast, dark honey, the broth of slow-cooked sancocho. Every soul food I crave. I

Then I find it, under the doily on the dining table: forty dollars, folded inside a sheet of notebook paper. Ana, Please forgive me. Marisela

Men can only perform like men, Mamá always says, when women are doing everything. We’re invisible little workers so they can puff out their chests.

We both hold our breath waiting for the contractions. Mamá says, Be strong, your body is made for this. Remember how your sister did it and the next day she went out dancing?

Mamá bends her knees and lifts me from the floor. They don’t know she has lifted animals even heavier than me.