Alicia the Psychic wrote to me even though I never sent her money.
She’s a robot! Lulú said.
Impossible, I said.
Every time I checked my email there was a message from Alicia the Psychic who told me she was losing sleep because my protectors were keeping her awake at night.
La Profesora said to be careful of scams. Email is full of them. She said people like us are the perfect target.
People like us?
I told her and Lulú that I know what is real and not. I am not a pendeja.
* * *
Tell me, you educated dominicana taking all those notes: What do you really think about me? You think there’s hope for me? Ay, qué bueno.
When La Escuelita recomendó I join this program so I can do interview practice, I said, Interview for what? And La Profesora said, For all the jobs you’ll try for! Ha! Between you and me, she’s very positiva, so she’s hard to trust. Be honest: Do you really believe there’s a job for me? Really? I’ve never heard of people that find a job without a key.
The news said this country is in a crisis! Nobody has jobs. It’s the most great recession since the Depression, when the people didn’t have cars and still made pee in pots. Well, maybe our building had toilets, but you understand what I’m saying. La Vieja Caridad, who lives in my building, remembers. She came from the revolutionaries of Cuba, José Martí and all those people. They lived in New York before the telephone and the electricity. For sure, they had no toilets that flushed. Our building didn’t exist. She says there were more trees than people.
Yesterday in the news, I saw a lawyer with two children and a wife, so desperate that he took a job in Wendy’s around here—not even downtown. Things are bad. More bad than bad. It’s just like in Santo Domingo: when there is no fresh bread, you eat casava. I never thought the banks in the United States would rob people. But now I see that this country is like that fisherman with fast hands on the beach who shows you the big fat fish, but when he cooks, he says it shrink.
* * *
My money situation? It’s OK right now because I get El Obama checks, but the only people I know who are prepared for the crisis are my sister ángela and her husband, Hernán. They saved money for many years to buy a house in Long Island. Hernán doesn’t want to leave our building because he can walk to work in the hospital every day, but ángela, she detests Washington Heights. Pero detests. So every weekend they go to look for houses.
Remember early in the nineties, when things were so bad that you could buy an apartment downtown for $100,000? Maybe you’re too young to remember. What age do you have? Thirty-five? Forty?
Wait, I didn’t mean to offend. Of course, you look like a teenager.
What I wanted to tell you is that in the past ángela and I, every weekend, went to look for apartments to dream. Now she dreams with Hernán. But I remember seeing an apartment in the street Eighty or Eighty-one, in front of Riverside—you know, where the rich live? You couldn’t put an entire bedroom set in those rooms, only a bed, maybe a queen, and one of those tall bureaus. But the windows looking to the trees: wow. In those days, there were so many apartments like that, cheap. Now that same apartment costs more than one million dollars. I’m serious. Look it up!
ángela talks about those apartments like they’re the man who got away. From the day she arrived to this country she was determined to leave Washington Heights. To do this she counted her money and calculated how many years it would take for the down payment. And when she met Hernán, she told him immediately the plan. She said, If you want to be with me, saving is a family project.
Every day for breakfast, they talk about their goal: a down payment for the house. With a yard. A room for each child. A porch for the swing. She writes the progress on the refrigerator. Every time they save $1,000, they buy a small cake from Carrot Top and celebrate with the children. That way, the children learn that dreams only become real with hard work and saving money.
Hernán and ángela save $50 a week. That’s $200 a month. And that’s $2,400 a year. In ten years, they saved $24,000. And we think ten years is a long time. But look at me, I worked in that factory for twenty-five years. And my son, Fernando, has been gone for ten.
Why do you say sorry? Ay, no. My son is not dead. He abandoned me. Maybe one day, si Dios quiere, I will tell you about Fernando.
But what I was saying is that time passes in a blink. If I would’ve saved even $10 a week maybe I wouldn’t be in so much trouble now. The little bit I put aside I sent to the banks in Santo Domingo. I converted my dollars to pesos because the interest was higher. Yes, of course you shake your head. It was stupid! What a mistake. Overnight, the change rate went from RD$13 for $1 to RD$45 for $1.
* * *
Talking to you makes me remember the days ángela and I got along. Now I can’t remember the last time we were in the same room without her getting angry with me.
How old is she? ángela is fifteen years younger than me. She’s my sister and we look the same age, but she could be my daughter. Maybe that’s why, like my son, Fernando, she thinks everything I say is wrong. For example, tell me you—was I wrong to say that we should relax Yadiresela’s hair? That’s my niece. It looks like a broom when I brush it. ángela gave me a lecture about chemicals and the damage it will make. She told me not to brush the children’s hair. But how do I get out the knots? The fury she puts on me could burn down a forest. So now I say nothing.
Do you have a sister? Oh good, so you understand. Sisters don’t always get along. But even when we fight, we eat dinner together, like a religion. Always we are two apartments but one house.
She makes me pudín de pan. I tell her it’s too sweet and then everything is OK. Food, I tell you, fixes things.
* * *
Yes, yes, I know. I am here to talk about getting a job.
But my point is I know how to save money too. When I was able to make a little extra, I saved. And when times were good, I always made extra, like in the winters when I did mandaos for La Vieja Caridad. Back then I helped her a little, now I help her every day, especially after she fell on the steps in front of our building because the super let the snow turn to ice. But listen to this, she didn’t even think to sue the building. We all told her to do it. But she said, I’m my father’s daughter, and then sang, Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde crece la palma. Do you know that song? Yes? It’s a good one.
La Vieja Caridad calls me and says, Cara, can you do me a favor and pick up something in the store? I would do it with pleasure for nothing, but she insists on giving me her money. She is good to give me her money because, without her even asking, I know what she needs. With the years we’ve known each other, she is like family. I clean her apartment. And not only on the tippy-tippy of things like the dust on the TV and the shelves. No. I get on my hands and knees and scrub the floors and clean the faucet and the drains. I organize her refrigerator so she can find everything easy. I put in order her forks, knives, and the spoons in the drawers. You know, small things that make a big difference in the life.
Toma, La Vieja Caridad says, and puts $20 in my hand.
No, no, I say to her. I don’t need the money.
Take, take, we all need.
She folds my fingers around the money like I do with children. I tell you, her skin, so thin and soft, like she’s never worked hard in her life.
We do the dance, you know?
She never had children. You don’t find that strange? No husband, no children. All her life, she lived with her childhood friend. When they walked together, they held on to each other. They fought in public like husband and wife. But no one knows for sure because until her friend died, I had never stepped into that apartment. It’s not my business. But it’s strange, right?