Puerto Rico came back to her in flashes. Tastes, sounds, smells triggered bursts of imagery and floods of Technicolor recollection. Even now, as she worked in the inhuman heat and humidity of Dom’s shop, up to her elbows in motor oil, grease smudged across her cheek, hair drenched with sweat. Rap thumped from the shop’s stereo as she slid out from underneath a pop-your-cherry-red Talon, a song by a guy from Wu Tang pushing her PR button,
…to all the butter pecan Ricans that be callin’ me ‘Papi’…
Her abuela’s kitchen had been damn near the largest room in the apartment, second only to the master bedroom, and it had always been gleamingly, spotlessly clean, smelling like good food and flowers, as Carmen always kept a vase full as a centerpiece.
The memory was gone as swiftly as it had appeared, per the norm, and she hauled herself to her feet, crossing the garage to the shop’s sink. It was massive; she could have easily bathed in it, climbed right inside and stripped down. The prospect was far from unappealing, but there was a shower in the office, and she headed that way.
Dominic was on the phone at the desk, and she knew what the call was regarding- six exhausts from Japan stuck in customs for over a month. She shut the office door soundlessly behind her and locked it, drawing the blinds. Although she knew better than to hope he would watch as she undressed, his unchanging stature cut her as her boxers and khakis dropped to the floor, her sweat Everlast sports bra and filthy white wifebeater. The AC in the office felt heavenly on her prickly-hot skin, and she nudged her clothes into a pile with her foot, dawdling in hopes that Dominic would steal a glance up at her. See her there naked and hang up the fucking phone and come into the shower with her…
Letty could see and hear him as she stepped in under the lukewarm water, the phone in his left hand, a pen in his right, his head hanging. He was tired. He’d been working sixteen-hour days for weeks, and she’d been there alongside him, in the dirt and the grime, working from sun up until after sundown. It had been nearly a month since he’d made love to her, over a week since he’d kissed her or taken her into his arms. She ached for his touch, for some small show of affection. As she sudsed up her hair, she realized that she couldn’t even put her finger on the last time he’d smiled at her.
It felt bad. It felt as if he were going to leave her, as if it were already over and he just needed now to say it. Each time he addressed her, in that gruff, weary baritone, Letty expected to hear the two words she dreaded most. Life without Dominic would be hell. The day he said “It’s over,” their relationship would not be the only thing ending.
The soap was blinding white against the caramel brown of her legs, and suddenly, as she watched the trail of bubbles meander down her thighs, she was too tired to stand up any longer. She sank to the shower floor and leaned up against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin on one of them and closing her eyes, flinching at the weight of the water in her long, straight black lashes. The steady drum of droplets on her shoulders and the floor lulled her, and soon she lost count of the minutes that she sat there, jerking once more into coherence only when Dominic whipped back the curtain. She blinked up at him, disoriented and exhausted, and he frowned down on her, deep creases in his brow.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and then, without awaiting an answer, “Get up. Time to go.” He drew the curtain closed again unceremoniously, and she heaved an exasperated sigh, hauling herself to her feet and forcing sticky limbs into uncooperative clothes.
Dom was waiting in the car, and she climbed into the driver’s seat, braiding long black hair with deft fingers and securing the plait with a plain rubber band. In glowering, dissatisfied silence, he turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear.
“They find your boxes?” Letty asked, in the soft, throaty husk of a voice her mother’d left her with. He just shook his head, still scowling. The last of the sunlight was gone, the lights of the city twinkling in the near-blackness. Letty glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10:16 p.m. She hadn’t set foot outside of the shop since just after six that morning, and all she’d had to eat and drink all day was a Ziploc baggie of generic Cheetos and a warm Pepsi. “I got a little cash, Dom. I’m starved. Can you pull over at Mickey D’s or something?” He didn’t answer, but steered wordlessly into a drive-thru as Letty dug a wad of ones out of her hip pocket and handed them over.
“I want the 20-piece chicken nuggets with sweet and sour. And a large orange Hi-C.”
“You’re gonna die of a heart attack when you’re 20.”
“Maybe,” she muttered, and stared out across the parking lot. Someone rolled up alongside them in an Eclipse and Letty smiled as the window came down to reveal Susana Dominguez. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey yourself. Whatchall doin?”
Dom eased the car to a stop in front of the second window and looked over at Susana, suddenly all smiles.
“Getting food,” he said. “We just got out of the shop. Why don’t you follow us back? I’m sure there are a hundred drunks in my living room.”
Letty hated the fact that Dom’s mood had brightened so drastically at the arrival of her friend, but told herself that she was being paranoid, and brushed the sinking feeling aside.
“Yeah. Come on over,” Let smiled, and Susana shook her head, her pincurls dancing and gleaming in the artificial light.
“Sounds like a blast, but I gotta be at E’s house in fifteen minutes. Booty call, you know.” Susana rolled her eyes.
Let laughed, secretly relieved that Susana had declined.
“Gonna be at the show in Long Beach tomorrow?” Let asked, opening the box of greasy McNuggets as soon as Dom put it in her hands.
“Yeah, I think he wants to go. If not, I’ll see you fourth period on Monday.”
“Later,” Let said, and Dom pulled out of the parking lot, his face dark and mirthless once more. “What’s your problem?” she asked, and he snapped his head over to face her.
“You want a list?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
She ate a few of the nuggets, but the grease didn’t sit well on her empty stomach, so she just sat and stared into the box.
“I can’t stay long,” she said softly as e pulled up in front of the decent-sized white house on Calle Moreno.
“Quino bein’ a prick again?” Dom asked, with something akin to genuine concern.
“He says I gotta be in by eleven. And you know he’ll still be up, so…”
“Yeah, well, you don’t gotta put up with his shit much longer.”
The house was thumping, people hanging out the upstairs windows and waving. Dom rubbed his brow and shook his head, wearily.
“I get so sick of this shit sometimes.”
Letty looked down at the grease-stained box in her hand, setting it down on the hood. She came up behind him, took a chance, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Let’s go upstairs, Pa,” she said, resting her cheek against his back, and for a moment, he seemed unchanged by her proposition. But then he closed his hands over hers and nodded.
His body was beautiful, sculpted hard by manual labor and insomniac weightlifting, and as she kissed down his chest, he bumped his fingers down her braid, loosing the inky curtain of her hair and burying his hands in it, breathing deep and slow. He knew what was to come, and she didn’t disappoint, closing her hand and her mouth around him and letting her eyes flutter shut in satisfaction at his grateful groan.
Letty looked at the clock and swore. Fuck. She must’ve fallen asleep. Dominic was no longer beside her. Motherfucker! Why hadn’t he woken her? It was after midnight now, and Quino was gonna whup her ass. She swallowed on a scratchy throat, her mouth dry and tasting like Dominic, and disentangled herself from his sheets, heading out into the thick party throbbing across every square inch of floorspace in the Toretto house. She struggled her way down the stares and saw Dom sitting on the sofa next to Milissa Morales, otherwise known as just Mo, the third Stooge to complete the troublesome trio, Letty, Susana, and Milissa. Dom referred to them as Letty, Curly and Mo.
Dom looked up at Letty, and she pointed at the clock. He shrugged, his face the perfect mask of apathy.
“Fuck you,” she called, and gave the front door a wicked slam behind her. Snatching the McNuggets box off the hood of the MX-6, she tore down the street, running at full-throttle until she reached her house.
It was smaller than the Toretto place, and it smelled heavily of cigar smoke. She felt the familiar twinge of nervous nausea as she came through the front door, and her brother, Ruben, sat at the kitchen table, arms folded over his chest. Although he was just a kid, sometimes Rube was the epitome of Black Rage; his face could be steely and empty, his demeanor cold and inaccessible, his scowl bitter and unseeing.
“Where’s your dad, Boo?” Letty whispered, running her hand down back across the 9-year-old’s cornrows. He jerked his head away from her touch and flinched, a reaction that Quino had made instinctual in both of them.
“Right here,” came a smooth, cool voice from the shadowy oblivion of the adjacent hallway. Quino appeared then, six feet of solid rock, holding a Dos Equis in one hand and his long black leather belt, with which he was lethally accurate, in the other. “Looked at the clock lately?” Quino’s jet-black hair was slicked back, gelled down to his scalp. He was shirtless, in pleat-front khakis, and barefoot. He smelled like cigars and booze and perfume. He smelled like El Rey Negro, the club where he’d had a gig for somewhere close to ten years.
“We had a really busy day, Quino, aright?”
“You were at the garage until quarter after midnight, eh? Must’ve been some pretty important oil changes.” Letty said nothing. She kept her eyes downcast, staring at the stupid fucking box of chicken nuggets. “There’s money missing off the table by my bed,” Quino continued. Letty remained silent, knowing that any denial she could possibly provide would be inadequate. “Answer me when I ask you a fucking question.”
“You didn’t ask me a fucking question,” Letty said, dull and quiet, eyes still downcast. The strike came unexpectedly, so rapidly that she flinched before she felt the pain of the belt cracking across her knuckles. The box fell to the floor, the nuggets scattering.
“Ai, Leticia. Que esta pasando aqui?"
Letty covered her face and started to cry. Her abuela's beautiful vase, smashed on the floor in la sala. But then her grandmother had embraced her, kissed her cheeks. “No llores, m’ija. You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”
“Go to your room, Ruben,” she murmured, shaking out the hot sting in the back of her hand. The boy stood and backed slowly out of the kitchen, shutting his bedroom door with barely a sound.
“Is this what you spend it on? Eh?” Quino kicked angrily a the mess on the grungy tiling. “I work my ass off to put a roof over your head and this is how I am repaid.”
“Quino, I didn’t take any of your cash, man. You check on top of the drier? I thought I saw-“
“Just shut the fuck up with your lies!” The belt whistled through the air again, this time catching her across the face. There was an explosion of bright stars behind her eyelids, and the warm metallic salt of blood filled her mouth. She touched her lower lip gingerly, turning and spitting red into the sink.
‘Motherfucker,’ she thought. She was pised, but not suicidal, and realized too late that she’d left her back vulnerable to his beer-blind rage.
“I try to do right by you. Try to give you a chance. But you’re a thief. And you’re a goddamned liar.” With a screaming force, the black leather cut across her ass, and she hated the tears in her eyes, glad that she hadn’t cried out. The physical pain was immense, but the humiliation hurt worse, her cheeks burning, her lower lip fat. Quino tossed the belt onto the tabletop, and she tried to keep her sigh of relief inaudible. “Sit down,” he commanded, words slurred, and she obeyed, staring sullenly at the torture device which lay before her. “You’re gonna pay back what you stole. And you can stay there tonight. You don’t deserve the bed I bought for you.”
Quino tottered into the living room and switched on the television, sitting heavily in the threadbare olive armchair, and Letty released her breath in one loud blast, folding her arms on the table before her and letting her forehead thunk down into them.
Letty had to pee. It had been hours and hours since she’d gone. Since lunchtime, maybe. She had to go so bad she could taste it. So bad that she was in pain. And still quino would not sleep. He rustled the newspaper, got up to make popcorn, stumbled around looking for the remote control. Letty drummed her fingertips on the tabletop, fidgeting incessantly, trying to think of something, anything, to take her mind off her bladder. It seemed like hours that she sat there, squirming, trying to get comfortable, but it was futile. She watched the redness fade from her hand where he’d hit her, and worried the welt with her tongue where her bottom teeth had been forced into her lower lip. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, sat on her foot, knelt on the chair, sat Indian-style. Nothing helped. She had to pee.
Just as she was beginning to consider pissing in her pants and braving the consequences, Quino went to bed. Let counted his steps down the hall, up the stairs, into his bedroom. She waited for the click of the door closing and the creak of the springs on his bed, then ran like hell for the bathroom.
The relief that came was almost orgasmic, and Letty sat for a moment on the toilet, weakened by the release and trembling, the muscles in her lower belly exhausted.
Ruben met her in the hallway as she headed for the front door his skin so dark from the summer son that he was barely visible.
“You goin’ to Dominic’s?” he hissed.
“Go to sleep, Rube.”
“I wanna go with you,” he whispered back.
“Get back in your room and go to bed. It’s two in the damn morning.”
“I’m comin’ witchoo, Let.”
“Boy, get your ass back in that room before I slap the black off you,” Let spat, and lunged for him, and Ruben turned, sulking, and slunk back into his bedroom.
