Cielito went to the Evangélicos on Mondays where she signed her name and showed her food bank ID. She would sing along with them and enjoy how the women beat their panderetas. Pastor Cruz would tell them that Puerto Rico was like Jerusalem, and how everyone now was en exilio, but that Jesus would bring them all home again. Naturally, everyone would get emotional, and she might cry. Afterwards, they would give her bags of rice, dried beans, and salchichas de latita.

On Tuesdays it was las monjitas de Las Almas, and she came away with cans of tuna, fruit cocktail, or sometimes boxes of macaroni and instant mashed potatoes. Her driver’s license was all she needed to show. It was no good anymore because los genios en San Juan had decided to cancel all the licenses and make everybody pay a company in Texas $75 for a new one. Cielito was not going to put money into anybody’s cartera except her own, and besides, the nice nuns never gave her a problem.

Wednesdays she went to The Open Closet for the clothes. She was a regular, and the volunteers liked to know they were helping Maria refugiados. If she saw something good that she couldn’t take that day — you could only take what fit in one paper shopping bag — she would ask Cataprés to save it to the side for her, like the layaway at Me Salvé. Cataprés was an old timer who had moved years ago from Cayey, but went back and forth to take care of her mother, who wouldn’t leave for a huracán or anything else. The two of them would talk and share shopping tips. Cielito was a fast learner. Savers was the best place for used curtains and dishes. Anything north of the Holyoke Mall was going to be too expensive. Longmeadow was the best for tag sales because rich people lived there, but you needed a car. The bus was cheaper.

Cielito thought about money constantly, and Thursday was her day to make as much as she could at Miss Teenager. She shampooed, did manicures and swept up the hair all day long. She didn’t finish until nine or ten at night. Once, she made two hundred fifty dollars in tips for a quinceañera. Just once, she would have liked to ride in a limosina, con un chofer who opened all the Coors for her.

Friday was for laundry at la plazita al la’o de la panadería Koffee Kup. Why con K? She would buy from the day old bread a plain roll, or when they had them, the flat and soft brown spice cake that tasted like molasses and ginger. They were called hermiss, or something like that, and the taste made her think of the cucas de gengibre from home. They were good to eat while she waited for her clothes to dry.

Sundays she usually slept a lot, because on Saturdays she was up early again to go to el correo on Main Street to ship a container back to Mari Solterona who would pick it up in her brother’s truck at Cataño to drive it back to Guadiana and make the business. Mari mailed her a money order at the end of the month, minus the money order fee. Of course, Cielito could only guess si Mari estaba cogíendola de pendeja. She had to trust that Mari wasn’t haciendole una trampa.

When Cielito first got to Massachusetts she had been too depressed to do more than sleep. Fue un desastre de verdad. She had lost everything. She didn’t have electricity or water or furniture or clean clothes. El techo de zinc had gone with the wind and that maldito blue plastic la Fema gave her made her house look like a grave waiting for the body. And those first days did feel like a funeral. People wandered around in shock. Her asthma machine didn’t work and her inhaler ran out. Le subía y bajaba el azúcar and her insulina was warm. Even if she had the money, there were no generators for sale or a way to get gasoline or medicine where she lived. Her son lived in Kissimmee and kept saying vente, vente. But his wife was a real comemierda, so when they offered her a ticket, she said Springfield. Por lo menos it was going to be dry.

It wasn’t the first time she had lived in Springfield. She had spent five years living with Titi Rosenda. Her English was better back then, she liked school, and she made a lot of friends. But she fell in love, and Amaury convinced her to move back to the island with him when they graduated high school. As soon as they got their diplomas, they were on a plane. He had promised her the moon and the stars, of course, but the gordo pamplón thought he could live off her and gave her nothing but the baby and stretch marks.

In the divorce little Amaury Junior went with her ex- mother-in-law and Cielito let him go easy. She was so young, what did she know? Gracias a Dios the boy didn’t hate her. She found her feet fast, moved in with Abuela, and found work. At Lotus making the jugo de piña, at Suiza Dairy with the cheese and milk, and other fábricas. The pay was enough. Then the economy started to go bad and the lay offs began, or the empresa would close. The owners would sell it and the new people would fire everybody all at once. She didn’t make as much money after that, and she got used to being unemployed. She had never dreamed life would be so hard all the time, but she kept the house when Abuela died, and one time she took a cruise to Santo Domingo. The truth is she had been more or less happy. She could come and go, sin pedir permiso a ningún hombre.

And she had always survived. Look at her now, already with enough for the pasaje back. It made her proud. She did it on her own and yet she needed more. At least enough money to live on for a year. O por lo menos el invierno. It was April now, and they said it was going to be a hot summer. Good. She hated the cold and could sell water in the park on Sundays during the Little League pelota games. And if there was another huracán she would miss it.

It was her sister who was the problem. Cielito had never been that close with Gladys. They had ten years and four brothers between them, and when Cielito was in high school Gladys was already married to Miguel with a house and her own kids and a job in the police department. They hadn’t seen each other since el entierro de Papi.

Maybe Gladys was hoping her grown kids would move back someday because she kept their bedrooms like shrines and had offered Cielito the downstairs instead. She called it a finished basement. The house in PR didn’t have one, but the coolness reminded her of home. Yes, it was dark and didn’t get a lot of air from the small window she had to stand on a chair to open, but there was a sofabed, a mini fridge, a TV with cable, and a desk and chair. There was a lot of space for everything she collected to send to Mari.

But Gladys had rules that she was always tirando indirectas about. Cielito either had to take her shower very early in the morning or very late at night to not get in Miguel’s way, who worked the third shift at Smith and Wesson and slept all day. Her television could not be too loud either. None of this bothered her as much as one thing. Gladys didn’t let her do laundry in the house, which was the reason Cielito went to the laundromat in the plazita. The washer and dryer were brand new, con luces y botones and it talked to you. Add Detergent, or Overfilled Load a robot voice would say from somewhere inside the machine. Gladys told Cielito that the machine had artificial intelligence and the machines at the laundromat were more like the ones they have in PR. Cielito bit her tongue.

What could she say? She was her sister’s guest, and her sister had always been a snob. So she decided she would save and save to fix her roof. Then she would slowly make everything to the way it was. She would have to get new furniture. Ay bendito, she pictured it with a pang. It was the cutest house, the most beautiful in the world. It was painted yellow with blue trim and she had planted big pabonas in plastic buckets and smaller things in coffee cans and even old clorox bottles. She had a green thumb, like everyone in her family. Even Gladys, who had a cactus growing in every room.

Gladys was happy. Happier, anyway. George had satisfied her, and she loved the way he smelled like frosting. Yum- yum. Not like Miguel who smelled like gunpowder. They had met at a church supper the year before. George was married too, and had wanted to use a condom, which made Gladys feel like the dirty one. That she was past the age she could conceive made her cheating almost worry- free. But men never stopped worrying. Even when their testicles dried up like garbanzos there was always a chance a baby could come of it and ruin their retirement plans for a boat or a camper.

No matter, she was relaxed and carefree. She had gone to the gym and walked for an hour on the tresmil and then taken a shower to wash George from everywhere so Miguel couldn’t smell George’s cake. Now she was at the Stop ’n’ Shop to pick up some bacalao without the bones and see if they had any platano verde. It was her favorite meal, ever since she was a little girl, back in Guadiana, when PR was PR, not now, all full of drugs and crime. What had happened? Was it the hurricane? No, it had been going on for years. Whenever she watched West Side Story, she used to defend Bernardo when they sing that stupid song on the roof, but what PR was sending over made her think Anita was right. She blamed it on the parents. Her kids had been good, raised with values. It wasn’t so hard. Gladys understood bad times and bad behavior, but the old ways of getting into trouble were boring. Today kids all wanted to be famous on the internet. Before, if you were on the news for something, you had to hide in your house for weeks. Nowadays, they were disappointed if their mugshot wasn’t on the 6 o’clock news. She was glad she was retired and didn’t have to deal with any of that any more.

And then Cielito came. Her little sister. Well, half-sister. She didn’t want to be judgmental, but Cielito never seemed to be able to pull herself together. First she eloped with that jerk and then she let him take away her kid. The scandal it caused. The surprising thing is that she didn’t seem to miss her boy. She became a single woman and moved into Abuela’s casa de madera, like she actually wanted to be the jamona daughter.

Gladys shook her head. Hadn’t they escaped all of that? This girl had a high school diploma and was good with numbers. She could have gotten a job in a bank or even Mass Mutual. Why not? Now look at her, collecting cans and dreaming the impossible dream. And to do what?

Gladys examined the verduras. Where were the yautía hidden today? She looked at her watch, a little nervous. Miguel was at work, and Cielito would be out of the house now when she returned with her comprita. Cielito gallivanted for hours and hours, like she was trying to avoid them, and only came back to the house much later, with bags of food and clothes to keep in the basement.

She wanted to wash the donated clothes and that’s when Gladys put her foot down por causa de the new machine, and for the cucarachas and, Dios mío, bedbugs that might be hiding in those clothes. Can you imagine what that would be like? Gladys could feel her blood pressure rise.

Her house nunca jamás had mice or roaches and she wasn’t about to start now. She told her sister to seal it all up in plastic bags and wash it at the laundromat. It was a matter of knowing the difference between outside and inside. Cielito’s house didn’t even have any screens on the windows! Bugs could fly in and out like it was nothing!

Bugs belonged outside with the chickens and the strays. No, thank you. Gladys wasn’t going to have her house turn into a barn, tormenta or not. She’d left PR to have order.

She wasn’t about to let Hurricane Cielito take over her house. Inside was clean and for people only. Maybe a dog or a cat and even that was pushing it to the limit. And what else Cielito was doing, God only knew. Maybe drugs? She was on the telephone an awful lot. Maybe she should put a camera in the basement?

One rainy Thursday Cielito decided to do laundry. Miss Teenager was closed and she was bored. She loaded up her bags and rode the bus to the plaza. After starting her wash, Cielito walked into the Koffee Kup to inspect the day old breads. She paid for a danish and coffee and sat at a table with a pile of free newspapers. Then her phone buzzed.

It was Mari Solterona. How is that jincha sister of yours treating you? Dile que necesita salir del closet. Cielito laughed. Mari gave her the latest news. Ni luz ni agua. Todavía? Everybody had to go down to the Puente Plata to fill up jugs or barrels or whatever they could find and then drive the water up to Guadiana. Someone had come from the alcalde to inspect, but he had no answers for them. In San Juan or Bayamón maybe they knew something, but it was hard to find out. Maybe the government didn’t know either. La Fema didn’t know, that was for sure. The roads are being cleared but it was still dangerous. No one dares to go out at night. Estamos el los tiempos de los abuelos, Mari told her. Only the very old people were calm and went back to their old jíbaro ways as if they’d been waiting for the opportunity to show off how to cook in a fogon with leña again and eat out of an higüera. Mari’s own abuela still had those things stored away. Mari reported she even heard her abuela singing, which made Cielito laugh again, because Doña Nerva was a mean old witch. There were rumors that un montón de yuppies had taken over Viejo San Juan and were starting a new religion there with the internet. They had even invented their own invisible money. Why was it always the crazy people? Why couldn’t the Chinese come and discover us? At least everyone would have work. I miss you, Cielito had started to say. Then the call went dead.

A big macho covered in flour and shaped like an alcapurria was staring at her. I am too loud, she thought, and now he thinks I am going to steal something. But he only said, Do I know you? Cielito smiled but shook her head no. Sorry to bother you, the man said, smiling back at her, but you look familiar. Cielito shrugged and smiled again. She felt all of a sudden self-conscious of her accent. You could never tell. Americans thought they were the friendliest people in the world, but they could be nasty sometimes. The man nodded okay, then disappeared toward the bakery ovens. She was about to go check on her clothes when she saw Gladys walking toward the shop. She was in a track suit but her hair was done up. Cielito buried herself behind The Valley Advocate, with its ads for goat milk soap and healthy wine. Gladys entered the shop, but didn’t see Cielito, and to Cielito’s surprise, walked behind the counter with barely a nod to the high school girls who frosted the cakes and disappeared into the back.

Gladys couldn’t possibly —. But what other explanation could there be? She’d been to the bakery enough times to know that the girls at the counter took all the orders. No, it had to be the other thing. Estaba poniendo cuernos. Her fingers involuntarily made the horns. She felt sorry for Miguel.

The sisters were sitting in the kitchen a few days later.

Gladys was giving a lecture on English again. How speaking it meant you fit in, and that you probably didn’t make trouble or collect welfare. How if people weren’t lazy and worked hard they would have nice things. Like her house and her SUV.

This time, Cielito didn’t nod with embarrassment, feeling smaller and smaller as if she were shrinking to the size of a pitufo. This time she said, I seen you. She said it almost by accident.

Qué?

Te ví en la repostería.

Gladys turned white, then red, like someone had cut off the oxygen to her face then turned it on again.

I don’t know the slightest idea what you are talking about, Gladys answered in a telenovela voice.

Cielito sat up a little, folding into a square the blue paper Equal packet she had used for her coffee, and began. No puedo lavar la ropa aquí. Ya tu sabes. And I was at the plazita waiting for the secadora and I was having una dona y un café aguao que te dan aquí. No como la tuya. Here Cielito looked up and smiled at her sister, who smiled only a little. And I saw you in there. Pero tu no me viste sentá ahí cuando entraste y te metiste detrás del counter. What were you doing behind the counter?

Gladys had to think fast. I was ordering a cake, she said.

For what? For who? And from behind the counter? Cielito cocked her head. She liked playing fiscal, como en Law and Order.

Gladys stumbled. For Mi- for my, ah — then she stopped. I don’t have to answer! To you? After working with police for thirty years she remembered she could put up her own wall of silence.

Cielito realized she had hit the truth. She pulled down her mouth and shook her head, then carefully said, You’re right. No es mi asunto. Eso es business tuya.

Gladys breathed in and out once, heavy, like a leona, Cielito thought.

Let’s just drop it, Gladys said, and got up from the table and moved to the sink to wash their mugs.

Maybe I should move out, Cielito said, half to herself.

Gladys didn’t answer. Maybe the water gushing from the faucet was too loud, but Cielito didn’t repeat herself. Her money from la Fema was somewhere in the system. They kept telling her any day now you will get a decision on your appeal. It wasn’t the lawyer’s fault. They all volunteered for free. It was the government. All they had given her was that maldito blue tarp to put on the roof and some food for astronauts. If she ever saw Trump she would tell him what he could do with his toallas de papel— metérselo por el fundillo. She could maybe go to that shelter someone had told her about? It was in Northampton, and they had lesbians there, but they were very respectful. Homeless, she thought. Then she thought of Nueve Once. Maybe Maria was like that? Terrorismo.

Something that destroys how you live.

Cielito got up from the table and went to Gladys.

I’m sorry, Cielito began, handing her sister a dry dish towel. I know I am in your house, and I know I am doing too many things here. No quiero darte problemas.

Gladys started to say something, but Cielito held up her hand.

I want to go home, she said. But I can’t yet. I need to save more money. La Fema hasn’t given me enough.

Gladys was looking at her. Sometimes Cielito reminded her of Papi.

Maybe I can help you, Gladys said. Do you need a lot? Cielito knew exactly how much. But she said more.

Gladys mumbled something. Y el pasaje, Cielito added.

There was a pause before Gladys answered. Y si te lo doy, when do you think you can be ready?

Mi hermana mayor es una cabrona, Cielito thought, but she knew una oferta como esta was like Black Friday or Super Tuesday or whatever that day was when you could get everything baratisimo.

I can go anytime. I just have to pack up my motetes.

I will look for a ticket, Gladys said, reaching to the counter for her phone.

Cielito could almost taste the sweet morning air perfumed by the orange and lemon trees behind her house. She could feel that sun, the way the light ended in a sharp line at the edge of her marquesina, and could hear the pop- pop of her new roof in the hot afternoons.

I will get ready now, she told her sister, trying to look sad.

No te apures, it will all work out, you’ll see, Gladys answered, surprised by her feeling all of a sudden like a big sister. She smiled and gave her hermanita a hug — maybe for the second time since Cielito had arrived.

Contributor Notes

Gerard Cabrera is a Massarican from Springfield, Massachusetts. He holds degrees from Brandeis University, Hunter College School of Public Health, and Northeastern University School of Law. He has represented people with HIV in housing and family court, practiced health and regulatory law, and served in New York City government. Currently he works as a court attorney in the New York Family Court system. His work has appeared in Acentos Review, JONATHAN, and now Kweli. He has attended Bread Loaf, The Writers Studio, and completed a residency at The Camargo Foundation in Cassis, France. Most recently he has been interviewed about his novel Homo Novus on CNN en Español.

Author Photo by Michael Wakefield