Indian Country Noir by Sarah Cortez Liz Martinez

Author:Sarah Cortez, Liz Martinez [Sarah Cortez, Liz Martinez]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

JURACÁN

BY R. NARVAEZ

San Juan, Puerto Rico

There must be more dead dogs on the side of the road in Puerto Rico than anywhere else in the world. The strays must go out of their way to kill themselves there. Or maybe Puerto Ricans just don’t like dogs. I was in a cramped rental car, driving my three aunts to my cousin’s wedding in Ponce. It was a ten-minute ride, and I’d already seen four dog carcasses. Tongues hanging out. Guts. Blood. It took some of the buzz off.

“Qué pasó con los jodios peros en la highway?” I asked.

“Se dice perrrrros,” my Titi Juana said.

“Perrrrrros,” I tried.

“Perros,” Titi Gloria said.

Then Tía Nidia said, “No sé, mi amor. Toda la gente maneja como loco aquí.”

I could see how the roads in PR could drive you crazy. There wasn’t always a traffic light where you needed it. A lot of the blacktop hugged the sides of mountains and were crazy-narrow so that your sideview mirror hung over a thousand-foot drop into nothing but jungle. Still everyone on the island seemed to drive fast.

But no one honked. They might not like dogs in PR, but they sure as hell were polite.

“Por favor, mi amor, maneja más rápido,” Titi Juana said.

My aunts giggled about something I didn’t follow. I wondered if the reception would have an open bar.

The church was dark, big. Polished pews. Bleeding Christ. The ceremony in Spanish. I spent the time shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

At the reception, I went right to the bar. The drinks weren’t free, so when the bartender poured, I told him, “Más. Chin más,” and he was cool about it. I tipped him a couple of bucks.

At the table, my aunts gossiped, and I tried to listen, nodded a lot, and laughed when I thought I should. I knew everyone at our table except one woman. She had black hair cut straight across the forehead. Copper skin, broad cheeks, thick, dark lips. She sat alone, except for a gift bag in the seat next to her. It was decorated with a coquí wearing a straw hat. I got up and walked around to her side.

“Quieres que yo lo puse ésto con los otros regalos?” I asked, standing over her.

“Qué dices?” she replied, looking up with her eyes.

I gestured to show what I meant. Gift bag. Gift table.

“Grácias, pero es algo diferente,” she said and looked down at her manicure.

“No sweat,” I said and took a seat next to her. “Me manejó aquí esta noche y vió una cosa … rara. Vió, como, cuatro perros en la highway—muertos. It was crazy.”

She laughed, covering her teeth like some women do, then shook her head to herself. I hadn’t been trying to be funny. She looked completely away from me. I got the hint and so I bounced and went back to the bar.

Some people gave some speeches. I went outside for a smoke. The moon looked like my grandmother’s glaucoma eye.

It smelled good out there, green, wet.

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