The Noise of Infinite Longing by Luisita Lopez Torregrosa Page A
Authors: Luisita Lopez Torregrosa
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behind him.
He had the same breakfast every day—fried eggs and coffee— and left the house carrying his battered leather bag, which he had
owned since his university days. He walked down the road to the clinic, where dozens of patients were already waiting with bundles of plantains and yuccas for him.
At noon, when his appointments at the hospital were done, he walked back across the field, his head lowered to the sun. Our maid had his lunch ready—pork chops, steak, rice and beans, plantains, an ordinary meal, staples of the Puerto Rican table. His tastes didn’t vary, and he never ate the tomato and green bean salads that were placed beside his plate. He ate quickly, as he did everything else, barely tast- ing the food. He bit his tongue or the side of a lip eating so fast, leav- ing tiny spots of blood on his napkin. After his siesta, a half hour he rarely gave up for anything, he sat in the only armchair we had, his textbooks stacked by his side, and he would read, marking the pages, muttering, memorizing for the board exams. In the afternoons, he hitched up a footpath to the district hospital, a gray building on a hill where he worked mending broken bones, taking out appendixes, blood splattering on his white uniform, leaving maroon stains.
After he was gone in the mornings, Angeles and I had our break- fast, and mother drew up the grocery list for Lola. Six months preg- nant, sallow around the eyes and thin as a bone, mother walked to the gas station on the highway to wait for the car that came by at seven every morning for the hour-long trip to her job in San Juan. Kissing each of us good-bye, she left the smell of her perfume on our hair and smudges of lipstick on our cheeks.
In our starched green-and-white uniforms, my sister and I were driven in a hired car that came every morning, with much crunching of tires and slamming of brakes, to our house to take us to school.The school was in the center of town, in a bluish concrete building, a rec- tangle with a paved courtyard. The classrooms opened to the court- yard, and nuns in their black habits, their head coverings pinned at the brow and their capes billowing, patrolled the playground and the hall-
ways. Laughter and chatter were forbidden in the classrooms, and at recess the children were penned in the playground, the nuns watch- ing like sentries. One day Angeles fell while playing, scraping her face and legs and splitting her lip. Blood dripped from her mouth and a front tooth came out in pieces. I was holding her, crying with her, but a nun grabbed her by a hand and took her to Mother Superior’s office, blaming her for running too fast.
Around three in the afternoon, when the school let out, we were taken home by the same driver who picked us up in the mornings, a gruff old man who shoved the children into his car, packing us in tight because every head was money to him. He dropped us off along a route from the center of town past the new residential suburbs of square squat houses to the outskirts where we lived.
The house at that hour always seemed still. Lola was in the back- yard, taking the dry laundry off the line to press it on the ironing board she set had up in the dining room. Angeles and I dumped our books on the dining table and sat across from each other, doing home- work and drinking juice. Schoolwork was effortless for us, but just a little more effortless for her, and she could get hers done just a minute or two faster than I, the way she played the piano just a little better, as if she had been born knowing the keys, and the way she danced, her blouse off one shoulder, her hips loosened. Books closed, notebooks stacked, pencils sharpened, I jumped into the cold shower, and with my hair still wet and pulled back in a ponytail, I ran out to the ball field on the lot across the road. Several inches shorter than the boys, I was the only girl they let play. I was not a born ballplayer but I ran hard and threw the ball with heart. I
He had the same breakfast every day—fried eggs and coffee— and left the house carrying his battered leather bag, which he had
owned since his university days. He walked down the road to the clinic, where dozens of patients were already waiting with bundles of plantains and yuccas for him.
At noon, when his appointments at the hospital were done, he walked back across the field, his head lowered to the sun. Our maid had his lunch ready—pork chops, steak, rice and beans, plantains, an ordinary meal, staples of the Puerto Rican table. His tastes didn’t vary, and he never ate the tomato and green bean salads that were placed beside his plate. He ate quickly, as he did everything else, barely tast- ing the food. He bit his tongue or the side of a lip eating so fast, leav- ing tiny spots of blood on his napkin. After his siesta, a half hour he rarely gave up for anything, he sat in the only armchair we had, his textbooks stacked by his side, and he would read, marking the pages, muttering, memorizing for the board exams. In the afternoons, he hitched up a footpath to the district hospital, a gray building on a hill where he worked mending broken bones, taking out appendixes, blood splattering on his white uniform, leaving maroon stains.
After he was gone in the mornings, Angeles and I had our break- fast, and mother drew up the grocery list for Lola. Six months preg- nant, sallow around the eyes and thin as a bone, mother walked to the gas station on the highway to wait for the car that came by at seven every morning for the hour-long trip to her job in San Juan. Kissing each of us good-bye, she left the smell of her perfume on our hair and smudges of lipstick on our cheeks.
In our starched green-and-white uniforms, my sister and I were driven in a hired car that came every morning, with much crunching of tires and slamming of brakes, to our house to take us to school.The school was in the center of town, in a bluish concrete building, a rec- tangle with a paved courtyard. The classrooms opened to the court- yard, and nuns in their black habits, their head coverings pinned at the brow and their capes billowing, patrolled the playground and the hall-
ways. Laughter and chatter were forbidden in the classrooms, and at recess the children were penned in the playground, the nuns watch- ing like sentries. One day Angeles fell while playing, scraping her face and legs and splitting her lip. Blood dripped from her mouth and a front tooth came out in pieces. I was holding her, crying with her, but a nun grabbed her by a hand and took her to Mother Superior’s office, blaming her for running too fast.
Around three in the afternoon, when the school let out, we were taken home by the same driver who picked us up in the mornings, a gruff old man who shoved the children into his car, packing us in tight because every head was money to him. He dropped us off along a route from the center of town past the new residential suburbs of square squat houses to the outskirts where we lived.
The house at that hour always seemed still. Lola was in the back- yard, taking the dry laundry off the line to press it on the ironing board she set had up in the dining room. Angeles and I dumped our books on the dining table and sat across from each other, doing home- work and drinking juice. Schoolwork was effortless for us, but just a little more effortless for her, and she could get hers done just a minute or two faster than I, the way she played the piano just a little better, as if she had been born knowing the keys, and the way she danced, her blouse off one shoulder, her hips loosened. Books closed, notebooks stacked, pencils sharpened, I jumped into the cold shower, and with my hair still wet and pulled back in a ponytail, I ran out to the ball field on the lot across the road. Several inches shorter than the boys, I was the only girl they let play. I was not a born ballplayer but I ran hard and threw the ball with heart. I
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