I was thirty-four years old, a year or so after my father died, and I was in my mother’s apartment with my sister, Cachie. She and I were having a friendly squabble about something or other. She and I were always at odds on pretty much every subject. Mom was in the kitchen cooking.
Exasperated with our argument, I threw up my hands and joined my mother.
“Ma,” I said amiably, loud enough so Cachie could hear, “you gotta tell me, Cachie and I couldn't have come from the same father, right? That's why she’s so pig-headed!”
“Oh, shut up!” she called from the living room.
“You shut up!” I called back, laughing. I turned around to make sure she heard me. When I turned back to Mom, she was staring at me, her eyes wide. I was instantly concerned.
“What, Ma,” I asked, “What’s the matter?” She didn’t answer, she only stared at me.
“What did I say? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She stared. “Ma?” I franticly played back everything I had said in my head. I hadn’t said anything to offend he or to shock her this way.
Had I?
“Ma,” I was suddenly afraid. I don’t know why. “Was Papi my real father?”
After a minute, she whispered, “No.”
The silence that followed was deafening. There was food cooking on the stove. The television was on in the living room. A fan was whirling in the kitchen window. I didn’t hear any of them, only that whispered, “No.” That and my own breathing, my own heartbeat.
“What?” I managed to say.
“No. He wasn’t”
And I knew. The man who came around every once in a while, who always had a kind word or some encouragement for me. The man who had bought me a trumpet and a guitar when I wanted to learn music. “It was Cuco, wasn’t it,” I asked,
She only nodded. There were tears on her face. And something else in her eyes, fear?
Cuco was Victor Nelson, He was a welder by trade, but also a trumpet player in a Latin band that toured all over Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. When he came around to visit, Mom always made sure I was somewhere within reach. I saw why.
“He knew, right?” she nodded. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighed deeply and said, “I couldn’t, Nene. I was still married, and I had Suleima and Cachie. If he found out he would have put us out on the street.”
“But he didn’t know?”
“I don’t think so. When I found out I was pregnant, I was so afraid. I had Suleima and Cachie and if Eugenio found out, he would’ve… well, you know. But he was a merchant marine back then and he came home on leave. Every leave was the same; he used to drop off his bags and go drinking with his friends, then would come home drunk and pass out. This was every night until he went back to the ship. This time I grabbed him and demanded he … do his husbandly duties.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“He left and I sent him a letter later telling him II was pregnant again. So, I don’t think he suspected.”
I thought about it for a while. I didn’t know if I should be angry or grateful or a combination of the two. I settled on the latter. There had been so much wasted time. Time under Eugenio’s thumb. I could have accomplished so much more without his voice in my ear telling me what a fuck up I was; how worthless. Instead, I could have been raised by a man who would, at the very least, have shown an interest in me. I had a right to be angry.
On the other hand, Eugenio was not my real father! The revelation sent waves of understanding all through me. I believe he knew. He must have known, I thought. That would explain why he was such a total shit to me. It wasn’t an excuse, just an explanation. It didn’t matter to me if he knew or not. He was still a shitty little man. Not at all like Cuco, who’d had nothing but kind, encouraging words for me in the few times we’d encountered each other.
“I want to meet him,” I said.
“I’ll call him.”
Mom went with me to meet him in his tiny apartment in the South Bronx. When he opened the door, there was no fear in his eyes, no awkward hesitation, only joy. His hug was warm and inviting. He was happy to see me, and it melted my heart almost at once. After we sat down and exchanged pleasantries, he told me he had always wanted to claim me as his son. He had even picked a name for me. Daniel. I thought about that. A simple name change would have saved me from several beatings at school. Being named Eugene had been like painting a target on my back. Also, I had been named after the neighborhood drunk. Mom explained it would have been impossible to name me Daniël since Eugenio thought I was his firstborn son and insisted on giving me his name.
Together, they explained why they couldn't reveal my identity, it was a different time, they said. Mom would have been labeled a wanton woman by the entire family and everyone in the church. The latter I could attest to. They would have made Mom’s life a living hell.
I was still angry. They had kept their secret to keep Mon’s reputation intact, while I suffered years of verbal and emotional abuse. I was refused a loving dad so my mother wouldn’t suffer recrimination.
Then she said two things that turned me around. She said if she had told me while he was still alive, we would have fought, and I would probably have hurt him. That much was true. Sometimes the only thing that kept me from shoving him down a flight of stairs was the notion that he was my father and I could not commit patricide, no matter how appealing that option was.
Then she told me she hadn’t wanted to see the look in my eyes as she told me. She didn’t want my impressions of her to change. I didn’t even have to think before I said, “Ma, you were twenty-something years old and you were married to a pr...bad man. I wouldn’t have looked at you funny. I love you, Ma.”
In the end, I accepted their explanations and forgave them both. I couldn’t help it. I was so happy to have a real father who loved and accepted me.
Papi (I immediately called him that as if it was the most natural thing in the world.)and I got to know each other over the next few years. I found out I had nineteen brothers and sisters – He was an itinerant musician and apparently, Papa was a rolling stone. He admitted to loving and making love to an impressive number of women, but my mother was always going to be the one that got away. I accepted that.
When I told him I was a recording musician, he jumped up and went to his closet. After rooting around for a minute had produced a large orange hard guitar case and gave it to me. Inside was a vintage Fender Precision Bass in pristine condition except someone put a Puerto Rican flag sticker in the shape of a heart on the pickguard.
“Pa,” I said, “I can’t accept this. This is worth a lot of money.”
“Take it. Nene,” he had taken to using my mother’s nickname for me “There were many things I wanted to give you, but could only do a few. I’m just glad it’s not too late.”
I still have that bass, it’s one of my most prized possessions.
A few years later, after Mom passed away, Papi moved into a nursing home on 110th Street, only five blocks away from me. I went to visit him every Sunday. In the summer he’d be hanging out in front of the facility listening as the other old men played dominos and traded juicy gossip. He was mostly blind by then,
I would walk up and say, “Hey Papi...”
His face would light up, a smile like a beam would appear on his face,
“Look:” he would say to his friends, “my son is here!” and he said it with such pride and happiness I could barely stand it. No other man in my life had ever been so openly happy to see me.
Then he would try to hook me up with one of his nurses.
I cherish that memory and so many others, they went a long way towards healing my soul. Eugenio became a paper tiger to me; his contempt and derision could no longer dominate my thoughts. They resurfaced from time to time, but they were no longer constant. My father chased them away because he was proud of me.
I miss that man with all my heart. He passed away in 2002.