The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) Read online

  “Right now?” Haidee asks.

  “No, tomorrow. Can you hold it for me until tomorrow?”

  She smiles.

  “I can,” she says. “I don’t normally do that, but for you, I’ll hold it.”

  “Thank you, Haidee …”

  “Your mother and I were great friends,” she says: “Great!”

  She takes me by the arm.

  “You won’t have any troubles here,” she says. “Everyone is very peaceful. The market is close by. And besides, I’ll be here.”

  “Is electricity free, Haidee?”

  “Electricity and gas,” she says. “You get everything for two hundred. But this month you have to pay one hundred dollars extra. The owner’s request,” she explains. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have to pay anything.”

  “I know,” I say.

  We talk a little while longer. About Havana, about friends in common, about her plan to travel to Cuba in the coming months. We talk about Madrid, a place where we both spent time before arriving in the United States. At last, I shake her hand.

  “Okay, Haidee, expect me tomorrow afternoon,” I tell her.

  She brings me close to her and kisses my cheek.

  “I’m so glad to have you as a neighbor!” she says. “You’ll be fine here.”

  I kiss her face.

  “Goodbye, Haidee,” I say, backing away toward the front door.

  “See you tomorrow,” she says, waving from the door.

  I go back out onto the street. The sun is setting. I stop on the sidewalk for a few moments and take a deep breath. I smile. I’d like to have Frances with me right now and hug her tightly. Slowly, leisurely. I go back to the halfway house.

  I get to the halfway house around six in the evening. Mr. Curbelo has left and at his desk sits Arsenio, who’s in charge, with his ever-present can of Budweiser in hand.

  “Hey, Mafia,” he says when he sees me come in. “Sit down a while here. Let’s talk.”

  I sit in a chair by him. I look at his face. Although I find him intensely repulsive, I feel a little pity. He’s only thirty-two-years old and the only thing he knows how to do is drink beer and play numbers. His dream is to win a thousand dollars all at once and then …

  “If I win, Mafia, if number 38 comes out tonight, I’ll buy a truck and start a business picking up old boxes. Do you know how much they pay for a ton of cardboard? Seventy dollars! Do you want to work with me on that truck?”

  “First, number 38 has to win,” I say. “Then, I’m sure you’ll drink the thousand dollars in one day.”

  He bursts out laughing.

  “I would stop drinking,” he says. “I swear I would stop drinking.”

  “You’re already lost,” I say. “You’re an animal, my dear friend.”

  “Why?” he says. “Why don’t you respect me, Mafia? Why doesn’t anyone love me?”

  “Your life is a mess,” I say. “You’ve settled in here, in this filthy house. If you need two bucks, you steal from the nuts. If you feel like being with a woman, you screw Hilda, that decrepit old hag. Curbelo exploits you, but you’re happy. You beat the nuts up. You give orders like a drill sergeant. You lack creativity.”

  He laughs again.

  “One day I’ll crown!” he says.

  “What do you mean by ‘crown’?” I say.

  “Crown means, in old criminal speak, you make a major hit. Steal something big. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Here, as you look at me, I’m planning a big hit. And I’ll crown. I’ll crown! And then I’ll say to you, ‘Here, Mafia, have two hundred dollars. Do you need more? Take three hundred!’”

  “You’re a dreamer,” I say. “Drink. It’s the best you can do.”

  “You’ll see!” he says. “You’ll see me around Miami—twenty gold chains around my neck with a hot blonde at my side! You’ll see me in a Cadillac Dorado! You’ll see me with a three-thousand-dollar watch and a six-hundred-dollar suit. You’ll see me, Mafia!”

  “I hope you crown!” I say.

  “You’ll see me.”

  I stand up, I make a half turn and walk toward the women’s room. When I get there, I softly nudge the door and go inside. Frances is on her bed, putting her clothes in two paper bags. I go over to her and hug her gently around the waist. I kiss her neck.

  “My angel!” she says. “Did you see that woman? Did you get the house?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow at this time, we’ll be sleeping in a clean delicious bed.”

  “Oh, my God!” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God!”

  “A dining room.” I say. “One bedroom. A kitchen. A bathroom. All of it clean, pretty, freshly painted. All for us.”

  “My angel, my angel!” she says. “Kiss me!”

  I kiss her on the mouth. I squeeze one of her breasts through her dress. She smells good. If she weighed a few more pounds and took better care of herself, she’d be pretty. I lay her down gently on the bed. I remove her shoes. I go to the door and lock it. She takes her own clothes off this time.

  “Tomorrow … ,” I say as I enter her slowly. “Tomorrow we’ll be doing this in our own house.”

  “My angel … ,” she says.

  I dreamt that I was in Havana again, in a funeral parlor on Calle 23. I was surrounded by numerous friends. We were drinking coffee. All of a sudden, a white door opened and in came a casket on the shoulders of a dozen wailing women. One of my friends elbowed me in the ribs and said, “They’re bringing in Fidel Castro.”

  We turned around. The old ladies placed the coffin in the middle of the room and left, weeping hysterically. Then the coffin opened. Fidel stuck a hand out first. Then the top half of his body. Finally all of him emerged. He smoothed his full-dress uniform and approached us, a smile on his face.

  “Isn’t there any coffee for me?” he asked. Somebody gave him a cup.

  “Well, we’re already dead,” Fidel said. “Now you’ll see that doesn’t solve anything, either.”

  I wake up. It’s morning already. It’s the big day. In three hours the social security checks will arrive and Frances and I will leave the halfway house. I jump out of bed. I grab the filthy towel and a sliver of soap and head for the bathroom. I wash up. I urinate. I leave the towel and the soap in the bathroom knowing that I won’t need them anymore. I head for the living room. The nuts are having breakfast, but Frances is there, sitting in a corner next to the TV.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”

  “We have to wait,” I say. “The checks are coming at ten.”

  “I’m scared,” she says. “Let’s leave now!”

  “Calm down,” I say. “Calm down. Did you already get your things together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then calm down,” I say, kissing the top of her head.

  I look at her. Just thinking that this afternoon I will be making love to her in a clean soft bed makes me hard.

  “Calm down,” I say, sticking my hand down her dress and gently squeezing a breast. “Calm down.”

  I let go. I stick my hand in my pockets and find that I have two quarters left. Great. I’ll drink some coffee. I’ll buy a newspaper and I’ll spend the next two hours, until the checks arrive, sitting on some bench. I kiss her on the mouth. I head out to the corner diner.

  It’s a beautiful morning. For the first time in a long time I look at the blue sky, the birds, the clouds. Drinking coffee—lighting up a cigarette—flipping through today’s newspaper: all suddenly become delicious things to do. For the first time in a long time I feel the weight is falling off my shoulders. Like my legs can run. Like my arms could test their strength. I take a rock from the street and throw it a long way, toward a barren field. I remember that when I was a kid, I was a good baseball player. I stop. I inhale the morning’s fresh air. My eyes fill with tears of happiness. I get to the diner and order coffee.

  “Make it good,” I tell the woman.

  The woman makes it with a
smile on her face.

  “Special, for you,” she says, filling the cup.

  I drink it in three sips. It’s good. I ask for a newspaper, too. The woman brings it. I pay. I turn around, looking for a clean quiet spot. My eyes settle on a white wall, by the shade of a tree. I go and sit there. I open the newspaper and start to read. A feeling of peace washes over me.

  SPURNED EX-BOYFRIEND KIDNAPS, GAGS AND KILLS HER.

  DEATH THREATENS DARING HELICOPTER PILOTS IN THE DARK.

  RUSSIAN LEADER PROPOSES A FAREWELL TO ARMS.

  Someone stands over me. I raise my head. It’s Frances. She followed me. She sits next to me. She takes me by the arm. She buries her head in my chest and stays still for a few seconds.

  “The mailman arrived,” she murmurs finally.

  “Do you know if he brought the checks?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “That man … Curbelo, he grabbed the envelopes.”

  “Let’s go!” I say.

  I leave the newspaper on the wall and stand up. I lift her gently by the arm. She’s shaking.

  Looking up at the sky, she says, “Oh, my God!”

  “Calm down … ,” I’m dragging her gently.

  “Is the house beautiful, my angel?”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, squeezing her shoulders. “It has a living and dining room, a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, a full-size bed, a sideboard, three chairs …”

  We walk toward the halfway house.

  When we get to the home, she goes to her room to pick up the last of her belongings and I go to my room to get my suitcase. When I pass Curbelo’s desk, I see that, sure enough, he’s there opening the envelopes with the social security checks. One-eyed Reyes goes up to him and asks for a cigarette.

  “Get away!” Curbelo says. “Can’t you see that I’m working?”

  I smile. I go on to my room. I grab the suitcase and stick two or three shirts in it, my books, a jacket and a pair of shoes. I close it. My books, more than fifty of them, make it pretty heavy. I take out the book of English Romantic poets and stick it in my pocket. I take one last look at the room. The crazy guy who works at the pizzeria is snoring in his bed with his mouth agape. A small cockroach runs across his face. I leave. I let my suitcase drop in front of Mr. Curbelo’s desk. He looks at me questioningly.

  “Give me my check,” I say. “I’m leaving.”

  “That’s not the way things are done around here,” he says. “I’ll give it to you, but that’s not the way things are done. You should have given me fifteen days’ notice. Now you’re leaving me with an empty bed. That’s money that I lose.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Give me my check.”

  He looks for it in the collection of envelopes. He takes it out and gives it to me.

  “Get out of here!” he says, irritated.

  I leave. I place the suitcase in one corner of the living room, and go to the women’s room. Frances is there with her bags ready. I show her my check.

  “Go and ask for yours,” I say.

  She goes out in search of Curbelo. I sit on her bed and wait. After an interminably long time, she reappears with her face pale and her hands empty.

  “He doesn’t want to give it to me,” she says.

  “Why not?” I ask, furious.

  I run to Curbelo’s desk.

  “Frances’s check,” I say, standing before him. “She’s leaving with me.”

  “That’s not possible,” Curbelo says, looking over his glasses at me.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Frances is a sick woman,” he says. “Her mother brought Frances to this establishment herself and left her in my care. I am responsible for whatever happens to her.”

  “Responsible!” I cry scornfully. “Responsible for dirty sheets and filthy towels. For puddles of piss and inedible food.”

  “That’s a lie!” he says. “This is a tightly run operation.”

  Indignant, I take a step toward him and snatch the stack of checks out of his hands. He stands up. He tries to take them away from me, but I give him a shove that makes him fall on his ass in the wastebasket.

  “Arsenio!” he yells from there. “Arsenio!”

  I quickly look for Frances’s check. I find it. I put it in my pocket and throw the rest of the envelopes on the desk. Frances is waiting for me at the door.

  “Go!” I yell.

  She walks out with her two enormous bags. I walk out behind her with my heavy suitcase.

  “My angel … ,” Frances says.

  “Walk!” I say. “We have to get away from here!”

  “But this is so heavy,” she says, pointing at her bags.

  I pull one of the bags out of her hands and carry it, along with my suitcase.

  “Arsenio!” Curbelo yells from inside.

  We walk quickly down First Street toward Sixteenth Avenue. But my suitcase is enormous and old, and as we reach Seventh Avenue it pops wide open, scattering books and clothing all over the ground. I bend down quickly to pick up the books. I shove a few back in the suitcase. A police siren wails, then a patrol car stops in front of us, blocking our way. I stand up slowly. Curbelo and a policeman get out of the car.

  “All right, paisano … ,” the policeman says, taking me by the arm. “Stay still, paisano. Is this the paisano?” the policeman asks Curbelo.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “All right, paisano,” the policeman says in an even-tempered, almost indifferent voice.

  “Give me those checks.”

  “They’re ours!” I say.

  Then Curbelo says, “He’s crazy. He’s out of whack. He doesn’t take his pills.”

  “Give them to me, paisano,” the policeman says. I don’t have to give them to him. He notices that I have them in my shirt pocket and grabs them.

  “He’s a very problematic kid,” Curbelo says.

  I look at Frances. She’s crying. She’s bent down on the ground, still picking up my scattered books. She looks at Curbelo with rage and throws a book at his face. The policeman takes me by the arm and leads me to the car. He opens the back door and tells me to get inside. I get in. He closes the door. He goes back to where Curbelo is. They whisper to each other for a few minutes. Then I see Curbelo lift Frances up from the ground and pick up one of her bags. Then he takes her by the arm and starts to drag her back to the halfway house.

  The policeman picks my things up from the ground and tosses them any which way in the trunk of the patrol car. Then he gets in the car and sits at the wheel.

  “I’m sorry, paisano,” he says, starting the engine.

  The car takes off quickly.

  The patrol car crossed all of Miami and entered the northern neighborhoods. Finally it stopped in front of a large gray building. The policeman got out of the car and opened the back door.

  “Get out,” he ordered.

  I got out. He took me forcefully by the arm and led me to some sort of large, well-lit lobby. We stopped before a small office that said “Admissions.” The policeman pushed my shoulders and we entered the office.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  I sat on a bench. Then the policeman went up to a desk and spoke in a low voice to a young woman wearing a long white coat.

  “Paisano,” the policeman then said, turning toward me, “come here!”

  I walk over to him.

  “You’re in a hospital,” he tells me, “You’ll stay here until you’re cured. Got it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” I say. “I just want to go live somewhere decent with my girlfriend.”

  “That,” the policeman says, “is something you have to explain to the doctors later.” He slaps his holster. He smiles at the woman behind the desk. He leaves the office slowly. The woman gets up, grabs a pile of keys from the drawer and says to me, “Come with me.”

  I follow her. She opens a huge door with one of the keys and leads me into a dirty, poorly lit room. There’s a man with a long gray beard who is nearly naked. He rec
ites fragments from Nietzsche’s Zarathustra in a loud voice. There are also several ragged-looking black men sharing a cigarette in silence. I also see a white guy sobbing softly in a corner and crying, “Mama, where are you?” There’s a black woman with a decent figure who gazes at me with a drugged look, and a white woman who seems like a prostitute, with huge breasts that fall down to her navel. It’s already nighttime. I walk down a long hallway leading to a room full of iron beds. In a corner, I see a public telephone. I take a quarter out of my pocket and insert it. I dial the number of the halfway house. I wait. Arsenio answers on the third ring.

  “Mafia?” he says to me. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” I say. “Get Frances on the line.”

  “She’s in her room,” Arsenio says. “Curbelo injected her with two doses of chlorpromazine and put her to bed. She was screaming. She didn’t want to eat. She tore her dress in half with her own hands. Mafia … what did you do to that woman? She’s crazy about you.”

  “Never mind,” I say. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  “Your books are here.” Arsenio says. “The policeman brought them. Mafia, I’m telling you this man to man, you know why you went nuts? From reading.”

  “Never mind,” I say. “Keep hoping number 38 comes up.”

  “Sure thing,” says Arsenio. “You’ll see me around Miami. You’ll see me!”

  “Talk to you later,” I say.

  “Later,” Arsenio says.

  As soon as I hang up, from the main hall I hear someone yelling my name. I go there. A man in a white coat is waiting for me.

  “Are you William Figueras?”

  “I am.”

  “Come inside. I want to talk to you. I am Dr. Paredes.”

  I walk into a small windowless office. There’s a desk and three chairs. The walls are decorated with pictures of the writer Ernest Hemingway.

  “Are you a fan of Hemingway?” I ask, taking a seat.

  “I’ve read him,” Dr. Paredes says. “A lot.” “Have you read Islands in the Stream?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Have you read Death in the Afternoon?”

  “No,” I say, “but I read A Moveable Feast.”

  “Excellent,” the doctor says. “Maybe now we’ll understand each other better. All right, William, what happened to you?”