Cristina Henríquez, The Book of

 This passage is adapted from Cristina Henríquez, The Book of

Unknown Americans. ©2014 by Cristina Henríquez.

One afternoon I made chicharrones and carried

them over to Celia’s apartment.

She clapped her hands together in delight when

she saw me and motioned for me to come inside.

“These are for you,” I said, holding out a foil-

covered plate.

She lifted a corner of the foil and sniffed.

“Sabroso,” she said.

I loved how full her home felt, embroidered

pillows on the couches, a curio stacked with milk

glass bowls and recuerdos and folded tablecloths, red

votives along the windowsills, spidery potted plants,

woven rugs, unframed posters of Panamá beaches on

the walls, a box of rinsed bottles on the floor, a small

radio on top of the refrigerator, a plastic bag filled

with garlic hanging from a doorknob, a collection of

spices clustered on a platter on the counter. The great

accumulation of things almost hid the cracks in the

walls and the stains on the floor and the scratches

that clouded the windows.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” Celia joked as I looked

around. “Isn’t that what the Americans say?”

She poured cold, crackling Coca-Colas for both of

us, and we sat on the couch, sipping them and taking

small bites of the chicharrones. She looked just as she

had the first time I met her: impeccably pulled

together, with a face full of makeup, fuchsia lips,

chestnut-brown chin-length hair curled at the ends

and tucked neatly behind her ears, small gold

earrings. So unlike most of my friends at home, who

used nothing but soap on their faces and aloe on

their hands and who kept their hair pulled into

ponytails, like mine, or simply combed after it had

been washed and left to air-dry.

Celia told me about the provisions we would need

for winter—heavy coats and a stack of comforters

and something called long underwear that made me

laugh when she tried to describe it—and about a

place called the Community House where they

offered immigrant services if we needed them. She

gossiped about people in the building. She told me

that Micho Alvarez, who she claimed always wore his

camera around his neck, had a sensitive side, despite

the fact that he might look big and burly, and that

Benny Quinto, who was close friends with Micho,

had studied to be a priest years ago. She said that

Quisqueya dyed her hair, which was hardly

news—I had assumed as much when I met her. “It’s

the most unnatural shade of red,” Celia said. “Rafael

says it looks like she dumped a pot of tomato sauce

on her head.” She chortled. “Quisqueya is a

busybody, but it’s only because she’s so insecure. She

doesn’t know how to connect with people. Don’t let

her put you off.”

Celia began telling me about when she and Rafael

and her boys had come here from Panamá, fifteen

years ago, after the invasion.

“So your son, he was born there?” I asked.

“I have two boys,” she said. “Both of them were

born there. Enrique, my oldest, is away at college on

a soccer scholarship. And there’s Mayor, who you

met. He’s nothing at all like his brother. Rafa thinks

we might have taken the wrong baby home from the

hospital.” She forced a smile. “Just a joke, of course.”

She stood and lifted a framed picture from the

end table. “This is from last summer before Enrique

went back to school,” she said, handing it to me.

“Micho took it for us.”

In the photo were two boys: Mayor, whom I

recognized from the store, small for his age with

dark, buzzed hair and sparkling eyes, and Enrique,

who stood next to his brother with his arms crossed,

the faint shadow of a mustache above his lip.

“What about you?” Celia asked. “Do you have

other children besides your daughter?”

“Only her,” I said, glancing at my hands around

the glass. The perspiration from the ice had left a ring

of water on the thigh of my pants.

“And she’s going . . .” Celia trailed off, as though

she didn’t want to say it out loud.

“To Evers.”

Celia nodded. She looked like she didn’t know

what to say next, and I felt a mixture of

embarrassment and indignation.

“It’s temporary,” I said. “She only has to go there

for a year or two.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“She’s going to get better.”

“I’ve heard it’s a good school.”

“I hope so. It’s why we came.”

Celia gazed at me for a long time before she said,

“When we left Panamá, it was falling apart. Rafa and

I thought it would be better for the boys to grow up

here. Even though Panamá was where we had spent

our whole lives. It’s amazing, isn’t it, what parents

will do for their children?”

She put her hand on mine. A benediction. From

then, we were friends.