18. Lena
There is a saying that goes: Al que no quiere caldo le dan dos tazas. He who does not want any broth is given two cups.
Oh, the irony of getting thrown into a situation that is so generously the opposite of what you want.
I can name at least four reasons why my current predicament, as appreciative as I am for such a welcoming shelter, is completely like too many cups of broth I do not want.
Number one. Needing others’ help and generosity.
Number two. Growing close to people, which will only add to that need.
Number three. Being forced to gaze at a shirtless man, strong arms straining as he stands on a ladder putting up storm shutters on his grandmother’s windows.
Bueno , “forced” is a strong word. I was only asked to bring out some water to him.
Number four. Very closely related to number three. Distractions and obstacles that keep me from completing my work.
So, yes, a whole stockpot of unwanted broth at the moment.
When I arrived at the Morales home, I was immediately swept in by Tina, Julia, and Mari. They have done everything they can think of to make me feel comfortable, safe, and included. You’d think this was a pajama party for grown women, with all their giddy energy and how they prepped a space for me. I’m just a colleague and a hurricane novice, and yet the amount of towels, scented candles, and extra blankets alone is proportionate to their enthusiasm.
Even with their special brand of hospitality, I don’t know how I will make it through however many days I’m stranded here.
Thankfully, I was able to grab some books about the settling of the western district of the island, the San Juan gold rush of the early 1500s, and the like, as I’m sure any online archive searching will not be an option for a while with this storm. But, besides that, what will I do with myself without my work?
Ay , I know—what terrible worries. As I dread workaholic withdrawal, others tie down their roofs, others shelter from flood zones at schools, and others stand in line for hours at gas stations, stocking up on fuel for their generators. I know this because of the neighbor’s nonstop stream of storm news coverage—at full volume.
So I am determined to make myself useful doing whatever Tina lets me do while here. It’s not much, but I help out with the storm prep by washing all the laundry and freezing water bottles.
Trivial as my worries may be, Mamá always told me serving others is the best way to forget one’s troubles. Unless you are serving water to a bare-chested Rico and his backwards baseball cap. Then your problems will flood right back. Mamá could not see that one coming.
And it is not even about a tanned, toned, glistening upper body and a strategically placed cap. Vamos, it’s not all about that.
It is how this man protects those in his care in such a matter-of-fact and tireless way. There is no escaping him as he hammers away on those shutters, hauls portable tanks of fuel, revs up the generator for a test run, secures any outdoor fixtures that might turn into projectiles when the wind rages, and any other chore his abuela deems necessary.
Rico is a caretaker, a fixer, and I am overwhelmed to watch him and imagine what it’s like to be at the receiving end of it.
I guess I have been, in some ways. But such first-hand concrete evidence of his unwavering sheltering?
This is not only about broad shoulders. This puts front and center how keenly and how long I have not had anyone in my life like that. Not that I have wanted it or needed it. Because I have not.
Pero , what is it with all this “woe is me”? Now that the advancing storm has pulled every breeze in its direction, is it the strange air that looms, stirring all this conflicted longing in me?
Service—oh, and a focus on gratitude helps. Mamá would talk about that, too.
I can list some of that:
Grateful for a safe place to stay.
Grateful for a generous, welcoming family to weather the hurricane with.
Grateful for that futon I already tested out and that Julia was not lying about its comfort.
Grateful Rico put his shirt back on.
I thought I didn’t want any broth, but maybe some would not be so bad for now.
The cyclone winds howl and rattle against the metal shutters. Literal howling—a persistent, high-pitched oooh that has no business being that eerie.
I wrap myself in the blanket nest the Morales women made for me in Julia’s room and try very hard not to think about becoming one of the three little pigs.
This Minerva hurricane decided not only to intensify but also to slow down its route over the island. The storm winds and the rain have been relentless for hours with no sign of stopping—and it has only been half an hour since Minerva landed.
When the first drops of rain fell, the power went out, and with how the storm shutters block any light, Julia’s charming room feels cavernous. Even without the howling wind, it would be an ominous scene.
A soft knock on the door startles my spirit out of my body for a second. I huddle further into my nest and call out a strangled, “Yes?”
“I have been sent to deliver your summons.” Rico. His deep, muffled tone has me waddling nearer to the door.
“Summons?”
“Yes. Tradition dictates that when winds are at their worst, we’re all in the same room.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. We must play dominoes—as our forefathers did.”
“You have all helped me enough. I’m fine to stay out of your way.”
“What has anything they have done given you the idea you’d be in our way? I had to stop them when they threw around a red carpet idea.”
It’s so true. There has been no hint of inconvenience from any of them—the opposite, actually. But I’m not used to living with others, as hospitable as they may be.
I am also unsure about weather-event refugee etiquette. I would assume everyone hunkers down in their own space and tries not to chew down their nails.
Rico goes on, “Fine, it’s also so if the roof blows off, we have each other to hang onto.” He must sense my shudder because he adds, “Kidding. Okay, not implausible, but kidding.” After a moment, he gently knocks again. “Come on, Lena. Could be worse—we used to all pile in the same bed during hurricanes. Things change, but no matter what, we weather it together.”
My hand stops on the doorknob—both at the mention of a one-bed situation related to Rico and this foreign concept of seeking out others for the hunkering down part.
At this point, it would be rude to stay in the room anyway, so I shed my remaining blanket and open the door.
Rico stands in the narrow, dark hallway. Barefoot in a t-shirt and shorts, he looks down at me with concerned eyes. His gaze goes to my hair, and he grins as my hand shoots up to the lopsided messy bun the nest gave me.
We both startle at Tina’s booming voice. “ Miren, era pa’ hoy! This hurricane will come and go waiting for you two, and Julia and Mari will stand undefeated. Magdalena, please tell me you’re better at dominoes than Rico.”
My eyebrows shoot up at him, and he shrugs as he says, “I’m not much for cutthroat strategy these days.”
I lean in and whisper, “I have never played dominoes in my life—strategy is involved?”
Rico chuckles and whispers back, “Don’t worry. Dominoes has insane beginner’s luck.”
I scoff. “Let’s hope that applies to hurricanes too.”
He sighs and gestures for me to head down the hallway when he says, “Let’s hope it applies to a lot of things.”
I have no idea how to play, except to place the same amount of dots to the same amount of dots. And yet, I am doing surprisingly well at this game. Best of all, it makes Tina ecstatic. Her happy dance is epic.
After my five-game winning streak, Mari and Julia state their case about who should partner with me next.
I now understand why this part is tradition. Comfort emanates from the domino pieces with their faded map of Puerto Rico on the back. The sound they make as they knock together when shuffled serves as a reminder that, the wind and rain may rage, and the power may go out, but as long as the dominoes are jingling along with the competitive jabs and laughter, there is safety and hope.
Vaya . I have told myself for so long that togetherness makes my skin crawl. What little distant memory I have of the actual feeling makes me resentful. I have never had time for resentment—I work hard and move forward and thank goodness there are no hurricanes in Salamanca.
I get why it is better to have someone to hang onto if it’s not implausible the roof might blow off.
The sisters move on to rock-paper-scissors for first choice of teammate, and a laugh bursts out of me. Tina stirs the game pieces, and I look at Rico who has been reading by flashlight on the sofa and occasionally commenting on the fierce dominoes battles.
His eyes are already on me, his head tilted as if he is trying to make sense of this lamp-lit scene. When our eyes meet, his brow furrows, and he jumbles to get back into his book.
Something metallic crashes outside, and we all jump at the terrifying clang. Well, all of us but Tina, who placidly hands out the dominoes and mutters, “Sounds like the chicken coops weren’t as secured as Socorro thought.”
I look at Rico to gauge his concern over his occasional poultry passengers. He shakes his head, guessing I’m overestimating his relationship to the chickens, and says, “Don’t worry. Socorro brings them inside before the winds start.”
My eyes widen. “Inside?”
Rico nods his head at his sisters. “And you thought having them in the same room was hard enough.”
He ducks when a couple of dominoes come flying his way.