La Cotorra De Eloina-(Eloina's Parrot)
After nine years of marriage, Mary knew that the holidays were not a good time to ask her husband for a favor, but she wanted to visit Eloina one last time before the New Year. When she was a little girl, the daily visits to Eloina’s Manhattan art deco apartment were always something her older sister and mother looked forward to. Mary, being a child of nine at the time, was somewhat frightened of the woman everyone referred to as ‘la bruja de la calle Arden’ –The Witch Of Arden Street.
Eloina was a robust woman with a beautiful face, and skin that was as black as coal. She came from Oriente, a little province in Cuba where Mary’s mother and father lived before the revolution, before moving to New York City. I guess this is the age where Mary became fixated on all things magic, when her memories took on their own momentum. She knew early on that what she would learn from Eloina were magnificent stories about life, death and the power of spirit, so she decided to someday write a book, even though she had no idea where to begin.
But now in her forties, all that excitement seemed so far away, so inaccessible. She was a grown woman who had to ask her husband’s permission for everything, even to take a shower. One could classify him as a brutal rendition of ‘the ultimate macho man.’ Even his facial features were sharp, well defined and scowling. He was an illogical man to the point of being highly self conscious of his obvious misgivings and when it came to Mary, he was overwhelmingly inaccurate about who she was as a person.
Mary spent the next few hours pacing around her husband, bringing him water, beer, making him lunch, dinner, all the while collectively breathing in the opulence she had once known in Eloina’s apartment. She did that often, retreating to her innermost thoughts, recollecting what once was. It helped her escape. It helped her feel safe. And after a bout of clinical depression that caused her to gain fifty pounds, it helped her lose weight. Eloina would call it meditation, but after not being allowed to see any of her family and friends for years, Mary called it survival.
Survival for her was a mere flirtation with the oddities of life, with the people and things that made her feel beautiful, with the wondrous gateways between the silent past and the stark reality of the present. When she was a child of five she had a dream about The Chicken Man of New Orleans. He laughed, kissed her hand and told her, “Love isn’t where you find it but where it finds you.” She thought she had found love with Oscar, she thought they made the perfect team. He was the cynic, who saw the world as a disaster and a disappointment; she was the optimist, who saw true love and beauty among the madness.
The moon was full the night she met Bob. How she met him isn't important, what is important is the way they immortalized their love for one another. He had skills as a writer and wrote the way he lived, with a quirky sense of vision masked by utter brillance. This is the man she saw in her dreams as a child. The one The Chicken Man of New Orleans told her about so long ago. Bob was her soul-mate.
For a little over three years she carried on the secret affair. She hated calling it an affair, because in her heart she had already divorced Oscar and married Bob. It isn't important how Oscar found out about their affair, what is important was the way Mary, for once in her life, stood up for herself and for her love. She packed her things and was ready to walk out the door. Then came the phone call.
I left out an important detail in Bob's description, he was a heavy drinker who had aquired cirrhosis of the liver as a result. And aside from that fact, he smoked a lot too. But Mary loved him as he was. I say as he was, because on that fateful day she was to walk out on Oscar, a relative of Bob's called to tell her he had passed away in his sleep.
She saw the look of shock and contentment in Oscar's face and resigned herself to the destiny that had befallen her. Of course, life with Oscar got worse after that but she eventually became comfortably numb to his raunchy intrusions and beatings. Yes, there were many of those, before and after Bob. But Mary managed to maintain her polished exterior.
The last beating she received was when she asked Oscar if they could visit Eloina's house on Christmas Eve. I refer to it as the last beating because that was the day Mary died, the day he finally went too far. As Mary lay dying she said, "Eloina, quidado que vas a matar esa pobre cotorrita!" -"Eloina be careful you're going to kill that poor little parrot!"
Eloina liked to place her caged parrot under the shower on a hot day in order to refresh it and keep it cool, which often scared Mary, for the bird didn't seem to find it at all enjoyable. And when Mary paced around Eloina's apartment, awestruck with fear at the walls covered in religious paintings-the altars, amulets, candles and gold statues to the various Gods and Goddesses, Eloina taught her that no one has any power over you except that which you give them.
My mother relinquished the power Oscar had over her with her death and with her defiance of life and social convention. I know father came for her that night. There was a beautiful full moon out. A tragic poet's full moon. A moon that lets you know you are in love and that it will last for all eternity.
