The Wafers
Angie Cruz presents an excerpt from her novel Dominicana
Dominicana by Angie Cruz (Flatiron Books, 2019)
On the last day of 1964, fifteen-year-old Ana Canción marries Juan Ruiz, a man twice her age, in the Dominican countryside. The following day, she becomes Ana Ruiz, a wife confined to a one-bedroom in Washington Heights. Juan is unfaithful, abusive, and controlling—he even forbids her from learning English. After a failed escape, Ana learns she is pregnant. Both her mother and husband compare her pregnancy to winning the lottery: her child will have American citizenship. Juan returns briefly to the Dominican Republic when the civil war begins, leaving César, his brother, to care for Ana. During that respite from confinement she experiences true love, which awakens her will to fight for independence from her abuser and for the right to stay in her adopted homeland. A timeless portrait of womanhood and citizenship, which rings true in this era of forced migration.
With Juan gone, I attend the free ESL lessons at the rectory next to the church.
I squeeze into a heavy wool skirt that covers my knees—too warm for the weather, but it still fits. I lock the door behind me, go to the elevator, then return to my apartment door to make sure it’s locked. The rectory is only two blocks away, but knowing no one will be waiting for me makes me feel vulnerable. What if immigration grabs me and takes me away like they did the sister of Giselle from El Basement, who went to the police after some guy stole her pocketbook, and somehow, they understood she didn’t have papers? Off she went.
On second thought, I should’ve left César a note in the apartment, but the elevator arrives, and I don’t want to be late to the 10 a.m. lesson.
I walk with my keys in my hand, to punch someone in the eye if they accost me. I know to introduce myself to the teacher—in English. Aló. Elooo. I’m no longer the child my mother shipped. I’m about to become a mother. There’s no reason to be afraid. People walk the city streets every day and survive. I just need to mind my own business, and when I see trouble, walk the other way.
I secure the floral scarf around my head that I found under the sink, redolent with what is surely Caridad’s perfume. It’s all over the scarf.
Bob, the building porter who sweeps the front entrance, points to the sky and makes the gesture of opening an umbrella. No, I won’t turn back, even if the sky threatens rain. The air thickens with the humidity, and a strong wind pushes me across the street, away from the church. Is this a sign to turn back? People smile at me, nodding hello when I walk past them, the way city people only do with children and the elderly.
I grip the keys in my hand.
Today the concrete sidewalk feels harder under my feet. So much cement! Back home, cement means progress. In New York City, it’s the trees and grass that make it feel rich. The rectory smells of frankincense and bread baking. I’m the first to arrive. Images of the Virgin Mary, lit candles, and Jesus cover the dark wood panels. Folding metal chairs surround a conference table. On the table, a stack of magazines, scissors, and glue. The large blackboard hasn’t been eaten away by salt or stained with past lessons. It looks brand-new.
Excuse me, can I help you?
I whip my head around and step back when I find a woman covered from head to toe in a black habit towering over me. My belly flutters.
Inglis? I point to the sign.
The nun’s skin glows and her eyes brighten.
Welcome! Yes, here we learn English. You’re early, but take a seat.
Bafroom? I ask. The baby, the size of a small banana, is heavy on my bladder—when I need to go, I need to go! The nun points down the long, narrow hall. The walls are paneled with dark and shiny wooden cabinets. Stacks of Bibles and other books bound in leather fill the shelves. At the end of the hall, light filters through a stained-glass window and lands onto a table off the kitchen piled with transparent bags filled with wafers. Jesus’s body! I pick one bag up and press it against my nose. When I hear the nun coming down the hall, I shove the bag into my purse. I fumble to open the door, slip in, and lock myself inside.
She’s waiting for me when I exit the bathroom. Her tendrils of hair look like cooked spaghetti. Even without any makeup, she’s pretty. Though I planned to put the bag of wafers back, I follow her to the main room. What if the priest already blessed the wafers? If nuns have direct communication with God, what if Jesus whispers into the nun’s ear that I’m carrying him inside my purse?
At the table, we find six other students. I search for Marisela’s sister among the strange faces. No one fits her description. The nun hands everyone a piece of blank white paper. She tapes a piece of paper on the board and writes: My name is Marta Lucía. She points at herself and asks, What is your name? I write: My name is Ana.
A woman with wild red hair and a hairy lip lifts her sign and shows it to Sister Lucía.
Very good, says Sister Lucía.
When asked something in Spanish, she responds only in English. I’m lost, so I watch the other students and follow them. An older lady speaks in yet another language I don’t understand. No one else speaks Spanish except for Sister Lucía. How confusing.
She walks by my chair and bumps my purse off the back. It’s okay, Ana.
Sister Lucía picks up the purse and carries it away with her. But Miss…
I’m ready to drop to my knees and confess. But everyone’s too busy trying to understand Sister Lucía, who speaks too fast, to see my panic.
Please, I mumble to the nun, to Jesus, my feet stuck to the floor, my eyes on the brink of tears.
I watch her hang the purse on a hook beside some jackets and other things. I watch her make sure the rectory door is locked, reassuring me my purse is safe. I watch her return to the table.
Thank you, God, I say as Sister Lucía places a blank sheet of paper and a marker in front of me. She tapes her own paper on the board and on it she writes: I was born in Chile.
Where were you born? she asks the class, takes one of the magazines, cuts out a photograph of a house, and glues it to her paper. She asks everyone to do the same and we grab magazines as if there are fewer magazines than people.
I love horses, so I cut out a horse. Unlike Marisela, mares take care of their pregnant friends. There are few apples in D.R. so I cut out apples. Only at Christmas would I be allowed one bite, except for the year Yohnny stole it and hid it under the bed, where a mouse ate it. Then no one ate apples.
For when the heat doesn’t work in the apartment, I cut out a fireplace. And because a fortune-teller told me I will have a long life and two children, I cut out two, a girl and a boy, both blond with big blue eyes, wearing matching clothes, beautiful and rich.
Sister Lucía tapes my paper on the board beside her own and the others.
I was born in Greece.
I born in China.
I was born in Russia.
She repeats everyone’s sentences then asks us to repeat after her, Born.
Boln…
Bon…
Bone.
Born! Born!
When she reads my sentence aloud, Sister Lucía says, I was born, and writes Dominican Republic over my República Dominicana.
Do-mi-ni-can Re-pu-blic, she says.
I repeat.
Very good, Ana, very good! Sister Lucía claps her hands. My name is Marta Lucía. I was born in Chile. And you, Ana? She points to me.
My name is Ana. I bon in Dominican Republic.
No, Ana, say, My name is Ana. I was born in Dominican Republic.
I repeat.
Very, very good, Ana. You can now say you speak English. Sister Lucía gives me a big hug after class. When she hands over the purse to me, she accidentally drops it.
No! I dash for it and yank it from her.
It’s heavier than it looks, she says.
I play the crazy goat and say, Thank you, Sister Lucía. I walk as fast as I can, afraid to look back and turn into salt. The purse weighs heavier than the lipstick, mirror, and wallet. Though my feet are heavy like bricks, I fly down the street. Miss, miss! I hear a man yell behind me.
I turn, gripping the keys in my hand.
A young black man is waving Caridad’s scarf. He’s dressed in one of those tailored suits I often admired standing before the Audubon on Sunday afternoons. I press my purse against my body, thinking about all the things Juan has told me. I walk as fast as I can, the baby pushing against a rib, and no one is there to save me. I trip. The man rushes to my side, grabs my arm, and when I look up, all I see is floral fabric.
Miss, you okay?
Juan! I scream and put my arm in front of my face and curl my body around my stomach and my bag.
The man comes closer.
Me nem is Ana, I say again and again. I bon in Dominicana República.
He chuckles. I admire his bright teeth. My fear evaporates and I feel silly. I allow his hand to help pull me up.
Tenk you.
You’re welcome, miss, says the man, walking away and shaking his head.
I place the scarf around my neck, mouthing, You welcome, over and over in my head. I cross the street and enter the building. Bob the porter holds the door for me, and I say, Tenk you, and he says, You’re welcome. I go into the elevator and say, You welcome, and then I finally lock the apartment door behind me. I sit on the sofa. The apartment grows dark as large black clouds hover over the city. From my purse, I pull out the bag of unleavened bread. I place Jesus in my mouth and let him melt on my tongue. I eat one piece after another. Maybe he can protect me from the inside; maybe now he can’t ignore me like he did the day I asked him to bring back Marisela. I eat him until I’m full. I lie back on the sofa and breathe softly because I don’t want to throw him up.
Jesus, bless my baby.
This excerpt originally appeared as “The Wafers” in Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas 89, 47,2 (November 2014).
Shortlisted for the 2020 Women's Prize for Fiction
YALSA Alex Award Winner and RUSA Notable Book
Longlisted for an Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence and the Aspen Words Literary Prize
A Most Anticipated Book: The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, The Washington Post, O Magazine, Esquire, Time, Real Simple, Newsweek, The Baltimore Sun, Seattle Times, Kirkus Reviews, Nylon, BuzzFeed, Lit Hub, The Millions, InStyle, Bustle, Refinery29, Chicago Review of Books, AARP, Hello Giggles, Domino
