Guillermo Rosales - The Halfway House

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 recites 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.”