When Tito Loved Clara Read Online Free PDF

hungry?”
    â€œNo, Tía. I want to tell you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI want to tell you who the father is.”
    Whoa,
she thought. “OK.”
    â€œBut first you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œYou mean it, Tía?”
    â€œYes. It will be a secret. I won’t tell anyone.”
    â€œNot even Tío Thomas?”
    â€œYes. Not even him.”
    Deysei paused. “It’s Raúl,” she said.
    And Clara pulled off to the shoulder, because otherwise, she would have crashed.

Tito
    Now and then Tito got a call for an estimate in New Jersey, usually in Bergen County, where Dominicans from the Heights moved when their ships came in. Sometimes the suburbs weren't all they were cracked up to be and people decided they wanted to move back to the city. They missed the very things they were trying to escape: the noise, the crowds, the filth. One woman actually said that to him. “The streets are too fucking clean over here. It makes me feel like I can't walk on them.”
    The house was in Oradell, a white Cape with a sloping lawn on a quiet cul-de-sac lined with pear and apple trees. Tito parked the car and climbed the steps, pausing to look around. It was a street he had visited many times in his imagination, the street he dreamed of living on. His wife and two children resided here. In the back of the house were the graves of a dog and two goldfish. To his left lived the friendly neighbor, the one who lent him the expensive lawn equipment and power tools he never got around to buying himself. On the right was the loud, uncouth neighbor, the one who fought with his wife and drank too much—just the sort of person you thought didn't live in the suburbs.
    Tito rang the bell.
    The door was opened by a good-looking high-yellow Dominicana in her fifties. Her hair was straightened and styled short, like Condi Rice's. She was wearing dark blue jeans, an ivory blouse, and a pair of silver reading glasses, which dangled from a chainaround her neck. It was those glasses, as bright and sharp as surgical instruments, that caught his eye. He glanced down at his clipboard to check the name but found that he already knew it.
    â€œ
Buenas tardes,
Ms. Almonte,” he said. There was an awkward pause as he waited to see if she would recognize him—but why would she? “I'm with Cruz Brothers,” he continued. “I'm here to give you an estimate for your move.”
    â€œYes, come in,” she said, and walked him around the house, pointing out what was staying and what was going. Inside, it was not at all the cozy, domestic space he'd dreamed up for himself and his phantom family; it was spare and clean to the point of being ascetic, with modern art on the walls, books in every room, and no television. There was an austerity to the wooden furniture that reminded him of church pews—you wouldn't be able to get too comfortable, he thought. Only the bathroom matched his imaginings. It had just been redone, she told him, fitted out with his and hers sinks, a whirlpool tub, and one of those showers that blasted water at you from about eight different directions. To Tito, it seemed like something a long-married couple would treat themselves to in lieu of an active sex life. A lot of the stuff was staying, which in his experience meant a divorce. It was not a house where children lived.
    When the tour was finished, they sat in the dining room and Tito asked her how soon she wanted to move. He sipped at the glass of ice water she had given him, making sure to place it on the coaster and not on the glossy surface of the table. The glass was slippery and he was worried about dropping it.
    â€œThe first of September,” she said.
    â€œ
Bien.
Where you moving to?”
    â€œEnglish, please,” she said. “I'm moving to Sherman Avenue in Manhattan.”
    â€œYou're moving
to
Inwood?” he said, and stopped