Sierra Santiago and the Invisible City

Chapter 3 - Home

Sierra's family had owned the four-story brownstone on the edge of Bed-Stuy for as long as she could remember. She lived with her mom and dad on the first two floors. Terry, a PRATT student from Wisconsin rented the third floor but almost never left his apartment except to do laundry. Sierra wasn't even sure what his name was. On the fourth floor, which was really almost an attic because the building narrowed out towards the top, was Tío Lázaro. The second she walked into her house, Sierra was greeted by the heavy, mouth-watering smell of arroz con pollo and plátanos simmering on the stovetop. It never failed; even when she was furious at the world, couldn't stand her parents, or was stressed about school, Sierra's was soothed by the smell of her mom's chicken and rice. It wrapped her up in a fragrant cloud and that seemed to carry her into the kitchen, disentangling her of all cares and worries on the way. Even tonight, with Robbie gone and paintings crying and security guys charging around outside her school, the smell of home and a good meal ease her mind away from all that trouble, at least for a second or two.

"Sierra, mi'ija," her mom said without looking up from the stove. "Your father's leaving for the night shift in half an hour, and your tío's acting up. I have to finish cooking and I have about fifteen thousand and a half papers to grade by tomorrow- can you please, por favor, mi hija querida, take care of tío Lázaro's room and whatever it is he keeps yelling about up there. He's scaring Timmy."

"You mean Tommy?"

"Baby, not tonight, not in the mood, okay? Too much going on right now. Squeeze this garlic into the mojo before you go please, gracias." She handed Sierra a little flowering clove of garlic, its crackling paper skin fluttering off like broken wings onto the kitchen floor. Sierra found the press, stripped two little bulbs and placed them in the metal chamber. The stinging smell of garlic surrounded her, stuck fast to her fingers and nostrils.

"How was your last day of school, m'ija?" Sierra says, imitating poorly her mom's mild Spanish accent. "Oh, it was great, Mami," she answered herself, "something horrible happened at the Vault and we got evacuated but besides that everything's awesome."

María Carmen Siboney Santiago turned slowly around and glared at the back of her daughter's wild mane of curly brown hair. "What do you mean something happened at The Vault? What happened?"

"I don't know, Mami." Sierra squeezed another clove into the simmering pan. "All kindsa security guys with guns came out of a truck and everyone was going bonkers and running around like crazy people." She didn't dare mention Robbie's disappearance or the terrible screaming noise that still echoed back and forth between her ears.

María Santiago was lost in thought.

"What are you thinking?" demanded Sierra.

Her mom popped out of her daze and returned to the cutting board. "Nada," she snapped. "Just finish esqueezing the ajo for me and go see what your tío wants please."

Sierra used a knife to pry the last juicy strands of garlic out of the tiny holes in the presser.

Without warning, the front door swung open and her tía Rosa came swooshing in as if pushed by a heavy gust of wind. "¡Buenas tardes, familia!" called Tía Rosa from inside a cloud of heavily applied makeup and perfume. She dolled out sloppy cheek kiss-kisses to Sierra and her mom. The competing smells of garlic, well-seasoned chicken and some ridiculous lady-scent clashed in the steamy air and Sierra was suddenly more than happy to escape to the calm of Tío Lázaro's apartment.

"Hi Tía," she said. "I was just about to go clean up Tío 's apartment." Her mom shot her a look.

"Ay niña," Tía Rosa moaned. "Do you ever wear any colors besides black? So dark, this one."

Sierra pointed to her purple beret and smiled. Tía Rosa flicked her wrist in utter dismissal and turned to her sister. "María!" she screamed. "It smells fan-tas-tic as always!" Sierra quietly made her retreat as the small talk commenced, not wanting to hear any of the local gossip that Rosa was sure to dish out.

On the second floor, Sierra poked her head into her brothers' room. On Juan's side, glossy photos of fancy guitars and bikini girls stared out towards Jimmy's completely blank walls. Her two brothers could not be more different, and Sierra marveled that they even got along at all. Jimmy could talk through the night about all kinds of random ridiculous facts and had a quiet good natured way about him. Juan, four years younger than Jimmy and one older than Sierra, spent his days crafting a careful casualness and practiced guitar at all hours. Then Jimmy became a marine, which surprised no one, and Juan's metal-bachata band Culebra got a record deal, which shocked everyone, and both disappeared suddenly and completely from Sierra's daily life. Now Jimmy was a three page letter every month about waiting for something to happen in the mountains of Tora Bora and Juan was a rare and awkward phone call from Cleveland or Chicago or wherever his next tour date was.

Sierra continued past her own room to the third floor. The vague smell of incense and ramen noodles at the landing meant Tommy or Terry or whoever he was must be home and trying to cook. Sierra went up another flight to her grand Tío Lázaro's apartment and knocked lightly on the wooden door. She always performed this useless tap-tap, even though she knew perfectly well Tío Lázaro would not be opening the door or even calling out for her to enter. It had become part of the Friday routine just like her slow, dance-like wanderings around the apartment as she pretended to dust and tidy up an already perfectly clean room.

She walked in and the gorgeous open sky over New York unfolded before her. Ceiling-high windows around her tío's bed made the room seem more like the crow's nest on some urban pirate ship than a cramped Bed-Stuy apartment. It was just past sunset and the sky was mostly dark blue with streaks of blood red and orange towards the horizon. The Manhattan lightshow shimmered along the East River. Helicopters still hung low over The Vault, dotting the darkening skyline. Brooklyn emitted a warm glow; its streetlamps dotting the sea of buildings and street corners.

Sierra's gaze leveled with the dark green, thoughtful eyes of her grand tío Lázaro. He stared directly at her again and she quickly turned away and began a slow meander between the twirling spider plants and overflowing bookshelves.

"Sierra."

She continued moving through the small apartment because there was absolutely no way that the voice she just heard belonged to her old mumbling uncle.

"Sierrrrrrra." She turned around slowly to find him staring at her still. "Come closer, niña, I need to tell you something." He was struggling to sit up but his voice was crisp and unslurred. She walked closer to him. When she reached the bed he suddenly extended a claw-like hand, warm, brown and ancient, and wrapped it around Sierra's wrist. With a shocking amount of strength, Tío Lázaro tugged her arm so sharply that she was forced to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I am not going to bite," her tío chuckled in his heavy Puerto Ricanized English. The laugh quickly deteriorated into a thick bronchial cough. Sierra sat frozen. "But I do need for to tell you," he continued when he'd gotten control of his heaving lungs again, "to tell you..."

"What, tío? Tell me what?"

"Everything," he wheezed, "that you know and love," he coughed twice and finally said: "is about to come to a terrible end."