I have always loved cats, ever since I was a boy. Something about their selective socialization, isolated grace, and potential for fierce loyalty has spoken to me in ways no other species has. Not that I was allowed to keep any when I was young. We were a working-class family living in a neighborhood that reflected it. There were, however, a plethora of stray ferals available for me to lure, charm, and feed with scraps. I “adopted” dozens throughout my adolescence, and once won over, they would return for months after, sometimes with offspring in tow. When they wouldn’t return, I imagined they found a family somewhere, perhaps just a stone’s throw from my house. Through the 1980s, an exodus of immigrants from the Dominican Republic flooded the South Providence area, setting up businesses, families, and residences. All were in search of that elusive American dream.
My mother was a part of that initial wave. She was a registered nurse in her country. Here, she worked a foot-press machine in a costume jewelry factory. We lived off of Elmwood Avenue on a block cluttered with triple-deckers, most of which were occupied by newly arrived Dominicans. This created a tight-knit community where stories, camaraderie, and gossip flowed freely. There was Magdelena, the old relic that lived a few doors down. She tracked everybody’s movements. Mr. Sanchez, a handsy auto mechanic downstairs from us, who all of the neighborhood parents warned their children to stay away from. Above us was a family of six: the Santanas – two hard working parents and their four little ones. My bedroom window had a clear line of sight into the adjacent house’s second floor. This was Flor’s apartment. She had only been there a month and was already the talk of the neighborhood. The stories were salacious, even to my twelve-year-old ears. What I didn’t gather from the local kids, I gleaned from eavesdropping on the adult conversations. They spoke of Santeria and labeled her simply as la Bruja.
At the time, I only understood that in its simplest form. It alluded to witchcraft and rituals, spells, and seances. It scared me beyond words. Unable to sleep, I would keep a vigil, watching from my darkened window late into the night to ensure she wouldn’t somehow float into my room. She moved freely about her apartment with lights on and curtains pulled as if she invited voyeurism. Despite the tales of terror, despite my still-developing brain and sexuality, her sensual femininity was impossible to ignore. I guessed her to be in her mid-thirties. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded into a cavalcade of corkscrew curls that she always wore loose, framing a soft face dotted by delicate features. Her otherwise petite frame was accentuated by her curvy thighs, hips, and broad shoulders. She would pace her apartment, slightly hunched and lost in perpetual conversation with herself.
I would watch her cook small meals and eat alone. I would watch her light countless candles, reciting something unintelligible over each. I would watch her clean. She was a fanatic for cleaning. I’d even watch her shower. I was sure she’d spotted me one night because she paused momentarily. She was drying off and stared directly at me for an eternity. A smile eventually spread across her lips as she continued toweling off, unperturbed. Some nights, it felt like we lived together. Shortly after Flor moved in, I noticed the stray cats who once visited me were disappearing. And it was not long before they were gone. I watched her even more intently from then on. I imagined the worst for my feral friends, boiling in some pot or skinned over a fire. The vicious rumors about her bombarding the block like local lore from resident denizens made for fascinating fiction. They said she earned a living from performing spells and reading the fortunes of those who sought her services. Her customers were jilted lovers and degenerate gamblers eager for a jackpot. They were blue-collar workers looking to connect with the deceased and single mothers seeking love. I would watch the clients come and go, handing her folded currency each time.
Still, my cats made no appearance. The ideal opportunity presented itself late one night in late autumn when I spotted her from my window in the backyard of her triple-decker gathering herbs. She whistled a melodic few bars in repetition until it seemed ingrained in my brain. It was enough to lure me outside. Although, I had to ensure my mother was asleep, of course. I shuffled into the chilly night air in my chancletas and p.j.’s. I was sure I could hear the distant call of cats. Fluorescent orange street lamps lit my path directly into her driveway as if led by some unseen force. At that moment, I could hear her calling, whispering softly to the cats as I once did. A stray, no older than a month old, emerged from a shrub, cooing and anxious for her touch. I watched from a distance, trying to keep from breathing. She scooped it up gently, stroked it lovingly, and carried it to an unused, detached garage overflowing with garbage. It had been there for as long as I could remember. Without hesitation, sheer curiosity drove me to follow closely behind. I slipped in unnoticed and cleared enough space to maneuver among the debris. Candlelight flickered and danced on the dismal walls. I sensed the presence of many cats in the confined space before I could even make out their luminescent eyes staring back at me. I quickly counted at least eight sets – they were crowded covertly on dusty counters and cowering quietly in corners. I watched them all emerge, one by one. They greeted Flor and gathered at her feet. Still standing with her back to me, she spoke as if she had sensed me all along.
“Bienvenido, hijito,” she beckoned. “Step into my quiet space.” Her Spanish was formal, slow, and delivered deliberately. “You’re the neighbor boy. Tell me your name.”
“Toby.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.” I meant it.
“Good. There’s no need to be. Were you looking for your cats?”
“Si.”
“They appreciate you caring for them, but winter is coming, and they need somewhere more secure to stay. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you think that something bad had happened to them? Be honest.” I hesitated. “I did.” “What have you heard about me, Toby?”
“That you do Santeria.”
“And what does that mean to you?”
“That you’re a witch.” I pitched it as plainly as I could.
“That I am evil?”
I shrugged. “Some people say that.”
“Santeria is far from evil, and not all witchcraft is malicious.”
She bent down to stroke a kitty’s exposed belly.
“What town is your mother from, en la Republica?”
“Valverde, Mao.”
“You come from a proud lineage, Toby, of indigenous Tainos. The Republic belonged to us at one point and only to us. Then the Spanish invaded, colonized … Conquered. We had our deities and gods, but the Conquistadors forced their fiercely Catholic ways on us. So, we disguised our practices and our beliefs, using a thin veil of Catholicism as a mask. We borrowed from their own saints and plagiarized their playbook so we could merely worship how we wanted. That is Santeria.”
We paused to share in the affections of a mob of felines. “They will be well cared for,” she assured me after some time, and I believed her wholeheartedly. •
Note this is a work of fiction. Any relation to persons living or dead is purely conincidental. Please do not try to find this garage in PVD.
