Within days of her prayers, she found a letter in the mail. Esperanza Colón: You have been preapproved. After working as a home attendant for five years, Esperanza was eligible for a credit card, her very own five-hundred-dollar credit card. It was better than winning the lottery because this she earned from her sweat. Days later another letter arrived. You have been preapproved for up to 1,000 dollars. Preapproved. Esperanza mouthed the words in front of the mirror, licking her lips in anticipation of her first credit-card purchase. It felt good to get some approval for once.

Once she filled out the applications, the cards arrived. With anticipation and naughtiness, Esperanza locked herself in her room while the men talked in the living room about the union breakers at the free-trade zones in D.R. While they argued about the consequences of foreign investors invading their island, Esperanza turned up the television to drown out their voices as she watched Buy TV, and salivated over the pearl necklace that regularly cost $250, but if she bought it within the next ten minutes, she could have it in three installments of $29.99. She watched the corner of the screen, seeing the numbers go up as hundreds of people called in, taking advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime offer. How could she resist picking up the phone and charging the pearl necklace that would look so lovely with her off-the-truck Chanel blouse? She bought nonstick baking pans, a cordless hairdryer, a Walkman for her commute to work. She was careful not to charge any of her cards all at once. Instead she spread out her purchases and had them delivered to the super, on the first floor.

When the bills came, Esperanza put them in a drawer. She planned to pay them when she had extra money. Every first of the month, the bills continued to come. Responsibly, she put them in the top drawer of her bureau, filed them with her panties and bras. Santo would never bother to look. She filed them without opening the envelopes. Those generous credit-card companies would have to wait. And when she reached the credit card‘s limit—which she only knew about because her cards no longer went through—she filed the credit card itself in the drawer, expecting to pay it all one day, little by little.

Nueva York to Los Llanos

1992 1961

When Don Chan wanted to escape Esperanza, he went to the bathroom. In Nueva York, there was no backyard, no colmado to hang around in. Not one fertile tree to lean back on and take an afternoon nap. He took his time when he showered in the evenings while she prepared dinner. The bathroom was crammed with her things: stockings hanging from the shower curtains, laundry baskets toppling over with dirty clothes, cosmetics bags, toiletries, soaps piled up on the shelves over the sink.

—¡Maldita sea! He had accidentally knocked over a small nylon makeup bag, spreading an assortment of lipsticks and cotton swabs. He picked them up. A loud, sharp sound went off outside the bathroom window. He covered his head with his arms and ducked low, away from the window. Where were his fatigues and boots? He waited for a few minutes, then pried open the small translucent window to see if anyone was waiting for him outside as he dressed himself. He tore open the hamper looking for his weapon. He recognized the pressed wool pants and button-down shirts of an old man, neatly hung on a hanger on the door. The steam fogged the mirrors. He pressed his finger against the mirror and made a line revealing part of his face. He startled himself. The man looking back at him was much older than he remembered.