Clearly, the tide had turned. The failed uprising plunged the whole country into despair again. At home, everyone walked around with the look of people at a funeral. “We cannot give up,” I kept saying.
They marveled at my self-control—and so did I. But by now in my life I should have known. Adversity was like a key in the lock for me. As I began to work to get our men out of prison, it was the old Minerva I set free.
Saving the Men
October
We could see them, chugging along behind us in their little Volkswagen.
They would have a heyday reporting to Pena that we had visited another political. “Rufino,” I said, “turn down Pasteur, quick.”
Rufino had become our favorite driver. Every time we rented from Boumigal, we asked for him. Ever since the trip home from our last visit to the prison, we had felt his unspoken allegiance to us. Just this morning, when Dedé had worried about us leaving the house, Rufino had spoken up.
“A Dio‘, Dona Dedé, you think I’ll let anything happen to the butterflies?
They’ll have to kill me first.”
“And they will, too!” she had muttered.
He was peering into the rearview mirror. “We’ve lost them.”
I checked out the back window myself. Then I turned to my sisters as if to say, See, you didn’t believe me.
“Maybe this’ll be just the excuse they need.” Mate was tearful. We had just come from seeing the men. Leandro and Manolo had been told they would be going on a little trip—what all the prisoners were told before they were killed. They were desperate, grim, taking the Miltown we had smuggled in to them, and still not sleeping.
“They’re in God’s hands.” Patria made the sign of the cross.
“Now listen to me, you two. We have a good excuse,” I reminded them.
“Delia is a female doctor and we have plenty of reason to see her.” Neither Mate nor I had had a period for months.
Delia was nervous as she let us into her small office, her eyes full of signals. Before I could say a thing, she held up her hand to her lips and gestured towards the wall where her diplomas hung. We cannot talk here.
“We came about our cycles,” I began, searching the wall for the telltale little rod. Wherever it was, all the SIM got at first was an earful about our women problems. Delia relaxed, thinking that was truly why we were here.
Until I concluded a little too unmetaphorically, “So is there any activity in our old cells?”
Delia gave me a piercing look. “The cells in your systems have atro phied and are dead,” she said sharply.
I must have looked stricken, for Delia’s manner softened, “A few of them are still active, to be sure. But most importantly, new cells are filling in all the time. You need to give your bodies a rest. You should see menstrual activity by the beginning of next year.”
Next year! I reached for the prescription pad on her desk and wrote down
Sina’s name with a big question mark.
“Gone. Asylum,” she wrote back.
So Sina had abandoned our struggle. But then, I reminded myself, I had too, in effect, under house arrest for the last two months.
I listed six more names of members I knew had been released. Then I watched Delia draw a line through each one.
Finally I wrote, Who’s left in our area?
Delia bit her lip. Throughout our meeting her manner had been guarded, as if we were being watched as well as bugged. Now she wrote down a name hurriedly, held it up for us to read, then tore all the used pages in half, over and over again. She stood, eager to have us gone.
The name Delia held up for us to see was unknown to us, a Dr. Pedro Viñas.
When we got home, we asked Mama, who went through a whole family tree of Viñas, only to declare she didn’t know this particular one. We grew suspicious, for a stranger in our midst probably meant a SIM plant with a fabricated name. But Don Bernardo banished our doubts. Dr. Pedro Vinas was a urologist in Santiago, a very good one, who had attended Doña Belén several times. I called up and made an appointment for early next week.
The woman’s voice on the other end spoke to me as if I were a young child.
“What is the little problem we’re having?”
I had to think what a urologist was for. The only doctors I knew were Delia, Dr. Lavandier, and the doctor in Monte Cristi who had delivered my babies. “Just a little problem,” I said, stalling.
“Oh, that,” she said. And gave me a time.
Permission from Peña was next. That was not going to be easy. The morning after our unauthorized detour, he appeared at the house. We could tell by the bang of his car door that we were in for it.
For a full minute he shouted threats and obscenities at us. I sat on my hands as if they were extensions of my mouth. It took all my self-control not to order him and his filthy mouth out of our house.
Finally Peña calmed down enough to ask us what we had been up to. He was looking straight at me, for I was usually the one to do the talking.
But we had already settled it among us. I was to keep my mouth shut, and Patria, his favorite, was to do the explaining. “We had to see the doctor about a private matter.”
“¿Qué mierda privado?” Peña’s face was so red, it looked ready to explode.
Patria blushed at the obscenity. “We had to consult about some women’s problems.”
“Why didn’t you just ask my permission?” Pena was softening. By now, Patria had got him to sit down in a rocker and at least accept a glass of guanábana juice—good for the nerves, Mama always said. “I wouldn’t keep you from medical care. But you know very well”—he looked straight at me
—“that Delia Santos is on the political list. The rules clearly state, no contact with politicals.”
“We weren’t seeing her in her political capacity,” I protested. Patria coughed a reminder of our agreement. But once I got started, it was hard to shut me up. “In fact, Captain, I’m glad to hear that you wouldn’t stand in the way of our medical care—”
“Yes,” Patria swiftly cut in. “You have been very kind to us.” I could feel her eyes scouring me.
“I have been referred to Dr. Viñas in Santiago—”
“And you would be very grateful for the captain’s leniency in allowing you to go,” Patria reminded me, embedding my request in her scold.
Patria and Mate dropped me off in front of the small house on their way to El Gallo. A black Volkswagen was already parked across the street. It was hard to believe this was a doctor’s office, but the sign in the window insisted. The lawn was overgrown, not in that neglected way that makes a place look shabby, but with nice abandon, as if to say, there’s room in this house for everything, even a lot of grass.
How Patria had managed this was beyond me. Mama always said Patria’s sweetness could move mountains, and monsters, obviously. Not only had she gotten Pena to grant me permission for this visit, she had also secured a pass for herself and Mate to go shopping for supplies in the meanwhile. Our little dressmaking business was doing well. We were already working on November’s orders and here it was only the middle of October. We couldn’t sleep nights, so we sewed. Sometimes Patria started a rosary, and we all joined in, stitching and praying so as not to let our minds roam.
The genial little man who met me at the door seemed more like an uncle than a professional man or, Lord knows, a revolutionary. “We’re having a little problem,” he chuckled. Some chickens had gotten into the office from his house next door, and the maid was chasing them out with a broom. Dr.
Viñas entered into the fun, teasing the maid to the delight of several small children who seemed to be his. He had gotten hold of some eggs and kept pulling them out of unlikely places, the children’s ears, his own underarms, the boiler for his syringes. “Look what the hens left me,” he said each time.
His children screamed with delight.
Finally, the hens were out of view and the children were sent along with the maid to tell their Mamita to bring over a cafecito for the señorita. The diminutives were killing me. Lord, I thought, so this is what we’ve come to.
But the minute Dr. Viñas closed the door of his consulting room, he was a different man, intent, serious, down to business. He seemed to know exactly who I was and why I had come.
“This is an honor,” he said, motioning for me to sit down. He turned on the raspy air conditioner—the place was not bugged, he was pretty sure— but just in case. We spoke in whispers.
“The boys,” I began, “we believe they’re all about to be killed.” I heard myself strangely demoting our men to the more helpless boys. Another diminutive—and from me.
Dr. Viñas sighed. “We tried our best. The problem was getting the ingredients for the picnic—” He looked at my face for a moment to see if I understood. “We were all set to go, the whole party assembled. But the gringos pulled out on their promise of pineapples. Some of the boys went ahead anyway.” He made a gesture of broadcasting pamphlets.
“Why did the gringos pull out?” I wanted to know.
“They got cold feet. Afraid we’re all communists. They say they don’t want another Fidel. They’d rather have a dozen Trujillos.”
I could feel dread rising in my chest. The men were not going to be saved after all. My old prison cough started up. Dr. Viñas reached for a thermos and poured me iced water in a glass cup that had measurement marks on the side. When my coughing had subsided, he went on, “The gringos are
flirting with another group now.”
That was hopeful news. “The MPDs?”
Dr. Viñas laughed, and briefly I saw the family doctor inside this toughened revolutionary. “No, they’re idealists, too, and all of us idealists are dirty communists. These are people the gringos feel are safer. Some of Trujillo’s old cronies who are tired of the old man. Their only ideology is,
well, you know.” He patted his pockets.
“Then why do you say there’s hope?”
“Let them bring down the old man, and then we’ll take over.” Dr. Viñas grinned, his fat little cheeks lifting his glasses.
“It’s not what we planned,” I reminded him.
“One must have a left hand,” he said, showing me his left hand.
I found I was wringing both of my hands, swallowing to keep the tickle in my throat from erupting into another coughing fit. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
He nodded, one sure, deep nod. “What you can do is keep our hopes up.
You’re an example, you know. The whole country looks to you.”
When I made a face, he frowned. “I’m quite serious,” he said.
There was a knock at the door. We both jumped.
“Amorcito,” a sweet voice called, “I have your little cafecito here.”
And the world of diminutives closed in again on us.
For Manolo, I lifted out the bad news like a fish bone, and gave him the promising tidbit—that the gringos were working with a group to slaughter the goat for the picnic.
Manolo had not heard this. His face tensed up. “I don’t like it. The gringos will take over the revolution.”
They’ll take over the country, I thought to myself. I didn’t say it out loud.
No use depressing him any more than he already was. And at this point I
didn’t care enough. I was so desperate for Trujillo to be gone. Like Vinas
said, we could fix the future later.
“Tell Viñas—” Manolo began.
I rolled my eyes to indicate the guard approaching behind him. Out loud, I went on, “The children miss you so much. The other day I asked them what they wanted for Benefactor’s Day, and they said, ‘Bring Papi home!’ Manolo?” He was not listening, I could tell. His eyes had a faraway look I recognized from my own days in this horrible place.
I touched his face to bring him back. “Mi amor, just remember, soon, soon… Monte Cristi.” I hummed the song.
“No singing,” the guard announced. He had stopped in front of us.
“Sorry, soldier.” I recognized Good Hair under the brim of his cap. I nodded at him, but his eyes were cold and flat, as if he did not know me.
“We were just saying goodbye.”
Today our interview was shorter than usual, since I was sharing my twenty minutes with Manolo’s mother, who had driven down from Monte Cristi. Just before I came upstairs, we spoke briefly in the warden’s office.
She had a surprise she promised to tell me later.
I waited alone in the car with the radio on low. (No music allowed.) Just being in the prison yard was bringing back waves of that old panic. To distract myself, I fiddled with the radio dials, hoping Rufino would get back soon so I’d have someone to talk to. He was making the rounds, distributing the cigarettes and pesos we always brought the guards to encourage them to treat our prisoners right.
The visitors started filing past the checkpoint at the big exit door.
Suddenly, Doña Fefita appeared, weeping, Mate and Patria on either side of her. My heart sank, remembering how depressed Manolo had been today.
I hurried up to them. “What’s wrong?”
Mate and Patria shrugged—they didn’t know—and before Doña Fefita could say, the guards shouted for us to move along.
We were not allowed to “congregate” in the prison yard, but down the road we stopped both cars. Doña Fefita began crying again as she recounted what had happened. She had arranged to buy the little house Manolo and I had lived in. But instead of being pleased, Manolo had snapped at her.
Didn’t she know that the only way he was going to come home was in a box?
This made my legs go weak beneath me. But I couldn’t let my own devastation show. “Now Doña Fefita, he’s just worn out. That place—” I cast a glance over her shoulder.
My sisters joined in with their reassurances. “We’ve got to keep our spirits up for the men.” But when our eyes met, it was not a look of optimism that we exchanged.
Doña Fefita finally calmed down. “So, should I buy it, Minerva? Should I?”
It was hard for me to go against Manolo’s wishes. We had always decided things together. “Maybe… you should wait.”
She heard the hesitation in my voice and went on, more determined. “I’ll take it upon myself. I want you to have a place to go to when this is all over.”
She had put my feeling in words exactly. A place to go to when this is all over.
But her generosity was not allowed. A very short time later, I received notice to remove our possessions from the premises. The SIM were opening a new office in Monte Cristi.
And so Dedé and I set out in the pickup on Monday morning to do as we were bid. Rufino was our driver, since Jaimito, short-handed, couldn’t take time off from the cacao harvest. He had not wanted Dedé to accompany me either, but she said she could not allow me to dismantle my house alone. We planned to be back Wednesday afternoon, in time for me to go with Mate
and Patria to La Victoria the next day. Ah, the busy life of house arrest!
Peña had immediately granted me permission for the trip to Monte Cristi.
After all, as head of the Northern SIM, he knew exactly why my old house needed to be vacated. He was probably the mastermind.
The drive north turned out to be one of those sunny moments that come even in the darkest days. My gloominess fell away as if we were on holiday.
I hadn’t spent time alone with Dedé since we were cooped up in Ojo de Agua together, two young girls waiting for their lives to happen.
I knew she had mustered up all her courage to come along, the way she kept looking behind us when we first hit that isolated stretch of highway.
But she soon settled down and was lively and talkative—as if to distract us from the sad mission we were on.
“Rufino,” I said, “wouldn’t Dedé make a great gavillera?” We were having a whistling contest, and Dedé had just won with a piercing trill.
“Gavillera, me! Are you crazy.” Dedé laughed. “I wouldn’t have lasted a day up in those hills. I would have given myself up to those good-looking gringos.”
“Gringos, good-looking? ¡Mujer!” I made a face. All I could think of was how they had deserted Viñas and his men. “They look like somebody stuck them in a bucket of bleach and forgot they were there. That goes for their passion, too!”
“How would you know about their passion?” Dedé challenged. “You’ve never even known a gringo. Or have you kept something from me, my dear?” She gave her shoulders a saucy shimmy. Rufino looked away.
“Why not let Rufino decide,” I said. “What do you think, Rufino? Are gringos good-looking?”
He smiled. Lines deepened on either side of his mouth. “A man doesn’t know if another man is handsome,” he said at last.
I found a way around that by invoking his wife. “Would Delisa say gringos are good-looking?”
His jaw tightened. “She had better keep her eyes to herself!”
Dede and I looked at each other and smiled.
Feeling happy, I congratulated myself on asking Dedé to come along.
Now she’d see that her fears were unfounded. The roads were not full of murderers. As unreal as it seemed in the midst of our troubles, that glorious ordinary life went on without us. There was a campesino with his donkey loaded down with charcoal. There was a truck with its flatbed full of girls giggling and waving at us. There under the blue sky was the turquoise sea, sparkling with holiday promises.
Suddenly and incomprehensibly to us in our carefree state—just around a curve, a car was parked across the road. Rufino had to slam on the brakes, and Dedé and I were thrown against each other. Five calíes in dark glasses swarmed around the pickup and ordered us out of the cab.
I will never forget the terror on Dedé’s face. How she reached for my hand. How, when we were asked to identify ourselves, what she said was— I will never forget this—she said, “My name is Minerva Mirabal.”
In Monte Cristi we were taken into a dim little guardhouse in back of the fort. I could see why they needed new quarters. The nervous man with worried eyes apologized for any discomfort. The escort had been a precaution. People had heard that Minerva Mirabal was coming to town today, and there were rumors that there might be some sort of commotion.
“Which one of you is Minerva Mirabal?” he asked, watching us through his cigarette smoke. The little finger on his left hand had a long, clawlike nail. I found myself wondering what it was for.
“I’m Minerva,” I said, looking firmly at Dedé. That old man at Missing Persons we’d met years back flashed through my head. If he could give all fifteen sons the same name, why not two Minervas in the Mirabal family?
Our interrogator glanced suspiciously from one to the other, then, addressed Dedé. “Why did you tell my men you were Minerva?”
Dedé could barely talk. “I… I … She’s my little sister….”
Little sister, indeed! I had never been Dedé’s little sister as far as character was concerned. It had always been the big problem between us.
The man watched us, waiting.
“She’s Minerva:‘ Dedé finally agreed.
“You’re certain of this, now?” the man asked without humor. He had sat back down, and was nervously flicking a lighter that would not light. Sizing him up, I employed a skill I had acquired in prison with my interrogators. I decided this jumpy little man could be cowed. He was trying too hard.
I pulled out our pass signed by Pena from my purse. As head of the Northern Division of the SIM, he was certainly this man’s superior.
“Captain Pena has authorized this trip. I hope there will be no problems for us to report back to him.”
The paroxysm of blinking made me pity the poor man. His own terror was a window that opened onto the rotten weakness at the heart of Trujillo’s system. “No problems, no problems. Just precautions.”
As we waited outside for Rufino to bring the pickup around, I could see him through the door of his office. He was already on the phone—probably reporting our arrival to Pena. While he spoke, he was cleaning the wax out of his ear with his little finger. I felt somehow relieved to know what that nail was for.
At the little house, Dedé had us all organized: this bunch of boxes to store at Doña Fefita’s; this bunch to take back with us; this pile to give away. I had to smile—she was still the same old Dedé, who stocked the shelves of the family store so neatly I always regretted having to sell anything.
Now she was in the kitchen-living room, making a clatter with the pots and pans. Every once in a while she’d come in with something in her hand.
Mama had given me some of her furnishings when she had moved to the new house.
“I didn’t know you had this.” Dedé held up the dainty oil lamp, its pale rose chimney fluted like the petals of a flower. “Our old bedroom lamp, remember?” I had forgotten that Dedé and I once shared a room before Mate and I paired up.
Reminiscing with Dedé was better than facing the flood of memories in the front room. Law books lay piled in a corner. Everything had been strewn on the floor—the porcelain donkey, our framed law degrees, the seashells Manolo and I had found on Morro Beach. I had not anticipated how hard this would be. I kept wishing the SIM had ransacked the place the way they had Patria’s and carted off everything. This way was much crueler, making me face the waste of my life before me.
Here was the book of Martí’s poems Lío had dedicated to me. (“In memory of my great affection …”) And the little ship I had stolen for Mate. (What was it doing among my things?) And here was a yellowing newspaper with a picture of Lina Lovatón captioned with a poem by Trujillo. And a holy card from our pilgrimage to Higüey the time Patria claimed to have heard a voice. And a Nivea tin full of smelly ashes, probably from some Ash Wednesday when Mama had dragged me to church. I went to the door for a swallow of fresh air.
Early evening it was, the cool of the day. The little square looked like a tree full of crows. There must have been over a hundred people strolling, sitting on benches, idling in front of the little gazebo where rallies were held, and contests on holidays. It could have been Benefactor’s Day all over again except that everyone was dressed in black.
As I stood at the door, not fully comprehending the sight, the trucks began to roll in. Guardias unloaded. The clicking of their boots as they went into formation was the only sound. They surrounded the square.
I stepped out on the sidewalk. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do. All strolling stopped. Suddenly, everyone faced me, and one totally quiet moment passed. Then almost as if at a signal, the crowd disbanded.
Little groups began walking towards the side streets. In minutes the square was empty.
Not a shot had been fired, not a word said. The guardias stood uselessly around the empty square for a while longer. Finally, they climbed back into their trucks and roared away.
When I turned to go back inside, I was surprised to find Dedé at the door, a frying pan in her hand. I had to smile to myself. My big sister had been ready to march right out and bang a few heads if a massacre got started.
Back inside, the rooms were getting too dark to see. We wandered through the house, bumping into boxes, trying light switches, hoping to get a little more packing done. But the electricity had been cut off, and the oil lamp that had once lit the dark between our beds had already been packed away.
Wednesday evening when we got back, we found Mate in a bad state. She had had her bad dream from Papá’s death. But this time, when she opened the lid of the coffin, Leandro and Manolo and Pedrito were inside. Every time she recounted it, she began to sob.
“You’re going to look awful tomorrow,” I warned, hoping to appeal to her vanity.
But Mate didn’t care. She cried and cried until at last we were all spooked.
To make matters worse, To Pepe appeared right after supper. His pickup was decked with paper flags and a banner proclaiming, WELCOME, JEFE, TO SALCEDO PROVINCE. The SIM let him right in.
“Quite a getup you have there,” I noted.
Tio Pepe nodded wordlessly. When the nieces and nephews began clamoring for the little flags on the pickup, he snapped at them. Their mouths dropped. They had never seen their jolly uncle cross.
“Time for bed,” Mama said, ushering her brood of grandchildren towards the bedrooms.
“Let’s get some air,” Tio Pepe suggested. Patria, Mate, and I grabbed our shawls and followed him outside.
Deep in the garden where we always went to talk, he told us about the gathering he’d just come from. There had been a reception honoring El Jefe at the mayor’s house. A list of all the people that Trujillo wanted to see there had been published in the local paper. Tio Pepe’s name had been on it.
“iEpa, tío!” I said. “Hobnobbing with the big guys.”
“He wanted me there because he knows I’m related to you.” Tio Pepe’s voice was only a whisper above the trilling of the cicadas.
From the house we could hear Mama getting the children ready for bed.
“Put on your pajama bottoms right this minute!” No doubt she was scolding my little hellion. Without his father, that boy was growing up a handful.
“He’s by the big punch bowl, surrounded by his flies—you know how shit attracts flies. Forgive my foul mouth, girls, but nothing else fits this devil in human form. Surrounded by those men—you know, Maldonado and Figueroa and Lomares, and that Peña fellow. They’re all saying, ‘Ay, Jefe, you’ve done so much good for our province.’ ‘Ay, Jefe, you’ve raised strong morale after sanctions.’ ‘Ay, Jefe,’” Tío Pepe crooned to imitate the cronies. “El Jefe keeps nodding at this pile of horse shit, and finally he says, looking right at me—I’m standing at my post by the Salcedo farmers, filling up on those delicious pastelitos Florin makes—and he says, ‘Well, boys, I’ve really only got two problems left. If I could only find the man to resolve them.’
“Then he goes quiet, and I know and everyone else knows, we’re supposed to ask him what are those problems, and can we please be the men to resolve them. Sure enough, the biggest shit lover of all, Pena, says, Jefe, I am at your service. Just tell me your problems and I’ll give my life if need be—blah blah blah.‘ So El Jefe says, brace yourselves now. He says, looking straight at me, he says, ’My only two problems are the damn church and the Mirabal sisters.”‘
I felt the hair rising on my arms. Mate began to cry.
“Now, now, it’s no reason to get alarmed.” Tío Pepe tried to sound like his usual cheerful self. “If he was really going to do something, he wouldn’t have announced it. That’s the whole point. He was giving me a warning to deliver back to you.”
“But we aren’t doing anything,” Mate said in a weary voice. “We’re locked up here all week except for visiting the men. And it’s not like we don’t have permission from Pena himself.”
“Maybe—for a while, anyhow—you should think about not going out at all.”
So Trujillo was no longer saying Minerva Mirabal was a problem, but that all the Mirabal sisters were. I wondered whether Dedé would be implicated now that I had dragged her with me to Monte Cristi.
Patria hadn’t said a word the whole time. Finally she spoke up. “We can’t desert the men, Tío.”
Just then, the light from the children’s bedroom that gave on the garden went out. As we stood in the dark a while longer, calming ourselves, I had this eerie feeling that we were already dead and looking longingly at the house where our children were growing up without us.
The next morning, Thursday, we stopped as required at SIM headquarters on our way down to La Victoria. Rufino came back to the car without the papers. “He wants to see you.”
Inside, Peña was waiting for us, the fat spider at the center of his web.
“What’s wrong?” I asked the minute we sat down where he pointed. I should have kept my mouth shut and let Patria do the talking.
“You don’t want to make a useless trip, do you?” He waited a long second for the grim possibilities of his statement to sink in.
My nerves were worn thin after the bad night we’d spent. I leapt up—and thank God, Peña’s desk was in the way, for I could have slapped the fat,
smug look off his face. “What have you done to our husbands?”
The door opened, a guard peeked in. I recognized Albertico, our village mechanic’s youngest boy. The look of concern was for us, not Pena. “I heard shouts,” he explained.
Peña whirled about at that. “What do you think, pendejo?, That I can’t manage a bunch of women by myself?” He shouted obscenities at the scared boy, and ordered him to close the door and to pay attention to his business or he’d have business on his hands he wouldn’t want to pay attention to.
The door closed immediately in a flurry of apologies.
“Sit, sit.” Peña motioned me impatiently towards the bench where my two sisters already sat, rigid, clutching their hands in silent prayer.
“You have to understand,” Patria said in a placating voice. “We’re worried about our husbands. Where are they, Captain?”
“Your husband”—he pointed to her—“is at La Victoria, I have your pass right here.”
With a trembling hand Patria took the paper he offered her. “And Manolo
and Leandro?”
“They are being moved.”
“Where?” Mate asked, her pretty face perking up with ridiculous hope.
“To Puerto Plata—”
“Why on earth?” I confronted Peña. I felt Patria squeezing my hand as if to say, watch that tone of voice, girl.
“Why, I thought you would be pleased. Less distance for the butterflies to travel.” Peña spoke with sarcastic emphasis. I wasn’t all that surprised he knew our code name the way people were bruiting it about. Still, I didn’t like the sound of it in his mouth. “Visiting days in Puerto Plata are Fridays,”
Peña was explaining to the others. “If you women want to see your men more often, we can arrange for other days as well.”
