| |
It would have been a stretch to have imagined five-year-old Nicky Negrón becoming the nocturnal predator he is today. In Papi’s eyes I was un ñoño—a whiny little mama’s boy that was afraid of the night. And actually, that was understating it. To put it more accurately, I was scared shitless of the night.
Mami, on the other hand, was the enabler. Not only was I still sucking my thumb at that age, I was also still drinking out of a baby bottle. Bullies quickly caught on and pushed little Nicky around until he would run to Mami in tears. It was several years before Dani would come into the family, so it was all me at that time. Mami was happy to give me all the attention I needed and I was even happier to be on the receiving end. So, me trying to fall asleep alone in my bedroom? Yeah, right. I would high tail it at the first shadow outside my window or the first creak behind the walls.
At first Mami and Papi tried helping me through the shivers by leaving my bedroom door open. The light would shine in from the living room while they were watching TV, and I would fall asleep to the sounds of Ed Sullivan, Jackie Gleason or Lucille Ball. But then there were other nights when I was still awake after they went to bed. Those sucked. Sometimes I’d whine out loud to let them know I was scared. Other nights, if I heard a sound I didn’t like, I’d run to their bedroom and jump in their bed, wedging myself between them.
That really tested Papi’s patience. It kept them from rocking that headboard against the wall, something they used to like to do a lot. If it wasn’t every night, it had to be close. I still don’t know how I wound up with only one sister.
To try and macho me up, Papi would ride me, telling me I had to toughen up if I was to grow up to be un hombre. But Mami, she was no help. She would tell him I was just a baby and let me fall asleep in her arms as I took in the scent of her hair, which brought me comfort and made me feel safe. She was more patient in that way than Papi.
“Never be afraid of the night,” she said. “Do you feel safe in my arms, baby?”
“Sí, Mami.”
“Good, then always let the night remind you of how you feel in my arms and you will never fear the night again. If you can always remember that feeling, you will learn to love the night and you will always feel safe.”
It was a nice try but it didn’t work. The more Mami protected me, the more I wanted to be near her—especially at night. It took the eventual concealed threat of Papi’s chancla, the slipper he used to whoop my ass with. Now that worked. That resolved the problem of el ñoño raiding their bedroom.
Years later when I was a teenager, in the aftermath of Dani’s death tearing our family apart, the night was no longer a threat to me. The horror that I had experienced—the worst horror imaginable—occurred during the day. And it was far worse than any possible boogey man I might have envisioned creeping out of the dark. The night had now become a reminder of the love, safety, and comfort of my mother’s arms, just as she said it would. It was a feeling I would never come across again.
It was only at night that I could remember the Mami that cradled me in her arms instead of the one that could barely stand the sight of me. I fell asleep longing to have that love again, hoping that someday I could find a way to earn it back.
When morning came around, everything seemed harsh again. I felt exposed; that everyone I passed knew of my failure, the older brother whose sister died a horrible death under his care. I felt it in the streets, and I felt it in the hallways at school. The evening couldn’t come fast enough. I wanted to be alone.
Alone in the comfort of the night.
And I wasn’t even dead yet.