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    High Spirits
    High Spirits
    High Spirits
    Ebook145 pages1 hour

    High Spirits

    By Camille Gomera-Tavarez

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    High Spirits is a collection of eleven interconnected short stories from the Dominican diaspora, from debut author Camille Gomera-Tavarez.

    It is a book centered on one extended family – the Beléns – across multiple generations.

    It is set in the fictional small town of Hidalpa – and Santo Domingo and Paterson and San Juan and Washington Heights too.

    It is told in a style both utterly real and distinctly magical – and its stories explore machismo, mental health, family, and identity.

    But most of all, High Spirits represents the first book from Camille Gomera-Tavarez, who takes her place as one of the most extraordinary new voices to emerge in years.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChronicle Books Digital
    Release dateApr 12, 2022
    ISBN9781646141548
    Author

    Camille Gomera-Tavarez

    Camille Gomera-Tavarez is an Afro-Dominican writer, designer, and creative from New Jersey. She has a BFA in Graphic Design & Creative Writing from the Maryland Institute College of Art and is currently based in Philadelphia, PA. High Spirits is her debut.

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      Book preview

      High Spirits - Camille Gomera-Tavarez

      I.

      Stickball

      It had been happening more and more lately. The pulls. It was well beyond Gabriel’s capabilities to figure out their motivations or underlying meanings. His specialty was philosophy, not psychology. Besides, maybe they were harmless. Walking up the marble steps of the Social Sciences building, a sprightly young student intersected his path. She aimed a neon flyer at him, spouting about some event or other. He accepted the sheet hastily and continued deeper into his pool of thought.

      After the last incident, he’d wondered if maybe it was due time to consider some form of therapy. That was only a half joke, obviously. As an academic, he felt a grain of shame that his family’s antiquated beliefs on mental health still made compelling arguments within him. But he couldn’t very much help it. Gabriel’s parents would probably disown him if it ever got back to the island that he had succumbed to the scam of paying someone to listen to his problems. That was for rich Americans and murderers. You talk to us. That’s what family is for, mijo, he could hear his father’s whiskey and cigar-stained voice now. Who could know you better than us?

      Because, you see, Gabriel’s family knew absolutely everything about the carefully constructed persona he’d spent his adult life presenting to them. He’d pieced it together with the caring, gentle hands of the piñata sculptor he would pass on the way to his grandmother’s house as a boy. Each slice of wet newspaper a little bit of the truth, hardening into a fragile shell over time.

      He paused, meeting with the door of his classroom and the long-hidden memory of the piñata he’d cracked at his fifth birthday celebration. Before yesterday, really, all the other pulls had been pleasant. He’d almost wished to remain in the past, with the salt of the ocean and ripening mangoes in the Atlantic wind. Sometimes Gabriel believed things were better then, despite his numerous counter-arguments that nostalgia was a sign of human ineptitude which he vocalized among his peers after a few glasses of Chardonnay. The foolishness of dwelling in his own past was evident to him. Still, the pulls made it all seem so real. The sense of present-day reality, shredded away into an innocent world free of any dense philosophical conundrums.

      The last time it happened, he was standing in a queue for lunch. His first day teaching at the college. As he approached the tub of buffet-style black beans, he found himself being pulled closer by the wistful aroma. Strange, as he’d detested the sight of cooked beans since the moment his family had pooled their resources to send him to study in the land of burgers and pizza at age twenty. Soon he was standing in front of them, his eyes misplaced somewhere among the shimmering black mounds before him.

      Gabriel stared into the food until his mother slapped his wrists with her wooden spoon and commanded him to fight the devil living within his eyes. The child jerked with a start, taking a large, uneven breath of the evening palm leaves into his lungs. Doña Mabel assessed her son’s condition quickly and then turned back to stirring her pot. She was accustomed to his wild stares. By now, she caught them early and snapped him out of it with expert precision, as advised by Señor Leon, the town priest. Anyone could see that when the boy was in a state, it was as if his soul was possessed by multiple devils. Doña Mabel prayed every night and graciously accepted the bombardment of recommendations on this miracle oil or that miracle herb she encountered every Sunday, though she knew with as much certainty she held in the sun rising the next morning that her son would be just fine. With time.

      Gabriel took the plates and silverware in his chubby arms. He steadied his balance and went to set the table. He could hear the cries of his older brothers in the yard.

      Higher! Throw it higher!

      Their shrieks pierced through the sounds of the street and the clatter within the kitchen. Gabriel could see them in blurred streaks passing through the door-shaped hole in the back of the house. His desire to join his brothers tricked his eyes into revealing a softness he could never quite hide. He finished setting the table and approached his mother with his weapon of innocence at the ready.

      Doña Mabel tilted her head towards the yard. Gabriel attempted to hide his excitement and ran to join his brothers. Christian and Josélito paid no attention to their little brother and continued with their game of stickball. The sock they used as a ball was already green and brown and smelled worse than the feet that had once worn it. It had endured being whipped by tree branches and slammed into walls for months now. Christian had started stuffing rocks into it when it had begun to deflate. Soon it would be lost in a ditch somewhere among the palm trees and a new sock would step up to replace it. But for now, it remained the primary source of entertainment for the Belén boys.

      The wooden front door slammed to indicate the arrival of their father. The door always slammed, held together shabbily with nails and repurposed hinges. But everyone tensed when that particular slam echoed through the house. José Sr once said that he would slam every door in the house as hard as he wanted, since he’d been the one whose hands had built it. The sun had not yet set, so it was unusual for him to be home, but neither the boys nor Doña Mabel paid any mind. His boots made their way through the house, spreading dirt as they went. Hola, amor. Everything alright? posed La Doña from beneath a steaming pot of rice. José Sr. let out a curt grunt and sank into his brown leather sofa chair which outlined his memory in a dark brown tint.

      Gabriel watched patiently from his seat in a patch of dry dirt as the sock ball moved between his brothers. He was content in his observation, imagining how one day he might be a famous pelotero for one of the national teams. He’d never thrown a sock ball in his life, but he was sure that he could if he really tried. Josélito didn’t make it seem hard. He ran with ease, without panting or coughing.

      From the kitchen, a ceramic dish collided with the ground. The boys and the birds all froze for a microsecond, looking towards the minor explosion, before they resumed their activities. The shuffling of feet indicated all was well.

      Gabriel then felt compelled to get up and watch from the other side of the yard, where he could see Christian hitting the sock ball more clearly. He scurried around his brothers so as not to get hit. His feet bounced lightly along the dirt and patches of grass, gracefully avoiding shattered glass or bottle caps. He stared downward as his bare toes crossed one in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other. The rhythm soothed him and drowned out all other sounds. Only a faint pulse within him remained to complement the soothing rhythm of one, two, one, two, one …

      A robust womanly shriek broke the silence and pushed a handful of swallows to escape into the purple sky. Gabriel’s rhythm stopped. He looked up, surprised and unfamiliar with his surroundings. The dirt under his feet was soggier now, and dark. Something rustled ahead of him in the sea of cattails reflecting the sunset off their feathery tufts. Gabriel’s knees gave in and he crashed against a rock jutting out amongst the damp soil. His heart sped up slightly and his lungs attempted to keep up. The sky was suddenly a sickly pink eternity, alien and overwhelming. He must have walked at least two miles without even realizing it. The boy was wholly alone, isolated from everything he knew. He was not scared, he affirmed. Papa José would tell him not to be scared. He raised himself, turned one hundred and eighty degrees, and started up his rhythm again. His faith and his legs would take him home. This was his only option.

      Eventually, the clay Spanish roof tiles and patched-up wooden door he’d prayed for came into view. Gabriel allowed himself to run now. Past the baker, the tire shop, the house of Señora Imogen who made piñatas. The door closed behind him with a timid slam. He hoped to be spared a spanking. Or worse — a high-volume lecture. Perhaps his brothers would be blamed since it was they who had been the negligent caretakers. Maybe his mother would even let Gabriel choose the stick

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