Free Tomorrow They Will Kiss by Eduardo Santiago Page A

toward the gallows.

chapter four
Graciela
    M
ost days I didn’t miss Palmagria
at all. Palmagria was in the past. It had been raining cold and hard in Union City, and I was almost glad to be inside the
     factory. Grateful for the dolls that came to me naked, cold, and incomplete. The dolls had perfectly round holes where their
     legs, arms, and heads should be. They glided by endlessly, reflecting the fluorescent lights that hung above. We assembled
     them limb by limb until they started to take human form. They came fast and were handled roughly, quickly, by our frantic
     minimum-wage hands.
    Later they passed through a clear plastic curtain and into a dustless room, where their heads would be added. They moved on
     down the conveyor belt, to the place where the journey became slower, where gloved hands handled them more delicately. They
     would be as lovingly dressed and combed as an infant’s corpse. Tiny bunches of plastic flowers were added to their curled
     and lustrous hair, and then they were carefully placed in boxes without a ruffle out of place. Eventually they would find
     their way to little girls all over the world. They were given special names and treasured. They listened to sweet confessions
     and plans for the future, they heard of boys and dates, graduations and wedding plans. They were wept on and held tenderly
     during dark and frightening nights. They sat on canopied beds fragrant with the carefree smell of little girls. Their unblinking
     eyes observed the delicate passage from girl to woman. And they lived on, long after they had been discarded, with the complete
     certainty that they would never be forgotten.
    On the assembly line, day after day, I stood across from Caridad, the ever- moving conveyor belt between us. Imperio stood
     to her left, Leticia to the left of her. Raquel was on my right, and Berta always stood next to me on my left.
    Beyond was the department that attached the heads. We could see them in there moving slowly, luxuriously. It was like an exclusive
     neighborhood that we could walk through but couldn’t afford to live in.
    The women in “heads” made more money and dressed better than us, and every Friday they all went to the automat down the block
     for lunch. They always returned chatting and happy, as if they’d just been on a Caribbean cruise.
    Berta and Raquel eyed the women from heads with scorn while they waited for the day when they could work in that department.
     Waited for the day when they could start to steal the precious plastic heads that would complete their stolen dolls. Berta
     and Raquel lived in envy and fear. They were jealous of the white women who not only got to work with heads, but could most
     likely afford to buy a doll.
    They also lived in fear of Mr. O’Reilly. What if he exposed Berta one day, like he did Calixto? What if a little leg or arm
     accidentally fell out of Raquel’s skirt as she walked past Jacinto? Berta always stopped and crossed herself as she walked
     past the warning sign.
    But in spite of the sign, the plastic bags, the overall feeling of mistrust, and the growing disapproval of the others in
     the van, Raquel and Berta continued to steal doll parts. Fridays were their big days. Sometimes they were so excited that
     they traded doll parts while the van was still in the factory’s parking lot.
    “You can at least wait until we’re on the road,” Leticia said. “I don’t want to be caught with contraband.”
    As the van made its awkward way down the boulevard, Caridad pointed at Raquel and Berta with her lips. It was a quick, almost
     imperceptible puckering and unpuckering.
    “Por Dios,” Imperio said. “Look how jumpy you two are. You live as if you were still back in Cuba under the eyes of the Committee
     for the Defense of the Revolution.”
    “I don’t dare steal a thing,” Caridad said, “not an arm or a leg,” and turned up her nose as if the thought was too unpleasant
     to consider.
    “Even if I did