Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  “Well, no,” said Tilda. “I’m all set, and I’m a little early, too, so please, come on in,” she said, with a sweep of her arm ushering them over the threshold. She was touched that they had come, and happy to see them—and to see Tilly with a smile on her face. Tilda was beginning to think she could trust that Tilly was finding her way, the best Christmas gift she could hope for.

  George picked Tilda up for their flight to Miami just as her visitors were leaving. There was time for quick introductions and handshakes, Laura beaming with tears in her eyes. As soon as Tilly could get her grandmother’s attention, she gave her a thumbs-up, then quickly put her hands in her pockets when George looked her way. Tilda turned away to laugh to herself.

  In the car, after the good-byes, she began to feel an unsettling mix of sadness and excitement. This would be her first trip without Harold, and yet her realization that she was still here caused her to catch her breath in gratitude.

  On the plane to Miami, Tilda must have released a muscle or two along her spine, because as soon as she felt herself let go, George looked over and put his hand on hers, resting on the armrest between them. She waited a moment before pulling away, as if to remind him—and her—of the deal: we’re just friends.

  It was late afternoon before they checked into the Sofitel near the airport. Their rooms were next to one another, but not adjoining, Tilda noted. That evening they met the group and the tour organizers for a reception and talk about the trip. George and Tilda had dinner in the bar and said good night at the door to Tilda’s room. “See you bright and early,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze before leaning in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

  The flight from Miami to José Martí International Airport departed early the following morning, leaving hardly time for a quick gulp of coffee and a bite from the soggy pastelito George secured for them at the hurried breakfast the tour organizers had provided. Tilda sat next to the window observing the thick white clouds, which made any view of the sea impossible until they slowly began to attenuate, showing a glistening Caribbean farther down. Soon she saw the outline of a large island come into view, ocean waves moving toward a white-sand shoreline, farmland and green hills in the background. As the charter plane glided above the coastline, Tilda could see gentle waves grow stronger as they began to splash against what appeared to be an old sea wall. She was surprised to see large buildings huddled together, an urban landscape rising from the sea. “We are passing over Havana,” the flight attendant announced, “and will be landing shortly.” Another green expanse of land appeared below as they began their descent. She instinctively grabbed George’s arm, the same gesture she had used on countless trips with Harold. She quickly withdrew her hand and began to gather her things.

  Getting through immigration and customs was effortless compared to the painfully slow process of retrieving their bags. Tilda fanned herself at the carousel as she watched an endless array of flat-screen TVs, household tools, kitchen appliances, and unidentifiable large objects wrapped in plastic go by before their luggage finally appeared. It was hard to believe that all this “stuff” was coming in as personal luggage, but then she remembered that the embargo meant these things available in any big-box store in the States were not available here.

  She looked at George and frowned. “It could be worse. They can only bring in two flat-screen TVs per family,” he said as several more rolled by.

  On the bus Tilda felt as if she had boarded a time machine into the past as countless 1950s American cars sped by with an occasional Russian Lada ambling along. Tilda counted at least two cars similar to the dark gray 1953 Chevy her family had owned and several more similar to their later model, a 1956 two-tone blue Bel Air, Tilda’s personal favorite.

  There was a lot to cover that first afternoon, with no time to stop at the hotel first. At the tour’s first stop, Plaza de la Revolución, Tilda turned her camera away from the image of Che Guevara on the wall of the Ministry of the Interior building to snap yet more photos of old cars, coupes, sedans, and convertibles. She could almost hear Bev chastising her for not paying more attention to the heroes of the revolution, those who paved the way for the island’s largely misunderstood experiment in pure socialism. Didn’t the government of Fidel Castro provide health care, education, food, and housing for all? And wasn’t that more than our country could say? Tilda knew this was true, but she also knew there was another side to the story. She wasn’t sure why she was so fixated on cars instead of the finer points of socialism on the island, except that they reminded her of long ago in Miami, her mother and father and her sister and their many weekend car trips. Then she thought of Anthony, and a little sadness descended as it always did when his image—as she imagined him—came into her mental line of sight.

  Tilda wasn’t sure what was next on the itinerary, but at least for now she was able to shake off any malaise and to be thankful for the conniving granddaughter who had in her way convinced Tilda to make the trip. What do you have to lose, Grandma? Indeed. Except, for a brief time, the constant reminder of the inevitability of death.

  George and Tilda checked into their separate rooms at the Meliá Cohiba, dropped off their bags, and quickly joined the group in the lobby for a celebratory mojito. George stood at the bar talking to several members of the Connecticut contingent, while Tilda sat at a small table sipping her drink through a straw. She kept her eyes on George in an attempt to avoid eye contact with anyone else. George, like Harold, had an easy way with people, although he was more outgoing than Harold had been. She observed at least several slaps on the back and one hand lifted to clutch a shoulder attached to someone who had to have been an old acquaintance.

  She slowly allowed that George was more attractive than she had originally thought, admitting to herself that his straight posture and good teeth, more than simply signs of good health, were physically appealing. (Yes, appealing.) And his brown eyes, though not (definitely not) comparable to Harold’s, were deep and warm like his.

  While Tilda wasn’t in the mood for socializing with librarians, she was enjoying the sweet drink, so she soon ordered another.

  “I’m sorry I left you here by yourself,” George said when he returned to the table.

  “No problem. I’m suddenly feeling very relaxed.”

  George laughed and said, “Well, those little mint juleps will do that to you. How many have you had?”

  “They’re not mint juleps. They’re mojitos. Two. Just two, and they go down very nicely.”

  “Okay, well, I’m thinking of going up for a little rest. How about you?”

  Tilda gave him a quizzical look while continuing to drink through her straw.

  “I mean, would you like to go to your room for a little siesta before dinner?”

  “I guess I could use a little quiet time,” she replied.

  Upstairs, Tilda looked out the window of her tenth-floor hotel room to see the waves crashing over the walls of the Malecón. The sun was setting, and there was a pink glow hovering above the blue water. On the sidewalk, lovers walked arm in arm. Couples, embracing, were leaning against the wall. Others danced along to music Tilda could not hear. She quickly drew the curtains and lay down on the expansive bed for a little rest. I didn’t expect life here to look so normal—under Castro, that big, bad socialist. She giggled to herself, still feeling the effects of her two drinks. Her little rest turned into an unanticipated nap.

  At seven, she waited for the elevator, hoping she wouldn’t be too late. Fortunately, George had called her room to be sure she was up. “You seemed a little, well, very relaxed when I left you, and I wanted to be sure you still wanted to go to dinner,” he had said.

  Everyone stared at her and then at their watches as she approached the group, who had obviously been waiting for the latecomer.

  “You were the one who just made the trip, the last one registered, weren’t you?” one of the women commented as she boarded the bus that would take them to dinner.

  “Yes, and I seem
to have established a pattern of such behavior, haven’t I?” she responded, owning up to her tardiness, just a bit annoyed for having been called on it.

  George then introduced her to Helen, who had been a colleague of George’s at the branch in Longview.

  “She must be sorry I made it. I think she has designs on you, George,” Tilda said after they sat down.

  George smiled but didn’t deny it. Tilda laughed and said, “How old are we? And here we are on what might as well be a school bus talking like kids about who has a crush on whom.”

  “I think what I like most about you is that you still say whom.”

  “Now why would you like that? And what you like most? That seems overstated, don’t you think?”

  George laughed, “A little, I guess. And yes, there are things about you I like more.”

  Tilda didn’t respond.

  The Bodeguita del Medio was cramped, crowded, hot, and full of life. The walls, covered in signatures, drew the curious searching for signs of the famous. George and Tilda, seated against a heavily autographed wall, had to shift and duck as the tourists came by for a closer look. Jaime, seated near them, told of the many writers and poets who’d supposedly been frequent customers—Cortázar, Neruda, Márquez. And of course Hemingway, who was, as far as Tilda could tell, the George Washington of Havana, having slept, drunk, and left his mark everywhere in the city. Everyone knew of his famous inscription on the wall: My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita. “But it is probably not true that Hemingway wrote it,” said Jaime. “The true story is some friends of his wrote it—to be a joke—and now all the tourists come to see it.”

  The Bodeguita was also supposedly the birthplace of the mojito, so of course there were pitchers on every table. Tilda, growing attached to the taste, drank at least two more with her beans and rice, pork, and fried plantains.

  By the time they arrived at the nightspot to see the Buena Vista Social Club, Tilda’s vision was a little blurry, which put a needed soft filter on the scene, a rather rundown courtyard with droopy palms, a weary band and bandleader, and a cast of faded singers and dancers, who on occasion displayed signs of former glory, hitting the high note, taking and succeeding at a daring spin, surprising themselves for a moment before drifting back into the gloomy present. This Buena Vista Social Club was not related to the original group of that name, but was rather one of many similar bands and performers who came out at night and put on a show for the tourists in an attempt to revive the romance of a bygone era. It was Helen who had provided this explanation, which made Tilda sad and angry, sad for the performers and angry that Helen knew so much.

  “C’mon, George, let’s dance,” she said as the bandleader was trying hopelessly to arouse some audience response.

  George, it turned out, was a credible salsa dancer. Tilda was not, but she put up a passable front. “You’re not bad,” he said, as he spun her around.

  “I’m dizzy,” said Tilda.

  They continued dancing even though Tilda would have appreciated it if Helen had left their table and if the room had stopped spinning. She needed to sit down, but Helen was waiting for her turn to dance with George, and Tilda wasn’t about to give it to her. Helen finally gave up waiting and joined one of the two young dancers brought out to get the audience on its feet, kind of like the dancers at bar and bat mitzvahs. This seemed to placate Helen, but Tilda noticed her looking in their direction just the same.

  What happened after that was not at all clear. There was the bus waiting outside to take them back. Then there was the adorable shiny yellow 1950s Chevy convertible, which in its new life in Cuba had been transformed into a taxi. Tilda had insisted they take it instead of the bus for the ride home. She remembered standing up with her arms outstretched, letting the wind whip through her hair as they drove along the Malecón, then losing her balance and falling back into George’s lap.

  She woke up the next morning in her bed with her nightgown on backward and over her bra and undies.

  “Oh, this isn’t good,” she said, her head pounding, mouth dry, tongue thick. She sat on the side of the bed, the room spinning, as it had at the nightclub the night before. She reached for her watch, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. Then she looked at the clock radio. The time, 10:15 a.m., slowly came into focus, and then she realized that she had missed the bus to the National Library.

  She flung herself back on the bed, a move she instantly regretted because it made it all the more difficult to rise and to make it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

  By noon she was feeling revived and had read George’s note: Dear Sarah Brown, Nothing happened. See you this afternoon. Sky

  He had been in her room. He had put her to bed. Nothing happened. Then she got it, Guys and Dolls. He was referring to the storyline of Guys and Dolls.

  She was having quite an array of mixed emotions. She was getting over a hangover—that was good. Having a hangover at all—that was bad. Nothing had happened between her and “Sky”—that was good. She was happy when she thought of George—that was strange, and probably wrong. She was happy when she thought of George and guilty when she thought of Harold. She fell back to sleep.

  Dinner was mercifully on their own. Jaime had provided a list of paladares from which to choose, and George and Tilda decided on a rooftop restaurant overlooking the water. They arrived before dark and were the only ones from their group. Tilda caught the briny scent of the sea. This and the light breeze brushing her bare shoulders brought back childhood nights on the single small balcony off her parents’ bedroom in their Miami Beach apartment. No one in the family used it much, but Tilda liked sitting down on the concrete floor next to the wrought-iron railing and looking up to the stars, the warm breeze from the ocean a welcome counterpoint to the hot night air.

  “Would you like a drink?” asked the waiter.

  “How about a mojito, Tilda?” asked George.

  Tilda cringed and then laughed. “No, gracias,” she said to the waiter.

  “I suppose you have to see the humor in it,” she said to George after the waiter had left.

  “You were actually all right, for the most part.”

  “And when did the ‘most part’ end?” Tilda asked. “The dancing like a woman possessed? Refusing to take the bus? Or blanking out on the rest of the evening? I think blanking out. What about you?”

  George gave her one of his endearing looks. “Well, yes, the blanking-out part, I guess, because in the lobby you announced your solidarity with the Castro regime, apparently. At least that’s what I think it means when you say rather loudly, Viva la revolución!”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “What else don’t I remember? How did you get me to bed?”

  “I would rephrase that. In common parlance, that would mean I bedded you.”

  “You did not.”

  “No, I didn’t. I did manage to get you out of your dress—sorry, but I thought it was the right thing to do—and to find your nightgown, which I tried several times to slip over your head, but I had a hard time with your arms. Finally, though, I managed. I got you to take a couple of aspirins I found in the bathroom. Then I put you to bed and left the note. End of story.”

  “Oh, God, I’ll never be able to face the group after all this.” She took her head out of her hands, looked up, and said, “Thank you, by the way. You were a gentleman, and I’m surprised you still want to be seen with me.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve added a lot of color to what would have been a lonely time for me, except for Helen, of course, who would’ve kept me company in your absence.”

  Tilda wasn’t sure how to take this.

  “Oh, and thank you, by the way, for saving me from her,” he added.

  Tilda smiled and took a bite of the newly arrived ham- and-potatoes croquetas.

  “Heavenly,” she said.

  For the rest of the trip, Tilda kept a low profile, smiling back good-naturedly when mojito comments
were made in her presence, and obviously for her benefit. She also swore off mojitos or any other alcoholic beverage for the remainder of her time with the librarians.

  “She’s missing, Mom. We’ve called the police,” said Laura. That voice message and several others from Laura were there waiting to be retrieved the second Tilda turned on her phone upon arriving at Miami International late Tuesday morning, the day before New Year’s Eve. Taken together, the frantic messages told the barest essentials of the story. The first call came early in the morning before the plane touched down. “Call me right away, as soon as you get in.” The next one was garbled, but Laura had apparently been talking to Mark when the recording began. “She still doesn’t have her phone on,” she heard Laura say before hanging up. And then the last one left minutes before they landed.

  Tilly was missing, but for how long, Tilda did not know. George dropped her off at Laura’s and asked if she wanted him to come in, to stay with her. No, she had said, but she promised to call as soon as she knew something.

  He carried her bag to the door, and, before she could go in, he grabbed her hand. “I hope you know how much you mean to me. I won’t rest until I know everything is okay.”

  “Thank you, George. I promise I’ll let you know.” She turned, picked up her bag, and let herself in, leaving him standing there.

  Laura was with Mark in the living room, talking to two policemen who were just leaving. Tilda put down her bag and ran to Laura, who nearly collapsed in her arms before they both sat on the sofa, still holding each other. Mark walked the officers to the door, and Laura, gaining some composure, pulled gently away from her mother and began to tell her everything that had transpired since Tilly had gone missing the day before. Tilly had seemed fine and had asked for a ride to Andrea’s. They were going to the mall, she said. Laura dropped her off, but later in the afternoon, when Tilly didn’t call for a ride home, Laura began calling and texting. Tilly didn’t answer, so Laura called Andrea’s and spoke to Kelly, Andrea’s mother, who said Tilly hadn’t been there all day.