Of course, he did, I think. Uncle Duke is a proper hero. Ed’s just following Duke’s orders and trying to steal his thunder.
“How much?” You tilt your chin with a playful look, but I can tell you really want to know what you’re worth to these men.
“Let’s just say it’s more than a plane ticket and less than a movie contract. Considering how little the peso is worth, I’d say we got a bargain.”
You don’t press for a dollar amount. “I’m surprised Chu Chu didn’t outbid you.”
Ed shrugs. “I didn’t deal with Chu Chu. Doubt the man even knew I was there. It’s the inspectors I had to pay off. They were the ones keeping an eye out for you, and they’ll keep their mouths shut if they want to keep what’s in their pockets. Your ex-husband will think you vanished into thin air.”
Until my father knows we haven’t, I think, watching the horizon, that flimsy, narrow divide between earth and sky.
“How you holding up, honey? You need something to eat?” Mr. Adelman glances at me through the rearview mirror.
I am hungry, and my legs ache from walking, but I say, “I’m okay, thank you.” He’s never called me honey. Looking at the side of his sweaty face, his eyes glancing earnestly from the mirror to you, eager to please, I feel sorry for him. He could have sent his assistant to get us, but he came himself. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe saving his client and her daughter is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him.
“There’s not much to choose from in Laredo, but the restaurant at the hotel has decent food,” he says.
“If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for us. We’ve just spent the night on the floor of an abandoned church for goodness’ sake.” You turn to me. “We’re lucky to have Ed, aren’t we? We’ll be sure to put that in the news reports. Manager goes all out for his client.” You lean over and kiss Mr. Adelman’s sweaty cheek, and for one horrible moment I wonder if you’ll make him your new husband.
New husband. I still don’t know if you have an old husband.
I lean out the window and let the hot wind whip my hair back. I don’t want to think about Alfonso or home. I want our night in the church—our mushy, sweet bananas, silent prayers and your voice climbing in song to the rafters—to make our relationship into something new. But already that cherished time alone with you is dissipating into memory, breaking apart like clouds vanishing into wisps of nothing, no meaning at all.
I need our time inside this adventure to have meaning, for you to see that I can’t go back to the way things were.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
More Than We Bargained For
Daughter,
How can I keep my promise to you, Nina? I have to work. I want to work. I know you don’t like Ed, but he’s the one who gets me that work, and we need him. He’s a decent man. He means well, and despite your dislike for him, I find myself relaxing under his big presence, his take-charge authority. It’s a relief to have someone else navigate the streets, find our hotel, lead us into the hotel restaurant and then order for me: steak and potatoes, peas and rolls with pads of melting butter. Plus, I am high from our success, our escape. We did it, and it will make a damn good publicity story.
Ed talks while I half listen. He’s always been a talker, but tonight he seems to speed through his stories at a faster clip than usual, grunting, laughing, shaking his head, amusing himself. You have gone totally silent. I worry Ed will think you’re rude or ungrateful, but he’s tolerant for a man who has no children and chides me with, “The girl’s been through enough,” when I insist you respond. “No need to make her suffer through another one of my stories.” Yet he tells another, not asking what we’ve been through or how we made it to the border.
Halfway into my buttermilk pie, I’m finally able to ask after Mamá, at which point Ed goes completely silent.
“Ed?” I push my pie away. “What are you not telling me?”
“Well, now...”
There is a smudge of whip cream at the corner of his mouth, which he doesn’t wipe away, and I find it annoying. “Ed!”
He chews, swallows, sighs. “Your mother’s gone to Cuba.”
“Cuba? She hasn’t been to Cuba in twelve years. Did she tell you why? Was it because I left?”
“She didn’t go into the details but said something about your father. I guess he’s unwell? Or missing, or something?”
“Unwell or missing! How do you not know which?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Your mother was in a state. You should have seen the look on her face when she heard I knew you were coming to Mexico and didn’t stop you. She started spitting Spanish at me, which I didn’t know the half of. Not too many women intimidate me, but she sure as hell does.” He points his fork accusingly at me. “You always send her in when we’ve got contracts to negotiate. Which is precisely why I make it a rule to not get involved in my clients’ family affairs. You put me in this position.” The fork smashes into the top of his pie, beating the crust flat. “There was some emergency telegram about your father. That’s all I could gather. There’s a lot of shenanigans going on down there in Cuba right now. Political unrest and what have you.”
Mamá in a state, throwing Spanish words at Ed, worries me more than what’s going on in Cuba. Political unrest we’ve lived through. Mamá losing her cool we haven’t. Ed may feel she’s intimidating, but she’s never been anything but clearheaded and professional in his office.
I glance at you, hunched over your plate with your eyes down. Our conversation hasn’t hampered the steady pace of your pie eating, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pleased with the news.
I stand, quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
The restaurant proprietor is a stiff-backed, white-haired man who takes his job very seriously. Once I assure him that Mr. Adelman will take care of the long-distance telex charge, he slides the phone across the desk, hovering in listening proximity as I dial the operator, trying to remember Papa’s address in Havana. When the telex office comes on the line, I give them Danita’s address, which I know off the top of my head because it’s the house I grew up in. I give a brief message: What’s happened? Are Mamá and Papa all right? If I don’t have a return telex by morning, Nina and I will be on an airplane to Havana tomorrow. I give the hotel address and room number for a return telex, press my finger over the telephone hook, and try to think of who else to contact. I haven’t memorized my other siblings’ addresses, and without Mamá I have no way to access the address book I stow in my desk drawer.
I release my finger from the telephone hook, hear the click and buzz of a dial tone going through, and then the switchboard operator’s calm voice asking, “Would you like to be put through to anyone else?”
“No, thank you.” I hang up the phone and bury my head in my arms. I barely made it out of Mexico with you, and now Mamá is gone?
“Are you all right, ma’am?” I look up at the proprietor who slides the phone back under the counter as I shade my eyes from the harshly lit chandelier in the lobby.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Back at the table, you’ve finished your pie and are slouched down in your seat glaring at Ed. I have never hit you in my life, but I have the urge to slap the back of your head for being so rude and ungrateful. Of course, I don’t. I don’t even tell you to sit up straight as I sink into my seat. My, I think, how quickly we’ve slipped back into our old selves.
I had imagined that some part of our relationship would stay fitted together, as we were on the church floor this morning, that our brave escape would bond us, but you’ve gone sour and distant, and I am irritated with you. This pretentious restaurant with its white-jacketed waiters and American businessmen make me feel as if Mexico—the church, the dusty road and hot sun, even the fear and anxiety over getting across—were from another time, another world.
“Everything peachy?” Ed slides money into the billfold and waves it at the waiter.
“I just needed the powder room.”
Our waiter hurries over, and Ed tells him to keep the change. To me he says, “What you need is to rest up and keep the puff down around those gorgeous brown eyes of yours. We’ll get you back to LA and find out where your mother is, no problem. I’ll make some calls. Rio Bravo is scheduled to shoot in three weeks, and you’re expected on set for costume tests in two. Duke said to tell you he’ll get his lawyers to look into sole custody of this one.” He jabs a thumb at you. “To make sure this doesn’t happen again.” To you he says, “Just don’t go getting into any cars with strange men, little lady, and we’ll be all right.”
“My dad is not a strange man,” you say, with a clean, hard look, and I cringe, worried you’ve offended Ed, but he just barks a laugh.
“You’re right about that. Well, you know what to expect now, so don’t get into a car with the old man, either. Come on.” He heaves himself from the table, his stomach like a perfectly round melon under his slick shirt. “I got us a flight out at noon tomorrow. Thought we could all use some morning shut-eye.”
In our room, I pace, unable to sleep. I told the proprietor to call me at any hour if a telex comes in, but it’s three o’clock in the morning and still no word. I keep remembering the letter Mamá showed me months ago from Papa. At the time I’d found the confident tone of his words reassuring. Why are you worrying, Maria? We’ve been here before. The youth are no match for Batista. They’ll settle down soon enough. You’re not here, so you can’t possibly understand what is really going on.
Mamá was outraged, slicing the letter through the air, as if that would shake some sense into the man who’d written it. “I damn well do know what’s going on over there! Has your father forgotten all about President Machado? He fell quick enough, and your father jumped to the other side with Fulgencio Batista because he claimed Batista would be different. This man understood the people, poverty and suffering, but none of that mattered once Batista was in power, did it? What has he done for the people? Allied with the US, profited off the sugar plantations, taken away political liberties of the people he claims to have come from. The people were bound to fight back. How can your father not think he is in danger?”
“Batista is a powerful man backed by a powerful country,” I’d said, more concerned about the length of my dress for that evening’s affair than I was the political unrest in Cuba.
Mamá, for once totally uninterested in my affairs, continued waving the letter about, exclaiming. “That’s never made any difference before. Everyone appears to be underestimating the passion of depraved youth. They have strength and anger on their side. A lot is accomplished with pure, passionate hate. Your father is too hotheaded and stubborn to see that he’s putting himself and your brothers in danger. Loyalty be damned! I won’t have my boys killed because of his idiocy. They all need to get out of Cuba while they still can.”
But only my brothers had.
Out the hotel window, the streets of Laredo are empty, the night hot and still. I haven’t showered in days, and my scalp itches. I am sure if I scratched my nails down my arm I’d have a layer of grim under them. It’s still eighty degrees here in Texas, where the mosquitoes hang on, surviving into winter. I think of the year-round mosquitoes in Cuba, of our screenless windows and the netting over our beds. I imagine Mamá sitting on the porch in her polkadot dress and her wide-brimmed hat sipping cane juice. Other than my brief time with Chu Chu in Mexico, I have never lived without her.
I move quickly then, shower, wash my hair, tying it up in a handkerchief to dry as I squeeze back into my girdle and shake out my skirt and blouse before putting them back on. My clothes from Mexico will do nicely in Cuba.
The blue streetlights flood the room as I nudge you out of sleep. “Nina, wake up. I know this sounds crazy, but we have to catch a flight to Havana and quickly.” You blink at me from your pillow, half-asleep: none of this is registering. “Come, get up. We have to get going before Ed makes a fuss.”
I toss the covers off you, flick on the light. You’re still wearing your wrinkled, cotton dress, little white birds sailing across your chest.
“We’re going to Cuba?” You slide your legs over the edge of the bed rubbing a fist into your eye.
“Yes.” I give a crazed laugh. “I know, it’s madness.”
“Why?”
“To see your abuelos.”
“I see my grandmother all the time, and I don’t even know my grandfather,” you say. Then, stubbornly, “I don’t want to go.”
“My papa is still your abuelo whether you’ve met him or not. La famila es familia. You go when there’s trouble. Now, go use the ladies’ room while I call the front desk and have them bring a cab around.”
You drag yourself to your feet and say, “Does this mean I don’t have to go back to school?”
“Is that all you can think of?” I pick up the phone. “And no, this doesn’t mean you don’t have to go back to school. It just means another week off. I have to be on set in two weeks, so we can’t stay long. Now vamos, shoo! Use the washroom and sprinkle water on your dress to get the wrinkles out.”
With the cab ordered, we slip quietly out of our room leaving unmade beds and wet towels for the maid. My only belongings are in Rubenia’s burlap bag that I hoist onto my shoulder as I slip a note under Ed’s door, which will infuriate him when he wakes. But by that time—thanks to the checkbook I’ve carried around—we’re on an airplane from San Antonio to Fort Lauderdale where we have a six-hour layover. And by the time he’s boarding his plane to LA, we’re seated on Pan American Airlines with fruity drinks in our hands winging our way to Havana, a flurry of anticipation and utter exhaustion running through me. I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours.
This drink should knock me out, I think, lifting the fluorescent cherry from the ice and plucking it from its stem with my teeth as I look past you out the window to a layer of white clouds spread under us like perfectly peaked meringue.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, but you’re not looking out the window.
“Why haven’t we gone to Cuba before?” you ask, your dark eyes fixed intently on me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. We never found the time.”
“Why haven’t I ever met my grandfather or your siblings? Why haven’t they ever visited us?”
“You met my youngest sister, Mercedes, in New York once. Don’t you remember? She came to one of my shows.”
“I don’t remember.” You take a sip of your drink, twirling the pack of Chiclets the stewardess gave you on your tray. “How can Grandmother Maria still be married to Grandfather Manuel if she hasn’t seen him since before I was born?” Your cardboard packet whizzes in circles, and I’m tempted to slap a hand out and to make you sit still.
Why this barrage of questions when I’m so tired! “You can stay married even if you don’t live with someone.”
You squint at me, trying to work something out. “That doesn’t make any sense. Grandmother Maria and Grandfather Manuel don’t even know each other anymore.”
“Of course they do. You don’t un-know someone just because you haven’t seen them in a long time. They have an understanding. It was a different time when they were married.”
You lean over the armrest, your face very close to mine as the Chiclets slow to a stop. “Why does Grandmother Maria live with you and not her other children?”
“There’s no need. They’re all grown with children of their own now.”
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I do need her.”
“Because of me?” Your voice is breathy, almost a whisper.
“No.” I sigh, smoothing a finger over your forehead, the pressure of the question scrunching your l
ovely face up. “Because of my career. You heard Ed: your abuela is an intimidating woman. She gets things done. You know, I had very little growing up. The only reason I became a singer and actress is because of your abuela. She managed everything when I was a girl, booked me shows in Havana, worked so that I could have new shoes and proper dresses. I was too young to go to New York on my own, so she came with me.”
“Well, now it’s all managed, and we don’t need her anymore.”
“Nina, that is a mean thing to say.”
You grimace and slump into your seat, twirling that damn box of gum again. “I didn’t say I don’t love her, just that we don’t need her to live with us. She’s bossy, and she’s the only reason you send me away to boarding school.”
You bite down on your thumbnail, and I reach over and pull your hand from your mouth. “That’s not true, and don’t bite your nails. It’s a dirty habit.” I can’t understand why you want your abuela gone. She’s never been anything but good to us. I wonder if giving you so much has spoiled you. If you knew what it was to just survive, maybe you’d be more appreciative. “What about when I have to go away? When I’m on location? I can’t pull you out of school. And what about my weekend bookings in Las Vegas?”
“I could go with you on the weekends. Or maybe you don’t have to sing. You could just do movies. Isn’t that better, anyway?” I am too tired to hear what you are really asking. All I hear, in the moment, is the whine in your voice, the neediness.
“I love singing, Nina, and those Vegas hotels are no place for a young girl.” I take a sip of my drink, sweet and thick and so cold it hurts my teeth. “Drink up, and stop talking nonsense.”
My fingers tingle around the icy glass, and I look around for the stewardess to hand it back to, but she’s down the aisle laughing with a young man in a blue suit. You rip open the packet of Chiclets and pop three white squares of gum into your mouth, pressing your body up against the window.
Find Me in Havana Page 14