I stay on the floor watching as the room fractures into prisms of inexplicable realities. Auntie Danita’s arms flap like a trapped bird’s wings in Alipio’s unshakable grasp. Grandmother drags herself up and goes toward her daughter, but Auntie Danita screams and claws at her. Your arms are around me, pushing too hard, and I want to shove you off, to scream and claw, too. What is he doing to her? Are his hands around her neck? Will he kill her? Grandfather Manuel’s coat lies torn on the ground. A fat ant crawls over it, undeterred, straight-pathed and confident. I slide from your grasp and press my throbbing forehead into the cool floor. Red dots float behind my eyes, my vision bloodied. I feel Che pressing my legs open and see the alarm in Josepha’s face, her split cheek and red, gaping mouth.
I don’t know how it ends, just that the living room is empty, and I am curled on my side on the rug wondering if it is possible to sleep without remembering sleeping. I stand, and my legs buckle under me, weak as dry grass. My grandfather’s coat is no longer on the floor. I go to the window and watch the last shard of sun slide into the horizon, a feeling of fire sinking in my gut. Cigar smoke and sour sweat hangs in the air as if the men have just stepped out. Rape and a cigar, and they’re off to dinner. Sick men. Damaged men. Men I should have let Josepha shoot in the head.
I stay where I am. The evening sky rots to purple and black. There are no stars, just a fat, curdled moon. After a while I worry that no one has come to find me. It’s too quiet for a house full of people. I expect Oneila and her girls to be in the kitchen cleaning up, but there is only a pan of burned yucca croquettes rolling around in oil. I turn off the flame and scrape the burned bottom with a spoon. Plates and cups and cutlery are stacked unused on the counter. No one has eaten dinner. Not even Mercedes’s boys are making a sound, and I have the terrifying thought that everyone’s been taken by the rebels.
I rush upstairs, my bare feet slapping the wooden steps, the noise sending Enricua charging out of her room after me. She catches me by the arm and pulls me into the bedroom, shutting the door with a finger pressed to her lips to shush me. The boys are asleep in bed. Lita pulls the covers up to their chins and gives me a warning look. Marta is there, too, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her brother with her arms folded crossly.
“Where’s Josepha?” I ask. “Where’s my mom?”
Lita gives a sharp shake of her head and jerks her chin at Marta, indicating we shouldn’t speak about it in front of her. Marta narrows her eyes. “I’m not a baby. I know something bad happened. I heard it, too.”
Enricua has not let go of my arm, and her small eyes are filled with stark fear. Blameless eyes, I think, wondering if she can see guilt in mine.
“What happened?” she whispers. Marta’s ears are perked and listening. “We heard the commotion, and then my mom came with the little ones and locked us in. She told us we were to stay in here no matter what.”
Marta kicks the wooden bed frame with an angry foot. “I don’t want to be in here. I’m hungry.”
“Stop it,” Lita scolds. She is wearing a dark navy dress buttoned to the neck, which makes her look older than her sister, who has taken to wearing untucked men’s shirts over baggy pants.
Lita comes around to Marta’s side of the bed and pulls back the covers. “How about a story? If you climb in I’ll tell you about the witch Cayetana and how she defeated the great crocodile of Las Tumbas.”
Marta stays put, arms crossed. “Was he going to eat her?”
“Maybe. Or devour her children. I’ll tell you if you lie down.”
“Fine.” Marta flops over and pulls the covers up. “But I’m not going to sleep.”
“Fine. Scoot over.” Lita crawls in next to her, four to the bed, the boys’ small faces pressed together on one pillow, their dark hair tousled like fur standing on end.
Enricua shields the side of her mouth with her hand and whispers, “Is everyone all right? I heard someone being dragged upstairs. Why isn’t Josepha with you?”
I shake my head, my mouth chalk. A single lamp glows on the nightstand, and Lita’s voice, gentle and soothing, begins a story of a witch with sea-green hair and emerald eyes who comes from the sea to warn the town of a hungry crocodile.
With a hand on my shoulder, Enricua says, “Mamá didn’t tell you to stay in here. Go find Josepha. She should sleep with us tonight.”
I obey because I still think Josepha is a whole person who will want to sleep with us tonight.
I slip out of the room as the crocodile bites a fisherman’s boat in two and Marta says she’s glad: fishermen deserve to be eaten for killing innocent sea creatures.
The wooden floor creaks underfoot as I walk toward the open door of Grandfather Manuel’s room. I stand in front of it, rooted in shadow, too afraid to enter. Auntie Mercedes sits on the floor with her back against the bed, her legs sticking straight out from under her skirt. I can see a tear in her stocking running like a widening river up her plump, colorless calf. I wish she’d changed out of them or at least tried to mend them. But there are some things that can’t be darned or mended, and you have to throw them away and start over.
I don’t see you or Grandmother. Auntie Oneila sits in a chair next to the bed with her elbows propped on her knees. She’s taken her hair down, and it falls at odd angles over her shoulder. I watch her reach out and take ahold of Auntie Danita’s hand. My aunt stands with her back to me, her body the exact height and size of yours. She faces her daughter who lies on the bed staring out at me. From the doorway, I can see flat, vacant eyes that don’t look like Josepha’s. Her cheek is held closed with strips of tape pulled over a wad of tissue that is soaked with blood. It occurs to me that I have not seen any Band-Aids or gauze or antiseptic here. Under Josepha’s taped cheek, her lips are swollen fat. She blinks, expressionless, and I think she must not see me so I step into the doorway. I will make it up to her. I will tell her about the gun. We will plot our revenge. We will find Che and kill him ourselves. We will be our own heroes.
All three of my aunts turn and look at me. There is no sympathy in their eyes, only pity and fear and caution, as if I am a rabid, unpredictable animal.
Auntie Danita comes at me, her face distorted. “Out!” she orders. I think she will shove me backward, but her hands on my shoulders are gentle as she eases me into the hallway and shuts the door in my face. I can’t move. I stand staring at the dark, hardwood floor, the skin around my throat burning where Che clutched it. Surely one of my aunt’s will open the door and come out and say everything is going to be okay. You can see Josepha tomorrow, Auntie Mercedes will say with her motherly kindness. She needs to rest. We understand it wasn’t your fault. Auntie Oneila, Protector of Daughters and Keeper of Family, will say, Your Auntie Danita just needs time. She’ll forgive you soon enough.
But no one comes out. Behind the closed door the room is silent.
I find you and Grandmother in the bedroom that you share with Auntie Danita. From now on, just the three of us will sleep in here.
“Nina.” You have been crying. You embrace me, kiss the top of my head. Over your shoulder, Grandmother looks at me and says nothing. One granddaughter sacrificed for the other.
I will never know what this does to her. We will never speak of it. In my head, it will become The Cuba Incident, tucked tightly next to The Alfonso Incident. Incident as in resulting from. Not accident. There is a difference. Cause and effect. In time, I will learn to believe I am the cause, and this will eat away at me in the same way our silence eats away at you and Grandmother, shrinking us into ourselves.
* * *
The rebels don’t return, and your sisters don’t speak to us. It’s me they should blame, and Grandmother, but there are old jealousies ripe with time and injury. You are your mother’s favorite, the root of it all, some might say.
I don’t know what Lita and Enricua have been told, but there are no more questions. Even Tabo and Vic
tor are subdued and keep to their mother’s side. Marta asks me to play, but I ignore her out of respect for Josepha. Auntie Danita does not treat me unkindly, she simply acts as if I don’t exist. She has an incredible ability to shift her eyes past me, not once letting her gaze slip. She leaves a room if I enter it, won’t eat meals with us and spends her time by Josepha’s bed. Auntie Mercedes and Auntie Oneila don’t outright ignore me. They will speak to me briefly but only if absolutely necessary. They don’t look angry, just beaten down and terribly sad.
Everywhere I look I see the empty black holes of Che’s eyes. I wonder if Josepha sees them, too. I can’t ask because she won’t speak, and she doesn’t come out of her room. Only once do I sneak in, but she stares at me, unresponsive, and when I ask her if she’s all right, she rolls away and faces the wall.
It is then that I take the wooden spoon from my pocket and lay it on the bed next to her, giving away your apology gift. It’s mine to give, I think, looking at the sleek dark wood I have worn my fingers over a million times. Reaching out, I put it in Josepha’s limp hand and wrap her fingers around it.
“It’s for when you grow up,” I say. “To stir your coffee, because you will grow up, Josepha, and you will want to drink coffee like our mothers, and by then none of this will feel so bad.”
And then I leave her.
After a while, my days become endless and identical. Since the soldiers bring no more food, I’m given the task of walking to town for groceries. There’s a bodega with limited supplies rationed to each family. The man who runs it, Iago, gives me rice, salt, sugar, oil and coffee. There is no meat or beans, but there are matches, which I use to light the candle in the closet. Out loud, I read Grandfather Manuel’s book of poetry pretending that Josepha is listening. Or I spend silent hours of the day flat on my back under the ficus tree, thinking about the gun, and waiting for Josepha to come back to life.
She never does, at least not when I am there to see it.
A man comes for us early on a Monday morning. I used to dread Mondays when the school week was just beginning. It’s funny to think how the days hold no meaning for me here. I only know it’s Monday because the radio is on and the man says, “It is Monday, January 26th, 1959, and we’re listening to Olga Guillot,” at the same moment that I see a red car, with a shiny white top, pull to a stop in front of the house.
A man in a black suit gets out, and I jump up and hurry into the hall as Mercedes opens the front door. The man removes his hat and wipes his damp brow. He looks uncomfortably hot, his face blotchy and flushed, his pale, red hair flattened sweaty around his ears.
“Hello there,” the man says in English, putting out a hand, salesmanlike, and Mercedes hesitates but gives it a quick shake. “Robert Stikes. Pleasure to meet you.” The distinct Southern twang in his voice makes him seem wildly out of place.
Mercedes doesn’t offer her name, and the man clears his throat and pats his breast pocket, glancing self-consciously behind him. “Well, um, sorry to bother you, ma’am, but is this the home of Estelita Rodiguez?”
Mercedes, unsmiling, turns to me and says, “Get your mother.”
I holler into the kitchen, and you step into the hallway wiping your hands on your apron. “Jiminy Cricket, Nina, you don’t have to shout so loud.”
“There’s a man asking after you.”
“Oh?”
You head to the front door, and Mercedes steps aside, keeping her eyes on Mr. Stikes.
“Señorita Rodriguez?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, thank goodness,” he says, clearly relieved. “It’s an honor to meet you.” He does a funny little bow, and you laugh.
“I’m not the queen of England.”
“Well, no.” Mr. Stikes smiles, embarrassed. “But I am a fan, and it’s a privilege.”
Reaching inside his breast pocket, he pulls out a red leaflet with white lettering and hands it to you. I wonder if he’s a salesman after all. You open the leaflet, and I peer over your shoulder to see a washed-out picture of a smiling woman in a square hat pointing to the words Welcome Aboard! This is your TWA passenger ticket and baggage check. Under it are two more tickets.
There is a feverish intake of air over your teeth. “Who arranged this?”
“Warner Brothers, ma’am. I was sent to personally escort you to the airport.”
The airport? I register this with cautious excitement.
You do not even smile. “Why only three tickets? What about the others? I specifically told them I wouldn’t go unless they got us all out.”
The man pulls a second, thicker packet from his pocket. “Your plane leaves this afternoon. They wanted you back as soon as possible to begin shooting. The others were given a week to get their things in order.”
Mercedes, hovering, says, “We’re going? Where? Miami?”
You say, “Shooting? What do you mean shooting?”
“Rio Bravo. They told me you were needed back pronto.”
“That was supposed to shoot months ago.”
Mr. Stikes runs a hand through his hair like he’s thinking hard on this. “Well, I don’t know the original production schedule, but they’ve not shot anything yet. I’m just a film loader.”
“A film loader?” You laugh, giddy, your face ablaze with the news. “What are you doing here?”
“I know—” he puts his hands in the air “—not the most likely fella to fetch a gal such as yourself home, but I was the first person they thought of who could speak Spanish, so here I am. I am friends with Jack Warner’s assistant, so I’ve got a good reference.”
“You are the perfect fella to fetch me home,” you cry and throw your arms around Mr. Stikes, whose ears turn bright red.
Upstairs, we change back into the clothes we escaped Mexico in, leaving borrowed dresses, skirts and button-up sweaters folded on the bed. Grandmother Maria packs the modest bag she came with: girdle, two bras, three pairs of stockings, skirt, blouse and two dresses. She takes nothing of Grandfather Manuel’s. Not a single letter from the box in the closet, not a shirt or sock or book or bottle of hair oil. I wonder if his torn jacket is back in the closet or if someone destroyed it. We move around each other with half smiles and diverted eyes. This is what we’ve waited for, and none of us seem sure we want it. There was supposed to be enough time to reconcile.
We pass Auntie Danita’s closed door without a word.
She and Josepha are the only ones who don’t see us off. The rest of our family stand in a disorderly arrangement trying not to get their feet wet in the muddy front yard. The sky is overcast, and it looks as if it will rain again. Mr. Stikes has reassured them that the tickets are official, but Oneila just mutters “We’ll see.” Clear where her family loyalties lie, she shoves her hands into her skirt pockets and says her goodbye with a cool nod. Mercedes, crying, is genuinely sorry to see us go. Lita squeezes me hard and says we’re sure to see each other again, while Enricua gives a stiff-armed hug, glancing at her mother for approval. You tell your nieces you hope to see them in California one day. “I’ll give you a tour of Paramount Studios,” you say, to which they can’t help smiling.
I tell Marta that I’m sorry I didn’t play with her more and that I left the book of poetry in the closet. “Will you give it to Josepha for me?”
She nods, sobered by our leaving. “Do I get to go to California, too, Auntie Estelita?”
“Of course.” Your voice is sincere. “But first you get to see your papa in Miami. Won’t that be nice?”
Marta says yes, she misses her papa. The boys chase each other around the ficus tree with sticks, and Mercedes orders them over. “Hug your auntie and cousin goodbye.” They do as they’re told, Tabo’s hand reaching out from behind your skirt to slap Victor. “Got you,” he says, and they’re off running again.
Through all of this, Grandmother Maria stands on the porch with her suitca
se clutched in one hand, guarded and unapproachable. From the car, Robert Stikes says, “We’d better get a move on. Rain’s made the direct route impassable, so we have to go the long way around.” It’s surprising how noticeably American he is, his accent and abrupt mannerisms. It makes me feel as if I’ve been gone a very long time.
Grandmother Maria comes off the porch, stepping around a mud puddle to press her lips first to Mercedes’s cheek and then Oneila’s, her eldest daughter sliding her hand into her mother’s for a brief moment before letting go. The rest of her grandchildren give her quick hugs before she steps up to Robert Stikes, who takes her suitcase and opens the passenger door for her.
You and I climb into the back. I twist around as we pull away, willing Josepha to rush out the front door. This can’t be the end. I want something scripted, for one of us to shout for the car to stop, for us to embrace and fall on our knees in apology. Forgiveness all around. Tears and hugs and promises of seeing each other soon.
Our slow crawl away is torture. You sit with a helpless expression as your childhood home disappears down the washed-out road, my grandmother a stoic pillar in the front seat. Greenery whirs past as Mr. Stikes steps on the gas, swerving expertly around ruts deep enough for bodies to hide in. I don’t believe what you said about California. They will never come visit us. I will never see any of them again.
* * *
But I am wrong. It is you who never sees them again. They come to California. All of them. Seven years later, out of guilt or love or sorrow, everyone we left behind that day in Cuba will gather at the San Fernando Mission Catholic Cemetery for your funeral.
All but Josepha, but by then it doesn’t matter. By then my fury is so blinding I wouldn’t have seen her, anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Six
* * *
Onward and Upward
Find Me in Havana Page 21