The Red Umbrella

by Christina Gonzalez

  I gave her a blank look.

  She pointed out the open window to the little green stalks growing on either side of the road. “See … corn. No island.”

  “¿Eso es maíz?” Frankie asked.

  “Yes, corn. Now you say it, Frankie. Corn.”

  “Repítelo,” I told Frankie.

  “Corn,” he repeated.

  “Good. That’s our first English lesson. What better word to learn first? Tomorrow we’ll start a full day of English classes. By the time school starts, the two of you will be talking up a storm.” Mrs. Baxter turned back around and spoke to her husband. “You know, I always wanted to be a teacher when I was growing up in Minnesota.”

  “Hmm,” he answered.

  I watched as the minutes went by and the flat green fields never ended. The road stretched out for miles and miles without a town or intersection to break up the monotony of the scenery. That, combined with the slight rumbling of the car, had already put Frankie to sleep. His head leaned against the side door. I looked out my window and wondered what Mamá and Papá were doing in Cuba right then. Was Papá out trying to find work? Were they still being watched? Would they get involved with the underground or try to fit in with the new system? Were they thinking of ways for us to be able to return home? Could it be we’d never go back? Would we be stuck here forever?

  Chapter 21

  NEXT MOVE IS FIDEL CASTRO’S, IN “CHESS GAME”

  —THE COSHOCTON TRIBUNE, JUNE 9, 1961

  “This will be your room, Lucía. It was my son Carl’s room until he got married and moved to Boston.”

  I walked into a small bedroom with dark wood panels on the walls. A faded blue quilt lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and a desk was placed under the only window. I gazed outside and saw an empty field.

  “Yes, our fields are bare. Mr. Baxter hurt his back a couple of months ago, and we missed the corn-planting season. Lucky for us, my brother gave him a job at the feed store in town so we can make ends meet until it’s time for the winter wheat.”

  I touched the small lamp on the desk.

  “Thank you. Is very nice,” I said.

  “It is very nice. We need to start improving your English.” Mrs. Baxter smiled and pointed to the hallway. “Frankie is right across from you in our guest room, and this”—she opened the closet door—“is for you.” Inside were dresses, each similar to the one Mrs. Baxter wore. One seemed to be about four sizes too big, and the others were a few inches too short. There was also a skirt, a pair of faded pants, and a green coat with a small hole in one of the sleeves.

  “Gracias … thank you,” I said.

  “We’ll fix those up for you. I already have some people at the church who said they’d donate their kids’ old shoes for you to wear, too. All the parishioners at St. Mary’s want to help.”

  I was going to be wearing hand-me-downs. Used clothing. I’d never had to do that before. We always bought the very latest fashions. Ivette would be mortified to see me wearing these clothes.

  I missed her. I also missed Mamá and Papá, my room, my school, everything I’d left behind. Tears started to form, but I took a deep breath to try to keep them from falling. I didn’t want to cry anymore.

  Mrs. Baxter was still talking. “My friend Gladys was telling me that Cuba used to be a lovely place. She went to Havana about twenty years ago on her honeymoon. Says it was almost like Europe but more colorful.” Mrs. Baxter turned to face me. “Oh, honey, you’re crying. Was it my talking about Cuba? Brings up some bad memories for you?”

  I wiped away the tears. I wasn’t even paying close enough attention to what she was saying to really understand her.

  “Well, I’ll let you unpack, then you can help me set the table for dinner, all right?” She touched my shoulder.

  “Yes,” I said, and opened my suitcase.

  Mrs. Baxter smiled, and as she left the room, Frankie ran in and jumped on the bed.

  “Lucy, did she give you new stuff, too?” he asked.

  I glanced at the closet of old things. “Not exactly new.”

  “Well, my room has a box full of clothes and toys. I think she said something about it belonging to someone named Carl. Lucy, there’s even a cowboy hat and sheriff’s badge. It’s great!”

  “That’s good.” I unpacked my nice dresses, hung them in the closet, and placed some shorts and shirts on a shelf. I took out the box of Cuban cigars and placed it in one of the desk drawers. “Frankie, go get me your box. We’ll keep them in here until we figure out how to sell them.”

  “Fine, but remember, that’s my money, too.”

  * * * * *

  Dinner was … different. Mrs. Baxter gave us green beans and this thing with meat and potatoes all mixed together. She called it Mrs. B’s casserole, and she was supposedly famous for it. I picked at the vegetables and ate a little of the beef thing. It wasn’t too bad, but I missed Cuban food. Even at the camp, they kept giving us salads and all these vegetables. At home, we’d have yuca or potatoes, but most of our vegetables were cooked with something else. Like in a stew or as flavoring for the main dish. I was craving picadillo, rice, black beans, café con leche, Cuban bread, and most of all, Mamá’s flan.

  “Come, Lucía, help me clear the table. Frankie, you can go play until bedtime.” Mrs. Baxter picked up the water pitcher as Mr. Baxter dropped off his plate in the kitchen and went outside.

  Frankie stared at me, waiting for me to translate.

  “Puedes ir a jugar,” I said.

  “Wait. Lucía, how do you say go play?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

  “Ve a jugar.”

  “Okay, Frankie. Vay a who-gar. Go play.” She pointed to him. “Now you.”

  “Go play,” Frankie repeated.

  Mrs. Baxter grinned. “Wonderful. You’re going to be such a fast learner, I can just tell!”

  Frankie shrugged and ran off to his room.

  I stacked a few plates and followed Mrs. Baxter into the wallpapered kitchen. It was a medley of yellow and green flowers on the walls, with mustard-colored appliances.

  “Thank you, Lucía.” She took the plates and put them in the sink.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It’s so nice that you know some English. Ever since Carl left home, it’s been so quiet around here.” She picked up a sponge and gave me a dry towel. “But I already told you about him. Tell me a little about where you’re from. Where is Porto Mee-ja-rays?”

  “Me-ha-res. It is east of Havana. On a bitch,” I explained.

  “Oh my! No! Never say that. Look at me.” She pointed to her lips. “Be-e-each. Now you.”

  “Be-e-each,” I said, contorting my mouth into the same huge smile she had.

  “Good. Well, what about your house. Big like this one or little?”

  I looked around at the small house. Our home in Cuba was twice as big.

  “More big. Not so much land.”

  “Bigger, not more big.” She continued to wash the dishes and pass them to me to dry. “And your father, what does he do for a living?”

  “He work at the bank.” I remembered the soldiers taking Papá from our house. “But la revolución no let him work now.”

  “Oh, that Fidel is just destroying your country. He’s a Communist, I tell you, no doubt in my mind.”

  I continued drying the dishes, unsure of what I was supposed to say.

  After a few minutes, when we were done, I asked Mrs. Baxter if we could call my parents in Cuba.

  “I’m afraid that’s very expensive. Why don’t you write to them?” she offered while taking off her apron and hanging it behind the pantry door. “Mr. Baxter and I can give you and Frankie fifty cents every week as an allowance.” She glanced up at the ceiling as if retrieving a distant memory. “It’s just like when Carl was young.” Mrs. Baxter then looked back down at me. “You’ll both be given responsibilities around the house, but we’ll also give you certain liberties. For instance, you can spend your allowance on anything you like
, including stamps, but there’ll be limits, of course.”

  I reached into my skirt pocket and pulled out the ten-dollar bill. “I have some money.”

  “So I see, but calling Cuba may cost more than that. You can save up your allowance, and when you’ve got enough, we’ll make the call.”

  “We have two boxes of cigars, too. We sell those and have more money.” I wanted, no, I needed to make that call.

  She smiled and went to the cupboard. “I’ll have Mr. Baxter take the boxes into town on Monday to see what he can get for them.” She pulled down a small blue jar. “Here, put your money in this.” She took the lid off and waited for me to put the bill inside. “We’ll call it your ‘Calls to Cuba Fund.’ Whatever the calls cost, we’ll take the money from here. But if there’s no money, there’ll be no calls.” She reached up and put the blue jar on the top shelf. “It’s not that we don’t want you to talk to your parents, we just can’t afford it right now.”

  My heart sank. I’d have to wait.

  “Está bien … I mean, okay.”

  * * * * *

  “They seem nice, Lucy. I’m glad we’re here,” Frankie said, playing with a few toy soldiers on the floor of my room.

  “Uh-huh.” I concentrated on the letter I was writing to Mamá and Papá. It had to be a balance between telling them where we were, finding out what was happening at home, and still not writing anything that might get them into trouble if the soldiers were to read the mail.

  I read what I’d written so far.

  Dear Mamá and Papá,

  First, let me say that Frankie and I are fine. We’ve been sent to live with the Baxters in Grand Island, Nebraska. They are a nice older Catholic couple. I think we will be happier here than at the camp because we are together now. I know in my earlier letters I didn’t mention the fact that Frankie and I were staying at different camps, but the camps were across the street from each other and I didn’t want to worry you.

  How are things for you? Has Tío Antonio come by again? Do you think we’ll be home soon? When?

  Mrs. Baxter walked into my room. “I see you like the toys, Frankie. But it’s almost eight o’clock and you two need to go to bed.”

  I looked up from my desk. It was still light outside. Did everyone in America go to bed this early?

  “Now, remember that the toothbrushes I bought for you are in the medicine cabinet, right next to Mr. Baxter’s shaving cream on the bottom shelf.” She walked over to Frankie and placed her hand on his back to coax him out of my room. “You’ll translate for him, won’t you, Lucía?”

  I nodded. “Que los cepillos de dientes están en el gabinete al lado de la crema de afeitar del señor Baxter.”

  “I really am delighted to have the two of you here with us,” Mrs. Baxter said as she guided Frankie toward the door. “Tomorrow we’ll have our first full day together. I’ll wake you both up so you can help Mr. Baxter with the chickens.”

  Frankie stared up at her. “Chee-kens?”

  “Yes, you know, chickens. Bawk, bawk, bawk.” She flapped her arms.

  Frankie giggled and whispered over to me in Spanish, “I think she wants to make chicken for dinner tomorrow night.” He turned to her and said in his best English, “Me like chee-ken.”

  “Well, that’s a healthy work attitude.” Mrs. Baxter ushered him toward his bedroom. “Now skedaddle. I want lights out in two minutes. So good night and I’ll see you at dawn.”

  Work? Dawn? Suddenly I didn’t think Frankie was right about the chickens just being our dinner.

  Chapter 22

  CASTRO SET TO SWAP MAN FOR MACHINE

  —THE RENO EVENING GAZETTE, JUNE 10, 1961

  I lifted the basket of eggs onto the kitchen counter. The sun was just starting to peek above the horizon.

  “¡Qué frío!” Frankie said, rubbing his arms through his sweater.

  I took off my coat. It was cold outside … really cold. And to think that the day before, it’d been warm, almost like in Cuba.

  “You’re wearing your new coat? To feed the chickens?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

  I shrugged. What else was I supposed to wear? I knew it was summer, but it had to be in the fifties outside. Plus, the coat had protected me from the chickens’ pecking.

  Mrs. Baxter took a few of the eggs and cracked them into a large bowl. “I guess the mornings are a bit cooler here than what you’re used to. I’ll get you one of my sweaters for tomorrow, because you’ll want to save that coat for when it really gets cold in the winter.”

  “¿Qué dice?” Frankie asked.

  I explained that she was getting me a sweater because the coat was for the winter.

  “¿A cuanto baja en el invierno?”

  “Mrs. Baxter, Frankie wants to know how cold winter is.” I took a seat at the small table next to the refrigerator.

  She whisked the eggs and poured them into a skillet on the stove. “Pretty cold … I’d say somewhere in the teens.” Mrs. Baxter wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess you’ll be seeing snow for the first time. How do you say ‘snow’ in Spanish?”

  “Nieve, but we not be here too long,” I said.

  Mrs. Baxter faced Frankie and started some sort of sign language. “You … here.” She pointed at the ground. “See”—she touched her eyes—“nee-ay-vay.”

  Frankie jumped out of his chair. “Hoy? Nieve?” He raced toward the window, almost crashing into Mr. Baxter as he came in through the back door.

  “Oh no, not today.” Mrs. Baxter laughed. “In winter.”

  “En el invierno, bobo,” I explained.

  Frankie turned around and stuck his tongue out at me for calling him stupid.

  Mr. Baxter grumbled something as he sat down at the table.

  “Here you go. Eggs, bacon, and toast.” She placed a plate in front of Mr. Baxter.

  I eyed his food. It looked good.

  “And this is for you and Frankie.” She put down identical plates in front of us. “I bought this at the market last week. I thought you might want to add it to the eggs.” She pulled out a little red bottle from the pocket of her apron.

  I watched to see if Mr. or Mrs. Baxter would use it, but they didn’t. At home, I’d never put anything on my eggs, but I wondered if it would be rude not to try it.

  Mrs. Baxter sat in front of me and took a bite of her toast. “Go ahead. It’s a little taste from home. The brand may be different, but I’m sure it’s similar to what you usually eat.”

  Frankie watched me open the bottle and pour some of the red sauce next to the eggs. Carefully I dipped some egg into it. Mrs. Baxter smiled, waiting for my reaction.

  I took a bite.

  Instantly my tongue was on fire. I swallowed the eggs without chewing and grabbed the glass of juice sitting on the table. I didn’t stop drinking until about half of the glass was gone.

  Frankie giggled.

  “Oh my, you don’t like it?” Mrs. Baxter’s eyebrows were scrunched together. “I thought you liked spicy food. I read that in Mexico they put it on everything, even their eggs.”

  “Ughmm.” I cleared my throat. “In Cuba, we no eat spicy food. Mexico yes, Cuba no.” Even my ears felt hot.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Baxter looked disappointed. “Well, in that case, just eat the breakfast without the Tabasco sauce. We’ll start with your English lessons right after we clean up. Yes?”

  I understood something about eating without tobacco and having English class. I nodded in agreement.

  Mr. Baxter wiped his mouth and stood up. “Good breakfast, Helen,” he said, and bent down to give his wife a peck on the cheek.

  It was the first time I’d heard him speak. I didn’t even know Mrs. Baxter’s first name was Helen.

  “Thank you, dear. I’ll see you after work.”

  “Humpf,” Mr. Baxter muttered as he walked out the back door.

  Mrs. Baxter faced me again. “He hates having to go into the feed store on Saturdays, but at least it’s only until one. He just can’t wait to get b
ack to the land.”

  I nodded.

  “And tonight is a big night. Lawrence Welk is on TV. All the singing, dancing, and polka music. You’ll love it!”

  I wasn’t sure who this Lawrence Welk was, but if she was this excited about him being on TV, then I figured he was probably very similar to Elvis.

  Chapter 23

  TRACTORS-FOR-FREEDOM TEAM GOING TO Havana

  —THE LINCOLN EVENING JOURNAL, JUNE 12, 1961

  After only a few days of being with the Baxters, I was exhausted. Not from any of the chores we’d been given, although living on a farm was much harder than I’d imagined. It was that I’d grown tired of constantly keeping a watchful eye on Frankie. I tried to keep him from speaking too loudly, running through the house, or chewing with his mouth open. I reminded him that we were visitors in the Baxter home and could be sent away at any time. If that happened, we’d most likely be separated.

  “Bet you can’t catch me,” Frankie laughed as he ran around me.

  “Not now.” I was concentrating on avoiding the large mud puddles left behind after the strong morning storm. “Can’t you see I’m working? Why don’t you help me carry this bag of feed over to the shed? The faster I finish, the sooner we can go eat lunch.”

  “Put it down.” He poked me in the ribs. “Look. I can jump over that charco de fango without getting dirty.” He ran ahead and leapt over the mud puddle. He circled it and came back to me.

  “Your turn, Lucy. See if you can jump it.”

  “Frankie, behave.”

  “Go. I’ll hold all that chicken food.” He reached for the brown canvas sack.

  “No. It’s open on the top.”

  “I got it. Now try to make it over.” Frankie pulled on the bag and tried to shove me aside.