The Red Umbrella

by Christina Gonzalez

  “Watch it!” I yelled, but it was too late. I lost my grip on the bag and felt myself slip on the wet earth.

  All the grain spilled out of the bag and fell on the muddy ground. I tried to keep my balance, but my penny loafers had no grip, and a second later I lay in the mud, too, my flowered dress splattered with gunk.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Frankie doubled over with laughter. “You look like a pig sitting there.”

  I glared at him. “Shut up.” I stared at the wasted feed. The Baxters would not be happy.

  Frankie kept laughing, almost unable to breathe.

  I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed a handful of brown muck and slung it at him, hitting him squarely in the nose.

  The shock on Frankie’s face made me giggle.

  Frankie stood there staring at me.

  I laughed harder.

  This, for Frankie, was a declaration of war, and he grabbed his own handful of mud to throw at me.

  I raised my hand. “Don’t,” I warned.

  “Or what?” he said.

  “Or I’ll”—I grabbed another handful and tossed it at his shirt—“do this again.”

  Frankie smiled and flung the mud he was holding, hitting me on the shoulder.

  For the next couple of minutes, Frankie and I attacked each other mercilessly. We slapped each other with the muddy mix of dirt, water, and chicken feed. Sliding around the sludge, I tried to grab Frankie by the waist, only to have him spin out of my hands and land with a splat in a larger mud puddle. Our squeals of laughter riled up the chickens, and soon they were flapping their wings, shrieking along with us.

  “Lucía! Frankie! What are you doing?”

  Mrs. Baxter stood on the back porch watching us make a mess of each other.

  I looked at Frankie, covered head to toe in mud. I was in the same condition.

  “Ay, Frankie. ¿Qué hemos hecho? She’s going to think we’re savages,” I whispered.

  Frankie hung his head and lowered his shoulders. We bent down and tried to put a bit of the clean grain back into the sack.

  “Leave that alone and come over here,” Mrs. Baxter called out.

  We slowly walked toward the house like dogs about to get a beating.

  As we got closer, I noticed Mrs. Baxter had something behind her back. When we were only about ten feet away, she whipped out a green hose and aimed it at us. “Time to wash up!”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or be scared. Mrs. Baxter started to chuckle as she unfolded the kink in the hose and water sprayed out. She took aim at Frankie, who ran around avoiding the water. I laughed at the silliness of it all until she pointed the hose at me. Then I ran along with Frankie and laughed some more. I didn’t stop until the pain in my side forced me to take a long, deep breath.

  * * * * *

  After changing out of our wet clothes and having lunch, Frankie and I helped Mrs. Baxter peel some potatoes for the night’s dinner. The three of us sitting quietly around the kitchen table reminded me of days spent helping Mamá in Cuba. There was a sense of peace in what we were doing. Maybe it wasn’t so much in our actions but from the fact that most of the tension that I’d carried with me to Nebraska had been washed away by Mrs. Baxter’s green hose.

  The ringing phone pulled me away from my thoughts, and Mrs. Baxter rushed to the living room to answer it.

  Frankie voiced my own wish. “Maybe it’s Mamá and Papá calling.”

  I didn’t answer since I wasn’t sure if they even knew the phone number of where we were staying.

  “Lucía.” Mrs. Baxter walked back into the kitchen. “That was Mr. Baxter on the phone. He says he was able to sell both boxes of cigars, for ten dollars each, so we’ll place that call to your parents tonight.”

  “Can we call now?” I asked.

  “No, honey. I think it’s better if we wait for Mr. Baxter. Apparently, it’s a bit more complicated than just dialing the number. Something about having to make the call through another country and then waiting for a phone line to Cuba to become available.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’ll be home soon, though. Why don’t we take a break from these potatoes and work on your English for a while?” Mrs. Baxter picked up the bowl of peeled potatoes and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Lucía, you can read the newspaper that’s out in the living room, and, Frankie”—she pulled out a picture book from one of the kitchen drawers—“we can read another book.”

  Frankie rolled his eyes at me. “Yo se leer. Why do I have to look at baby books?”

  “You don’t know how to read or speak in English. Presta atención,” I answered.

  “Está bien. I’ll pay attention, but I won’t need any of this stuff when we go back home.”

  Mrs. Baxter let out a little nervous laugh as she placed the book in front of Frankie. “I’m not sure what you two are saying, but I hope it’s all good.”

  “Yes, everything good, Mrs. Baxter. Frankie just not like to study much.”

  “Well, this is just the beginning. We have to get you two ready for school in September.”

  I was about to explain that we would be home before school started, but then realized that I really didn’t know when we were leaving.

  Frankie pointed to a picture on the cover of the book of a birthday cake with lots of candles.

  “All right, Frankie, that is a picture of a cake. See the letters underneath. C-A-K-E. Cake.” Mrs. Baxter waited for Frankie to repeat the word.

  I smiled as I walked out of the kitchen and heard Frankie say, “Cake. Me like cake.”

  Chapter 24

  EX-ENVOY TO CUBA SAYS U.S. SHOULD TRY BLOCKADE

  —THE BRAINERD DAILY DISPATCH, JUNE 13, 1961

  In a dreamlike trance, I pulled the gray wool sweater over my head. I still wasn’t used to the early morning routine of going outside to gather the eggs and feed the chickens, but it seemed to be a small price to pay for having Frankie and me be together. Plus, I wanted to help the Baxters, and I’d become quite good at collecting the eggs without getting the chickens all riled up.

  Just as I slipped on my penny loafers, a phone rang and disturbed the quiet stillness of the house. A call before sunrise could only mean one thing … our call to Cuba had been connected. My parents were on the line.

  I raced out of my room to see Mrs. Baxter already talking on the phone.

  “Yes, we did place the call. Go ahead and connect me.” She waved me over and thrust the receiver into my open hand. “It’s the call to your parents,” she whispered.

  I grabbed the phone like a relay racer taking the baton. There was not a second to lose.

  “Mamá? Papá?” I said, expecting to hear their glorious voices.

  I only heard a distant crackling noise. No one was on the line.

  My heart pounded. I waited. A half second later, the voice I’d been longing to hear was there.

  “¿Hola? Lucía?”

  It was Papá!

  Tears filled my eyes. It was so good to hear his voice. To be able to think and speak in Spanish and not worry about translating my thoughts.

  “Sí, ¡estoy aquí! I’m here!” I called out.

  “¡Mi hija! We miss you so much. How are you? How’s Frankie?”

  I blinked and a heavy tear dropped onto my cheek. “We’re fine. We’re living on a farm in Nebraska.”

  “Sí, sí. We received the telegram from Alfredo Ramírez in Miami. What a small world that he would be in charge of where you were sent! But tell me, how are the Americans treating you? Are they a nice family?”

  “The Baxters are very nice. We’re learning English. How are you and Mamá?”

  “¿Nosotros? Perfecto, now that we know you are safe. Hold on … your mother wants to talk to you. Te quiero, Lucy.”

  “Love you too, Papá.”

  I heard him give my mother the phone with instructions to speak quickly because the call was expensive.

  I brushed away the tear that was now clinging to the bottom of my chin. “Mamá?”
/>
  “Lucía! Ay, how I missed hearing your voice! ¿Cómo estás?”

  “I’m fine. I told Papá that we’re living on a farm. It’s actually very nice here.”

  Frankie ran into the room.

  I motioned for Frankie to stand next to me so that we could both put ours ears against the receiver.

  “And how’s your brother?” Mamá asked.

  “Mamá! Mamá! It’s me, Frankie. I was in the bathroom and didn’t hear the phone ring!”

  “Frankie!” Mamá exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were on the line. How I love you, my little man! How have you been?”

  “Oh, Mamá! It’s been—”

  I elbowed Frankie and opened my eyes as big as I could. I’d already warned him not to say anything that might make our parents worry.

  “It’s been …” Frankie paused as he thought of what to say next. “Fine,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “I know this is hard. Just take care of each other and soon you’ll be home.” I could hear the quiver in Mamá’s own voice. Neither Frankie nor Mamá was fooling anyone.

  Frankie opened his mouth to say something, but only a whimper escaped from his lips.

  Papá jumped back on the line. “Frankie, mi hijo, you’re such a brave boy. You’ve got to be strong so you can protect your sister. Can you do that?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Frankie?” Papá asked again.

  “He’s nodding yes,” I said.

  “Good. I want you both to think of this as an adventure. You can tell us all the stories when you come back home.”

  Again, Frankie just nodded.

  I closed my eyes, imagining that I was there in my living room. Talking to them face to face. “Do you know when we’ll be going home?” I asked.

  “No, not yet. Hopefully soon.”

  Mrs. Baxter touched my shoulder. I knew we had to hang up. We had to limit our time so that we’d have enough money for future calls.

  “Papá, we have to go,” I said, barely finding my own voice.

  “I know, mi hija. We’ll talk soon. Write to us!”

  “We love you!” Mamá and Papá both said.

  Frankie and I responded together, too. “¡Los queremos también!”

  “¡Adiós!” they shouted.

  “Adiós,” we said in unison.

  Then we heard a small click and the line went dead.

  I slowly hung up the receiver. Frankie ran back to his room. I felt more alone than ever.

  Chapter 25

  CUBA IS PRESSING TOWARD RED GOAL; REGIME DIRECTS DRIVE TO SET UP COMMUNIST STATE

  —THE NEW YORK TIMES, JULY 30, 1961

  The warm summer days had become hot summer weeks, but the cool nights were always a reminder that we were far from home. A home that, with each passing day, seemed to drift farther away. I tried to push aside the fear that I might never see my parents again, but the hope that we’d be going back to Cuba, a better Cuba than the one we’d left, was quickly fading.

  Every day I’d read the newspaper, searching for more information on Cuba. I was desperate to learn about what was happening back home, but even on days when there was no news about Cuba, I still read all the articles. It kept me up-to-date on what was happening in other parts of the country and the world.

  At first, I was surprised that the paper would report the bad things that happened in the United States and that there were even stories that directly criticized President Kennedy. It was a sharp contrast to Cuba, where anyone who spoke out against the government or Fidel was considered a traitor. I guess the promises made by Castro and Che of helping the less fortunate sounded so good at the time that losing some of your freedoms didn’t seem too high a price to pay.

  What a difference a few months made! Before, I didn’t want to think about people being jailed, killed, or forced to leave their homes. I thought those people must have done something wrong or just didn’t love Cuba enough. But now I knew better. It had all become clear. Castro was, in one way or another, eliminating those who did not agree with him. He had even forced my parents to eliminate me from Cuba.

  Now I could only hope that my parents would not be eliminated in a more sinister way.

  * * * * *

  “We’ll only be here five minutes. I just want to say our hellos and leave. I know you want to rush home in case the call to your parents gets connected,” Mrs. Baxter said as we walked into the church’s social hall.

  I nodded. Mrs. Baxter understood the importance of those calls. Usually I loved going to Sunday Mass. That, along with our Tuesday visits to Grand Island to run errands, was the only time we left the farm. But it was more than just leaving the house that made Mass special. The time we spent in church reminded me of how Cuba used to be, before the priests and nuns were kicked out. The service at St. Mary’s was in Latin, just like in Cuba, so for that one hour, I could close my eyes and, with those familiar sounds in my ears, it felt like home.

  After Mass, there was always coffee and doughnuts in the parish hall. The Baxters would introduce us to their friends, who were all very pleasant, but none of them had kids our age. The teenagers all seemed to skip the doughnuts and preferred to hang out by the fountain that had a statue of Our Lady of Lourdes in the center. Through the window, I’d see them laughing and having a good time, but I stayed inside with Frankie. I couldn’t help wondering if they were sometimes laughing at me.

  “Frankie, I spoke with Father Kirkland,” Mrs. Baxter said. “He says that once your English is a little better, you can start going to Sunday school with the other kids your age. Won’t that be nice? You won’t have to stand around here while all us old people catch up with each other.”

  “I like it here. The doughnuts are good.” Frankie leaned over and whispered to me in Spanish, “Does she really think I want more schooling? Maybe I shouldn’t learn any more English.”

  “Don’t say that, Frankie,” I chided. “Besides, once you know more English, you’ll be able to make some friends.”

  “Nah, I can make friends without knowing English. Anyway, it hasn’t helped you any.”

  I stole a glimpse at the girls outside. If any of them wanted to be my friend, wouldn’t they approach me?

  “Not much to say now, huh?” Frankie teased.

  I gave him a shove. I hated that he was right.

  “All right, you two, settle down. Frankie, I know how much you love those doughnuts, but today we need to get going. So, hurry up and take one for the road.” Mrs. Baxter faced her husband as Frankie rushed to the corner table. “No chitchatting today, Henry. That call from Cuba might come in anytime now.”

  “Humpf.” Mr. Baxter adjusted his jacket. He never seemed comfortable wearing that suit, and by the time we’d reach the car, he usually had the tie undone, and his jacket was ready to be handed over to Mrs. Baxter.

  “Helen, Helen!” An older woman with gray hair piled up into a small beehive hairdo called out to Mrs. Baxter.

  Mrs. Baxter waved. “Oh, it’s Jane. I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Mr. Baxter pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets.

  “Helen, my dear, you look lovely in that blue dress. Makes you look ten years younger.” The woman took a sip of her coffee.

  “Aw, aren’t you sweet? But you’ve seen this old dress before. If I look younger, it’s because of these kids.” Mrs. Baxter put her arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “They’re bringing new life into our house.”

  “Oh yes, I heard that you had some new guests.”

  Mrs. Baxter grinned. “Yes, this is Lucía. Lucía, this is Mrs. Trenton.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I stretched out my hand.

  “Oh, how nice that you speak English.” Mrs. Trenton shook my hand. She glanced back at Mrs. Baxter. “She does understand, right?”

  Mrs. Baxter nodded.

  “Well, it’s very nice to finally meet you,” Mrs. Trenton continued. “All I heard about when I got back from my trip was the wonde
rful Cuban children that were staying with the Baxters.”

  “And that little rascal over there by the doughnuts is Frankie.” Mrs. Baxter pointed to the table, where Frankie was balancing a doughnut in his mouth while wrapping another one in a napkin and hiding it in his suit pocket.

  “So, it’s been going well?” Mrs. Trenton raised an eyebrow, tilting her head toward Mr. Baxter, who was now standing by a few men who looked equally unhappy to be in their suits. “Even with Henry?”

  Mrs. Baxter leaned a little closer to Mrs. Trenton and lowered her voice. “Better than I could have imagined. He’s taken a real liking to the kids.”

  I did a double take. Mr. Baxter liking us seemed to be a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like he tolerated us.

  “They are both adorable. If Stan and I were younger, we’d get one, too.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air. I squirmed, remembering how Angela had described us as being like puppies at the pound. Was that how they saw us here?

  Mrs. Baxter seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Well, they’re not pets, Jane. They’re children. Keep that in mind.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It just seems like such a wonderful thing that you’re doing.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “All I’ve done so far is help collect clothing, but I’d like to do more. In fact, I could send over some of the nicer things for Lucía and Frankie.”

  “That’d be wonderful, Jane. We’ll talk again later, but Frankie’s done and we need to be going.” Mrs. Baxter pointed to Frankie, who was weaving his way back to us with a doughnut in each hand.

  “All right. I’ll call you,” Mrs. Trenton said as Frankie joined us.

  I opened my eyes as big as I could at Frankie. Why had he taken so many doughnuts? What would people say? What would Mrs. Trenton think?

  “For you and you.” He handed one to me and one to Mrs. Baxter.

  Mrs. Trenton mouthed “So cute” to Mrs. Baxter before walking away.