Take the Lead

by Johnny Diaz

  I dial Mami from my cell phone.

  “I’m already here, by the Versailles cafeteria in terminal C. See you soon, mi amor,” she says excitedly.

  I then dial Papi and tell him that I’ve arrived.

  “Bueno, spend time with your Mami. I know how she gets. And stop by my apartment whenever you want, Gabriel,” Papi says with similar enthusiasm marked by a raspy voice. “Your Aunt Cary helped me set up your room. We’re all set for your visit.”

  “Thanks, Papi. I’ll see you soon. I gotta go. Everyone is getting off the plane.”

  Shortly after, I navigate through the maze of wide corridors of the brightly lit terminal and finally emerge through security. Immediately, I spot my mother standing near the mini Versailles restaurant. She wears a big smile and waves at me.

  She rushes to greet me with a big, tight hug followed by a kiss on each cheek. Her gray-flecked straight auburn hair is fashionably cropped and frames her sweet face. She looks as if she just stepped out of the salon. Her purse hangs off the middle of her right arm. Her coral earrings dangle and shake whenever she moves. She wears a casual light-pink blouse and white capri pants with flat shoes and, of course, her Jackie Onassis sunglasses. Mami is so cute.

  “Mi amor, welcome back to Miami. I missed you so much!” she gushes. Her fingers comb the back of my hair as she sizes me up.

  “Look, I brought you something to eat,” she says, pulling out a wrapped Cuban sandwich from her large purse. I can’t get a word in. “¿Tienes hambre, Gabrielito?”

  “Thanks, Ma. Yeah, I’m pretty hungry. The only thing they give you on the plane is half a can of diet soda. I’m starving.” I rub my growling stomach. As we exit the terminal, Miami’s stifling October heat wraps around me like gauze. I wipe the sweat beading on my forehead while Mami fans herself with a copy of the Miami News that she bought for me to read on the drive back to Fort Lauderdale.

  Walking toward the parking garage, I slow down so as to not rush Mami. She’s in her early seventies, and while she remains active and healthy, I don’t want to make her walk faster than she has to even though she’s a ball of energy with a sharp mind. Throughout our stroll, she keeps her hand on the small of my back and rubs it affectionately.

  “We’ll be at the house before you know it, Gabrielito.”

  “Thanks, Mami, for picking me up. I would have flown into Fort Lauderdale, but all the flights on Jet Blue were taken, so I went with American. Sorry for the long drive.”

  “That’s okay. It will be easier for your Papi to drive you back to Miami when you leave,” she says, looking up at me with a sweet grin.

  My mother lives about twenty minutes or so from Papi, and that short commute always made it easy for me to dash between both homes. For each trip, I stay with my mom one or two nights and then stay with Papi on alternating nights. Commuting back and forth can get crazy. Sometimes, I wish I could splice myself in half and leave one part of myself with each parent. It would make life easier during my visits. My only downtime is when I go out to the bars in South Beach, when I meet up with my cousin Jessica, whom I see during the holidays, or when I grab a good romance book or a stack of student papers and grade them along the Intracoastal off East Sunrise Boulevard, where I sit on a city bench and watch the flotilla of yachts coast by.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Mami pulls up to my childhood home. She lives in a suburban development called Emerald Estates, where all the homes were constructed from the same cookie-cutter mold. They are Mediterranean homes flanked by palm-lined winding roads and pristine sidewalks. In the middle of the development sits a lake with a fountain that spews water three feet high. Ducks and geese bob in the water and roam on the grassy areas that blend into people’s backyards.

  Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac where, like the rest of the neighborhood, every hedge is trimmed and every newspaper is plucked from the driveway. Mami’s house is a modest two-bedroom beige home with the signature Spanish-tiled red roof, one-car garage, and driveway. Mami’s colorful red and orange flowers dot the cement walkway to the front door, where a sign reads Bienvenidos a Casa Galan.

  Once I step inside the house, the sweet scent of my childhood welcomes me with a strong, invisible embrace. Fresh roses and carnations from Mami’s garden fill the house. The flowers’ scents perfume and mix with the lingering aroma of the Café Bustelo that Mami must have brewed earlier in the day. I am flooded with a sense of warmth and love, which is lacking in my life in Boston. As I venture deeper into the house, a familiar meow catches my attention. It’s Clara, Mami’s cat. I gave this fluffy gray cat to my mother as a gift after the divorce. I thought Clara’s presence might cheer her up and give Mom something to take care of besides me and her flowers.

  “Clara, remember your Uncle Gabriel?” Mami says as the cat squats before us and stares up at me with her big green eyes. I scoop her up into my arms and massage her tummy’s fur. She tucks her head into the crook of my arm and purrs like a mini lawn mower.

  As I walk with Clara nestled in my arms, I notice how immaculately clean the house is, as it always is. Mami always says that a house must always be clean, because you never know when a relative or neighbor might suddenly drop by. It seems to happen a lot in our family. The cream-colored Mexican-tiled floor shines with a blinding sheen. The dining table sparkles against the slanting sunlight. The central air conditioner hums and breathes cool air throughout the house.

  I gently drop Clara to the floor and walk to my old bedroom, which is also perfectly clean and smells like gardenias from a plug-in device. I glance at my childhood photos, my old Star Trek posters, my framed graduation diplomas, and my former news articles from my previous employer. I drop my bag by the foot of the bed.

  I stretch and flop myself on my old bed and fold my hands behind the back of my head. A wave of memories, buried in this room and house, bombards me. I remember the family vacations to Marco Island, where Papi would fill his cheeks with air as he floated in the ocean. I recall how Mami would sit under an umbrella with her Jackie O glasses and fan herself with the latest Spanish-language magazine. I remember our drive to Key West, where Mami convinced Papi to let me drive the whole way with my learner’s permit, although she freaked out whenever I tried to pass a car in the no-passing zone. Then there’s my fifteenth birthday gift—this comfy bed. The memories are bittersweet. As my thoughts drift, I begin to doze off. Then I hear a soft tap on my door.

  “Gabrielito…,” Mami whispers.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  She slowly opens the door and steps in. Clara scurries in and hops on my twin bed, which still has my favorite light-blue comforter.

  “I made some of your favorite flan. Do you want some?” Mami says, holding a small slice on a plate. Clara hops on my chest and makes herself at home there. Damn, she’s heavy.

  “Yeah, you can leave it on my desk. I’m just tired from the flight,” I say.

  “Bueno, get some rest, and I’ll make you some dinner later before you visit Guillermo.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” After she puts the plate down, she slowly walks over and plants a kiss on my forehead. She rubs my head with affection like she used to when I was younger. She also pats Clara’s head. Mami then tiptoes out of the room and slowly closes the door behind her as if not to wake me up, even though I can’t sleep now because I have a ten-pound fluffy cat purring on my chest. I pick up Clara and gently throw her to the side of my bed. We both fall asleep.

  Chapter 8

  MY STOMACH bulges like a woman who is six months pregnant. That’s because I just devoured a tender breast of chicken along with a bed of yellow rice that Mami cooked. It’s her signature dish and one that I desperately miss in Boston. I don’t cook much in Boston, unless one counts assembling a turkey or chicken sandwich for dinner. Sometimes I think my mother tries to bribe me with these delicious meals as a way to lure me back to South Florida.

  With my heavy stomach leading the way, I carry my empty plate to the kitchen. I grab the extra set
of keys to Mami’s Honda Accord, which she lets me borrow during my visits.

  “Have fun with your Papi!” she says as she picks up the rest of the leftover food from the dining room table. I kiss her good-bye on the cheek and then walk out into the stuffy, dimly lit garage. “And don’t stay out too late,” she says, her voice trailing through the door. “I need the car in the morning to deliver some Shaklee products to my customers. Say hello to Guillermo for me.”

  “No problem, Ma.” I smile back, knowing how much she still cares for him.

  After navigating the winding roads of the development, I hop on Interstate 75 and gun the car to Miami Lakes, on the Miami-Dade and Broward county border. Whenever I get my hands on my mother’s Honda, which has a peppy engine, I transform into a speed demon. The wide interstate invites me to floor the gas, something I can rarely do on Massachusetts’s Interstate 93, which is about half the size of Florida’s typical highways.

  I enjoy these drives because they inspire introspection, automotive meditation. I lean my head against my left hand and look out at the shoulder-to-shoulder developments, the sprawling suburbia that hugs the highway and extends to the seemingly boundless Everglades. I think about Craig and his soft brown eyes, the way he dashes to and from his classes like a reporter determined to get a story. I remember the smattering of light-brown chest hairs and how they poke out from the top buttons of his shirts. The memory stirs a slow, tickling burn in my belly. I want to smell him, taste him, and touch him again. A boner sprouts in my shorts at the thought.

  Once I get back to Boston, I’ll definitely call him and take him out, even though I have some nagging reservations as to whether this is a good idea. Words like “professor” and “former student” flash in my head like those blinking neon signs on a Las Vegas boulevard. He’s not my student, but still, this could create some complications if things were to get out of hand. He’s young, twenty-two. I remember what that was like—you feel like you’re on top of the world, invincible, and whatever crush or emotion you feel is multiplied because of a lack of experience. Again, those warning signs flash in my mind like the upcoming road signs on the highway. Another one appears in my head and reads, Be careful, Gabriel.

  Overhead, clumps of clouds look like sweet puffs of meringue and fill the bright blue South Florida sky. My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out, I don’t recognize the number. It’s a text message.

  Hey, prof! I hope you have fun in Miami with your mom and dad. Get back to Boston soon. I can’t wait for our Star Trek night. XOXO, Craig!

  The message tickles my heart, but I’m puzzled as to how he got my number. I never gave it to him. Hmm. If he called my office number, a recording leaves a message with my cell number in case of an urgent matter. Perhaps that’s where he got it.

  Minutes later, I descend the exit ramp to Miami Lakes, a small city that is true to its name, with twenty-three lakes nestled within the neighborhood. But I like to think that the town got its name another way. When it rains, the town becomes one giant Miami Lake because of rampant flooding. Whenever a South Florida rainstorm rolls in, I ask Papi, “Did you swim to the grocery store? Did you hop on your raft?” For that reason, I also tease Papi that he lives in Land O’Lakes. He laughs every time even though the joke is years old.

  Papi’s neighborhood used to be a 3,000-acre dairy-farm, home to hundreds of cows that grazed on various parcels. Some cow patches remain, but today, large trees provide constant shade over the curving streets that hug parks and tot lots every few blocks. The fading sun filters through the trees and creates shadowy shapes on cars’ windshields.

  I pull onto Papi’s street, Cow Pen Lane, and then into his development, which is marked by a small, spewing fountain at the entrance. I’ve never told my mother this, but I am more partial to Miami Lakes than Fort Lauderdale. Miami Lakes feels like a small suburban slice of Miami hidden away from the traffic and chaos of downtown and South Beach. Plus, I always enjoy running along Main Street because of the steady shade and the distant soundtrack of mooing cows.

  Papi and I have a tradition here on Main Street. When I visit, we always have a late lunch at Don Shula’s Steak House in the hotel that also bears his name. As a sports fan, Papi enjoys telling people that he dines at the former Miami Dolphins head coach’s restaurant. Papi has sworn to people that he has met the man, but I’ve never seen him there beyond his framed pictures with former players.

  As soon as I pull into the visitor parking space by Papi’s unit, I text Craig back

  Thanks, Craig. See you soon.

  I then see the curtains of Papi’s living room swish side to side. His smiling face appears, and he waves. Before I even shut off the engine, Papi is already walking toward me. The vision catches me off guard. Papi moves slower, more carefully, than months before. I notice his right leg drags slightly. Aunt Cary was right. He looks older, weary as I happily greet him. I snap out of my thoughts and happily greet him.

  “Gabrielito!” he says warmly in his Spanish-accented masculine voice. As I step out of the car, he hugs me tightly. I catch a trace of his Old Spice cologne and deodorant.

  “Hey, Papi. You never let me get to the door first. You always beat me to it,” I say, putting my arm around his shoulder and patting him gently on the back. We talk as we enter his apartment.

  “Bueno, I don’t get many visitors besides your nosy aunt. It’s not every day that I have my son, el profesor, back in Miami,” he declares as if he’s one of those melodramatic Spanish-language radio news announcers. Papi always refers to me as “el professor” to his friends and clients. To me, that sounds old.

  Once inside, a gush of cool air welcomes me. I plop myself on his old beige leather sofa. Unlike my mother’s house, Papi’s place exemplifies minimalism. The walls feature vintage posters and maps of Cuba. (He gave me two for my condo in Quincy.) On top of the flat-screen TV is a photo of us from when I last visited. Papi loves to take photos with his Kodak camera, not the digital kind. That’s Papi—he doesn’t change with the times. He prefers to drive to Walgreens and drop off the film the old-fashioned way. Plus, my Aunt Cary gives him her employee discount for photos and everyday necessities. I know she stops by his apartment and tidies up when she can. I think it makes her feel useful now that Jessica is away at college. But I’d like to think that it also gives her another reason to check up on Papi.

  As we catch up, Papi escorts me to the second bedroom, which also serves as his office for the exterminating business. The room, painted a soft yellow with beige carpeting, is sparse of furnishings. A pile of invoices and receipts fills the top of his old work desk. Along the window, which faces a small backyard, is a twin bed, which I use for my visits. There’s also a small closet with files and some hangers for clothes. I always leave some extra clothes after each visit because I always end up swimming laps in the development’s pool.

  “See, you still have a bed here. You always have a place here, Gabrielito,” Papi says, looking at me with pride. His eyes radiate kindness. He’s one of those good, humble Cuban men, despite the flaws that destroyed our small family.

  “Yeah, I love the office, er, I mean, bedroom,” I joke as we stand in the middle of the room. “You haven’t changed a thing. You never change, Papi.”

  “I’m un viejo, Gabrielito. Once you get to my age, nothing changes except your health and property taxes,” he says. “They raised my taxes again. Those politicians!” he says, raising his hand.

  “Well, at least you don’t live in Massachusetts. You know what they call my state?”

  “¿Que?”

  “Taxachusetts. My paycheck shrinks from the state taxes, the local taxes, federal taxes. We even have a car tax.”

  “Un car tax?” Papi says, surprised.

  “Yeah, the newer the car, the more you pay for it in taxes. Be glad that Florida has tourism to negate the need for that kind of tax.”

  Papi always liked to complain about money, or the lack of it. After the divorce, he helped su
pport my mom and me, even though I was an adult in college. He took on more clients to make extra income. Today, he’s frugality personified. He still drives his twelve-year-old Chevy Impala, which he paid off long ago. He most likely won’t buy another new car unless he absolutely must. Papi sticks to tradition. He treats his car like the Cadillac he imagines it to be. From the office window, I see the waxed white beauty parked in Papi’s designated space. Despite his frugal ways, he refuses to let me pay for our lunches when I visit. When I attempt to pay, he threatens to make a scene, which cracks me up.

  We return to the living room, where we talk about my trip and classes, our usual small talk. That’s our way of communicating. We don’t talk about my dating adventures or lack of them or about his on-and-off relationship with Gloria, whose face I immediately spot in a framed photograph near the bulky old television set.

  Her name alone conjures up stinging feelings that I thought I had buried. Gloria, the woman Papi hooked up with while he was married to my mother. Gloria, the woman who broke up my parents. Gloria, the woman who thought she had hit the jackpot when she met Papi after he exterminated her apartment building in neighboring Hialeah. Gloria, the woman who only comes around when she doesn’t have another boyfriend. Gloria, the raven-haired mujer who hangs out with Papi so that she doesn’t feel so alone. Gloria, the woman who has a son named Javier, who is ten years younger than me and seems to have a lot more in common with Papi than I do. They always talk about sports and cars. With Gloria, Papi has another built-in family. Another woman. Another son.

  I can’t blame him. He must feel lonely without having me here regularly. I hope I don’t bump into Gloria during my visit. Although she has always been nice to me, she’s a reminder of why my family is fractured. I am diplomatic for Papi’s sake, but I don’t see the point of them being together, since it’s so unstable. But if Papi enjoys her company, what can I do? I no longer live here. He needs to have a life, and I have my own in Boston.