Rosita must have seen what I saw. “Señor, you can take everything from us.” She swept her hand to take in the entire contents of the car. “Or you can treat us the way your mother and El Líder taught you to treat defenseless women. With honor. And take just what you need.” She picked up the shoes and offered them to the bearded one.
“Don’t listen to her,” the short man said.
“Shut up.”
The short bully pushed closer. “He may be tricked by your easy words, but what about me?”
Rosita plopped the shoes on her lap. Fast as a lizard streaking into hiding, she pulled Diego’s pistol out of my grasp. As soon as she twitched, the short man reached across his shoulder for his rifle but was stunned to stillness when she flipped the pistol butt forward and offered it to him. I, too, was shocked. I knew she wanted to prove that we could have met them with fire but had not, but what if the bandits actually took Diego’s gun? It wasn’t hers nor mine to give away. I’d done enough damage to my husband already.
The short bandit dropped his hand and snapped back his head, mouth open. The bearded one laughed but also pulled his rifle down from his shoulder. “I see these women have a different notion of defenselessness.”
“My notion is that one keep’s one’s gun to oneself.” I gave Rosita a light shove but not too hard. The gun was loaded, after all, and the safety off, and the barrel was pointed straight at us. At this range a bullet could pass right through both of us.
The bearded one took the pistol and when shorty lunged for it, he swung it up and out of reach. He grinned. This must have been an old game for those two, but it didn’t humor me. I would kill Rosita myself if they kept the pistol.
“Señora, you have daring. I like that in a woman. It was that spirit that won the Revolution.” Another man had fallen under Rosita’s spell. I dropped my shoulders. “It’s that spirit that will keep you safe on your trip over the mountains. But you may need this.” He braced the pistol, butt first, against his forearm, as if he was offering a rare bottle of wine in a fine restaurant.
“Hey, that’s mine.” The short man grabbed at the pistol. The bearded one shoved him back with his elbow.
“He’s not as generous as I.” That was a good one: him generous in letting us keep our own possessions. Come to think of it, he was more generous than the real Bearded One on that point, but we had no time for national politics. “What else might you have for my brother?”
“If Señor has no need of a handgun.” Rosita took the pistol and passed it back over her shoulder to me. I slipped the safety on, since the element of surprise, for this gun at least, had perished. I laid it on her purse. She reached over the seat again and came back with a pair of cowboy boots. They, too, were of fine Spanish leather, but they had the soft dullness and creases that come from much use. They were clean, though, and worth more than the shoes because of a certain feature.
Shorty’s mouth quirked. He was clearly pleased by the offer but needed to be persuaded. “Old boots, Señora?”
“Ah, but not just any boots.” Rosita beckoned him closer. The bearded one crowded beside him. She traced the signature of John Wayne that was stitched along the curved seam at the top of the tongue and told them what it said.
“Brother,” the bearded one said. “You’ve got the better deal.” He glanced again at the boxes and bags on the back seat.
Rosita rummaged in a food bag at her feet and unearthed two oranges and a bottle of rum. “For your compradres.”
The bearded one tucked the shoes under his arm and accepted the latest gifts with a grin. Their friends may get a sip of rum, but they wouldn’t see the oranges. I was sure of it.
“Señor, the time,” I said.
“Yes, I guess that’s all for now.” Cubans are a reasonable people, even the corrupt ones. “Try to make it out of the mountains before nightfall. And watch out for bandits.”
“Yeah, watch out,” Shorty said and sniggered.
He saluted us and went over to the cart. He dumped the boots into it and turned the donkey back toward the highway. The road opened before us. The bearded one closed the car door gently, as if saying goodbye to his favorite girl. Why not? He had gotten something better than he had hoped for, and we still had to pass his way again. I couldn’t think of that right then. We had to get to Tomasito. I put the car into gear and drove away.
Rosita laid back and covered her eyes with a trembling hand. I wouldn’t feel safe until we were out of firing range. I hoped Rosita’s charm would last that long. As we bounced up the road, I flicked a look to the rearview mirror. The cart and men were still in the road. I hit an especially vicious pothole. Rosita’s hand popped off her face, and clinking and clunking came from the back seat. She gave me a look but said nothing. Right before the bend in the road, I glanced in the mirror again. The men and donkey cart were once again hidden from sight.
“They’re gone,” I said.
“Good.”
“What if they had taken Diego’s gun? And used it?” Now that the immediate danger was past, I could fret. I hung on tight to the churning wheel.
“They had to see the command we have. You could see the bearded one was hoping for an easy victory. I had to discourage that hope. He had to think that I might pull a knife on him if he took his pleasure.” Rosita crossed her arms. I let the point go. We had many hours in front of us, and I had to drive all the way.
Chita
A Message from García 5
LATE IN THE afternoon, we descended the rutted road that snaked over the Escambray Mountains and into the southern foothills. We had passed some trucks and a cheerful man in bright red pants on a tractor, far from any fields, but otherwise the route had been empty of traffic. My head hurt and my hands tingled from the constant vibrations of the washboard roads. Hot winds blew past us and rippled through the fields of tobacco and cane stretched across the plain below us. In the distance, a colonial mansion, a remnant of plantation days, stood among a group of outbuildings on top of a low hill. From here, the area seemed more prosperous and well-cared for than we had dared to hope for our Tomasito. I could only pray that he was alive somewhere down there.
I pulled the DeSoto over at a small turn out and stopped. My sister had slept through the many kilometers of rough terrain. How, I don’t know. She slumped with her head back and knees sprawled open. Drool trickled out of the side of her mouth. If only her admirers could see her now, I thought, but then guilt wrapped my arms across my chest. I must have been tired, because I imagined her life empty of her three girls. She had not once sighed or complained since their departure. Instead of poking her awake, as I would normally, I cupped her mouth and wiped the saliva away with my thumb. She nuzzled my hand before rolling open her eyes.
“Wake up, little dove.”
Rosita stretched and arched her back before sitting up, knees together, to look around. “Water?”
She retrieved the jug and cup from the floor and handed them to me. I poured a cup for us to share while she rummaged in her pocketbook.
“Don’t put on lipstick before we drink,” I said. It would be just like her to leave bright pink lip prints, so hard to clean, on the plastic cup. My sympathy vanished in the heat and the pressure behind my eyes.
“I won’t,” she said, although she did take out her compact and fuss with her headband. I swallowed a healthy gulp and gave the cup back to her. She dove into her bag again. “I was looking for this.” She held up a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, its white wrapping battered and tinged gray by a crowded life in the bottom of her bag.
“From Key Biscayne?” I was fascinated that she could hoard such a treat for over a year.
“Miami Beach.” She whipped off the red string and popped off the top of the pack. As we had since we were girls, I pulled a stick by its waxed tin wrapper and left the white jacket with its fellows in the pack. Rosita did the same.
“Let’s stretch.” She got out, leaving the door wide open. She leaned against the car and l
ooked out over the valley. Clouds crept over the mountains, portending an early evening storm. The fields nearest to us lay in the broad shadow of the mountains and the encroaching clouds, but the red-tiled roofs and white walls of the distant mansion glowed in the late afternoon sun. I scooted across the seat and through the open door to stand beside my sister. It was my turn to stretch.
I popped the stick of gum into my mouth. Instead of folding with freshness, the stick broke but quickly became pliable as I worked my jaws. Rosita puffed her cheeks to blow a bubble. We both knew it was impossible with Wrigley’s, even when fresh. When her noisy exhale made no bubble, her laughter trilled into the sodden air. It was a pure sound that I hadn’t heard since the children had left.
A million questions ran through my mind, but before I could voice one, Rosita said, “Campo Doblase, do you think?” She spoke with a curt nod toward the valley.
“It must be.”
She pushed off the car and returned to the passenger seat. “We must be sure.” She pulled out her lipstick, then wrenched the rearview mirror around to inspect her face.
“Rosita!”
“What?” She made an O with her mouth and applied bright pink to it.
“Don’t do that again. The mirror is never the same.”
“You’re just tired,” she said. “I’ll drive.”
She threw the lipstick and gum back into her purse and dropped it on the floor in front of her. After sliding over to the steering wheel, she turned the key. Even after kilometers of punishment, the DeSoto’s engine roared to life.
“Come on,” she said.
I bent down to get a good look at her. “Since when do you drive in the country?”
“I’m refreshed, you’re tired. We’re almost there. It’s as simple as that.” She twisted the mirror back to face the driver’s seat, took off her headband, and tossed it on the seat beside her. “Come on, let’s go.”
I was tired and my head still throbbed. “You’re in charge now?” Nevertheless, I climbed in the car and closed the door. I never could fit into Rosita’s space. I rearranged the bags and jugs and food sacks to make space for my feet.
“A Montero girl does what she must.” She shifted into gear.
I didn’t like the way she yanked the gear shift. “Careful. You have to . . .”
“I know what I have to do.” Her mouth worked. I thought she would try another bubble, but instead she shot the gum out the open window.
“Rosita! You spit out your gum.”
She looked out the window with a slight frown. “The flavor was gone.”
She wasn’t aware of her misdeed. I rooted around my own mouth with my tongue. True, the stale gum didn’t have much flavor after the first few chews. That’s no excuse.
“Gum’s essential for emergency roadside repairs,” I said. “What if a stone kicks up and drills a hole in the gas tank? We may need the entire pack to fix that. Yes?” I took out my gum and groped around the seat for the waxed foil wrapper. I held both up. “This is what you do.” I carefully covered the gum and put it in the glove compartment.
“You didn’t even know I had it.”
“But now I do.”
Rosita fell forward, her forehead banging on the steering wheel. She slammed her hand on the horn for one long blast that pulsed in my temples and startled a flock of finches out of the bushes below us. Such drama.
“Mary, Mother of God, please keep me from strangling this woman before we see our Tomasito again.” She was silent a moment before she sat up again. The finches resettled and the wind blew stronger.
“I don’t know what you’re going on about.”
She looked at me with her patient face, the one she reserved for a slurring husband who wants to drive home after having too much fun at a party. I hate it, and I hate it more when she uses it on me.
“Querida, please close your eyes,” she said. “We’ll be there in no time.”
I would have given her a verbal backhand, but the wind brought no reprieve from the steamy heat and my vision blurred with pain. I took some aspirin with water from the jug and settled back in my seat. Maybe I was exhausted. A few minutes of quiet would do me good. After all, we must stick together and be strong for Tomasito’s sake.
I HAD CLOSED my eyes for just a moment, or so I thought, but when I opened them, the mountains had receded to the horizon, and the sky had filled with racing clouds. We were idling in a dirt clearing at the center of a small cluster of bohios. The main plantation house we’d seen earlier was hidden from sight, but perhaps we had come to the small settlement the letter had referred to. Dust swirled in the freshening wind. Although space opened in the center of the cluster, a short end of every rectangular, thatch-roofed bohio faced the dirt road. Neighbors, yes, but each also looked outward in the hopes of witnessing something of the passing world.
“Where are we?” I asked as I peered at the tidy huts through the growing dusk.
“Here,” Rosita said. She turned off the ignition.
Woman Waving to the Future 2
“COME HELP ME,” Sonny Saunders whispered in the late night darkness.
Lucy turned her head on the pillow into a bouquet of Dial soap and Old Spice. The few times her husband had needed to leave like this before, he’d always awakened her as soon as he’d started to get ready. He liked the company, him in the shower and her making coffee and heating leftovers in the kitchen. Something was different this night. The weight of him sitting on her side of the bed pitched her toward him. In the spill-over glow of the bathroom light, she could see the perfect crease of his midnight-blue pants and the sheen of his spotless black shoes.
“Come on,” he said. His touch glanced her shoulder before he stood and walked toward the door.
“What?”
“I have to go in,” was all he said before leaving the room.
Lucy got up and slipped into the fuzz of her chenille robe. Two years before, she and Sonny had been proud to announce to their families his assignment to a base right outside of Washington. It was a plum Air Force post. President Kennedy had just moved into the White House, and Jackie was showing America how to dress and entertain. Lucy wrote letters to her friends, boasting of day trips to monuments and flying kites on the Mall. With the new threat, though, being posted to these ex-tobacco fields near DC had lost their charm, and she would’ve welcomed the arid safety of the old assignment in California.
She shuffled into the kitchen as she looped the pink belt of her robe and pulled it tight. Sonny had taken out the can of coffee and was holding the basket from the percolator. She took them from him and filled the pot with water. He went to the living room and came back with a pack of cigarettes and a brass ash tray he had gotten in Tokyo. Neither of them spoke. She opened the fridge and took out the makings for ham sandwiches while he tapped out two cigarettes and lit both.
Everyone had noticed the extra flights that moved through their base and had felt the unspoken frenzy. The wives had made their own escape plans. They were ready, but was it time already? Lucy wanted Sonny to say something but couldn’t pause in her duties to draw it out of him. She spread Miracle Whip on four slices of bread and opened the mustard jar.
“Is this it? The Big One?” she asked.
“No, of course not. I told you already about the exercises coming up. I’m sure I’ll be back for dinner tomorrow. Or the next day. There’ll still be plenty of ham, right?” Lucy wondered how routine exercises could pull him out of bed in the middle of the night, but she didn’t ask. Sonny tried to give her a reassuring smile, but they knew each other too well, and he didn’t get it right until she gave him her own false face. He moved closer to her as her hands stayed busy with the sandwiches. He held out a cigarette and she took a drag.
She didn’t even smoke, really, and had never touched a cigarette before she met Sonny. Her life had changed so much.
He poured the coffee and took a sip. “You going to be all right?”
“Don’t worry about us.�
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He nodded that tight little shake of his that meant there was more to say but he wasn’t going to say it. She took out his lunch box as he launched into his final preparations. What she meant was, don’t worry about me. With the temperament of an artist, Lucy felt unqualified to be a top-notch military wife, but Sonny loved her and never gave up on her. Not when they had scrambled eggs for dinner or hot dogs for breakfast. And not that time after Erica was born eight years prior, when they had just moved, and Lucy had stopped talking.
He had greeted her silence as a joke at first. Then he yelled, just once, and upset the baby. None of that mattered to Lucy. She just sat in his recliner. Though they were newly posted to the West Coast and didn’t know any folks yet, some wife must’ve recognized the desperation of a man looking for emergency care for a toddler and a newborn. Lucy didn’t know where he took the babies that day, but at some point the air pressure changed and the small noises of other inhabitants ceased. Finally she had no burden of taking care. After a while, Sonny returned and sat on the ottoman in front of her.
“Talk to me,” he said.
She didn’t bother to look at him.
“I’m listening now. You can say whatever you want.”
She wasn’t even there.
He left the room and someone with her eyes watched a rectangle of sunlight move across the floor.
When Lucy noticed her husband again, the ottoman bore a tray of pastel sticks and a large tablet of drawing paper that she had bought early in the pregnancy but had never used. He set a cup of tea on the side table. After standing over her a moment, he knelt and picked up the red pastel stick. She returned her attention to the light that crawled across the beige carpet.
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