“Promise me.”
What was a few minutes? I nodded. I wouldn’t tell yet, but I could hint.
“I’ll be back to help unpack in a moment.”
“Sure you will,” I said.
Rosita wouldn’t be back. Chances were, she wouldn’t do the main unpacking at her own house, either. That was one thing Ramón was good for, or had been before he started drinking so heavily.
Woman Waving to the Future 6
LUCY STOOD IN the hallway between her children’s bedrooms. “Tony! Erica! Time to get up.”
She waited until she heard stirring on both sides. It had been a long night without much sleep. She reached into Erica’s room and flipped the switch for the overhead light. A grunt rose from the lump in the bed, but Lucy felt no remorse. That girl was worse than the extinct volcanoes that were her current obsession; she could lie inert for a millennium, it seemed, if not prodded to action. A millennium. The president’s speech suggested they may not have a week.
“Get up,” Lucy said.
Erica raised up on her elbows and looked over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. Sonny said their daughter had gotten this look from her mother and had already perfected it when she was only two. The thick rope of a braid fell across her cheek, and a halo of escaped hairs fuzzed at the top of her head.
“Cut out the light.” Erica’s voice was raspy with the night’s accumulations.
Lucy ignored her cross daughter. She’d have to come back, and as likely as not, would find Erica still buried under her blankets. Tony passed in his pilot pj’s on his way to the bathroom. At the age of ten, he already reached Lucy’s shoulders. He didn’t speak, but at least he had gotten up.
The hallway remained dark, but as Lucy went into the living room, she emerged into the gray light of a cloudy day. One glance outside confirmed that rain showers had come and gone again. The trees shed drops of water, and the streets and sidewalks were still darkly wet. She continued on into the kitchen. She followed her routine of making Cream of Wheat and toast for the kids. No way could she eat.
She eventually got both kids to the table.
Erica picked up her spoon and eyed the yellow puddle of margarine in the middle of her hot cereal. “Why do the Russians hate us?”
I don’t know, Lucy thought. “They don’t hate us.”
Tony snicked his tongue. “Of course they do.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were reciting the obvious. “We stand for freedom. They hate freedom. Everybody knows that.”
It wasn’t that simple. Lucy wished she could confide in Tony, tell him her fears and what she and the other women had planned in case of an emergency, but her son needed her certainty, and the school bus would swing by in fifteen minutes.
“Hurry up and finish your breakfast,” Lucy said. “No lollygagging. The bus will be here before you know it, and Mr. Farley said he wouldn’t wait for you anymore.”
Her two children passed a look. She could tell they had cooked up something.
“Do we have to go to school?” Tony asked. He had cleaned his bowl and was holding a last bite of toast.
“Is it Tuesday? Of course you have to go to school.”
Lucy scooped up Tony’s empty bowl and plate and took them to the sink. She looked out the window but saw nothing of the scuttling clouds and the trees bending to the will of the wind. What if she died but the children survived in the basement of their school? What if it were the other way round? What if they never saw each other again? What if? Lucy turned to face her son and daughter. She could read real fear on Erica’s face but detected a note of cunning, too, in her wide, staring eyes.
“President Kennedy went to work today. Daddy is at work today. I’m going to paint after you leave.” She leveled a finger at her children. “You two are going to school.”
Erica lowered her gaze to her bowl. After a moment, she picked up her spoon and ate the last ring of buttery, yellow-tinged cereal. She then dug a curve in the remainder and left the spoon there. Usually Lucy would insist on a few more bites, fighting with her youngest over mush hardening into a crust, but not today.
“Go brush your teeth,” she said.
The usual last-minute scramble followed. Books, a Barbie lunch box for Erica and a plain brown lunch bag for her sophisticated son, a quick change of barrettes from yellow to purple for Erica, a notebook retrieved from under Tony’s bed, and finally they were ready. Lucy stood at the door as the school bus rolled to a stop at their corner. Erica looked so defenseless with her jacket hanging off her shoulder and her bangs already starting their rise to a straight up salute.
What if, what if, what if? She tugged Erica’s jacket up onto her shoulder and pecked her on the forehead. What if she kept her children home, just for today?
“Do you have your dog tags on?”
She didn’t like calling them that but the kids did. They thought it was neat to have the same ID tags as the soldiers did. The usefulness of the stamped bits of metal in identifying dead bodies didn’t cross their minds. No child should have to wear them for that reason, Lucy thought, but they all did. She reached for Tony and aimed a kiss at his cheek. He squirmed but let her land one on his ear.
“Be extra good today,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the children replied as they hurried out the door.
She watched them run to the bus, then pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch to watch the bus until it disappeared around the bend at the far end of the street. What if? She went back inside and felt the silence of the house as if it were a cascade of muck pressing down on her. She needed to talk with someone to tell them what she had just done, sending her Tony and Erica away from her. Someone who would understand. Betty Ann. They had done most of their talking last night, but hearing her voice would soothe her. She would call, but first she needed to do the breakfast dishes. She would not leave a dirty house if she needed to evacuate.
Lucy cleared the rest of the dishes and ran water in the sink. She reached for the radio perched on the counter, but the phone interrupted her. Maybe Betty Ann was calling her, although it could’ve been anyone. The whole nation had reason to panic, even if they did so quietly so as not to disturb the concentration of the people who might get them out of this mess. She answered the kitchen phone.
“I can’t sit on this any longer,” Betty Ann said.
Lucy knew she meant the Hepplewhite thing. Even though they had agreed to take it to Mrs. Hepplewhite, they hadn’t decided just how to approach her. Miss Willom had promptly written out a translation of the Japanese note sent via Mrs. Fuji and had refused any compensation for doing so. Just doing my job, she had said with a jaunty salute when they went to pick it up. Next Betty Ann copied out a version that left Lonnie and everyone else out of it. It would be hard to convince Mrs. Hepplewhite of the note’s legitimacy without its provenance, but they would have to find a way. It wouldn’t take much to connect it to Lonnie as the link between the Princeton and Betty Ann, but she was not about to make it for them.
“How are we going to get an appointment with her? Once I delivered the dress, that was it,” Betty Ann said.
“Let’s just go over there.”
“We can’t just show up on the general’s doorstep.”
“Why not? Things are all out of whack. And besides, we may not have another chance. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“No, of course not.”
Lucy twirled the phone cord around her finger. She would rather get on with her own life, but they needed to see this thing through. She wouldn’t dream of making Betty Ann go it alone.
“Let’s just go over there,” she repeated. “If she’s not home, we go back later. If she refuses to see us, we tried, and then it’s on her.”
They went back and forth for a few minutes until Betty Ann agreed to the plan. They signed off after she decided she would pick up Lucy shortly before ten. That was a civilized hour to be visiting. That also gave Lucy time to finish the dishes and d
o some picking up and light dusting. One of the best antidotes to uncontrollable chaos in the world was a neat and tidy home. Her mother had taught her that, and although the artist in her naturally rebelled, when the situation got this severe, she reverted to basics. Painting would have to wait. Again.
Betty Ann was right on time. She didn’t say much as they made their way over to the main part of the base.
“You know what?” she said, while waiting for a red light. Her voice slid along in a monotone.
Lucy worried about Betty Ann. “What?”
“They pick up astronauts too.”
What was she talking about? “Who?”
“Lonnie. On his ship.” The light turned green. “Imagine surviving space just to be picked up by a contaminated ship.” She shook her head and moved on.
“Imagine a bunch of housewives as your main line of defense,” Lucy said.
They didn’t speak much after that. They drove to Officer’s Row, which lined the parade grounds.
Betty Ann parked the Impala in a small lot in front of a Nike missile monument. They got out of the car, and Lucy buttoned her cardigan against the breeze. High clouds striated the sky and occasionally blurred the sun. Puddles from the earlier rain lingered along the curb and sidewalks. Leaves skittered along the pavement and caught in the pooled water. The American flag at the center of the parade grounds snapped in the post-storm wind. Only maintenance personnel dotted the wide flat expanse of grass. It was hours since reveille, and hours still until the recording of “Taps” would halt both pedestrians and cars in their evening journeys home.
They crossed the road and made their way up Officer’s Row toward General Hepplewhite’s house. As at many military bases, the base commander’s residence wasn’t exceptionally grand, but it was the most prominent on the row. Each house they passed had a generous porch flanked by Doric columns and the occupant’s name clearly displayed in no-nonsense black block letters. Major D. Ostertag, Captain R. Aborn, Captain M. Wilbraham. The sidewalk cracks were free of weeds. Lively decorations, all in patriotic themes, graced most of the porches. Even among the autumnal color of potted asters and chrysanthemums, officers’ wives had placed wooden country folk figures dressed in red, white, and blue and had accessorized wicker porch chairs with pillows covered in the stars and stripes.
“Captain Wilbraham must be a bachelor,” Lucy said.
“Why?” Betty Ann had been staring straight down the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the riot of patriotic decorations they passed.
Lucy put a hand on Betty Ann’s arm to stop her in front of Captain Wilbraham’s. She wanted to shake Betty Ann out of her funk before they reached the general’s house. Betty Ann would need all of her innate bravado to get through the meeting with Mrs. H.
“Because his porch is bare. Look.” Lucy nodded toward the unadorned entryway, not wanting to point. Two rattan chairs that had seen better days sat alone.
Betty Ann followed her glance, then swept a look up and down the street at the other colorful displays. She smiled. She loved speculating. Lucy counted on that.
“Maybe they just moved in,” Betty Ann said.
“You think? No . . . he’s a bachelor, but he’s messing up the perfect look of Officers’ Row. Mrs. H. probably demanded that he marry one of three candidates she’s picked for him.” Lucy pictured Mrs. H., clipboard in hand, ticking off a lady’s attributes to poor, hangdog Captain Wilbraham.
Betty Ann laughed. “She’d better hurry up, before Mrs. Ostertag offers to help with more than the front porch.” She linked her arm with Lucy’s. “Come on. Let’s go see if Mrs. H. will have enough sense to see us.” They marched up the sidewalk. “You know, she doesn’t have an A-bomb. Somehow the Russians have gotten one up on her.”
“Mrs. H. doesn’t have an A-bomb yet.” Lucy giggled. A-bomb jokes had become the norm on base.
Betty Ann opened the wrought-iron gate at the foot of the front walk. Lucy took a few steps beyond to the driveway, which led to the back door. Betty Ann kept her hand planted on the gate.
“Lucy. May I remind you? This is not a service call.” She tugged lightly at the scarf that covered her curls and stepped through the gate, then she tossed her head toward the house.
Lucy returned and followed her up the front walk.
A white maid answered the door. They could tell she wanted to ask the nature of their business, but Betty Ann’s tone when she announced their names preempted any misplaced queries. The maid left them on the porch and closed the door before retreating back into the house. Neither spoke as they waited.
Mutually Assured Destruction 1
AS ROSITA ENTERED the courtyard of the Montero House, the men debated the top three first basemen on the island. A suitable topic for a group of men who were avoiding so many others. Next would come the ranking of major league players.
Diego stopped ticking off attributes on his fingers when he saw Rosita. “There’s one of the traitors now.”
“They’ll think we’re all worms. Who will believe we didn’t know?” José asked.
Rosita ignored their remarks as she launched into an account of their trip. She focused on the condition of the roads and the heat and sudden rain. About Tío Juan, who they allegedly went to visit, she said nothing, since they hadn’t seen him. She did say that everyone they saw was fine, which was the truth. As she was talking, Ramón continued to drink, seated on a concrete bench in the shadow of the vines on the guest house wall.
Rosita crept over to her husband, who rested his drink on his thigh and leaned back to look up at her. She twitched her fine nose, but he had stopped thinking that he stank, so he missed her cue. He lifted a butt cheek to make room for her, but she shook her head. Before, she would have squeezed into a place that didn’t really exist by leaning her gardenia-scented bodice into her husband and encircling him with the strength of her arms. Now she remained standing but gave Ramón her sweet Virgin of Charity smile. A woman who could offer a smile like that could surely forgive any transgression. His shoulders relaxed, and he returned her smile with one loosened by rum and showing the front teeth that had begun to yellow. She could absolve him of anything.
“Ramón, my heart,” she murmured smoothly. Her voice was soothing. “We need to talk.”
“Of course,” Ramón said. “You had a good trip, eh?”
He raised his glass in a toast and drank off the rest of the clear liquid. Now his family gave him the cheap stuff that had once been reserved for his brother. Rosita crossed her arms but he didn’t notice, as his eyes were closed over the last drops from his glass. He set it on the bench and followed Rosita to the door.
“Hey, hermano,” Diego called. His voice sounded harsh and loud. “I warn you. You’re not safe alone with a Montero woman.” He raised a bottle of rum. It was amber, the good kind. “You need reinforcements.” José snickered at Diego’s comments.
“One moment,” Ramón said to Rosita’s back.
She paused as if he had waylaid her with a touch but then continued inside. Ramón backtracked for his glass and held it for Diego to fill to the brim before joining Rosita in the cool, dark corridor.
“Let’s go up on the roof,” Rosita said.
He smiled as he followed her upstairs and to the steep, ladder-like roof steps. A little privacy right after a separation was always welcome. He took a big gulp of his drink to prevent it from spilling. Rum sloshed over his hand anyway as he ascended.
She sat on a bench against a wall of the widow’s walk. This crowning enclosure looked over the roofs of the surrounding houses and offered a perfect view of the harbor and the river. It, too had solid stucco walls.
“Sit.” She patted the bench beside her.
He complied and kissed her, but as soon as their lips touched, she slipped away from him and stood with her back to the light still lingering in the western sky.
“Honey, you never told me. Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She stared at him.
“You know about Gu
illermo?”
“Guillermo? I’m talking about Tomasito. Why did you send him away?”
Ramón looked down at his drink. “I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t. I swear to you.”
Rosita crossed her arms. “I know about the letter,” she said in a softer voice.
Her husband shrugged. “What letter?”
“You know what letter. The one you doctored. Don’t lie to me.”
“How do you know about that?”
“We went to Campo Doblase.”
Ramón stared at her, then drained off the rest of his drink. “You were supposed to be at Tío Juan’s. You can’t trust anybody these days.”
“That’s not the point.” Rosita slumped onto the bench beside Ramón.
The evening birds chattered in the trees below them and rapid gunfire popped in the distance. The undersides of towering clouds glowed pink in the last rays of the sun, but inside the half-walls, Rosita and Ramón sat in the deeper shades of night already come.
“You could have told me,” she said quietly.
“No, I couldn’t.” Ramón slammed down his glass. “That idiot brother of yours was so foolish. He ran with the wrong sort and made my CDR work impossible. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen. I checked out the different camps, made sure he went to the most lenient one. You should thank me for saving him from certain arrest and prosecution.”
“But now he can’t come home. He’s dead.”
“He was going to leave anyway. That Carlos—he smuggles out money too, you know. It’s true. Tomasito would’ve left us all to answer to the authorities. It’s best this way.”
“We were running around, praying to La Señora.” Rosita sat up and stared at Ramón. “You could have told me.”
Ramón tipped his glass to his mouth, although not a drop was left. He got up and leaned on the top of the wall to look toward the bay. The stiff breeze ruffled his shirt and caused him to squint. With his back to Rosita, he said, “You don’t get it. You Monteros. If I had told you anything, the whole damn family would’ve been in an uproar until you got him killed.” He shook his head. “It’s not my fault he had an accident.”
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