Cuba 15 (17 page)

29

I tried to imagine everything that might happen Friday night, so it wouldn’t look as though I was on my first date.

Clarence had apologized about his mom having to drive us, but, hey, he was fourteen. What was he going to do, steal a car? And a license? Anyway, he made up for the chaperone bit by picking a really cool place to go. Not the Lincolnville Dozenplex for a matinee. But an evening trip downtown to Water Tower Place to see the new Jackie Chan movie, plus dessert at the chic café next door. Mrs. Williams planned to shop, not sit between us at the movie.

I figured I was guaranteed at least ninety quiet minutes alone with Clarence, give or take any extra time in the popcorn line. The popcorn line! I should have something intelligent to say there. And I should probably come up with something to tell his mom on the drive down. At which point it would be dark in the backseat, except for the street-lights. . . . But maybe Clarence would be sitting up front. In that case, we might not be able to talk, because of the seat belts. The conversation factor was going to be tricky. I decided to come up with three topics and go from there.

Then there were the ninety minutes in the dim theater to consider. I was really looking forward to those minutes, certain I’d give my best performance under cover of darkness. Even if I did have to compete with Jackie’s costar. Afterward, I knew I could eat dessert without any practice. So I had it covered.

Of course, things didn’t go the way I’d imagined. Amazingly, I didn’t care. We got to Water Tower Place and said good-bye to Mrs. Williams early. Clarence and I took the escalator up to the top, floor by floor, browsing in shops along the way. By the time we passed the Popcorn Gourmet, he had me laughing, and by the time we stopped at the puzzle-filled window of Gamekeepers, we were holding hands.

We made it all the way up to the theater without my having to use any prepared topics. As Clarence paid the admission (I told myself I would next time), I stepped back and watched his long, lean figure framed by the ticket window. He looked good in jeans and a gorgeous ocean-blue sweater, and, for the first time I’d seen, contacts. His dark brown eyes seemed to be dancing on waves when he smiled down at me and asked if I wanted any refreshments.

How can that be a romantic thing to ask someone?

But it was.

I went with him through the line, and we laughed at all the giant boxes of everything.

And that’s the end of the part that I remember in order. The rest of the night passed in big brushstrokes of color. I was left with impressions: the warm pressure of Clarence’s arm around me in the theater, the intimate, dizzy feeling of sitting alone together in the café afterward, the golden rush as though I were being cast for a statue when Clarence’s lips touched mine.

And then, later, alone in my room, the lovely rosy color of success. Sweet success.

I pretty much floated through the next few days, not noticing holiday preparations. Christmas came in a rush. And who should walk in the door that day but Tía Luci?

Mom was filling the double ovens with turkey and a pan of
congrís
when Chucho set up a fuss. I ran to the door.

“
Feliz
navidad,
kiddo.”

It was Luz, with a shopping bag full of presents, surrounded by a swirl of snowflakes. Luz shares Dad’s rich dark eyes and skin, but unlike him, a cascade of black curls runs down her back and her clothes usually match. She brought the bag inside, calling hello.

Smiles spread through the house like scarlet fever. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Mom put a pot of cider on to mull.

“What are you doing in town, Tía?” I asked after we had opened presents and all settled down in the living room, where our tinselly tree stood. Mark lay on his back on the floor amid the wrapping paper, reading the book about airplanes Luz had given him.

My aunt hadn’t stopped smiling on the couch next to me. “I came here to see you,
chica
.”

I beamed.

“I’m on my way to a shoot in New York. But I have a couple of days. Then I’m hoping to make it down to see Mami and Papi in Miami. It’s been ages.” She looked at Mom and Dad in their wicker armchairs. “God, it’s good to see you. How’s my brother? And how is your family, Diane?”

Mom said all was well and that her mother had sent sausages for the holidays. Dad, looking a little less tired for the day off, told Luz how much he liked the music she’d sent.

“Good stuff, no? I thought you might like it. I brought some more CDs.”

“Cool,” I said.

“So, how’s it going, my favorite niece? How was your Spanish presentation?”

“The best. I got an A.”

“That’s great! More importantly, did you learn anything?”

“Well, yeah. Sure.”

She cast eyes on Dad. “Y tú, Alberto?”

Dad grinned sheepishly. “Who, me?”

In between playing dominoes, going out with Luz, and taking Chucho for his walk, I couldn’t stop thinking about Clarence. I had allowed myself to call him after our date to say thanks, and another time just to talk. And he called me, but I was out at Starbucks with Tía Luci the first time. I stayed home after that, and he called again. The more we talked, the more we had to say.

I almost felt like a normal person with a normal life until the night before Tía had to leave.

Mom had made her grandmother’s famous dill pickle soup and a roast beef, which were surprisingly complementary. The pans were a mess, though, and I had to clean up while the adults sat at the table with coffee. At least Mark took out the garbage.

I listened as Mom asked Tía what she’d been doing lately.

“Well, I met this guy—”

“Yeah?” Dad ribbed her. “Is he anything like that guitar player you went out with in high school—what was his name . . . ?”

“
¡Cállate!
Alberto,” she shushed him good-naturedly. “I met this guy who runs the pro-Cuba peace group in my town.”

“In Portland?” Mom said.

“Sí, in Portland. I know. Oregon—not a big Cuban community. I’ve been going to their meetings for a while now. I thought you might be interested. Turns out, there are little groups like this all over the place. A mixture of political stripes, with a couple of
cubanos
thrown in for good measure. All of them want to see the embargo come down. Start a dialogue with Cuba.”

“Sst!”
hissed Dad, nodding at me.

Luz did a double take, from me back to her brother. “Dialogue begins at home,
hermano,
” she murmured.

“En esta casa, no hablamos de estas cosas.”

“Oh, come on, Alberto! That’s Papi talking. Civil discourse is not a sin.” She threw her chin in my direction. “And you’re not helping by keeping them in the dark.”

“Yeah,” I seconded boldly. I dried my hands on a dish towel and went and stood next to Luz.

“It’s all in the history books for anyone to see,” Dad said, tight-lipped. “Castro brought this on himself, by taking, taking. The embargo keeps what we have left out of his hands.”

“Do you really think that’s the way it works? That
el jefe
is the one to suffer?” Luz asked skeptically. “I’m sure he has plenty to eat and the freedom to go wherever he chooses.”

“Well, he is president,” Mom put in awkwardly.

Dad didn’t say anything.

Luz gave an impatient sigh. “For God’s sake, this embargo has gone on too long. More than thirty years! Families have been ripped apart. The rights of the Cuban people have been ignored. The rights of Americans to travel have been trampled on too, by the way. That’s all we’re saying.”

Dad leaned forward. “Oh, so you’re a spokesman for this group now?”

“Maybe.” She nodded. “I think you’d like what they have to say, if you’d listen. I thought you were all for democracy,
mi hermano.
”

“I trust in the government to make the decisions.” Luz pinned eyes on him. “ ‘We the people,’ Alberto. ‘We the people.’ ”

The two black sheep sat on the bed in the guest room, backs against the wall. An uneasy truce rang loudly in the halls. Luz had tripped the invisible wire in the Paz household.

I had to hand it to her; I wouldn’t have done it.

“That was something, Tía,” I said. “Nobody ever tries to talk sense into Dad.”

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” She sighed. “Although I don’t even try with your grandfather anymore.”

“Dad’s face scares me when he talks about Cuba.”

“Me too,
chica
. And Papi won’t even discuss it.” She rolled up one of the bed pillows and smooshed it against her tummy. She looked off into space. “You know, sometimes I’m glad I wasn’t born there. Other times, I wish I had been with all my might.” Her brown eyes met mine. “It’s a hard place to be in.”

“Sometimes I think Dad just doesn’t care.”

She hesitated. “Alberto is another story.”

I frowned. “I can’t see why.”

“Life is a lot more black and white to him. Don’t forget, he grew up in the thick of things, in Miami. And, somewhere inside, he remembers leaving Cuba. That’s why he and Papi are so close. They’ve had their differences, but now they have their similarities.”

I reached for the other pillow and stuck it between me and the wall. “So, about the embargo—Abuelo feels the same as Dad? That the laws punishing Cuba are how things have to be forever? They never mention it. Not in English, anyway.”

“Alberto has learned from the master how to hide his feelings, but sometimes the anger slips out. Papi, he has washed his hands of the whole matter. For him and for Mami, the only Cuba is the Cuba of old. They have no future there anymore, or they think they don’t.”

“But there’s always a chance that things could go back to the way they were. Right?”

The odds sounded slim, just saying it.

Luz sighed. “No one knows,” she answered. “That’s why they call it the future.”

We sat in silence for a few moments.

“So, how go the
quince
plans?”

“They
were
going great,” I said ruefully. “We’ve got our routines mostly together—well, Mrs. Lowenstein is helping me with the last part of my piano medley, and then all we’ll have to do is practice.”

I elbowed my pillow and searched for a more comfortable position. “Tell me about your trip to Spain, Tía. When you were my age.”

A glow entered her dark eyes, not unlike Abuela’s reminiscent air. “Was the greatest,” she pronounced. “Two weeks of freedom!”

“You went by yourself?”

“No way,
chica
. Mami wanted to go, but she couldn’t get two weeks off from her job. I went with my best friend, Carlotta, and my cousin Linda and her mom, Tía Elena. Do you know them?”

I shrugged. “Tell me what you did. Was your Spanish good enough?”

She grinned. “It’s like another language, Castilian. But we managed.” She scrunched down until she was lying flat, with her legs hanging off the bed. “We wandered the streets of Madrid, with Tía Elena, of course. Then we took the train to the countryside and stayed in this huge stone castle. Tía Elena left us alone once we were out of the city.”

Yow, alone in an exotic foreign country! I could see why Leda wanted to go. “So what did you do there?”