The Red Umbrella (15 page)

“Ughmm.” I cleared my throat. “In Cuba, we no eat spicy food. Mexico yes, Cuba no.” Even my ears felt hot.

“Oh.” Mrs. Baxter looked disappointed. “Well, in that case, just eat the breakfast without the Tabasco sauce. We’ll start with your English lessons right after we clean up. Yes?”

I understood something about eating without tobacco and having English class. I nodded in agreement.

Mr. Baxter wiped his mouth and stood up. “Good breakfast, Helen,” he said, and bent down to give his wife a peck on the cheek.

It was the first time I’d heard him speak. I didn’t even know Mrs. Baxter’s first name was Helen.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll see you after work.”

“Humpf,” Mr. Baxter muttered as he walked out the back door.

Mrs. Baxter faced me again. “He hates having to go into the feed store on Saturdays, but at least it’s only until one. He just can’t wait to get back to the land.”

I nodded.

“And tonight is a big night. Lawrence Welk is on TV. All the singing, dancing, and polka music. You’ll love it!”

I wasn’t sure who this Lawrence Welk was, but if she was this excited about him being on TV, then I figured he was probably very similar to Elvis.

After only a few days of being with the Baxters, I was exhausted. Not from any of the chores we’d been given, although living on a farm was much harder than I’d imagined. It was that I’d grown tired of constantly keeping a watchful eye on Frankie. I tried to keep him from speaking too loudly, running through the house, or chewing with his mouth open. I reminded him that we were visitors in the Baxter home and could be sent away at any time. If that happened, we’d most likely be separated.

“Bet you can’t catch me,” Frankie laughed as he ran around me.

“Not now.” I was concentrating on avoiding the large mud puddles left behind after the strong morning storm. “Can’t you see I’m working? Why don’t you help
me carry this bag of feed over to the shed? The faster I finish, the sooner we can go eat lunch.”

“Put it down.” He poked me in the ribs. “Look. I can jump over that
charco de fango
without getting dirty.” He ran ahead and leapt over the mud puddle. He circled it and came back to me.

“Your turn, Lucy. See if you can jump it.”

“Frankie, behave.”

“Go. I’ll hold all that chicken food.” He reached for the brown canvas sack.

“No. It’s open on the top.”

“I got it. Now try to make it over.” Frankie pulled on the bag and tried to shove me aside.

“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.”

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.

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.