The Red Umbrella (20 page)

“Lucía, can you go get Frankie? Mr. Baxter is washing up already.” Mrs. Baxter placed two trivets on the dining room table.

“I’m here. Hope dinner is ready ’cause I’m as hungry as a house.” Frankie bounded toward the table.

“You mean hungry as a horse,” Mrs. Baxter corrected him.

“Ohhh. Now it makes sense.” Frankie started pouring water into each person’s glass.

“Ready, Helen?” Mr. Baxter asked, walking to the table and taking his seat.

“Yes, one second.” She made a quick run to the kitchen and brought out a covered dish.

“We can help you, Mrs. Baxter,” I said, prodding Frankie to stand up.

“No, no, not today. I want you all to stay seated.” She ran back three more times, bringing out more covered dishes.

When everything was out, she looked at Mr. Baxter and said, “Now we’re ready.”

Mr. Baxter nodded. “Thank you, Lord, for this food we’re about to receive. Thank you for our many blessings. Keep us and our families, both those in Boston and Cuba, safe from harm. Amen.”

I smiled as we all said “Amen.” Mr. Baxter always said grace before dinner, but it was during the last couple of weeks that he’d started mentioning not only Carl but also my parents. It was like we were all somehow related.

Frankie reached over to uncover the dish closest to him, but Mrs. Baxter put a hand over it.

“Hold on, Frankie. I want to say something.”

Mr. Baxter leaned back in his chair.

“I know it’s been difficult for the two of you to be away from home and all your customs during the holidays. I didn’t even know that you celebrated Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day until Lucía mentioned it a couple of days ago. Anyway, I did the best I could with the food. Had to improvise a little, though.”

Mrs. Baxter uncovered the first two dishes. Rather than our typical roasted pig and black beans, Mrs. Baxter had made pork chops and baked beans.

I smiled from ear to ear.

“This one was easy.” She uncovered a bowl of white rice. “But I had no idea what yuca was, so I made”—she removed the final lid—“potatoes.”

“I never liked yuca anyway,” Frankie said, already holding his plate up to be served.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

Mrs. Baxter grinned. “And tonight we all have to go to bed early because Santa Claus will be visiting.”

“Wait, if Santa Claus brings us toys on Christmas, do
los tres reyes magos
still bring us stuff on January sixth?” Frankie asked.

“No, Frankie.” I shook my head. “I already told you. The three wise men bring toys on January sixth to children who live in Cuba. If you live in the U.S., Santa Claus might bring you something on December twenty-fifth. You don’t get both. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Baxter?”

“Afraid so, Frankie. But think of it this way, you’ll get to play with your toys all the sooner.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Just as long as someone knows I’m here.”

Mrs. Baxter looked over at her husband with a secretive smile. “I wouldn’t worry, Frankie,” she said. “I think someone knows.”

In my dream, television star Ricky Nelson was lying by me on a beach in Varadero while Jennifer and Ivette tossed a Frisbee along the water’s edge. The air was full of the ocean’s saltiness, and I could feel the warmth of the sun on my bare legs. It was as perfect a day as I could imagine, and I didn’t want to leave it behind.

“Wake up! C’mon, wake up!” Frankie shook me by the shoulder.

I buried my head beneath the pillow.

“Lucy, it’s Christmas. There are presents under the tree. I already peeked and saw them. Hurry!” He pulled my arm, almost dragging me off the bed.

“All right, all right. I’m up.” I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, put on my robe, and followed Frankie back to the living room.

“Merry Christmas!” Mrs. Baxter greeted both of us with a hug while Mr. Baxter set up his home-movie camera to film us opening our gifts. “Go ahead, you two. Check your stockings. See if Santa brought you anything.” She glanced back at Mr. Baxter. “You got that thing working, Henry?”

“Humpf. All full of dust,” Mr. Baxter muttered, blowing into the lens.

I walked to the red stocking that hung on the fireplace. Frankie had already slipped his stocking off its hook and was sticking his hand down into it.

“Well? What did Santa bring you, Frankie?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

“Woo-hoo!” Frankie yelled without fully pulling out his gift. “I know what this is!” He wiggled a baseball glove out from the stocking. “Wow!” Frankie stared at the brown leather mitt. “It’s a real Mickey Mantle glove! Look, Mr. Baxter!” Frankie ran over to show the camera and Mr. Baxter. “It’s a perfect fit,” he said, putting on the glove.

“And you, Lucía?” Mrs. Baxter smiled, her hands clasped together.

I reached down into the stocking and pulled out a small silver compact of pressed powder and a tube of pink lipstick.

A huge smile spread across my face. I was finally going to start wearing some makeup. I felt like whooping and hollering, too.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Baxter gave me a slight nod from behind the camera.

“Oh, we didn’t have anything to do with those gifts. Those were from Santa Claus. Our gifts are here.” Mrs. Baxter pulled out three boxes from beneath the tree.

“More presents!” Frankie shouted, removing the glove.

“These are a little more practical, though. We can’t be as extravagant as Santa.” Mrs. Baxter waved at the camera and then handed Frankie a box.

Frankie quickly ripped the wrapping and opened his gift. He pulled out a plaid shirt, two pairs of socks, and a new baseball. “Cool,” he declared, dropping the clothes on the floor and grabbing the ball to try it out with his glove.

By this time, I was opening my own box. The Baxters had given me a new checkered skirt, a bright pink sweater, and a knitted scarf.

“I hope it all fits,” Mrs. Baxter said.

I draped the skirt around my waist. “I’m sure it does. I’ll wear it to Mass today! I love it all.”

Mrs. Baxter smiled. “I knitted that scarf myself, you know.”

I wrapped it around my neck, flinging one end over my shoulder as if I were a movie star. “In that case, I love it even more!”

“Ahem.”
From behind the camera, Mr. Baxter pointed to another present.

“That one is for the two of you,” Mrs. Baxter said.

“What’s inside?” Frankie asked as I sat down to untie the ribbon and open the box.

I pulled out a folded note.

Frankie looked over my shoulder. “A piece of paper is our present?”

“No, Frankie. The note says that the Baxters are paying for a call to Cuba today. So we can wish Mamá and Papá
Feliz Navidad.”
I looked up at the Baxters. They were beaming. “Thank you so much,” I said. “That’s the best gift of all!”

“Yeah.” Frankie nodded. “But that Mickey Mantle glove is a real close second!”

“Nothing?” I asked as Mrs. Baxter came back inside.

She shook her head. “But I don’t think the mailman has come by yet.” Her purple coat glistened with melted snowflakes. “I know how anxious you are. I’m sure everything is fine. It’s only been about a couple of weeks, and you know the soldiers sometimes stop the letters.”

“I know, but no one’s been at my house when the call gets connected, either. We didn’t even get a Christmas card from them. Something is wrong. I can feel it … here.” I pointed to my gut.

Mrs. Baxter smiled and patted my hand. “We’ll keep trying. Remember, this next call is our Christmas gift to the two of you, no matter when it goes through.”

I nodded, wishing that Frankie and I had gotten them something better than the apron and handkerchiefs
I’d sewn in home economics class and the Popsicle ornaments and drawings Frankie had made.

“What are you doing?” Frankie tossed his baseball in and out of the glove.

“Nothing.” I looked outside. There was no sign of the mailman. Normally, he came at two. He was already more than an hour late. “You know, you should practice your Spanish with me. Nowadays, you’re always speaking to me in English. You’d better not forget who you are,” I said.

“Your mouth looks weird,” he answered me in English, ignoring my comment about his Spanish.

“What? No, it doesn’t.
Tú eres
weird,” I said as he walked back up the stairs to his room.

As soon as he left, I got up to check myself in the small bathroom under the stairs. I gazed at my image in the mirror from different angles. In the last few months, my body had changed and I had more curves. I puckered my bright pink lips. He’s just not used to seeing me with makeup. All the girls at school wore a little bit of makeup, so it had felt strange not wearing any. Now I’d be more like a normal American teenage girl, except for my accent, but that was something Jennifer insisted was part of what made me unique and more interesting.

I heard the front door open. I poked my head out into the hallway and saw Mr. Baxter hanging up his coat.

“My, you’re home early. It’s not even four!” Mrs. Baxter gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Humpf.” Mr. Baxter took off his hat. “It was slow and the store closed early.”

“No wonder. Who wants to go out in this nasty cold weather? Forecasters say it’s dipping below zero tonight, but it’ll be back in the twenties in a couple of days.”

I glanced over at the silent phone.

“Lucía”—Mr. Baxter held out an envelope—“this came.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Mrs. Baxter said.

I looked at the postage. “It’s from Cuba!” I saw there was no return address. It was from Ivette. After her letter to me, I’d written her back describing how life in the U.S. was different, but nice. I’d told her all about the Baxters and Jennifer. I’d even told her how things in this country were nothing like she thought. How people were helpful, and that it felt great to know that I could speak my mind without fear that someone in the government might not approve. For two months, I hadn’t heard from her, until now.

I tore open the envelope.

I shook my head. This didn’t sound like the Ivette that I knew.

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. How could I explain to Ivette that she was completely wrong about … well, about everything? I continued reading.

Accident?
My heart started to race. A huge lump formed in my throat and a small moan escaped from my lips.

“Everything okay, Lucía?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

I didn’t answer. Instead, all my energy was focused on the letter.

I thought back to all my letters where I asked Papá to be careful. I knew that people who didn’t support the revolution sometimes met with so-called accidents. Could someone have tried to hurt Papá on purpose? It was almost too much to take in. A shaking started from deep inside my body. My knees began to quiver.

The rest of the letter just talked about what else Ivette was doing and what her life was like with the brigades. I couldn’t focus on any of those things. I had to get in touch with Mamá. I stuffed the letter into my skirt pocket.

“Lucía, something’s wrong. What is it?” Mrs. Baxter put her arm around me.

“It’s my father. He’s been hurt. I have to talk to Mamá. I have to!”

“I’ll call.” Mr. Baxter picked up the phone and took out the handwritten instructions on how to make an international call to Cuba.

Frankie walked into the room, still tossing the ball. “What’s going on?”

“No, wait,” I said. “She’s not home.” I turned toward Frankie. “Papá had an accident. He was taken to a hospital in Holguín.” A tear streaked down my face as I looked at Mr. Baxter. “It must be bad if they had to take him there.”

“I’ll contact Father Kirkland at St. Mary’s. He can make some calls and try to get us the hospital’s number.”

*  *  *  *  *

That night, all four of us sat together and prayed the rosary. Before going to bed, Mr. Baxter insisted on placing another call to my house in Cuba … just in case.

It was about eleven-thirty when the phone rang.

Mrs. Baxter ran out of her room, curlers in her hair, wearing a light blue velour robe. I met her by the phone in my own flannel pajamas just as she picked up the receiver. Apparently, neither one of us had been able to go to sleep.