Tomorrow They Will Kiss (16 page)

When we first got to Union City, I made Ernestico write a letter to his grandparents. I knew both my parents were furious
with me, but thought that if they heard from the children, who knows, maybe it would soften them a little.

I sat him down at the aluminum dining room table with a clean sheet of paper and a well- sharpened pencil.

“What do I say?” he asked me.

“Just tell them about your life here; your school, your new friends.”

“I don’t have any friends here.”

“Well, then just tell them that you miss them.”

“But I don’t.”

“They love you. Don’t you remember how nice they were to you?”

He didn’t say anything. I could see memories and doubt cloud his face.

“Do it anyway,” I said. “Sometimes we have to say things until we mean them.”

“Isn’t that like lying?”

“Just do it.”

So he hunched over and created a list of lies that ended with,
“We miss you very much, your loving grandson, Ernestico.”

“Here,” he growled, handing the sheet of paper to me as if it was on fire.

As much as he hated writing that letter, afterward he was anxious to receive one back from them. Every day he asked me if
they’d written. The answer was always no.

“Maybe it got lost in the mail,” I told him. “Write another one.” Which he did, this time with a little more sincerity. But
when they still didn’t write back, we stopped doing that. He never mentioned it again, but I sensed his disappointment, like
only a mother can. Ernestico was the sort of boy who hid his feelings very deep inside, but I knew he was hurt. I could see
it in his eyes.

I talked to Raquel about it because she had children too. I waited until we were in the clock- out line at the end of the
workday.

“The reason you don’t hear from them,” she said, “is because the mail is censored.”

“I think they were happy to see us go, and are happy that we’ve stayed gone,” I said as I slid my time card into the clock
for a stamp.

After Raquel had clocked out, we walked across the parking lot and took our seats in the van.

“It worries me,” Raquel said, “that hardly any mail goes into Cuba unopened.”

Imperio and Caridad had been walking closely behind us and now joined in the conversation as if they’d been invited.

“I hear they open everything,” Imperio said. “Every letter, every package. And if there is anything suspicious or that they
think could be code for something counterrevolutionary, they burn it.”

“Just the thought of those grubby hands touching my envelopes makes me crazy,” Raquel said.

“It’s the mail from us to them that gets all their attention. You know they take the money out and keep it,” Caridad said.
“And they read everything you write out loud and laugh. Imagínate. It’s like a party there in that post office when they get
hold of a letter from one of us. The more you talk about your life here, the louder they laugh. They pocket your money and
they laugh.”

“Especially if you say you’re working in a factory,” Imperio said. “Por Dios, I hope you don’t write to them about that!”

Raquel didn’t say anything, because that was exactly what she was doing. Writing letters that described her shabby life in
Union City, and along with the twenty- dollar bill she enclosed, she was also apologetically telling her relatives how hard
life was here, how difficult it was working in a factory, and how she wished she could send more. I could see her sealing
the envelopes with her tears.

Leticia turned the key and the motor started. While she waited for it to warm up, she said, “I tell them I drive a big yellow
van, that I eat steak every night, and that I have never been to the shoe repair. When I wear out a pair, I buy new ones.
Let them eat their hearts out.”

And with that she shifted into reverse and maneuvered us out of the parking lot without looking back.

“So you never write to anyone in Cuba?” Imperio asked me.

A simple question if it had come from anyone else.

“No,” I said.

“No one?” Caridad asked. She didn’t dare look at Imperio, but they were dying to exchange a knowing glance. She kept her tone
light and curious, as if this was just a simple question she would ask anyone.

I had known this day would come, as sure as I knew my own name. They had been dying to bring it up. I could see it in every
movement of their eyes, the way Imperio’s and Caridad’s backs straightened whenever I climbed into the van. Sure, they were
all smiles and greetings and happy to talk about the telenovelas. But I also knew there was a little topic in their minds
that they wanted to discuss. And I wasn’t going to let them have even a little bit of it. I had loved and lost and had no
need to repeat it for their amusement.

I felt Berta’s and Raquel’s eyes on me. What sort of heartless person was I that I just severed all connection with everyone
back in my country? But of course neither Berta nor Raquel was about to say anything. Berta rarely heard from her son in Venezuela,
and Raquel wanted to keep her mysterious circumstances mysterious.

“Niiiiñas, I’m sure Graciela has her reasons,” Leticia said.

Then it was like someone had sucked all the air out of the van.

It wasn’t that Leticia was coming to my defense. Her statement was implying something else. And it was then I knew that she
knew about Ernesto and Pepe.

Of course she knew. Of course Caridad and Imperio had told her all the juicy details. I had been discussed with wide eyes
and arched eyebrows. Dissected with such excitement that their lips flapped and their mouths watered.

But hearing it from them, secondhand, was not the same as hearing it from me. They had no proof.

Suddenly the van felt hot and crowded. My arm was rubbing up against Imperio’s. That would not have bothered me before. But
now it made me nauseous. I moved myself away from her. I didn’t want to be in contact with any of them. Particularly Imperio.
I just wanted to get home.

I knew that Imperio and Caridad were not going to give up. That this chismoseo would continue endlessly. They not only wanted
me to tell them what really happened back in Palmagria, they wanted more. They wanted to hear how sorry I was that I had done
what I did. They wanted a confession and a repentance. They wanted some sort of reason.

They wanted me on my knees.

And this was exactly what I was not willing to do.

I didn’t even want to think about it. I kept quiet for a few minutes, looking out the window, but I could sense their anticipation,
as if at any moment I was going to turn back to them and start reciting a very painful episode from my past, like it was an
old poem or the plot of a telenovela.

They would have loved that.

Instead I kept my sights on the passing scenery. The bitter winter had given way to an unbelievably beautiful spring. Where
there had once been nothing but dirty ice and gray pools of water, now the most incredible violets and geraniums bloomed.
They were everywhere: hanging from planters on balconies, growing out of cracks in the sidewalk, filling the islands that
divided the traffic.

The trees, thick with leaves, cast cool shadows on the asphalt.

Even the buildings had taken on color. All winter long they had been darkened by the damp air and melting snow, but now the
gentle sunlight brought out the warm, dry tones of the russet brick, brown wood, and green patterns of ivy on cement. Rows
of windows reflected the blue sky. The air outside was cool and breezy. In the winter months people had dashed from one warm
place to another; now they walked the streets leisurely, the women in light pastel sweaters, the children in short pants,
the men in light- colored suits of gray or tan. How was I to know that my anger toward Pepe was to be just like one of these
Union City winters? That in time the ice would melt and I would find myself as vulnerable and quivering as a spring blossom?

Looking back, I can see how lost I was. How trusting. He made promises and I believed him. “After the Revolution, preciosa,”
he said. “After the Triumph, tesoro.” It was always after this happens and after that happens. And I knew how important it
all was to him. But I was twenty- two and single. All the girls I knew were married and starting their families. I had seen
it happen too many times, women who waited and waited and then one day found themselves gray- haired and bitter. I was not
going to let that happen to me.

“Pepe, the Revolution came and went,” I said to him. “And what about me? What about us?”

He stroked my naked body, and I immediately forgot what I had asked him.

“Be patient, mi corazón,” he said. “There’s still a lot of work to be done.”

“There’s a man who wants me,” I said. It was a trick and an obvious one, but I was reaching desperation.

“We’ll talk about it when I return, preciosa,” Pepe said.

I was tired of sweet words. No one made me feel the way he did. Every touch was heaven. I adored him, and climbed into his
bed every chance I got. Every single time. All he had to do was signal and I was his.

But I also had to think of myself. He went to the sierras again to teach the guajiros how to read. He put them before me.
He always would. I had my answer.

Months later, when he returned, I didn’t have the will to resist him. I was a married lady with a good life and I made a horrible
mistake. But I’m not sorry. I see no point in regrets. Maybe I’m sorry with the way things turned out. Particularly with Ernesto.
But what can I do about that? When I married Ernesto, I knew that it wouldn’t be easy, that he wasn’t the love of my life.
But I was willing to move forward, to enter a new life. I made the right choice, as if I could tell my heart how to feel.
As if I could tell my soul who to love. As if I could tell my body who to desire. I can honestly say that I thought Pepe Medina
Ynclán and I were over and done with. I really believed that chapter had ended. I was so angry at him, I didn’t think I would
ever let him back into my life. I thought the anger would last forever, that it would protect me, harden me to his charms.

As my wedding day approached, I had a nasty, nagging thought that would not go away. On the morning of my wedding, as I laid
out the beautiful white gown and veil on my bed, I kept hoping that Pepe would come to the church and put a stop to the ceremony.
I imagined him shouting that he objected; that he was sorry, that he’d been a fool. I would throw down my bouquet and run
into his arms. It was a fantasy that haunted me, and that I braced myself against.

No, I told myself, you can’t do that to Ernesto. He’s a good man. He’s worth a thousand Pepes. If Pepe comes to the wedding
and makes a scene, you must take Ernesto’s arm and stand by him. You must denounce Pepe as a liar and a fool and have him
dragged screaming from the church. And I knew that there were plenty of men who were willing to do just that. No one was going
to let Pepe Medina Ynclán make an ass out of Ernesto de la Cruz on his wedding day. It wasn’t going to happen.

All through my brief courtship with Ernesto, my mother and father endured his visits, and as soon as he left they went into
their bedroom and closed the door. But at least they were somewhat gracious to his face. It wasn’t that they preferred Pepe.
They just knew from the start what took me a long time to learn.

Even on the day of my wedding, my mother insisted that Ernesto was a mistake.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s my mistake to make.”

“You don’t love him,” my mother said as the boy from the bakery brought in my wedding cake. I waited until the delivery boy
left. The last thing I needed was for him to go back to the bakery with chismes. Everyone went to the bakery at least once
a day. Letting him overhear anything would have been like putting my personal life on the radio.

“I’ll learn to love him,” I told her. And I meant it. But she wouldn’t hear of it.

“You think I don’t know you?” she said. “I know you too well. I know there is someone else. I see how you look when you come
home. I sense it in you, I can smell it. All I can think of are all the babies God denied me, and you are the one he chose
for me. You’ve been giving yourself to a man who used you, and now that you’re getting older you’ve chosen this unfortunate
creature for a husband. A man too deep in grief and memories to know what he’s doing. You will bring disgrace to your father.
Ernesto is an important man, so you’d better be sure of what you’re doing. I can’t stop you, I could never stop you. All your
life you’ve been willful and disobedient. So what can I expect of you? You say you’ll learn to love him? Ya veremos, we’ll
see. But if you’ve ever had an ounce of respect for me, you’ll go talk to Ernesto right now and call this wedding off. Today
you can start doing what’s right.”

“Mamá, how can you say this to me? You’re my mother. I’m getting married in a few hours.”

“I had to clear my conscience. I had to be a mother.”

“But you just called me a whore.”

“I did not use that word,” she said. “It’s not a word that comes easily to me, particularly in regard to my own daughter.
But perhaps you do know yourself. Perhaps you do. Only you know what you’ve done to yourself.”

“Yes, I’ll admit —”

“No,” she interrupted. “I can’t listen to your confession. Do you honestly think I can sit here and listen to the disgusting
details of your life?”

“Mamá!”

She raised her hand to silence me once and for all and left the room. I wanted to tell her that I had been stupid. That I
had trusted a man who didn’t love me. I wanted her to comfort me, to bless me, to teach me what she knew about being a good
wife.

Moments later Ernesto and a friend delivered a case of champagne. He was full of good cheer. He kissed my mother’s cheek while
she swallowed her tongue.

“Is everything all right?” Ernesto asked me.

“Yes.”

“You seem upset,” he said.

“Just a little nervous,” I told him. He smiled at me and took my hands in his.

“That’s only natural.”

I nodded in agreement and forced a smile and he left without kissing me.