by Johnny Diaz
“Yes, little brother. We brought you pastelitos from Gilbert’s Bakery. We thought you’d like a taste of home. The last time we were here, we couldn’t find any Cuban bakeries.”
I immediately grab the box from her hands and delicately take hold of one of the soft, crispy pastries. As soon as I bite into it, the sweet memories of Miami and Mami embrace me like a comforting invisible hug. After my brunches with Mami at Versailles, we would stop by Gilbert’s and pick up a box of pastelitos for the house.
“You know, those pastelitos will be gone by tomorrow,” I say.
“I know. That’s why we also packed a media noche sandwich. It’s in my purse,” Lourdes says, opening her purse to unveil the wrapped and pressed Cuban sandwich. “See, we’ve got you covered.”
After I wolf down the pastelito and try to devise a covert plan to swipe another one without her knowing, we meander through the maze of skywalks and escalators that connect passengers to the various terminals. We finally reach the Central Parking garage smack in the middle of the airport. Ten minutes later, we climb into Tommy’s Jeep, and we’re off to Cambridge.
The whole way, Papi peppers Tommy with questions about his parents, Boston, and the newspaper. As they chat, Lourdes looks out at the gray sky and at the light snow dotting the downtown skyscrapers and financial buildings in the distance. She’s still guarding the box of pastries, which I don’t blame her for doing. If I had my way, I’d eat them all right now and smoke a cigarette, but Tommy won’t let me smoke in his car. Ay, pastelitos!
“Hey, this is like a postcard. Does it always look like this in winter, little brother?”
“Today’s a good day, a light snow. But the other day, we had twelve inches fall in one swoop. Coño! Right, Tommy?”
“You know it! It’s as if Mother Nature was salting the city with a giant dispenser. But you’re in luck. We are only having one or two inches today. No big wup,” Tommy says, in his writerly way.
“I hope you have a humidifier. The artificial indoor heat is bad for the skin and my sinuses. I don’t want to be congested up here. I don’t want to get sick,” Lourdes says.
“Don’t worry. I figured you’d complain about that, so I bought a humidifier. It’ll feel like a rain forest in the apartment.”
As we talk in the backseat, Tommy and Papi chat in the front, which I find a little funny. I wonder if Papi realizes that Tommy is gay. I wonder if he thinks we’re a couple or simply amigos. To some people, amigo can mean friend or friend of the intimate kind.
“Y tu padres? What part of Cuba are they from?” Papi asks, holding on for dear life to the Jeep’s inner door frame. Tommy’s driving has us all bouncing and rocking on the highway as if the truck or SUV or whatever this is was a galloping horse. We just passed the green highway signs directing motorists to Interstate 93, the Mass Pike, and the two tunnels descending below the city.
“My mom is from Havana. My dad is from Matanzas. They live on Miami Beach off Alton Road, by the Fontainebleau hotel. My dad is a waiter at Puerto Sagua. His name is Pepe Perez.”
“Ah, I’ve been to Puerto Sagua. Super buena comida. Maybe I have seen him there.”
“Well, my dad looks like me, but at sixty and without so much curly hair. What he has left is all gray,” says Tommy, pointing to his head of curls.
“Mis padres were from Matanzas tambien,” Papi says with delight, discovering a sliver of a connection with Tommy. “I think all Cubanos are related. Y te gusta Boston, Tommy? Do you miss your padres?”
“I love it here. I do miss Miami, but I have a good job, and you can’t beat the seasons. The last time it snowed in Miami was 1977. I actually remember that. You won’t see this pretty picture en Cuba Norte. And my parents? Well, they call me every night, so it’s hard to miss them. Mi papa always calls me to tell when it’s snowing, raining, or sunny here whenever he watches the Red Sox or Patriots play on television. It makes him feel like he knows where I am.”
“I watch the Red Sox. They’re pretty good.”
“Yeah, they’re the new Yankees!” Tommy says, as Papi high-fives him and laughs in his dry heave.
“So your padres have never visited you aquí?”
“Not yet, Señor Martin. My mom is scared of flying.”
“Call me Aldo. Un amigo de Carlos is a friend of the familia. Verdad, Lourdes?”
“Yes, Papi. Tommy, you’re an unofficial member of the Martin family. Do you realize what you’re getting yourself into?” she jokes in her trademark sarcastic tone.
“Tommy, are you going to have Sanguiven dinner with us? You are invited,” Papi says.
“Sure. No hay problema. If there’s turkey, I’m there.”
I laugh to myself because that’s so true about Tommy.
“How much farther are we?” Lourdes whines. “No offense, but it’s getting a little claustrophobic and bumpy back here in the Jeep.” Lourdes always complains about something. The Martin nag.
“Ten more minutes, and you’ll be home!” Tommy winks through the rearview mirror. After he pays the toll (he refused to let me give him the $4), we descend into the pitch darkness of the narrow Ted Williams Tunnel under the Boston Harbor. As Tommy drives and Papi and Lourdes tell us about their flight, I watch Papi, Lourdes, and Tommy talk as if they’ve known each other for years. Put a group of Cubans together, and they somehow connect, as if they are part of an extended family that is reuniting. I like this scene even though I am squished in the back passenger seat in between Lourdes, those pastelitos, and the luggage. Tommy is bonding with Papi and Lourdes. He’s taking the edge off of having them here.
The following day, I step out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist and another in my hand. In the kitchen, Lourdes prepares the small turkey I had bought earlier in the week for my first Boston Thanksgiving. From the back, she looks like a younger version of Mami. Lourdes’s shoulder-length, light brown hair swings side to side as she ladles some cranberry sauce in one pot and stirs some sweet potato in another.
“Lou, how much food are you cooking? It’s just us and Tommy.”
“It never hurts to have too much. Besides, you’ll have lots of leftovers when we leave on Saturday. You should get a few meals out of this, little brother.”
“Hey, if it saves me money, I’m all for it. I can take some to school for lunch.”
I begin to dry my hair with the second towel and find that Papi is watching ESPN in the living room. I plunk down next to him on the sofa and try to follow the game. I don’t even know who is playing.
“Who’s winning, Papi?”
“Carlito, it’s the Dolphins.”
“Ah, okay. Who is the quarterback, Tom Brady?” Papi shoots me an icy glare. and turns his attention back to the TV. He never liked it when I interrupted his games.
“No, chico. That’s the Patriots, your team here. Maybe you should help Lourdes in the kitchen,” he says, leaning closer to the TV set.
“I was thinking I could show you Fenway Park while Lourdes cooks. It’s only forty degrees outside.”
“Bueno, can we go after the game or after dinner?” It was so much easier when Mami was around. She was our interpreter. She somehow made us understand each other better. Now I’m on my own trying to communicate with Papi. It’s as if we speak different languages, and I’m striking out, as usual. I want Papi to have a nice visit so I leave him alone with the Dolphins. I rise from the sofa and return to the kitchen and try to help Lourdes with the food. But her being the control freak that she is, everything remains under control.
“If you want to help, why don’t you go and buy us some desserts. Maybe an apple or pumpkin pie from the market? Go with Tommy. Isn’t he coming over soon?” She stuffs the turkey. My kitchen counter looks like a cooking demonstration for one of the morning talk shows. Opened plastic bags of beans, unused pots, and spoons top the counter. That’s Lourdes, ever the perfectionist. I do like to cook, but after a long day of teaching, I prefer to stop by Subway or Anna’s Taqueria in Porter Squ
are and grab a beef burrito to go.
“Yeah, he should be on his way. I’ll just go with him,” I say, wrapping the towel around my neck and sniffing the pot of sweet potatoes. Lourdes loves to top them with marshmallows, which makes them even sweeter.
“And maybe you should get dressed in the process. Papi and I don’t need to see you standing there half naked,” she says, nodding her head in disapproval.
“Ay, Lourdes!” I walk away.
As she and Papi disappear into their worlds, I head to my bedroom. I shimmy into my blue jeans, slip on a long-sleeved cotton green shirt, step into my sneakers, and throw on my black wool coat. Facing the mirror, I finger-brush my hair up into brown wisps. It will do for now.
“I’ll be back soon!” I say, before closing the door.
“Be careful driving outside,” Lourdes shouts. Papi is too immersed in the game to notice that I’m leaving.
I walk down the staircase. My footsteps echo the whole way. At the porch, I light a cigarette and dial Tommy.
“Loco, what are you doing?” I sit down on one of the steps to the building’s entrance where I have a grand view of the snow-caked street. Most of the cars that line my block are gone though. People, mostly local Harvard and Tufts students, probably went away for the holidays to see their families. I wish I could have gone away. So far, this Thanksgiving isn’t how I pictured it would be. It feels like I have two formal guests with me who happen to share my blood, last name, and looks.
“Hey, Carlos! I’m by Harvard Square. I should be there in ten minutes,” Tommy says on the other end.
“Okay, I was just wondering where you were. I need you to come with me to buy a pumpkin pie or a dessert. I’ll be downstairs when you pull up.”
“Sure. No problema. How’s it going with your family? Are you okay?” Gloria Estefan’s music plays in the background.
“Yeah, it’s just being with Papi and Lourdes, I feel like I did in Miami after Mami died. I’m the outsider. They’re busy doing their own thing, and I’m pretty much on my own wondering what to do.” The plants in the flower boxes across the street are covered in snow. The trees that mark the sidewalk look like trunks with empty open palms.
“I wouldn’t say that, Carlos. I’m sure they’re trying to be as comfortable as they can be in your home. I bet they’re also adjusting to the weather change. Just let them do what they want and be a good host. It’s not every day that you get to see your family. As long as you spend some quality time with each of them, this will all be worth it. If my mom could magically beam to Boston, she would be here with my dad, but since she’s scared to fly, it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. At least you have your family up here. Remember that!”
“I’m planning to take my dad to Fenway after dinner. Want to come with us? At least you can talk to him about sports and stuff. It will be more fun if you’re there.”
“I think you’re overthinking this whole family visit. Just be yourself and relax. It’ll all work out. It’s your family, not a bunch of strangers. Maybe tomorrow, you can take Lourdes to Copley Square or Quincy Market.”
“Okay, Mr. Boston Tourist Guide. So where are you now?” I’m standing in front of my building and blowing smoke upward and toward the other shoulder-to-shoulder tripledeckers and single family homes. Some neighbors have begun to string holiday lights on their homes.
“Carlos, turn around. I’m right here!” Tommy says, waving from inside of his Jeep with his cell phone. I hop into his Jeep, and we head to the grocery store.
After a scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner and two slices of pumpkin pie, I’m as stuffed as the turkey we ate. My bulging stomach forces me to unbutton my jeans a notch. Lourdes begins to pick up the plates. Papi helps her. Tommy decides to make his exit and head back to Dorchester.
“Bueno, this was a great dinner, Lourdes. Thank you for including me in your holiday.” Tommy hugs her and then extends his hand out to Papi.
“Un placer, Aldo.”
“Thank you for coming over and for picking us up from the airport yesterday. Carlos is going to take me to see Fenway Park in a little while. Quieres ir?” Papi says, patting his full stomach.
“Yeah, come with us,” I urge and emphasize the point by widening my eyes toward Tommy, but it doesn’t work. I can tell Tommy wants to go home because he is gathering his coat and keys. It’s six o’clock. He probably wants to meet up with Mikey.
“Nah, you guys go. Carlos knows how to get there. I need to get home and meet up with another friend.” Friend equals Mikey, who I will meet this weekend after Papi and Lourdes fly back to Miami.
After Tommy says good-bye to everyone, I walk him downstairs. I remember in Coral Gables whenever someone left our house, we stood outside and waved as the person drove off. Some habits stick.
“I guess I’m on my own here. Thanks a lot!”
“You’ll be fine, Carlos. You need to spend time with your dad. Just show him Fenway,” he says, walking behind me down to the porch.
“Okay, but we’re still on for dinner with Mikey on Saturday.”
“You got it.” We hug outside. Tommy hops into his Jeep and drives away. I stand on the porch and wave good-bye, willing him to return and keep me company but to no avail.
Back upstairs, Lourdes decides to spend the night cleaning up and watching The Devil Wears Prada on DVD. It’s her favorite movie. She believes Anne Hathaway is her long-lost sister. There is a slight resemblance, but Lourdes has lighter hair, and she’s not as tall. They definitely share the same penchant for clothes and shopping. As Lourdes cleans, Papi and I gather our coats and prepare for our drive to Fenway Park.
It’s just before 6:30, and Papi and I drive along Massachusetts Avenue, passing the curving old world, crimson streets in Harvard Square. People with coffee cups stroll in the chilly nighttime weather and peek into the shops and merchants’ windows. Along the way, we attempt to make conversation. For some reason, our relationship has always been strained, but he is my father, my one and only parent, so I need to do my best to bridge this huge gap between us.
“Tu amigo is very nice,” he says, sitting in the passenger seat of my Toyota, which he helped me buy when I started studying at FIU eight years ago. Over the years, Papi insisted on changing the oil himself to save me time and money.
“Yeah, he’s a good guy.” I glance at Papi and then turn back to the road.
“Um…is he your, ahem, amigo amigo?” Papi asks awkwardly. He’s looking out the window as we cross the Harvard bridge over the brackish Charles River to Boston.
“No. Tommy is just a friend, not a boyfriend like Daniel was. We hang out and go out, but we’re not dating.” I turn left onto Storrow Drive and head towards Fenway. Hardly any cars dot the road. The city looks abandoned, almost shut down in a cold silence.
“Ah, okay. I didn’t know, Carlito. You two seem to be muy buen amigos.”
“I know. We get along really well. I knew you would like him, but no, he’s not my boyfriend. It’s the same as with you and your friend José. You play baseball together on Sundays in Tropical Park and you drink. You’re friends. That’s how we are but without the sports. We prefer Project Runway.” On the right, we pass the elongated campus of Boston University, which is dark and vacant except for the standard nighttime fluorescent office lights. Halos rim the other streetlights, which reflect against the Charles River, illuminating its black murky water.
I drive onto the Storrow Drive overpass to Kenmore Square, and I notice Papi absorbing the city. I point out the large, red, glowing Citgo sign that he always spots on TV when he watches the Red Sox play their home games. I show him the expensive red and beige brick brownstones that dot Commonwealth Avenue as they did three hundred years ago.
“And down the street over there is more of Boston University. This area is full of college students. It’s one of their hangouts.” I point to Beacon Street and the shoulder-to-shoulder restaurants, pizza shops, and swank hotels. The subway stop sits in the middle of the square. As w
e drive over the turnpike overpass, the green hulking edge of Fenway Park sits on our left side on Lansdowne Street, which is crowded with more college students and visitors. So this is where everyone is tonight!
“Papi, right there. That’s Fenway Park.”
He opens the window and a gust of cold air rushes in. Papi’s eyes gaze at the green-colored back end of the stadium.
“And that’s the green monster, or that’s what people here call it,” I say with an air of authority. I feel smart that I knew that. Some of my students had told me about Fenway at the start of the school year.
“Can we walk around?”
“Sure, Papi.”
I take a loop around the stadium and by luck, I find a parking space near Yawkey Way on the other side of the stadium where the main entrance sits. As we step out of the car, Papi looks up and takes in all the angles. He wears the same enthusiasm as a kid visiting Disney World for the first time. For baseball fans, Fenway is Disney.
We walk along Yawkey Way where flags featuring the Red Sox World Series championships sail along the side of the stadium.
“Carlito, can you take a photo?” With folded hairy arms and a confident smirk, Papi poses along the mural of David Ortiz and Mike Lowell. I snap a photo.
“We need one of us,” he suggests.
“Ay, Papi. Do we have to? I can take another one of you.” I’m embarrassed. I feel like I’m a kid when Papi snapped photos of all of us wherever we traveled on vacation at the end of the school year. It was the annual Martin family trip.
“Just ask someone to take our photo. How often are we here together in front of Fenway, el famoso Fenway? This is historic, Carlito.”
I feel obliged so I ask a passerby, a young woman with curly red hair and matching freckles. She smiles and agrees to help us out.
“Smile!” she says in a cheerleader tone.
Papi puts his arm around me and leans his head against mine. I stop trying to resist. I start to laugh when Papi quickly messes up my hair again. Flash. Snap. Done.
