Beantown Cubans

by Johnny Diaz

  Mikey gets up, and I follow him to the building’s steel railing that faces the parking lot. We position ourselves to lean over the railing. Down the street, cars speed by and a lone jogger runs and breathes heavily.

  “I know. I know. I’ll get some help. I’m a counselor. I know all this stuff. It’s just different when you’re on the other side of it. There’s something else you don’t know about me.”

  I brace myself against the railing. What other bomb can Mikey drop on me this afternoon? Where is this all coming from? How did I miss the signs?

  “Out with it,” I say, my puffs of breath marked by the forty-degree weather.

  “Last year, I was really social because of the alcohol. When I don’t drink, I can be very shy, painfully shy.”

  “You?” I say incredulously.

  “Yeah, cutie. I feel very awkward in social settings or gatherings. The beer would take care of that. And now that I don’t drink, I don’t feel comfortable being around new people.”

  Mikey smiles downward.

  “But with me, you’re very chatty and gregarious. You’re not shy at all.”

  “That’s the thing. I already knew you, and I feel I can be myself around you. When you ambushed me with your friend, I had all this anxiety inside me. I was panicky. I took out it on you, and I regret that. You were trying to be nice and introduce me to another nice person. I’m so sorry, Tommy. I’ll never do that again.”

  I’ve heard those words before, a soundtrack that replays in my mind. The first time was last year when he swore he wouldn’t drink. Now he’s swearing he won’t disappoint me, but he always does. He deflates my spirit with his empty promises.

  “This is a lot to absorb all at once. I don’t know what else to say. I can be there for you, but not if you keep disappointing me like this. I don’t deserve this. No one does. My life should be free of strife. I deserve to be happy, in a stable relationship.”

  Mikey gently grabs me by the waist and turns me toward him. We face one another, brown eyes to blue eyes gazing at each other.

  “All I know is that I love you very much, Tommy Perez, and I want you in my life, and I will do whatever it takes to control my moods and actions.”

  “I love you too, but you need to work on yourself a bit more. Why don’t we use this time during the holidays as way of taking a break? I’m not talking about a break-up or anything but as a time to figure out what’s going on and where things stand. I need this time away.”

  “I can still call you while you’re in Miami, right?” Mikey fingers the back of my bushy curls.

  “Of course. I want to hear your voice on Christmas Day. But seriously, Mikey, please take this time to really reflect on your alcoholism and your shyness. You should find someone to talk to, maybe your sponsor. You need a different kind of support than I can offer.”

  “I know, and I’ll get it.”

  We hug in a strong embrace and kiss outside my building.

  “I promise I’ll get better.”

  “I know, but you have to do that on your own. I’ve run out of second chances. Got it?”

  “Yeah, cutie.”

  “While you’re here, I could use another kind of support. Can you take me to the airport? My flight is in a few hours.”

  “Sure, cutie. Anything for you.”

  Mikey wraps his arm around me. We venture back inside my building into the warmth of my condo. But his revelation stays with me. I rode this rollercoaster relationship once with Mikey. I don’t want the drama and emotional turmoil that Mikey manages to import into my life. Something has emotionally shifted within me. A brick wall has begun to ribbon my heart. A few days in Miami with my family is exactly what I need right now. No matter what happens in my life, being back home helps me put things in perspective. Maybe there, I’ll realize what I should do about Mikey, but I think I already know.

  23

  Carlos

  Ay, Miami! How did I ever live in this thick heat? It envelopes me like the suffocating steam from a sauna as I stand and wait outside Miami International Airport in Arrivals for Papi and Lourdes. I immediately peel off my coat and baseball cap to cool off. I leave on my Made In America With Cuban Parts T-shirt and blue jeans. The city’s hot breath causes my clothes to stick to my body. Even at the airport, the tropical vapor ruffles my hair. I definitely don’t miss this uncomfortable heat at all. I need another shower.

  One by one, cabs slowly pull up toward me and then drive off when I don’t acknowledge them. Idling rental cars and vans wait for customers. With the back of my hand, I wipe off a film of sweat from my forehead. Que calor! Just when I think I am going to dissolve into a Latino puddle of sweat, I spot Papi’s light blue Chevrolet Impala approaching. He always loved that car, and he treats it as though it were a Cadillac. It’s ten years old and in mint condition. Papi and Lourdes wave from the front seats. As Papi turns on his hazard lights, Lourdes steps out and hugs me. Papi follows and pats me hard on the back.

  “Did you have a good trip, Carlito?” Papi greets me. He loads my luggage into the trunk as the soundtrack of the beeping cars and revving engines plays in the background.

  “Yeah, it was a smooth flight. Very packed. But no food. I had to drink a Sprite to hold me over. Tengo hambre!”

  “Well, some Versailles take-out will take care of that,” Lourdes says, grabbing my coat. “We picked up some food on the way. We got your favorite, chicken steak with plantains.”

  “Yum! I can’t wait. Thanks, Lou. I’ll eat it on the way to the house.” Papi shuts the trunk, and we all hop into the cool, air-conditioned car.

  “No problem, little brother. It’s nice to have you back home,” she says, as Papi pulls away from the airport and toward Coral Gables…home.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the driveway of our butter-yellow house (Mami’s favorite color). The image disturbs me. Mami’s flowers wilt as if they’re depressed, missing her presence. The grass lacks its verdant sheen. The tablet stones, which mark a trail from the sidewalk to the front door, are overgrown with weeds. The stones mix in with the grass. Mami would be so upset that her lawn and garden have been left unattended. It’s not a complete mess, but it’s definitely not the way it was.

  As I step out of the car, I lean against its door and stare at our house. This house is me and all of me, and I’ve abandoned it. A cloud of guilt hovers over me for leaving this behind for Boston. So many layered memories float to the surface, and I remember them as if they happened yesterday. I remember how Mami squatted down and tended to her garden. She snipped some of her best blooms, wrapped them in newspaper, and offered them to guests. I recall how Lourdes confused the drive and reverse gears and almost crashed Mami’s Toyota into the garage door when she learned to drive. The warm memory of shirtless Papi sitting in his beach chair and listening to a baseball game on his A.M. handheld radio flashes before me. I remember how Gata Linda, our fluffy gray outdoor cat, loved to lounge on the front door welcome mat that read Casa Martin, but guests could only read Martin because Linda’s big furry butt blocked the first word. The mat was her special place. It was next to the sprouting potted fern, which she chewed on to get our attention, much to Mami’s dismay. Gata Linda perked up and me-owed whenever one of us dashed in and out of the house. I bet Linda keeps Mami company in heaven—or at the very least, in her dreams.

  We stroll into the house and a familiar scent of home embraces me. The air of my childhood. It’s a mix of old wood, lavender air freshener, and a hint of Mami’s perfume. Even though it’s been a year since she died, the fragrance remains, and in a way, so does Mami.

  With my carry-on bag on my shoulder, I hang a left from the tiled hallway and head toward my bedroom. The door creaks open, and the sight of my room makes me feel like a kid. But the room feels and looks much smaller than I remember. Inside, I notice Lourdes has cleaned up. The smell of Lysol mountain scent permeates the room. My twin bed continues to wear my light-blue comforter and yellow sheets. My graduation diplomas from
elementary school through high school bedeck the space above my wooden desk, which is strewn with my old literature books from high school and college. On the second shelf sits a photo of Mami and me kneeling in front of her garden with Gata Linda at our feet. A smile appears on my face.

  As I look around, I realize that these walls don’t contain much of me anymore. Lourdes has slowly taken it over as an extended office for her real estate business. She gathered some of my belongings, from my high school yearbook to my notebooks and essays, and stacked them inside a white plastic bin in the corner. At least my pair of tennis rackets, which I used to play with Mami when I was ten years old, leans against the corner of the closet door. Lourdes also took down some of my posters of Spain, Cuba, and France, places I would like to visit one day. I can’t be too upset with my sister because, technically, I no longer live here. When I moved, I packed everything I could and exported it to Cambridge. What’s left behind are items that I didn’t want to take with me such as my old clothes and old student papers. Sleepy from my morning flight (or the Miami heat), I decide to take a nap in my old bed, the one Papi and Mami surprised me with when I turned seven years old. It squeaks whenever I sit on it, but it’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever had. I slip out of my sneakers, stretch, lay down, and pass out. Que rico!

  Later that afternoon, I lazily climb out of bed, stretch like a cat, and head into the kitchen for something to drink. After grabbing a glass of milk, I bound into the living room and notice there’s no Christmas tree by the chimney. None of our stockings, each with our names sewn on the rims, hang along the mantle. Each wall features a framed large picture of the family. There’s a photograph of Lourdes’s tenth birthday party. We are sandwiched between our parents and a princess-themed cake. Another framed photograph captures the four of us standing in front of the garden before we drove to Marco Island for vacation. I was eighteen at the time. The most recent photograph was taken two years ago before Mami got sick. It shows Mami with a big smile on her face. She wears a pink blouse and white pants as she embraces all three of us with her head leaning against my shoulder. After I take a personal inventory of the frames, I notice Lourdes lying on the rattan sofa with the floral print. She is reading Latina magazine.

  “You’re finally up, little brother! We thought you were going to sleep through your vacation.” She perks up on the sofa. I sit down next to her.

  “It was the flight. I’m just tired.” I yawn and sip some milk. “How come there’s no Christmas tree?”

  “Because Papi didn’t want one. We shouldn’t be celebrating Christmas, Carlos. Not with Mom gone.”

  “I know, but shouldn’t we respect Mom’s wishes? You know she would have wanted us to at least have a tree.” I leaf through the fashion and sports magazines on the coffee table. My feet press against the cold beige Mexican tile that lines most of the house’s floors. The central air quietly hums in the background, and the afternoon’s natural light slants through the window blinds, casting shadows on the tile.

  “Then you talk to Papi! He snapped at me when I brought it up, but that was before we knew you were coming. We thought you were going to stay in Boston for Christmas with your friend Tommy.” As she talks, her eyes remain fixed on the magazine.

  “Maybe we can buy a tree. It’s not too late. Christmas is the day after tomorrow.”

  “Then talk to Papi! Besides, picking out the tree was something you and Mami did together. Papi also thought it would be too hard on you to do that this year without her.”

  “Lou, what hasn’t been hard without Mami around? I think in her honor, we should find a big, beautiful tree. Speaking of Papi, where is he?”

  “He’s at the store, checking up on his employees. You know he can’t stay away from the business too long. It’s in his blood. It’s almost an obsession.”

  “Yeah, I remember. While he was always working, we were here with Mami. When he was here, he was calling the store. Anyway, how about if we surprise him with a tree? We can go to the lot on LeJeune Road, buy a tree, and have it decorated before he gets back.”

  “What if he gets mad?” Lourdes says, now looking up at me over the rim of the magazine.

  “Well, you can deal with him. You’re closer to him than I am.”

  “Don’t say that. He loves us both. Equally.”

  “Yeah, but he’s more comfortable with you, Lou.” She puts down the magazine, and her eyebrows narrow. She leans in closer to me.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I was always with Mami, and you were always with Papi. That’s how it always was. I don’t know why, but it was.”

  Lourdes tilts her head and frowns.

  “Not exactly. That’s how you saw things, Carlos. I loved Mami and Papi equally. It didn’t matter which one I was with. I was happy either way, but you never wanted to hang out with Papi, and I always noticed that. So I did my best to be there when you weren’t, to show him that at least one of his kids wanted to spend time with him.”

  Que cosa? I’m confused. I was always with Mami because I got along better with her. Papi was always with Lourdes. We each clung to a different parent. It happens.

  “You’re wrong, Lou. I hung out with Mami more because Papi was always working. If he wanted to spend time with me, he could have,” I say, in an accusatory tone.

  Lourdes shakes her head and sighs.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, little brother. Papi sensed that you never wanted to hang out with him, so he gravitated toward me. Mami tried to fill that void by always being with you and by doing things together as a family. For a teacher, you can be pretty dense sometimes.”

  “But we don’t really get along,” I blurt out, leaning back against the soft rattan sofa. My right leg folds across my left knee. I look away.

  “Because you guys never really tried, or at least you didn’t. It’s this stupid Latin macho thing. Instead of dealing with your issues, you go to someone else and run away. Jesus! He’s okay with you being gay. He had trouble with it at first, but Mami helped him deal with it. So you don’t have any excuses for not having hung out with him more when you were younger.”

  I evaluate Lourdes’s words: “Papi sensed that you never wanted to hang out with him, so he gravitated toward me.” I would never intentionally hurt Papi like that. Did I really push him aside all these years? Ay no! It can’t be.

  “But Lou, he never made any time for me. He never seemed cool with the gay thing.”

  “Ay, Carlos! He worked so hard so we could have a nice life, this beautiful house, an education. You always seemed jealous of his hours at the business. He tried to make time for you, but you always pushed him away. And he was cool with you being gay, after a while. Didn’t he meet and get along with your friend Tommy? Papi knew he was gay, but he also sensed he was your friend, the platonic kind. Papi has come a long way. Think about it. If Papi spent more time with you when you were younger and if you had let him, I bet you guys would be closer.

  “Look at what happened in Boston during Thanksgiving. Papi kept talking about how his son took him to Fenway Park. He showed his store employees your photos. He’s very proud of you, little brother, even though he might not always show it.”

  “He did?” I rub my fingers against my temples and try to process everything Lourdes is sharing with me. My eyes begin to glisten at the thought of Papi flashing our photos to his customers and employees. It really was a fun night, exploring Fenway. It’s a recent memory that we made that makes me smile.

  “He framed one of the photographs and hung it in his office. The top of the frame reads: Having a ball! Listen, little brother, I know we’ve never been super close, mostly because you thought you knew everything when you clearly did not, but we have only one parent left. We need to make the best of our relationship with Papi. I’m close to Papi, but he needs both his children, now more than ever that Mami is gone. I can’t do it all by myself here.”

  When did Lourdes become so wise? Here, I thought I was her pesky
little brother. It’s not that I thought she didn’t care for me. We never seemed to have a lot in common, but we did. We both loved our mother and father, in different ways. Shouldn’t that be enough of a commonality?

  “So how about if we go shopping for a tree? My treat. And we can decorate it before Papi gets home from work? It would be fun, Lou.”

  “I think Papi might like that. We need to make this house festive again, give it some life. Sometimes I think I’m going to see Mom in the kitchen when I wake up in the morning. It’s been a hard adjustment. Having you here helps take the edge off, little brother, especially now during the holidays.”

  “I know the feeling. Everywhere I look, I think I see or hear Mami. I guess it takes time. Let me get changed, and we’ll go to the tree lot. Later on, we can bake some of Mami’s gingerbread cookies.”

  “But we don’t have the recipe. She always did it from memory, and we forgot to get it from her,” Lourdes says. She gets up and leaves the magazine on the glass coffee table. She begins to walk to her bedroom to change clothes.

  “Actually, I do have the recipe. It’s a long story,” I call out to her.

  As Lourdes gets ready, I scrutinize the framed photos on the walls again. In Lourdes’s birthday photo, it’s the four of us. I study it. Papi looks as if he’s trying to show affection toward me. His eyes look downward, and he smiles in my direction. But my body language—my shoulders lean in the opposite direction—suggests that I was pulling away. Mami, with her tender grin, stood between us as a bridge. In the other photo, we stand as four in front of the house. The poses are similar. Papi stands behind me with his hands on my shoulder, and he smiles down at me. I scrutinize the photo some more, and I notice that my body shifted more toward Lourdes and Mami. I cast a similar pose in the other group photos. Could Lourdes be right? All this time, Papi tried to connect with me, but I passively kept him at bay and sought Mami for comfort. I blink back some tears at the realization. I have acted selfishly and hurtful toward my dad, Papi. A pang of shame overtakes me.