by Rosa Jordan
“That’s his reason,” Franci went on. “But I have my reasons too.”
Celia looked up in surprise. “Your reason for what?”
“For not wanting kids.” At Celia’s questioning look, she stabbed the butter knife toward the garage apartment and backyard cottage. “Them. They’d criticize everything I did. It would be bad enough for me. But for the child, can you imagine? They’d be on that baby like vultures on roadkill. Then there would be the religious wars, with each of them determined to induct it into her particular religion, holy water, chicken blood, who knows what?”
Morosely, Franci munched her buttered bread. “Philip and I went into this mother arrangement with our eyes open. We knew they’d be taking more and more of our time as they got older. Having them nearby we could see them often, but in shorter segments, and not have to waste all that time running back and forth.”
“And you thought they would be company for each other.”
“Yes, and it worked out just the way we hoped. Also, Philip and I figured out in advance what they were likely to do that could divide us, and came up with strategies to defend ourselves. But you can’t teach an infant or toddler to defend itself against manipulative love. Not to mention competitive love, which theirs surely would be.”
Franci began clearing the table. “The only way would be if I quit my job and stayed home to protect the poor kid.” She stopped, dishes in hand, dark eyes wide with unshed tears. “The honest truth is, much as I want a child, I don’t want one enough to give up my career.”
Celia carried their glasses to the sink and put her arms around Franci. “Have I told you lately what a wise, intelligent, thoughtful woman you are?”
“Well, not lately,” Franci conceded. “But compliments sound more sincere when you space them out. Now tell me, did you get a hot shower at El Saltón last night?”
“Well, no. The water was not hot, and it was not El Saltón. As soon as I get myself in and out of one here, I’ll tell you where I went. But you take yours first. I’ll do the dishes.”
“No!” Franci blocked the sink with her body. “I already took a shower. This afternoon, after I finished ‘alluring’ Philip.” She gave Celia a push. “Go! I wash two bowls, two spoons, and two glasses while you wash one you. Then we’ll meet in my bedroom for a pyjama party, and you will tell me all about what you’ve been up to for the past thirty hours.”
Standing in the shower, Celia again argued with herself over whether to tell Franci about the hallucinations. It would have been hard enough before. Now she could not imagine trying to explain it, even to her best friend—or maybe especially to her best friend. Franci would want to link the Camandancia episode to Celia’s mother and urge her to examine that relationship. It might look relevant but Celia was certain it was not. That was the trouble with using your best friend as a shrink, she thought with a wry smile. Not only does she know you too well; you know her too well and know in advance exactly what she’d say.
So no, she would not go there. Not on this trip anyway. Franci’s domestic problems had completely extracted her from her own hallucinatory world and its spillover into real life. She would think of something personal to tell Franci; after all, that was a cardinal rule of female friendship: confidences must be repaid with confidences. But it would not be about Celia Sánchez and Fidel Castro, much less about Celia Cantú and a bearded stranger named Miguel Ortega Ramos.
TWENTY
CELIA found Franci sitting up against the headboard of her king-sized bed. “Very alluring,” she purred, batting her eyes at Franci’s oversized white T-shirt decorated with nautical signal flags.
“You bet.” Franci grinned, passing Celia a pillow. “Anytime I get, um, you know, I just signal the Navy.”
Celia climbed onto the bed next to Franci and adjusted the pillow. Countless hours of their adolescence and college years had been spent like this, backs against the headboard of one or the other’s bed, Celia’s sun-browned legs stretched out alongside Franci’s longer, darker ones, sharing secrets and using each other as sounding board and morale booster. They still got together two or three times a year, but hardly ever one on one anymore.
“What a treat!” Celia murmured. Even though she had more to conceal from Franci now than before, she felt less tense.
“So where did you spend the night?” Franci asked.
“In Santo Domingo. This morning I hiked up to La Comandancia de La Plata.”
“You’re kidding! You drove all that way? What on earth for? Wasn’t it raining? It poured here.”
Celia ignored the question about the rain. Rain, at least that rain, felt too intimate to discuss. Instead she said, “I intended to go to El Saltón, but it felt good to be driving so I kept going. Around Bayamo I started thinking about Joaquín, which started me thinking about my father. And thinking about him started me thinking about my mother.”
“And that took you to La Comandancia?” Franci surmised.
“I guess. I knew she was recruited by Celia Sánchez; they talked about it that one time my mother took me to visit her. And Mamá was proud of the fact that she got her medic training from Che. But since she spent most of the war under Raúl’s command in the Oriente, and that was where she met my father, their war stories were all about what happened there. Especially the casualties they suffered in the bombing raids. Veterans were forever telling Carolina and me how our mother’s nursing saved their life.”
Celia scratched a mosquito bite on her ankle. “Those old duffs could get so angry, just recounting how Batista’s bombers were allowed to run raids from the US base in Guantánamo.” Celia paused and glanced at Franci. “You know what I mean? They were the wounded, yet it was the politics of the situation they relived. Only Mamá talked about the human tragedies.”
Franci nodded sagely. “It’s a gender thing. And an experience thing. Bombs would have made the men feel helpless. The aftermath, bloody as it was, would have made nurses like your mom feel competent, even powerful.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, because of that I always associated her with the Oriente and never thought much about the month she spent at La Comandancia.”
“So how was it?”
“Good. On the walk up I met a man who was there at the same time, although he was just a child and didn’t remember her.”
Celia paused and deliberately directed Franci’s attention away from the Comandancia. “Do you remember her, Franci?”
“Sure! Not that kids take much notice of their friends’ parents. But later, when we were in college. Remember the time we took the train to visit her in the hospice?”
“I still feel guilty that I didn’t spend more time with her at the end.” Celia continued, scratching the mosquito bite until it bled.
“Stop scratching,” Franci commanded. “I’ve told you before you must not feel guilty about that. I have counselled terminal patients. Some are depressed, some are angry, some are resigned. But all say the most difficult part of dying is watching the anguish of people they love. It only adds to their suffering.”
When Celia did not respond, Franci continued. “Your mother could have spent her last year in a Habana hospital. Or at home, for that matter. She was the one who asked to be sent to a hospice in the country.”
Celia nodded. “She loved horses. She said she wanted to be where she could look out the window and see them anytime.”
“So that old hacienda was perfect. I don’t think the government could have found a better use for it. I liked the way they let horses graze on lawn.”
Celia smiled. “She used to ask for extra sugar, not in her coffee but on the side. She fed it to the horses out the window.”
“It was perfect,” Franci repeated. “Close enough to Habana that she could call you and Carolina when she felt well enough, but far enough away that you couldn’t visit every day and she didn’t have to watch you watching her deteriorate.”
“I suppose,” Celia sighed. “That last visit, remember how we sat on the end of her bed and
massaged her feet?”
“And she started telling us about a lover who used to massage her feet. Oh yeah, I definitely remember that!”
“And that got her talking about all the lovers she had had since my father died.”
“Ay! The look on your face!” Franci chuckled. “You didn’t have a clue.”
Celia shook her head. “I told Carolina later, and she was as astounded as I was. Old compañeros from the war were always dropping by, often staying overnight, before and after my father’s death. Even after she got sick. It never crossed my mind that some of them had been her lovers. Although I should have figured it out. She lived fourteen years after Papá passed away. That is a very long time to sleep alone.”
“She was in good form that day,” Franci smiled. “I remember her saying, ‘Men are like horses. They are bigger than you and stronger than you and you can’t make them do anything. You can only make them want to.’”
Celia giggled. “The man-horse advice I remember was, ‘Never trust a horse or a man until you have observed the beast long enough to understand its basic nature. Not just in tranquil times but how it behaves when it is thwarted or frightened.’”
“Gosh, yes!” Franci exclaimed. “What did we know about horses?”
“What did we know about men ?” Celia shot back. “I never told her I was involved with José, but I think she knew. Not from anything she said then, but later.” Celia gazed pensively into the past. “I sneaked back after visiting hours, to be alone with her.”
“I know. I woke up and you weren’t there and I knew you’d gone to her room.”
“I climbed in the window. She was already awake. As soon as I threw my leg over the sill, she whispered, ‘Quick, Celia, so they don’t catch us!’”
Celia drew her knees up and rested her chin on them. “I crawled into bed with her and we just held each other for a long time. I told her what a good mother she had been.”
“What a gift,” Franci sighed. “That must have meant everything to her.”
Celia turned her gaze to Franci. “What she said was, ‘I never worried too much about being a good mother or a good wife or a good nurse or a good revolutionary. But I have tried to be a good person.’ I asked how I could be a good person too. She said, ‘Think hard about what matters most to you. When you think you know what it is, do it. Or defend it. Be strong. Don’t let other people decide for you.’”
There was a long silence. Then Franci said, “Is that why you didn’t drop out of med school and go to the States with José?”
“That jerk!” Celia exclaimed, surprised that after such a long time her anger could flare so hotly. “Remember how he burst into our room yelling, ‘Let’s go, girl! Sunday morning we’re off this goddamned island for good!’ Did he really think I would throw away four years in medical school just like that?” She snapped her fingers.
Franci laughed. “I remember you started beating him in the face with a rolled-up term paper that you’d spent about twenty hours typing. And when he backed out and was trying to shield himself behind the door but leave it open enough to talk to you, you threw everything in the apartment at him.” Franci got up and went to a bookcase in the corner of the room that held, among other things, old textbooks. She picked one ragged volume and held it up. “You know what book this is?”
“How can I tell? It has no cover.”
“It has no cover because you threw it at José Lago and broke the spine.”
“I never knew that!” Celia exclaimed. “If you had told me, I would have—”
Franci shook her head. “You were in bad shape, hermana. When José walked out on you, a ripped-up textbook was the least of your problems.” She put the book back on the shelf and turned to Celia. “And now he’s here again. What are you going to do?”
Celia shrugged. “José Lago is not my problem anymore.”
Franci gave her a suspicious look. Belatedly, Celia remembered that José’s return was the excuse she had given for needing some alone time, and backtracked. “I did need time to think about it. Mostly about Luis. José being here is harder on him than on me.”
“You could marry Luis.” Franci picked up a hairbrush and began fluffing her Afro. “Not that I’m suggesting—”
“Then don’t,” Celia said tightly.
“So José being back has changed things.”
“No! But, well—” Celia took a deep breath. “José aside, I doubt that I am ever going to be ready to marry Luis. If I could find a kind way of breaking it off with him—”
“Get real, Celia. There’s no ‘kind’ way to dump a guy. Especially if the dump coincides with the appearance of an ex-lover.”
“I know that,” Celia said sulkily, the sulk apparently being part of the regression into adolescent mode.
“I can’t believe you’d be such a knucklehead as to take José back after—!”
“Hey! You’re a certified shrink!” Celia shrieked. “You are supposed to listen attentively and act sympathetic, not call your patient a knucklehead!”
“You are a knucklehead if you—”
“Honestly, Franci, what do you take me for?”
“Uh . . . a woman who hasn’t got her feelings sorted out?”
“About José I do. He is the same manipulative macho he was back then.”
“But sexy?” Franci probed wickedly.
“Okay. Sexy. But for your information, I am not sex-starved. Just because he has a permanent hard-on—”
“Always did,” Franci reminded her.
“—does not mean he is going to turn my head.”
“Did before.”
“Then I probably was sex-starved.” Celia smiled ruefully. “Just not as lucky as you with whom I picked to meet the need.”
Franci sighed luxuriously. “I am lucky, aren’t I? I can’t imagine life without Philip. He’s more than my playmate; he’s my anchor.”
“Luis is a good friend,” Celia said thoughtfully. “But Liliana is my anchor. I can’t imagine life without her.”
For a moment both were silent, studying their side-by-side toenails, Franci’s polished silver, Celia’s unpainted.
“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?” Celia queried, wondering whether Franci had an inkling of any of the things she had not said.
“My diagnosis?” Franci glanced over at her and smiled. “I think you’re right. José Lago is not going to knock you loopy this time.”
“Maybe I already am loopy,” Celia flipped, again giving Franci an opening to mention any aberration she might have noticed.
“Nope. You’re grounded, girl. Looks like we both got lucky. Not in the same ways, but each in a very good way.”
“You mean you got the best man, I got the best child?”
“Just our luck. Not 100 per cent but pretty damned good.”
“Listen,” Celia teased. “I’ll share my child if you’ll share your—”
“In your dreams!” Franci howled.
Celia stood up and yawned. “Okay, I shall dream about it. But I must say, Doctor, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired. First you criticize the men in my life, then monopolize the one you claim is the best ever.”
“Finders keepers.” Franci tossed out the cliché they had used as teenagers when one got asked out by a guy whom both found attractive. She pointed her hairbrush at Celia and added, “But think about those Lago boys, okay?”
“Think what?”
“If you want one of them to be the man in your life, fine. If you don’t—well, you know running away won’t help.”
“Franci! Who said I was running away?”
“Okay, okay. So you’re standing your ground. You are not going to let either of them push you into something. Promise?”
Celia grinned. “Stand my ground. Don’t let them push me around. Sure. I can do that.”
“Good.” Franci smiled, but her eyes remained serious. “Because what I really think is that there’s more than you want to admit going on. In here
.” She patted her chest.
Celia nodded. “The down time helped. I got a lot of things sorted out.”
“Good start, but keep at it. All any woman can get completely sorted in a single day is the week’s laundry.”
“Ha!” Celia kissed Franci on the cheek and headed for the door. “If you think I can get my laundry sorted in one day, that’s because you don’t live with a teenager.”
TWENTY-ONE
CELIA recalled that remark without amusement when she entered her apartment the next day. It was strewn with clothes, most of which looked in need of washing. The table was littered with dirty dishes.
“Liliana?” There was no answer.
Celia collected the dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Sink and counter were similarly cluttered, forcing her to stack dirty dishes atop ones already there. She ran a glassful of water and poured it over a wilted African violet. Then ran another for herself and drank deeply.
She went back into the living room and surveyed the chaos. Liliana had left for school only a week ago and should have been there still, as the pre-university students were on a twenty-four-day class schedule, followed by six or seven days at home. Had Liliana come home because she was ill? If so, it had not affected her appetite. There was a scattering of plantain chips around the sofa, as if she had lain there watching television while she ate. And where was she now? Had she got better and gone out? Or got worse and gone to a neighbour’s apartment rather than lie here alone? Probably the former, because if she had been really sick she would have called Alma, and Alma would be here looking after her.
Celia found her own bedroom as neat as she had left it. She and Liliana had meticulous regard for each other’s privacy. Not once in all the years Liliana had lived with her had she borrowed a garment, prowled a drawer, or used Celia’s cosmetics without asking permission. She dropped her bag on the bed and was deciding whether to call Alma or check with neighbours first when the apartment door banged open.
“Tía Celia?” Liliana called.
“In here,” Celia called back.
Liliana rushed in and gave Celia a strong warm hug. “I’m so glad you’re home! How was Santiago?”
