by Rosa Jordan
Luis left his desk to gaze out the window at waves splashing against the seawall along the Malecón. An oil tanker was visible on the horizon. For a moment he tried to imagine what it would be like to see ships there and know them to be those of an invasion force, and that he and all Cubans must swiftly take up arms to defend themselves.
He made a scoffing noise at himself for the silliness of imagining that it could happen like that now and replaced the invasion image with a real image from his own past: walking on the Malecón with Celia, Liliana atop the seawall, he holding the child’s hand, she squealing with delight as the salt spray drenched her.
That would have been before Celia moved to Habana del Este, when she still lived just down the street. In an effort to give Liliana a semblance of family to replace the one recently lost, Celia had begun spending almost as much time at the Lago house as at her own. Alma encouraged it, having identified Celia early on as the ideal wife for one of her sons. Luis knew Celia could scarcely tolerate Alma’s religiosity, different as it was from her own mother’s irreverent ways, but she appreciated the surrogate mothering, if not for herself, certainly for Liliana. Just as Luis gained the trust of his co-workers by helping them achieve their ends, he gained Celia’s trust by helping her achieve hers.
For instance, there was the conflict that arose every Easter, with Alma begging Celia to allow her to take Liliana to mass. For two years he watched Celia agonize over what to do, wanting to repay Alma for her daily kindness yet reluctant to have Liliana subjected to religious dogma. Then Luis had unobtrusively taken charge of the situation. He arranged for all of them to spend Semana Santa at the beach, in a location where Easter Mass was not an option. Later, after he achieved a high enough rank that a state car was made available to him, he had diversified their activities. Thus he had begun to court Celia without her even being aware of it. Could he not do the same thing again?
Luis regularly arrived at work an hour ahead of everyone else, but that hour had somehow slipped away. He heard other state employees coming along the corridor, some calling out to him as they passed his open doorway. He greeted them in his usual respectful fashion, then, like a tardy schoolboy, hastened to his desk and went to work. The work, blessedly uninterrupted by calls or consultations, quickly absorbed him. It was two-thirty in the afternoon before he looked up again. He had not gone to lunch, having decided to leave early in order to drive Alma to Habana del Este.
Luis stopped on the way to the apartment to pick up a bouquet of flowers from the big outdoor market. Silly to pretend they were not for Celia, but he understood that they must not be. It was by doing things for Liliana that he gained Celia’s trust before, and through his ineptness in handling Liliana that he had lost her. Now it was Liliana with whom he must court favour if he was ever to get close to Celia again.
When they arrived at Celia’s place, Luis was chagrined by the sight of the yellow convertible parked at the curb. José’s way of marking territory, he thought irritably, like a dog’s yellow piss against the curb. Oh well. At least the car meant she was at home.
However, stepping inside the foyer, he saw that her bicycle was gone. Celia’s obvious rejection of a luxury José had tried to provide strengthened Luis’s resolve. As he climbed the stairs behind his mother, he did not feel entirely confident but neither did he feel hopeless.
Alma knocked then walked in, calling Liliana’s name as she headed for the kitchen. Luis hesitated in the doorway. He was standing there when Liliana came from her bedroom wearing a short nightgown. Her face was sleep-swollen and patchy with ugly bruises. She looked even worse than she had three days earlier. Alma stopped short, set the things she was carrying on the table, and took Liliana in her arms.
“Aye, Preciosa! Gracias a Dios for bringing you home!” she exclaimed.
Liliana returned the hug, but over Alma’s shoulder she fixed Luis with a cold eye. When Alma released her and went to put the food in the kitchen, Luis thrust out the flowers. Liliana folded her arms across her chest, refusing to accept them.
“You just wasted your money. She’s not going to take you back.”
“They are for you,” he lied.
“It’s no use,” she repeated. “It’s over.”
Luis tried and failed to keep the fury from his voice. “What makes you so sure?”
He thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in Liliana’s eyes before she ducked her head and mumbled, “You don’t know her.”
“And you do?” he questioned sarcastically.
Liliana brought her swollen eyes up to meet his. “Not really.”
Alma returned from the kitchen. “Here,” she said, taking the flowers from him. “Let me put them in water.” To Liliana she said, “Won’t they look nice in that blue vase you gave Celia for her birthday!”
“Claro, Tía,” Liliana said sweetly, but continued to glare at Luis.
It infuriated him that the apology she owed him—owed all of them—would not be forthcoming. On the contrary, to even get past that malevolent stare he would have to be the one to apologize. He opened his mouth to do it but that was not what came out.
“Listen, Liliana,” he said in a low voice, so that Alma, in the kitchen filling the vase with water, would not overhear. “There is no way we can avoid each other. We should not make it hard on the people we love by fighting.”
“So don’t come here,” she hissed.
“That is Celia’s decision. She and you have always been welcome in our home, and I find it hard to believe she will make us unwelcome in hers, no matter what misunderstandings there have been.”
Liliana turned away in what might have been embarrassment. If she had been inclined to more overt hostility, Alma’s return to the living room caused her to stifle it.
“I brought the boys’ chess set,” Alma said brightly, not letting on that Liliana’s appearance was anything other than normal—a talent she had probably perfected during three decades as an ambulance driver. “And dominoes too. Would you like a game? Or shall I fix you something to eat first?”
“Dominoes, please,” Liliana said in a small tired voice.
“Oh, good,” Alma enthused, clicking the domino tiles onto the coffee table. “We can all three play. Come, Luis, pull up the other rocker.”
Luis was staring at the computer. “Where did that come from?”
“A man gave it to Tía Celia,” Liliana said with a hint of satisfaction. “A friend of hers. Not somebody you know.”
Alma glanced up sharply. Luis smiled at his mother, the smile genuine, because his first thought was that José had bought the computer. Liliana’s answer, calculated to make him jealous, did not. He knew every friend Celia had, male and female. Clearly the hospital had lent it to her so she could work at home.
He pulled up the rocker and took his dominoes, recalling as he did so the hours he had spent teaching Liliana to play the game. He remembered, too, how often he had let her win. No más, muchacha. Nunca más.
FIFTY-NINE
CELIA had intended to get home much earlier, but with one doctor absent and so much work having piled up in her absence it was after eight when she entered the apartment that evening. She climbed the stairs swiftly, still buzzing from the rush of her day.
“How are you, mi vida?” She motioned toward half a sandwich lying on a plate on the coffee table. “I see you fixed yourself something to eat.”
“Tía Alma brought it.”
“Let me make myself something and I’ll join you. I am so hungry I could faint.”
“You can have that.”
Celia hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“I didn’t even want the first half. I only ate it to keep from hurting her feelings.”
Celia sat down on the tile floor with her back against the couch and kicked off her shoes. She picked up the half-sandwich and although she could have downed it in three bites, forced herself to eat slowly.
“I see she brought flowers too. That was sweet.
”
“Luis brought them,” Liliana replied, cutting her eyes at Celia, no doubt checking for a reaction to the dropping of tío from his name.
“Oh. Nice they both came to see you.”
“It was you he came to see.”
“They both knew I was working,” Celia said patiently. “If they chose to visit when I wasn’t here, it would have been to see you.”
“Tío Luis hates me,” Liliana sulked, this time giving the tío a sarcastic intonation.
“Oh? Why?”
“He blames me for you dumping him.”
“If he does, he would be wrong.”
“Then why did you?”
“It’s . . . complicated. I would rather not discuss it now.”
For a moment Liliana was silent, but the fretful, almost asthmatic sound of her breathing told Celia that the mood had not passed. Celia swallowed the last bit of sandwich. It went down dryly. She rose to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Tía Celia?” Liliana waited until Celia stopped and turned around before asking, “Why do people keep secrets?”
“All sorts of reasons, I suppose. Afraid of punishment? That would be why you didn’t want me to know you were skipping school. Or fearing disapproval. I expect that was Luis’s reason for not telling me he was calling in the youth authorities.”
“You knew!” Liliana cried, sitting up on the sofa so suddenly that she winced with pain. “You planned it together! You just don’t want me to blame you !”
Celia was so surprised that her mouth fell open. “Surely he did not tell you that!”
“You think I’m totally stupid? You were the only person who knew what time I was getting home. ‘Noon,’ I said. And that was when he showed up with those youth cops. Right at noon! If you didn’t tell him, who did ?”
Gazing at her agitated niece, Celia saw again that the injuries to her body were merely the easiest to identify. How many days, weeks, months would it take to locate the others? How should she treat them, and how long would they take to heal?
She took a deep breath. “I did tell him you would be home by noon. He said he wanted to talk to you. I knew nothing about the youth authorities. Alma did, but even she had no idea that he had arranged for them to take you. That came out later.”
Liliana lay back on the couch, not entirely mollified. Celia went into the kitchen for the water she craved. She drained the glass and, feeling almost as drained herself, leaned against the counter. Not an hour ago, while cycling home from work, she had vowed to shorten her hours at the hospital, spend more time with Liliana, and have more meaningful conversations with her. Yet here was Liliana, creating an opening for all sorts of shared confidences, and all she wanted to do was escape. She forced herself to return to the living room. Liliana watched her walk toward the sofa with dark soulful eyes so like those of her dead mother that Celia’s heart wrenched.
“That’s not the only secret in this family,” Liliana muttered.
Celia took the comment for what it was: an acceptance of her explanation, combined with an accusation of—what? What specific thing did Liliana have in mind?
“Probably not,” Celia agreed, mentally shying away from her own secrets, only to be bludgeoned by an image of dollars stuffed into the bottom of a music box. “Do you have one you want to share?”
“Do you?” Liliana shot back.
“I might, but not tonight. Some other time, when you feel better and I am less tired.” She picked up Liliana’s limp, sweaty hand, kissed the palm, and headed for the bathroom. It was not avoidance, she told herself. It was only that she would feel more rested after a shower. Then maybe—well, would she?
No. As she closed the bathroom door behind her, Celia knew there was not a chance under the sun that she would tell Liliana anything about her two most closely guarded secrets. She could not see either lasting forever, but as long as they did last they would form a wall that shut others out, and shut herself—or part of herself—in. However much she wanted to be as open with Liliana as she wanted Liliana to be with her, there was no way to explain to somebody else things she could not explain to herself.
She came out of the shower refreshed, determined to sit down and let Liliana talk about whatever was on her mind. That, she knew, was as important from a therapeutic point of view as antiseptic was for the skin abrasions. But Liliana had gone to bed.
Celia went out onto the balcony, sat down in one of the plastic chairs, and stared out to sea. Lights twinkled on the surface of the black water, the lanterns of night fishermen in small dories or fat tubes converted into rubber rafts. Each one alone, each with his own secrets, out there in the dark.
The breeze had died down. The air was warm and uncommonly soft. Soft, too, were the sounds from other apartments. She had been on the balcony perhaps ten minutes when Liliana appeared in the doorway. “Tía Celia?”
“What is it, mi corazón? I thought you were asleep.”
“There’s one thing I have to know. One of your secrets.”
Celia’s heart lurched. She had only two, neither of which she could bear to reveal.
“Only one?” she said with feigned humour. “Come. Sit down.”
Liliana did not come, nor did she sit. She remained in the doorway; her face, white in the moonlight, framed by dark bedraggled curls. “Are you going back to Luis?”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Are you going to get re-engaged to Joe?”
“That is not going to happen either.”
“Didn’t he give you that car?”
“It was not a gift. He only loaned it, so I could look for you.”
“You looked for me?” The surprise in Liliana’s voice reminded Celia that she had not even mentioned to Liliana the lengths to which she had gone to find her.
“Of course I did. From here to Santiago. And distributed notices. Except in Varadero and SuperClub Saturno. Luis circulated those.” She smiled up at Liliana. “I expect you’re famous all over the island by now.”
Liliana did not smile back. She stared out at the lights winking on the surface of the water, thinking her own thoughts. Celia waited. When at last Liliana spoke, the words pierced Celia in a part of her psyche so delicate that she had shielded it even from herself.
“You will.”
“What?”
“Go back to one of them.”
“Why do you say that?” Celia asked, her voice sharper than she had intended.
Liliana took a step back, but faced Celia long enough to say what was on her mind. “You’re just not strong enough,” she said sadly.
Celia knew her entire family had always believed that. Her older sister, her courageous mother, even her gentle father, had seen her as the baby, the weak one. The one in perpetual need of protection. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to hear from the child she was sworn to protect.
SIXTY
JOE looked out the window of the plane as the western tip of Cuba drew nearer. Had anyone told him, when he watched the island’s coastline recede ten years ago, that he would someday feel a sense of freedom upon entering Cuban airspace, he would have laughed so hard he’d have been in danger of falling overboard.
On that summer morning he saw Cuba only as a place of limited opportunities, with a government that practised what many viewed as the greatest crime of all: that of preventing its citizens from becoming rich. He was just a kid when then-President Ronald Reagan said, “I want America to be, above all, a place where people can still get rich.” Cuban leaders ridiculed Reagan for the greed that remark encouraged, but from the time Joe heard it he harboured a desire to go to the country where he along with everybody else would have the freedom to “get rich.”
Not once during the decade he was clawing his way up the economic ladder had Joe felt nostalgia for Cuba, only pride at having escaped. That was why, as the turquoise sea below was replaced by the verdant green of Península Guanahacabibes, he took notice of the lightness that loosened his muscle
s and caused him to take a deep breath of relief. The emotion was so unexpected that he let The Wall Street Journal fall to his lap. Once he had analyzed the feeling, he was less surprised. It had to do with the divorce or, more specifically, its aftermath.
He had not silenced Vera as easily as he had imagined with that one phone call. Within two weeks she had hauled him into court in an attempt to squeeze a large sum of money out of him for a shrink for Keri. How with Miami’s overloaded court system she had been able to do it so fast he had no idea, but the episode was resolved even faster. A fuzzy-headed black judge with a very unfuzzy mind had listened to the story dramatized by Vera’s lawyer, then opted to discuss the matter privately with Keri in chambers. Joe couldn’t know what Keri told her, but the judge promptly dismissed the case, with a sharp reminder to Vera that as part of the divorce settlement she had agreed never to bring her ex-husband to court for additional financial assistance of any kind.
Striding out of the courtroom Joe felt his non-entanglement policy reinforced; again he was a free man. Again he was wrong. Keri broke away from her mother, ran after him, and his determination to not see the girls anymore went to hell. With Keri wrapped around his legs begging to know when he was coming to take them out, he did the only thing he could do. Right there in front of Vera’s lawyer, his lawyer, and a gaggle of strangers, he asked Vera, “How about I pick the girls up after school tomorrow?”
