The Cuban

by Kim Rodriguez

  Still in somewhat of a daze, I decided to call Oscar and tell him what happened. I’d barely gotten half the story out before he said he was coming right over, but I assured him it wasn’t necessary.

  “Oscar, what should I do? Contact the police and file a report?” There was a long pause, so I asked again. “Oscar? Are you there?”

  “Technically he didn’t do anything illegal that would be worth their time. All they’ll do is make you miserable asking a million questions to put in a file somewhere. It won’t be to your benefit.” His voice was low and tempered.

  “So then don’t?”

  “No,” he said. “Ultimately it might be better if there’s no paper trail leading back to you.”

  I went back outside and shut off the engine and closed car the door, thankful I’d been clear-headed enough to at least put the Ferrari in park before running into the house. I checked the front door for damage or tampering and found nothing out of the ordinary. I was a meticulous person, always careful with things, and distrustful of almost everyone. He had gotten in somehow, but it wasn’t because I had forgotten to lock the door. That much I knew.

  In the kitchen I hugged and kissed my Amada again. She seemed to be snapping out of it somewhat, and so did Sal. I was still in a fog myself and didn’t know what else to do, so I pulled out the meat from this morning and turned on the grill.

  “What’s that?” asked Sal.

  “Mojo steak.” Always a great team in the kitchen, Sal caught the towel I tossed in his direction and threw it over his shoulder, ready to cook. He spotted the beans soaking in the bowl on the counter and went in the pantry to find a stock pot while I took out a knife and started chopping the pepper and onion, and when the vegetables hit the hot pan and sizzled, their distinctive comforting aroma spread throughout the kitchen.

  “Ah, there’s nothing like the smell of onions and peppers,” said Sal, crossing behind me with an enormous Dutch oven.

  “So, what kind of dogs are we getting, Rafa?” asked Amada. “German Shepherds?”

  “Hey, what about Rottweilers?” Sal turned on the water at the stove and let the pot fill while he rinsed the beans in a colander at the sink. “Those dogs are badass. They’ll fuck someone’s shit up.” He nodded with conviction. “Rottweilers.”

  “If Amada wants German Shepherds, then that’s what it has to be.” I eyed her from across the kitchen, still aware of a strange lethargy she hadn’t been able to shake off yet.

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he said over his shoulder. “I like ‘em, too. German Shepherds are damn nice dogs. Smart as hell.”

  “Hey, buddy.” I leaned away from the splash as he shook out the water, a pool of jet forming in the bottom of the sink. “I owe you. Thanks.”

  “Get outta here. You don’t owe me shit,” he said, darting around me with the colander. At the stove he turned the knob to high, dumped the beans into the deep pot, and covered it with the lid, pausing only to peek at the water level one more time.

  “I know what we need,” he said, wiping his hands on the towel. “Where’s the bar? I’m getting us all a shot.”

  “I agree. It’s the big cabinet in the living room,” said Amada. “Am I allowed, Daddy?” I knew she was trying to flirt and lighten my mood, but I was still too shaken to even think about it.

  “Damn,” said Sal, looking at her, then at me. “I don’t know if I need to be hearing about all that.” He went off to find the liquor, and though I knew it was time to stir the peppers and onions, I went to my Amada instead.

  “Were you scared?” I held her face in my hands and made her look at me.

  “At first,” said Amada weakly, “but it wasn’t like that. He thought someone told him to come in.”

  “What?” None of this made sense, and I wasn’t sure what to make of her obvious confusion. I hadn’t discussed Achille in any great detail with Amada because I hadn’t wanted to frighten her, but I’d clearly warned her to stay away from him. I couldn’t figure out why she’d invited him inside when she knew I wanted him as far away from us as possible. She finally met my eyes, her expression a mix of anxiety and excitement, and it was then that I recognized a hint of something I’d seen many times before, the residue of brujería or witchcraft.

  “He wants you, Amada, and he’s using something powerful. It’s hypnosis or magic, or both. I can’t tell yet,” I said, my heart breaking apart into pieces.

  “Rafa,” she pleaded, “I would never—”

  “I know, mamita. It’s not your fault.”

  I held her close, fully driven by instinct to protect the woman who would soon be my wife and the mother of my children. Anything that came between us and our family would have to perish, and for the first time I was as compelled to extinguish life as I was to preserve it, my heart hardening to the world as it softened for my Amada.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Preceding all others, I’d like to thank Omnific Publishing for their professionalism and skilled management of the complex publishing process. In a capricious and often illusory industry, Omnific stands well above the rest, a giant in the making. Special thanks to Elizabeth Riley, Ph.D., whose erudite yet artistic editing style is the perfect elixir for nervous writers, the most demanding and fragile souls on earth. Last but certainly not least, I would like to express my gratitude for this beautiful nation called America, our cherished home, and then send a message of support to the Cuban people both here and there, who have bravely persevered in spite of it all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kim is a first generation Cuban American who grew up with a Spanish-speaking family that loved to tell stories, play cards and talk late into the night. One of her earliest memories is the day her grandmother casually swiped a poisonous banana spider off her shoulder, prompting Kim to ask why she wasn’t afraid of bugs. “The outhouse scorpions in Cuba never bothered me much,” she said. “Neither did the snakes or spiders. Just the toads.” Ultimately her grandmother’s long, fantastic tales of colorful characters and life in early twentieth-century Cuba fed Kim’s imagination and sparked a lifetime love of storytelling. Accordingly, as a writer, Kim finds herself drawn to themes of love, language, diversity, diaspora, and adventure.