The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy

by Roger Deblanck

  “You sure?”

  “Alberto, quit talking and listen. To the room.”

  He slowly got up and took her by the hand.

  Exposing his slightly oversized front teeth, Sharkey grinned at Alberto and gave him a thumbs-up.

  When they got in the room, Alberto locked the door.

  “Good boy,” she said and kicked off her pumps.

  She sashayed over to the bed and spun around and sat down with a bounce on the mattress. She pressed her palms upon the sheet, and after a moment she lifted her hands and began to undo the top buttons on her blouse. When she finished with the last button, she looked up and smiled at him. Still at the door, Alberto watched as she then let her hair loose from a band and shook out her dark locks like midnight cascades.

  He began to remove his shoes while she removed her blouse and skirt. She then slid to the center of the bed, her head indenting the lush down of the pillow. He removed his socks and pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. He ripped off his trousers and climbed onto the bed and inserted himself atop her. His arms made canopies at her shoulders, her legs opening so that he rested with his throb against her. Between his boxers and her panties they could feel each other’s heat pressing back. He lowered his head and their mouths met, tongues entangled, two wells of emotion pouring into one. Tongue-twisted and warming up, they removed what was left between them. Their eyes locked, and she pulled him down upon her.

  Pulsating, he fit like an instrument within her. She spread and made sighs for him to go deeper. They made waves, tiny synchronized collisions, one after another, one into another, slow and easy, thrust and clutch, dip and grip, moan and maneuver, unhinged and unbroken, the first release and then a moment forever to remember. The night seemed young. He didn’t care about the future. He had everything he wanted in the moment. He saw butterflies; she fluttered below him. They made wings and soared. The entire world became that bedroom, that eve, that new day, one time for eternity. All the ways to live and none better than that moment of bliss. My God, he didn’t know what he believed in.

  * * *

  Chapter 33

  At nine minutes to one, in twenty-two degree temperature and with a freezing wind blowing in his face, forty-three year old John Fitzgerald Kennedy placed his left hand on a family Bible and recited, “I do solemnly swear . . .”

  With the oath taken, he turned to the podium and opened his folder. It held only three sheets of paper, the entire contents of his address. He took in the grandstands. Close to twenty-thousand in attendance, each bundled up and baring the bitter cold to hear him speak. Bareheaded and without an extra jacket to shield him from one of the coldest inaugurations in history, his words danced in the frosty air like plumes of sweet smoke from a Cubano cigarro. As he delivered his speech, it carried the potency to make anyone who heard it believe John F. Kennedy could change the world.

  Having watched the speech from a campus television set up in the student union, Juan was spellbound and elated with Kennedy’s pronounced intentions to build a new world order of peace among nations, whether they were friends or foes. Over the next several days, Juan filled more pages in his “I Trust JFK” notebook with words and phrases from Kennedy’s Inaugural Address than from any of his speeches to date. When he thought to skip over a paragraph, even a sentence, he couldn’t. He had to keep going back and rereading the passages to experience their beauty, their wisdom, their vision, their sincerity, their construction, their pitch, their impact, their inspiration, and their hope. These are not just words, Juan thought, they are living anthems to reshape the world. So he kept copying, kept going back over the speech, underlining and highlighting his favorite all-beautiful and all-inspiring sections. He committed them to memory, etched them in his heart, and believed they would set in motion the circumstances that would bring about peace, that would bring his father to America.

  A week later, Juan rushed home from the university with a shiny new copy of PT 109: John F. Kennedy in World War II. The book had been recently published after the New Year to coincide with Kennedy taking office. The author of the book, a respected Washington reporter named Robert J. Donovan, had reenacted the events of Kennedy’s heroics in the Solomon Islands by traveling to the former war zone, swimming in the same waters Kennedy and his men had languished in, and talking to the natives instrumental in the rescue of the future president and his crew.

  Juan had picked up the book at the campus bookstore on his way to class and instead of taking notes in Legal Psychology that morning, he was floored with more of the details he didn’t yet know of Kennedy’s survival. When he burst in the door of his grandparents’ house that afternoon, he hoped Alberto would be home. The first place he checked was out back under the orange shade of the mango tree. Sure to his hope, Alberto sat on a crate under the tree thrumming his guitar.

  “You’re not at Guadalupe’s?”

  “She’s working on a term paper due next Monday. She wants to finish it before the weekend, so we can spend time together.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I want to show you something,” Juan said and handed his brother the book.

  “It looks like a book about Kennedy during his war years,” said his brother, examining the cover after having swung his guitar to his hip. “I already know about Abuelo Gabriel and Kennedy having shipwrecks near the same islands.”

  “I know you know that,” stated Juan, nearly out of breath with excitement. “But I’ve been reading it all day, and here’s what’s most amazing. Do you remember the names of the native boys Abuelo told us about who helped him and his men.”

  “Yeah, I remember. Biuku and Eroni. Right?”

  “Right,” said Juan. “Well, twenty-five years after helping to save Abuelo, it seems that those same boys were now men, and they were the ones who also found Kennedy.” Taking deep breaths, Juan stared wide-eyed at Alberto who was waiting for a punch line.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Juan turned to the pages and showed his brother the names and the pictures of the natives. “And get this,” he said. “It says that Kennedy dragged one of his wounded crewmates by putting his vest strap in his mouth and swimming to land. Remember after we had scarlet fever, I used to have dreams about doing the same thing.”

  “That’s really cool, Juan. I don’t know what else to say. It’s just an incredible coincidence, I suppose.”

  “Maybe,” said Juan, as though preparing for what he wanted to conclude all day. “But I can’t help thinking it’s magical, somehow a connection that makes everything between us and Fidel and Kennedy part of something larger. We want peace because we want papá out of Cuba. We also trust Kennedy and Fidel to make peace. Don’t you see? The connections just make me think we can somehow will it to happen.” Juan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.

  “Juan, don’t get carried away. We can have hope, but we can’t change anything that’s going to happen. We don’t have that power. That’s why we have to believe that Kennedy and Castro will do the right things.”

  Juan took another deep breath and shook his head, his hair a bit frazzled. He looked as though having explained to Alberto what he felt in his heart, he could finally calm down.

  The brothers were silent for a moment as Alberto reached for his guitar and picked a chord. Then he looked over at his brother and asked if he remembered the name “Vasquez” from their days in Cuba when Batista was in power. Juan replied that he remembered the infamous name. “Well, you want to hear something unbelievable that happened earlier this afternoon at the mortgage office,” said Alberto.

  A half-hour before the loan office closed at six, Alberto and Sharkey had been sealing envelopes at the table behind the front counter when in walked a big man with the most enormous ears Alberto and Sharkey had ever seen. They didn’t know who the man was, but they both immediately recognized the two big-eared boys who trailed behind him. The man sported a rabid expression, his lips closed, the corners of his mouth cast down in an aggravated fro
wn. The creases between his eyes furrowed deeply, and the ends of his ears shone rash-red as though he was ready to argue with someone in charge. Most of all, he looked intimidating because he was over six foot four with boxer-wide shoulders and a thick neck. In his large hand he held a series of letters, noticeable to Alberto and Sharkey as the ones they had been mailing out in regards to the late fee Vasquez had on his account. Now he was in the office with the obvious intent to set his record straight, and he had chosen to bring his sons along, probably as a lesson in threat management, thought Alberto.

  Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, whereby the two sons may recognize them, Alberto and Sharkey tried to keep their heads hunkered down as they worked at the table behind the desk. They pretended to have never seen the boys and had no idea who the man was.

  “Good afternoon, sir, welcome to Florida Home Loans,” said the secretary. “How may I assist you?”

  “I need to speak with a manager, someone who can clear up a mistake in my record.”

  “Certainly, sir, a loan manager is still in the office this afternoon. Do you have an appointment with him?”

  “No,” said the man. “This will not take long.”

  “Okay, sir, I will buzz the office of Mr. Aikens. First I need your name, and could you briefly describe to me the concern regarding your account.”

  The secretary had a small note pad in front of her, ready to take notes. She looked at the client with a plaintive grin as if she was a stenographer in a courtroom.

  “Vasquez. Antonio Vasquez,” said the man with rancor in his tone. “The problem is I keep receiving these letters from your office informing me that I owe a late charge. But I’ve never had a late payment. The error is here, on your side of the desk. You must have cashed the check after the due date or something. I don’t know what sort of mistakes you make here on a daily basis. But I know one was made on my account. I need this resolved at this time. I’ve come down here, and it will be resolved. I’m tired of being harassed with these letters. It is embarrassing to me and my family.”

  The entire time he spoke, he had been tapping his finger on the counter.

  “No problem, Mr. Vasquez. I will get Mr. Aikens out here momentarily,” said the secretary.

  Alberto and Sharkey had heard the entire conversation from where they sat at the table, but they continued to act as though they weren’t paying any attention. They continued to fold and stuff letters into envelopes and lick the flaps closed. Sharkey whispered to Alberto, “Wow, I hope that guy doesn’t have flashbacks to Cuba. He might think he’s allowed to torture people.”

  “Quiet,” Alberto said and nudged his elbow into Sharkey’s fleshy side. “Those boys might recognize us.”

  Then Sharkey made the mistake of glancing up towards the counter, and without fail his eyes met those of the older son, who Sharkey had mocked that day several weeks earlier when he and Alberto had sought out some fun by going to the Vasquez house. The boy’s protruding ears immediately turned red like his father’s, and he pulled at his father’s arm.

  The secretary was on the phone to Mr. Aikens in his office explaining to him about Mr. Vasquez’s account. She did not notice the boy pointing at Sharkey.

  “Coño, Geraldo,” said Vasquez to his oldest son. “Compose yourself. What is the matter? I’m trying to teach you how things are done.”

  “Papá, that’s the boy who yelled those bad things about you,” said the son named Geraldo.

  Vasquez’s focus flipped like a switch. He glared around the secretary’s shoulder to the table behind the counter where Sharkey and Alberto sat.

  “That’s him,” said the son again, pointing towards the table.

  “Which one?” asked Vasquez.

  “The fat one, I remember him because he was fat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sí,” exclaimed the older boy. “Ask Enrique.”

  Enrique must have been the name of the younger son because Vasquez nudged the boy out from behind his leg and lifted him up so he could look over the counter. His father asked him to identify if his brother was correct about the “fat one.”

  Enrique, the younger son, looked straight at Sharkey and nodded his head. Vasquez put his son down and didn’t seem to care anymore about the problem with the late fee on his account. He stared at Sharkey with deadly intent.

  “Hey you, gordo, fatty!” That’s how Vasquez called out to Sharkey. “Ven aquí!”

  “Me, sir,” said Sharkey, as though caught by surprise. “I don’t work the front desk. Mr. Aikens deals with the accounts.”

  “This isn’t about the account. Come here!”

  “I’ll get in trouble. It’s not my job to interact with clients.”

  Vasquez’s face reddened with rage, and he came around the front counter as the secretary put down the phone and was about to address him.

  “You know who I am?” insisted Vasquez, stalking toward the table.

  “Sir, you can’t go back there,” said the secretary, trying to cut him off before he reached the table.

  Sharkey had stood up, fear rinsing over his face. His eyes became enlarged, and he put his arms up in the air, pleading innocence.

  “Sí, you know who I am, you maricón!” declared Vasquez, only about two feet from Sharkey. “Don’t you ever come by my house again and spew lies. I’ll tear your tongue out to make sure you never utter another lie, you fucking flabby ass.”

  The secretary had moved between Mr. Vasquez and Sharkey just as the diminutive Mr. Aikens appeared in the doorway from his back office.

  “What’s going on here?” he quipped.

  “I came here with one problem and now I’m about to solve two,” said Vasquez, his ears the color of a split watermelon.

  “Sir, I’m going to need you to come back around the counter,” said Aikens to Vasquez. “I’m sure we can work out any concern you have.”

  Vasquez ignored him and continued to stare down Sharkey, who now looked to be enjoying the incident, especially as Vasquez had delivered his threat and there had been no violence. There wasn’t going to be, predicted Sharkey, who now started to play along in the game he knew he was going to win.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are. You’re mistaking me for someone else,” said Sharkey.

  “Wipe that fucking smirk off your fat face,” said Vasquez. He then turned to Alberto—who had scooted his chair back from the table to the wall—and said, “What the fuck are you looking at? Were you the other maricón with this fat fucker that day?”

  “Sir, I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” said Alberto.

  Vasquez let out a frightening guffaw. “I’ll let it go this one time, but you better remember me next time you think about pulling a fuckin’ prank.”

  Vasquez returned to the counter, and Mr. Aikens opened his account folder and began to explain why the letters had been sent out. As Vasquez listened, Sharkey and Alberto watched his face as though he might explode. Then, Mr. Aikens stopped with his summary of explanations and said, “It’s a minor fee and you’ve been a valued borrower. I’m going to take care of waiving this late charge. It was probably a mistake on our part.”

  “Yes, it was,” replied Vasquez. “Vamos boys,” he said to his sons as he exited calmer than when he entered.

  “Wow,” said Juan after his brother finished telling the story of the day’s event. “What happened after Vasquez left?”

  “Nothing really,” said Alberto. “Mr. Aikens asked us if we were okay. Then he said not to worry, that he had had several run-ins with Mr. Vasquez, even before we started working there.”

  “It seems like some things never change,” said Juan. “Can you believe that guy used to be one of Batista’s henchmen, one of the guys running Cuba. And people think Fidel is worse.”

  “I know,” said Alberto. “After today, I realize how much peace means when you’re dealing with a loco like Vasquez.”

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  Th
e 230-acre campus of the University of Miami sits among an assortment of architectural gems spread throughout the suburban neighborhoods in the city of Coral Gables, the town adjacent to the south boundaries of Miami proper. Founded near the turn of the twentieth century by George Merrick, the city of Coral Gables developed around a single grapefruit plantation owned by the affluent Merrick family. Their vision of entrepreneurship gave the city many historic sites. The sprawling Merrick House, with its colonnaded porches, was one of the first homes constructed almost entirely with beautiful coral rock. And the family’s conversion of a rock pit into the famed Venetian Pool became the most celebrated domestic swimming grounds in the world. The Biltmore Hotel, with its magnificent tower topped with a colonnaded rotunda, was a prestigious destination for travelers before it became a famed hospital during World War II, and after the armistice was signed, the Biltmore served as a Veterans’ facility.

  In the early 1920s, George Merrick’s father, Solomon, decided that the city of Coral Gables needed a learning institution, and so shortly thereafter construction began on the site of the University of Miami. The campus reflected the Merrick vision of aesthetics. It had a lake in the center, lawns like tiny parks placed strategically throughout the campus, buildings that huddled among copses of royal palms, and cobblestone courtyards with stone benches, beautiful fountains, and lush gardens blossoming with orchids and jasmine.

  In the center of one of these elegant courtyards sat a fountain with the statue of a mermaid raised on a block of stone. Her fin curled up gracefully at the end so she could balance and stand up. She held an upturned bucket in her hands from which the water streamed. The sound of the falling water from her bucket echoed softly, funneled and soothing, as it hit the pool below with the pleasant timbre of listening to something gently pouring. Stone benches and tables with cast-iron chairs surrounded the fountain. Students took breaks and lunches in the courtyard. It was a peaceful diversion from the studying that went on daily within the walls of the surrounding buildings.