Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  He took her hand and kissed it, then focused on her rings. "Leave your engagement ring here. And wear a plain watch."

  "I know, you told me already. Anthony, why did your grandfather want to talk to you tonight? Hector was stationed outside his office like a palace guard and wouldn't let me in."

  "Yes, he said you were looking for me." As Anthony walked away he removed his link bracelet. His gold watch was already lying on his dresser next to a leather jewelry case. He slid off his rings. Black jade ring into the case. Platinum and diamond next to it. Leaving the wedding band on. Tapping his fingers on top of the dresser.

  Gail wondered how long it would take before he thought of an answer.

  "You know how Ernesto is," he said. "Somebody spilled the beans to him about the trip. We talked about it. He made his point, and I made mine. It's no problem."

  She waited. "Is that all you talked about?"

  Turning around, Anthony must have seen the knowledge in her face. He said, "What did Hector tell you?"

  "That you and Ernesto were expecting visitors. He wouldn't say who."

  "Ah. Well, I wasn't expecting anyone. My grandfather set this up. Bill Navarro flew in from Washington. He brought an aide with him. I think his name was Bookhouser." Anthony closed the jewelry case, put it into the drawer, and slid the drawer shut.

  Gail waited.

  He said, "They asked me to talk to Ramiro, to invite him to defect to the United States."

  "No way."

  "Oh, yes. They said Marta can come with him, the kids too. You see what Navarro is after. If he can snag a Cuban general, he'll score some points for himself in Miami. I might talk to Ramiro, but I don't expect him to say yes, oh, thank you, I have been wanting so very much to resign from las Fuerzas Armadas and buy a little duplex in Hialeah."

  Gail didn't smile. "You weren't going to tell me about this, were you?"

  "I probably shouldn't have told you this much."

  "I'm your wife."

  "I know you are. I know. But some things..." He put his hands on her shoulders. "Sweetheart, this is not a matter that we can discuss openly. If Ramiro decided to leave, and people got wind of it, there could be ... serious political complications. You understand."

  "Of course."

  "It won't affect our visit, I promise, but don't speak to anyone about this. Not your mother, not Marta. You know nothing about it. All right?"

  "I understand."

  "Good." Anthony kissed her lips. "Go pack your suitcase. You have half an hour, no more. Then I'm going to come and get you."

  Gail had Karen's suitcase packed in ten minutes. Zipped it closed, rolled it across the living room. Then went back to hers. Yes to a jacket, no to the extra sweater. These two dresses, not that one. Folded them around some tops to keep them from wrinkling. Tossed two pairs of shorts onto the sofa, put the other three pairs in the bag. She checked her list: toiletries, cosmetics, lingerie. Hair dryer, in case Marta didn't have one.

  How strange, she was thinking, that Congressman Navarro had come to Ernesto Pedrosa's house so late at night. Very strange that he hadn't come out to work the party and shake some hands, because the guests included quite a few of the people who ran things in Miami. And who was the other man, the aide? They had come all the way from Washington. The more Gail considered what Anthony had told her, the more certain she became that he had not told her everything. That was not unusual: Anthony Quintana could be infuriat-ingly secretive. This time, he might have a good reason. He could have simply said, I'm sorry, I can't discuss it, national security. Or whatever. He could have said that. But he had tap-danced around the truth, assuming she was too credulous to know the difference.

  Gail put a knee on her suitcase to close it, wrestling with the zipper. When she rolled the suitcase to the front door, she saw a pair of high-heeled sandals on the sofa, the black ones that matched her dress for Janelle's quinceañera. Gail doubted that her suitcase would hold so much as a nail file. She took the shoes over to the big duffel bag on wheels that Anthony had filled with gifts for family and friends. He had said that his sister always told him not to bring anything because she didn't want to admit that shortages existed in her socialist paradise. But Anthony would come loaded, and Marta would accept the gifts and pretend she did it to be polite.

  Under a package of new bed sheets Gail found a stack of books and some shirts still in their wrappers. Anthony said he was never searched at the airport in Havana, not he, the brother-in-law of General Ramiro Vega. The books were for his friends, Yolanda and José. Yolanda was a nurse, Gail remembered, who worked at the old-age home where Anthony's father lived. José was a journalist, a political activist who had been in prison. Together they ran a library out of their house. Gail had only a few details because this was another topic that Anthony avoided.

  She sat on her heels, laughing softly at herself. "You knew what you were getting into, so shut up." Anthony didn't consciously intend to keep her in the dark. Privacy was a habit ingrained into criminal defense lawyers. Or was it more personal? A carryover from years of not discussing Cuba with his grandfather. Easier that way, keeping the two parts of his life separate. Miami here, Cuba there. Anthony dancing on the narrow wall between them, managing somehow not to fall off. Any woman who didn't get it shouldn't have married him.

  Gail tried to wedge her shoes into the duffel bag but there wasn't room. She noticed Anthony's carry-on and knelt on the floor to unzip it. She saw a paperback novel, bottled water, airline tickets, passports, his Palm Pilot. There was a brown envelope full of letters to be delivered in Cuba. Anthony had shown her. They contained photographs; most contained cash as well. Someone's brother or cousin or friend writing to those left behind.

  To get her shoes to the bottom of the bag she had to move the envelopes aside. She noticed that one of them had a name on it in Anthony's tilted handwriting. Mario.

  Mario who?

  It wasn't sealed. She lifted the flap and saw a stack of twenty-dollar bills. She counted ten of them. And a folded sheet of cream-colored paper, the kind Anthony used in his office. She could just make out the raised imprint of a ballpoint pen. Black ink.

  The living room was empty and quiet. Gail took out the letter, then noticed her own reflection in the dark glass of the windows, a woman on her knees going through her husband's things, about to read his correspondence.

  She put the letter back into the envelope, folded down the flap, and zipped the bag shut.

  4

  Over the western Caribbean a sheen of sunlight flickered on the water. Shadows of clouds made patches of indigo on deep turquoise blue. A delicate V of foam marked the passage of a ship. Gail leaned over her mother, who had put away her Spanish phrase book to look out. Irene said she could have sworn she'd seen a line of green out there. Gail didn't think so; they were still too far away to see Cuba. Haze obscured the horizon.

  For a few moments longer she gazed at the empty ocean, then settled back into her seat. She felt that the jet was flying past the edge of the known world. Her stomach had that floating sensation one gets from losing altitude too fast, though the flight had been smooth.

  At the airport in Cancun, through her sunglasses, Gail had looked around to see who might be taking notes on the passengers lining up at the Cubana de Aviación counter. She saw no one. The agent handed over then-airline tickets and visas as though it were completely normal, a group of six Americans flying from Miami to Havana. The visas would be stamped at José Marti airport. The visas, but not their American passports. The Cubans knew how things worked.

  Gail had dressed plainly—khaki pants and a long-sleeved white pullover—not wanting to draw any attention. Her mother didn't care what anyone thought. She wore gold hoop earrings, a yellow dress printed with red flowers, and brown leather sandals on her size-five feet. Her toenail polish matched the flowers. She had bought a new digital camera to document every moment of their trip. Her straw hat rested in the overhead bin. She would be as inconspicuous as a bea
ch umbrella.

  They weren't the only Americans sneaking in. Gail had chatted with her fellow passengers in the waiting area. Four guys from Ohio had bought a Canadian package tour to go deep-sea fishing. A couple from Atlanta would spend their honeymoon on Varadero Beach. There were Cubans as well: Cubans from Miami visiting relatives, and Cubans from Cuba, coming home from wherever they'd been. Gail was surprised by this, then told herself that of course they could travel, just not to the United States, not without hacking through miles of red tape on both sides of the water.

  Across the aisle, Anthony's novel was open on his tray table, next to his Scotch and soda, but he wasn't reading. He had propped his cheek on extended fingers, sending his unfocused gaze down the aisle. Gail wondered what he was thinking about. His brother-in-law? What to say to him? Whether to talk to him at all?

  She put a hand on Anthony's arm. It took him a couple of seconds to realize she was there. She leaned closer. "I miss you." He sent a smile her way and followed that with a kiss in the air. "If you let me change seats with Danny, we can make out."

  "Qué mala eres." Telling her she was naughty.

  "Do we have our own room tonight?" Gail asked. "Or are they putting us in the barracks?"

  "Barracks?"

  "You know ... General Vega, barracks. Never mind. Just making a little joke, Anthony."

  He pulled her close enough to say into her ear, "What did we discuss last night? You don't know who could be listening. It's a small plane, and your voice carries."

  She whispered back, "Sorry. I didn't think spies would pay to sit in first class."

  "Jesucristo. Gail, please." He said, "To answer your question—Marta is giving us Paula's room. Paula and the baby will stay at a friend's house."

  The older Vega girl was twenty-three and divorced, with a toddler. "We can't take Paula's room. That's not fair."

  "It's the way we do it."

  "We?"

  "All right, they. My family."

  "Fine. I just meant... we shouldn't make it hard for them."

  "Look, sweetheart. They're excited, very pleased that we're coming. We can't stay at a hotel. Marta would feel bad."

  "Who said anything about staying at a hotel?" But she had thought about it. Definitely had thought of it. Toast and juice on a tray. A bathroom to themselves.

  He said, "Don't worry, you'll fit in. Within a week, you'll be as cubana as anyone." He squeezed her hand before going back to his Scotch and Tom Clancy. He read a paragraph or two, then closed the book on a plastic stir stick.

  His usual drink, his usual taste in novels, but they weren't keeping his mind occupied. Gail saw him stretch, arms over his head, then speak to his son. No response. He nudged Danny's shoulder to get his attention. Danny thumbed the controls on his Discman and mumbled a reply. Anthony looked at him for a moment longer, then picked up his drink.

  He had invited his son along so they could share the experience, but it wasn't happening. Gail studied Danny out of the corner of her eye. Except for the dark, wavy hair, there wasn't much of Anthony in him. Not his fire, not his humor or intelligence. Danny was more clever than intelligent, more sarcastic than funny. She had tried to like him for Anthony's sake, but her efforts at friendly conversation had fallen flat Danny didn't like her—not that she'd ever done anything to him ... except for marrying his father. He wasn't openly rude; he just treated her as if she were irrelevant. It didn't matter. Danny would be on his way home to New Jersey as soon as they got back.

  His sister, older by two years, was nothing like Danny. Gail adored her. Angela was thoughtful and kind, with gentle brown eyes and the delicate features of a porcelain figurine. She wanted to dance professionally, but she had been turned down by the Miami City Ballet. Gail suspected that things weren't going so well with her boyfriend either. Her father thought the trip to Cuba might lift her spirits.

  Angela and Karen were in the seat just ahead. Gail heard the crinkle of paper, saw the edge of a map before it settled down on their laps. Angela's goal in Havana was to find the house in Vedado where her family had once lived. Gail had seen the pictures: a beautiful house with columns across the front, double doors, potted palms on the terrace, and balconies on the second floor. Her father had told her not to bother. The house had been cut into several apartments that were Crammed with people who hung their wash on the old ironwork railings. Angela wanted to see it anyway.

  Every family has its stories, invariably made more romantic in the retelling. Angela had heard the one about her grandmother, Caridad Pedrosa, a beautiful, blue-eyed girl of sixteen who had met a handsome young army lieutenant at a dance at the yacht club, she in a strapless satin gown, he in his dress uniform. This was before. Everything in Cuba could be divided into before and after the Revolution. The girl and the young lieutenant locked eyes, had one dance, and that was that. Love gave Caridad the courage to escape her chapetones. She got out somehow, went out the back way or— better still—climbed down off her bedroom balcony and into his arms. The inevitable happened, and they had to get married.

  Did Angela know the rest of the story? The marriage was a horrible mismatch. Caridad's parents, the rich banker and his socialite wife, took them in, but by then Luis Quintana had joined the fidelistas. He wore a beard and carried a rule. On principle he refused to live in a mansion and so moved his family to his birthplace in Camagüey province, a flat land of sugarcane and cattle. Caridad couldn't stand it, of course, all those chickens in the yard, the dirt, the illiterate mulato mother-in-law who practiced santería, and Luis sleeping around. When Ernesto Pedrosa told Caridad the family was leaving Cuba, she decided that she and her four children would go with them. But when the car came, her two older ones were off playing. Caridad called and called; she begged her father to wait. It was impossible; her husband would be home any moment. Ernesto had to unhook his daughter's fingers from the doorjamb and carry her, sobbing, across the muddy yard.

  Marta and Anthony remained in Cuba. Their father told them their mother had abandoned them. They joined the Young Communist Pioneers. They practiced marching with wooden rifles and shooting at the imperialists. When Anthony was thirteen, his grandfather, through bribes and lies, managed to fly him to Miami for a visit with his mother. Anthony went so he could confront her, to demand that she return home. Of course the Pedrosas never let him go back. He grew up in Miami with his heart torn in two.

  Gradually Gail grew aware of a murmur, a shifting in the aircraft. People were standing up, trying to see past the heads pressed to the windows on the starboard side. There was an announcement in two languages to remain seated. No one paid attention.

  Irene was rummaging in her bag, whipping the lens cap off her camera. "Gail, look! Over there, look. It's Cuba." She aimed the lens out the window.

  From the haze a long stripe of green appeared, paler at the edge, a rim of lacy white—a shoreline. Then red soil, some houses, roads with sparse traffic. Royal palm trees soared from the fields. In the distance a brown haze. Blocks of buildings—the city. Anthony braced a hand on his daughter's seat back and said it looked as though they would circle and come in from the south. He turned to his son and asked if he could see the Malecón, the long curving wall that kept the ocean from flooding the city.

  "Danny, mira el Malecón, ¿tú ves? We'll go there when the wind is blowing. The waves are so high they go right into the street." His son lifted the shade on his window, some glimmer of interest at last.

  Gail reached up to touch Anthony's back. "Honey? You really should sit down."

  He leaned over and kissed her. His eyes shone. "We're here."

  Coming out of the passenger walkway, Gail kept a firm grip on Karen's hand. The terminal, larger and newer than she had expected, bustled with tourists. At customs, a young woman in an olive-green uniform smiled, stamped their visas, and slid them back under the glass. "Bienvenida a Cuba."

  As Anthony had predicted, their bags weren't searched. He tipped a porter to take everything outside. The pickup
area was mobbed, and their little group was caught in a wave of sun-baked Germans heading for a tour bus at the curb. Then someone shouted Anthony's name. Gail turned to see a woman with bronze-streaked hair pushing through the crowd. Anthony waved. "Marta!"

  His sister was broad-shouldered and round in the hips, wearing a plain blue shirt over dark pants. She embraced Anthony and kissed him. She saw her niece and nephew and her arms opened wide. "Angela, Luisito! ¡Ay, Dios mío, qué grandes son! Dale un besito a tu tía!” She was crying and laughing at the same time, pressing her wet face against theirs.

  She pulled them toward their cousins. Introductions, more embraces. Giovany was eighteen, his sister Janelle three years younger. Their father's Afro-Cuban blood showed in their curly black hair, their smooth café con leche skin. Their clothes were perfectly clean and neat— the only thing that might have pegged them as foreigners, if they'd been in Miami.

  Marta hugged Gail next. "Anthony, she's so tall, like a model. Welcome to Cuba, Gail. My new sister, eh? And your mother! Irene, how are you? I want you to know my children. Janelle, Giovany, greet your uncle's new wife. Paula has to work, I am sorry she isn't here. You'll see her tonight. And the baby! You won't believe how big he is!"

  Somewhere in the avalanche of words, Malta's children embraced their uncle and kissed him and said how happy they were to see him again. Then more hugs and kisses for their American visitors.

  Marta held Karen by the shoulders. "You are twelve years old only? No! You are very grown-up."

  Gail's head was spinning. More people came out of the terminal, crushing them closer together.

  "Let's get out of here." Marta looked around and spotted a man in a tan windbreaker standing nearby. She pointed at the suitcases."Cobo,el equipaje"

  The man tossed his cigarette to the concrete and stepped on it. With big, square hands, he easily heaved the bags into the back of a Toyota minivan. There were two vehicles, and from luck or privilege Marta had found spaces at the curb. The other was a faded little blue car with rust around the wheel wells, some make that Gail hadn't seen before.