Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  "Gio, los primos contigo." Marta told her son that his cousins would go with him.

  Before Gail could speak, all five got into the blue car, with Karen squeezed in back between the older girls. Spanish rap music blasted through the open windows as they pulled away.

  Gail stared after them. The car swerved around a bus and vanished. Anthony turned her toward his sister's van. "Come on. They'll be there before us."

  Marta took the front passenger seat. Behind them, Anthony sat in the middle so that Gail and Irene could look out the windows. The driver, Cobo, leaned on the horn to force a car out of the way. Marta opened her shoulder bag—brown imitation leather—and took out a pack of cigarettes: Hollywood. Gail wondered where they were made. Marta lit one and slid her window down halfway. She asked about their flight from Cancún. Was it all right? Were they hungry? Everyone wanted to meet the cousins and Gail and her family. Ramiro would be home later. Papi would be with them for dinner. She laughed and reached over to give Irene's knee a nudge. "You will meet our father. He doesn't speak English so good, but he likes to flirt with pretty women. Be careful!"

  The billboards along the airport exit road weren't advertisements; they were political messages, such a cliché of what Gail had heard about Cuba that she wanted to grab her mother's arm and tell her to look, but Anthony was between them, leaning forward to talk to his sister.

  En marcha hacia el futuro. On the march ... something ... the future. Celebramos el Triunfo de la Revolución. We celebrate the triumph of the Revolution. Fidel Castro in his green uniform. Che Guevara on a billboard announcing Socialismo ahora y siempre. Socialism, now and forever. The paper was peeling, and rust ran down the signs where they'd been nailed to the posts.

  Neither Marta nor Anthony seemed to notice, as if these fading relics were only part of the background, like the electrical wires drooping overhead or the weeds along the road. Marta tapped her cigarette ashes out the window. Her nail polish was chipped. When she turned to speak to them, her profile revealed a resemblance to Anthony in the straight nose and full lips. She was older, forty-five, and a frown of concentration had drawn deep lines between her brows. Where her hair parted, gray showed through. She wore no wedding ring. Her jewelry consisted of a watch with a stainless steel band and a narrow gold chain around her neck. She was clearly a woman with more important things to do than look in a mirror.

  "Irene, you will see La Habana Vieja tomorrow," Marta announced. "I'll be your tour guide, eh? I took some days off from work so I can be with you." Marta listed what they would see. The Capitol, the Malecón, the Plaza de las Armas, the cathedral—

  The stream of words was exhausting. Gail's attention shifted to the scenes passing by the window. Run-down factories. Small stores with glass fronts. So many buildings trimmed in bright blue, as if no other color could be found. She saw people sitting under a mildewed bus shelter, others walking a path along the side of the road. A young woman in jeans and a Florida Marlins sweatshirt pushed an elaborate baby stroller. Gail supposed she had relatives in Miami.

  Closer to the city, they followed a truck laying down a fog of blue smoke through a quivering exhaust pipe. The back of the truck had wooden sides, and people were holding on, not workers but ordinary people, nicely dressed, women mostly, and some children. Why were they in the back of a truck? "Anthony—"

  "Look at that old car!" Irene pointed. "It's a 1953 Dodge, I swear it is. My dad owned a car just like that." Metal pipes formed the front bumper of the ancient machine, and brake lights had been welded on top of the rear fenders.

  Anthony told her that it probably had a truck engine. "They put it together with wires and chewing gum, believe me."

  Marta laughed. "Yes, we are geniuses with our old cars!"

  Irene said, "You've got a very nice van, though."

  "Anyone who works hard can have a car, but it takes time." Marta sent some ashes out the window. "We have shortages of everything because of the blockade."

  Gail shot a glance at Anthony. The corner of his mouth turned up, and his hand, resting on her knee, gave it a little squeeze. I told you. He put his arm across the back of her seat. "When we cross the river, look down. There's a park. It's pretty this time of year. We should take a walk there. Would you like that?"

  She understood: This was his city, if not in reality, then in his heart; he wanted to share it with her. She smiled back at him. "Yes, I'd love to see it."

  Feeling a little overheated, she shifted to catch the cool breeze from the driver's open window. Images swept past her. A house with purple bougainvillea spilling across the roof. Small, boxy cars crammed with people. A collarless dog limping along the sidewalk. Gray concrete apartment buildings. Shade trees. Men at a card table playing dóminos. A red-and-yellow awning, a sign announcing "Burgui"—a hamburger joint. The word Venceremos—we will conquer—stretching in faded blue and red across a long, low wall. The paint was peeling off. Everything needed painting.

  The van swerved around a pothole.

  Gail held on, staring mutely, Havana pouring into her mind.

  The Vegas lived in a sprawling, flat-roofed tri-level built around 1950 for someone with a great deal of money. The house showed its age: The decorative aluminum railing on the porch had pits in it, and several of the glass louvers in the huge windows across the front had been replaced with wooden slats. But still, an impressive house. The palm trees, climbing philodendron, red-and-green crotons, and an overhanging poinciana tree led Gail's mother to say it looked just like home. Cobo carried their bags up while Marta showed them .around.

  Gail asked where the kids could be, and Marta replied, as she hurried across the wide living room with its polished terrazzo floor, that Giovany might have taken them for a drive through the city.

  Dining room here, reception room there—heavy furniture, chairs with cane bottoms, gilded mirrors. Bedrooms upstairs, garage farther on. Then up a curve of free-floating black granite steps, down which, Marta explained, Janelle would walk in her gown the night of the party. On the second floor, Marta pointed out who would stay where.

  A quick look at the master bedroom, darkened by heavy curtains. A big television in the corner. Liquor bottles on the glass-topped dresser. Then back downstairs.

  Into the kitchen with its dated appliances and tile floor, scrupulously clean. Marta insisted they have something to drink, a soda, coffee, a beer, whatever. Anthony said no, they would unpack and be down later. He motioned for Gail to follow him. Irene said she would stay behind; she wanted to have some café cubano, por favor. Marta laughed. "¡Qué chistoso! All the coffee we have, mi amor, is cubano."

  They returned to the last room on the second floor and closed the door. The voices from downstairs could barely be heard. Anthony grabbed Gail's hand, pulled her close, and gave her a kiss so deep they went backward onto the bed, bouncing and knocking the headboard into the wall. Gail started laughing when he went for the button on her pants. "What are you doing?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Oh, my God, we can't, not now."

  Pinning her hands, he kissed his way down her neck. "Why not?"

  "I feel like a trespasser, like somebody is watching us. What if Karen comes back?"

  He rolled off. "Maybe we should have a hotel."

  "Oh, shut up," she said, elbowing his ribs. "Later. I'll make you beg for mercy."

  Paula's room could hardly have been more feminine. Pink pillow shams, lace curtains, a fuzzy pink area rug on the terrazzo floor. A baby crib full of stuffed toys took up one corner. Over it, cartoon characters had been taped to the wall, but Gail didn't recognize any of them. Getting up, she looked at Anthony lying across the frayed pink bedspread. The room was awful, but strangely enough, he seemed completely at home. Usually so fastidious with his clothes, he had pulled from the depths of his closet well-worn slacks and knit shirt for the flight to Havana. Even his white sneakers were old; in Miami he'd worn them only to hike on the beach.

  Gail asked, "What happened to
Paula's husband?"

  "They got a divorce."

  "I know that," she said.

  "It's hard to be married in Cuba." Anthony sat up. "There's no place for young couples to live. They move in with their in-laws. I don't think he and Marta got along." The driver had left their bags in a neat pile just inside the door. Anthony went over and knelt to unzip his suitcase.

  "Who is that man who brought us here? Cobo. Who is he?"

  "You're full of questions." Anthony scooped up a stack of his clothes. "Cobo works for the family. He's been with them ... I don't know, ten years or more. Ramiro gets a car and he gets a driver. Cobo does whatever they need him to do. He has a room in the garage."

  "Does he have a first name?" Gail unfolded her shorts and tops.

  Anthony paused, then said, "I've never heard him called anything but 'Cobo.' "

  "He's their house slave." Gail laughed. "Yes, he is, don't deny it."

  "You think so? I'll tell you this." Anthony slid back the door on the closet, a wooden affair built out from the wall. His niece had pushed her clothes to one side to make room. "Cobo makes a good living, and if you ask him, he would say he's part of the family. So don't prejudge things you don't know about." Anthony shook out his shirts and trousers and hung them up.

  Making a little face in his direction, Gail wandered to the window to look out. She turned the crank, and a breeze drifted through the glass louvers. The window gave a view of the front yard and the driveway. A hedge with small, glossy leaves had grown through the chain-link fence. Beyond the gate and the hedge, the street curved, then intersected with another one. She wanted to see a small blue car with five kids in it. The only traffic was a man on a bicycle with flowers in a plastic crate over the rear wheel. He called out the same phrase over and over. Gail thought he might be selling the flowers, but she didn't understand his words. His voice faded away.

  "Does Giovany have a cell phone?"

  "I don't know," Anthony replied.

  She turned from the window. "Could we ask? I'd love to know where Karen is."

  "Nothing will happen to Karen."

  "Your kids are missing too."

  "They aren't missing. When they come back, I'll speak to Gio. All right?"

  Gail sat on the end of the bed and dug some Advil out of her purse. She had noticed the door that led directly to a bathroom. She went in and shut the door behind her.

  The bathroom reminded her of her grandmother's house—yellow tile, yellow bathtub, yellow sink in a peeling Formica cabinet. She took the pills with water in her cupped hand. Her cloudy image looked back at her in the discolored mirror over the sink. She picked up a silver tube from the vanity and unscrewed the top. Toothpaste. She dabbed some on her ringer. It tasted of baking soda. She spit it out and rinsed her mouth.

  A door on the opposite side led to another bedroom. Gail looked in. This was the room Karen and Angela would share with Janelle, an abundance of lace here as well. Stuffed animals covered the bed, odd for a girl of fifteen. A cot had been set up in the corner. Gail pulled the door closed.

  She unzipped her pants, then stopped, staring down at the toilet. A cord came up through a hole in the lid, tied to a pencil so it wouldn't slip back in. Gail assumed this was how one flushed, by pulling the cord. And where was the toilet seat? A plastic bucket was placed by the toilet. Why? Before carefully positioning herself, she looked around for toilet paper and spotted a roll on the vanity. "Thank you, God."

  At the sink she turned on the hot water faucet and waited, waited. She tried the other faucet. More cold water. She used that and some liquid soap, then dried her hands on the only thing available, a pink bath towel hanging on a rod by the tub.

  Coming back to the bedroom she said, "There's no toilet seat."

  Anthony turned around from the closet. "What?"

  "They don't have a toilet seat."

  "A lot of people don't in Cuba."

  "Why not?"

  A bottom drawer came open with a screech. "Because they can't find them in the stores. It's a luxury item in short supply. If you need a toilet seat, use Malta's bathroom."

  "I'm not going to use her bathroom."

  "Then don't." He put away his underwear in neat stacks.

  Gail leaned on the closet to talk to him. "There's no hot water either. Okay, I can deal with the toilet, but how are we supposed to take a bath?"

  Dropping his socks into the drawer, he said, "You have to turn on the gas first. There's a heater in the corner above the sink, didn't you see it? I'm sure you noticed everything else."

  She crossed her arms. "At least they have toilet paper."

  "Let me tell you something." He gave the drawer a hard shove with one knee to get it to shut. "This isn't Miami. It's not what you're used to. In Cuba, you have to accept things as they are."

  "If you're going to tell me how to react, then maybe I shouldn't have come."

  With a sigh he pulled her close. "Yes, you should. I'm glad you're here, Gail."

  "Are you?"

  He made an X over his heart. "Yes. And forgive my bad mood. I didn't get much sleep last night."

  "Neither did I," she said. "And you've got Ramiro on your mind. When are you going to have your talk?"

  "I don't know. Before we leave. There's no hurry." He patted her rear end. "Come on, let's finish this. They're expecting us downstairs." He sat on the end of the bed with his carry-on bag and pulled out his novel, their passports, an empty water bottle. A pair of high-heeled sandals.

  "Sorry," Gail said, "I didn't have room in mine." She took the shoes from him. "Anthony, I wasn't prying, really, but I happened to see the envelopes, you know, the ones you showed me, and there was one to somebody named Mario. I was wondering. Who is that?"

  Anthony lifted his eyes to hers. "Mario Cabrera. I’ve mentioned him, no?"

  "I don't think so."

  "I must have. He's Yolanda and José's son."

  "The dissidents, right?" Gail said. "I'm sure you didn't tell me about Mario."

  Anthony's eyes had not moved from her face. "Did you read the letter?"

  "No."

  He took the envelope out of his bag.

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Why not? There should be no secrets between us." He unfolded the letter, which she saw was written in Spanish. "I tell him hello, it's been a long time since we've seen each other—"

  "Anthony—"

  "And I hope that he is doing well. 'Your mother says you don't see her enough. You are an honorable young man, I hope you will think of her, she is a tremendous person, your father also. Here is some money, which you can put to good use. I hope that you will contact me when you can.' "

  Gail sat beside him. "I didn't read your letter, but... yes, I saw the money. That's a generous thing for you to do."

  He returned the letter to the envelope. "It's not that much. Two hundred dollars." "You're fond of him."

  "Well, I'm fond of his parents, whom I have known for a long time. Mario is nineteen... or twenty. A musician. He has a band, or had one. I don't know what he's doing now. He was getting his degree in music at the University of Havana, but he was invited to leave. Politically unreliable, that's the reason they gave. He moved out of the house, and where he's living now, who knows? Yolanda says the last time she saw him, he was starving. That is probably not true, but he can use the money. I haven't seen him since he was Danny's age. He's a handsome boy, very intelligent, very affectionate with his parents, but they rarely see him anymore. It could be that Mario thinks his connection to José puts him at a disadvantage, so he's staying away."

  "That's cowardly of him," Gail said, then regretted her words. "Maybe it isn't. What do I know?"

  "You're right. Cowardly ... if it's true. But he's young, and maybe he thinks he has to do this to survive. I would like to talk to him face-to-face, but chances are, we won't see him. José and Yolanda want to have dinner for us tomorrow. You'll like them. They're extraordinary people."

  "I don't k
now. It looks like Marta has tomorrow completely mapped out for us."

  "It doesn't matter to Marta. Let her play tour guide to your mother."

  "I'm surprised that you're helping José Leiva."

  "Why are you surprised?"

  "Because he's against the regime. You keep away from anything remotely political."

  "It isn't politics. They're my friends. Listen." Anthony took her hand. "I must ask you a favor, mi cielo. Don't mention their names to Marta or Ramiro. You understand how it is."

  "Of course. You don't want anyone to know you're a friend of the dissidents."

  Anthony made a slight smile. "They know, but it's something we don't talk about. Like my grandfather. I don't talk about Marta and Ramiro with my grandfather, but he knows. Everyone knows everything. Marta sees Yolanda quite often. Yolanda works at the retirement home where our father lives. The job pays her the equivalent of about ten dollars a month, so I send her money for taking care of him."

  "You never told me that," Gail said.

  "No? Well, her family lived near mine in Camaguey, and Papi has known her all his life. To him, Yolanda's politics don't matter. If Marta had her way, the wife of José Leiva wouldn't be taking care of our father. She thinks it's bad for Ramiro's career. So. We don't bring it up."

  "I’ll add that to my list of things not to bring up," Gail said.

  The staccato beep-beep-beep of a car horn sounded from outside. "That must be Karen." She hurried to the window and looked out. It was not a small blue car, but an aging black Mercedes that had stopped at the gate. Smoke drifted from the exhaust pipe, and Gail could just make out the face of a woman at the wheel. The horn sounded again, a long, impatient honk.

  A second later Cobo appeared and swung back the chain-link gate. The car drove through and parked in a gravel area alongside the driveway. The door opened. Gail saw high heels, long legs, and a tight black skirt. The woman's eyes were hidden by big sunglasses. Blond bangs covered her forehead, and the rest of her hair was tied back in a long ponytail. She carried a portfolio under her arm. Something about her body—the heavy hips, perhaps, or the softness of her upper arms—revealed that the woman might be nearer to forty than she would have liked to admit. But sexy. Extremely.