He made a noncommittal noise, then said, "We'll talk later. I'll be there around four, all right?"
"I might not be home."
"Ah. You'll be with Irene."
"And after that I have some things to do."
Anthony clamped his teeth together to keep from blurting out, What are you afraid of? That I might force you to admit how much you hate mopping floors?
After José's arrest, Yolanda had called Miami, waking Anthony in the middle of the night. She had raged and wept. How could José have been so stupid? He'd known what he was doing. He had wanted them to put him on trial, as if the world would even notice. Such pride, such egotism! She didn't want to be married to a man who loved martyrdom more than he loved his wife. On his next trip to Cuba, Anthony rented a car and took Yolanda to the prison in Ciego de Ávila, more than 250 miles away, to visit her husband. Halfway there he pulled off the highway and told her she didn't have to stay in Cuba. She could come to Miami. He would find her a place to live, a good apartment. He could support her until she found work. When José was released, he could join her. Or not, if he preferred to suffer. She said she would think about it, but the subject never came up again.
"I'm leaving now," he said. "If I don't see you today, then some other time."
She held out her cheek to be kissed.
As he walked away, she said, "Don't eat all the apples."
23
Sitting on the terrace with her mother, opening a granola bar lifted from Karen's stash, Gail heard car tires on gravel, then an engine go off. She tore the cellophane with her nails and watched the front of the house. Through the open terrace doors she could see into the long, empty living room, which was still waiting for delivery of tables and chairs for the party. The stairs were a curve of floating horizontal lines.
Marta had rushed out more than an hour ago, saying she had to pick up some things for lunch. This threatened to screw up Gail's plans to meet Olga Saavedra at two o'clock. She had hoped that Marta could take her downtown. She would have asked Cobo, but God only knew where he'd disappeared to. Gail was afraid that Olga would leave before she got there. She had tried to reach Anthony, but he wasn't answering his cell phone, and the damned thing had no voice mail.
Irene squeezed a wedge of lime into her rum and Tu-Cola. "Is Marta coming back? You should put that snack bar away, darling. It will hurt her feelings."
"Where has she been! An hour to pick up a loaf of bread?"
"I offered to fix you some leftovers."
"Oh, please. That chicken last night was so vile."
"It wasn't that bad."
"It was all skin and fat! I saw you blotting it on your napkin. My pants are getting loose. Look! I'll have no butt left."
Irene scooted down in her chair and turned her face to the sun. "Don't be so grumpy, Gail. You should have eaten breakfast before we went shopping."
She heard a car door slam.
The morning had been spent crisscrossing Havana, Marta chain-smoking her Hollywood cigarettes, clutching her vinyl handbag under her arm like a holstered weapon, parking in VIP spots with the Fuerzas Armadas sticker on the minivan, looking for a dress for Janelle that wasn't so expensive she'd feel guilty about letting her have it. Finally at a shop in the galería at the El Comodoro Hotel, Janelle spotted a little two-piece outfit with rhinestones on the straps. Eighty dollars. Under threat of more tears, Marta surrendered. Gail put four twenties on the counter, thinking that at least the dress was the correct political hue—red.
Driving home, relieved it was over, Marta had been in a marvelous mood, recalling that she herself had never had a quinceanera, not in those days, when the Revolution required so much sacrifice. But Janelle deserved a party. It would be a statement of how far they had come. It would be a celebration for the family and most of all, for Ramiro. You don't know, Marta had told them, how hard he has worked for this promotion.
Gail had sat in the front passenger seat staring out at the street, realizing with perfect clarity that he hadn't told her. General Vega had not told his wife that he was going to defect. She didn't know. Would he tell her? Or was he planning to take someone else? Like Olga Saavedra? Gail didn't know why Olga wanted to talk to her, but she expected to come away with something of use.
Glass louvers rattled as the front door closed, and voices echoed in the living room. A moment later a skinny figure appeared, dodging around the dining table, coming onto the terrace. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Gramma." Karen wore a screaming pink T-shirt and a matching South Beach ball cap. The wind had tangled her hair, and dirt smudged the knees of her jeans. She gave Gail a kiss. "Mwah!" Gail said.
"Hello, sweet pea." Irene set down her drink and reached out for a hug. "Did you have a good time?"
Karen looked at both of them, her eyes shifting under the bill of her cap. "There was a dead guy in the park."
"Excuse me?" Gail said.
"I am totally serious. We went to Lenin Park, and we were walking to the stables so we could ride the horses, and there were police everywhere. Mario went over to see what was going on. They found this dead guy in the woods. He'd been there for like two or three days."
"Oh, honey." Gail reached out for her hand. "I'm so sorry. You didn't see him, I hope."
"No, the ambulance was driving away when we got there, but the police were still investigating. Mario talked to some people to find out what happened, but they didn't know who the guy was. Mario wanted to bring us home, so we left." Karen added, "I don't know why he thought we should come home."
"He was being considerate," Gail said, pulling Karen onto her lap. She hugged her tightly. "What an awful thing to happen!"
"Mom, we didn't see anything."
"Yes, I know, but still—"
"It was kind of exciting, actually."
"My God, Karen."
Irene said, "That's what you get when they watch so much violence on TV. Kids become inured to it." She reached over and patted Karen's cheek. "I bet you're hungry."
"Not really." She scooted off Gail's lap. "Mario bought us some pizza. Can I have a cola, please?"
"May I?" Irene corrected. "Why don't you have some juice instead?"
"You're having cola." Karen leaned over and sniffed her glass. "Aha! And what else, Gramma?"
"Have some juice, Karen," said Gail, looking toward the living room. "Is Mario leaving? I wonder if he could give me a lift downtown."
She got up and went inside the house. The wide roof overhang cut the sunlight, and she blinked in the cool semi-darkness. When she came around the corner toward the front door, the long row of bright windows reflected on the floor and in the framed photographs on the wall.
The living room was empty, but she saw Anthony on the porch talking to his daughter. His back was to the house. He turned his head slightly, and she saw his long nose and full lips and the familiar angle of his jaw. He wore a tight blue shirt she didn't recognize ... and a silver earring.
She stopped and stared. It wasn't Anthony at all. In a split-second her mind had played a trick, filling in the image of the man she had wanted to see. This was Mario Cabrera. Of course it was Mario. He had just brought the kids home. He was shorter than Anthony, and his hair was black, not dark brown.
Angela's soft voice came through the open windows, and she stood on tiptoe to touch her lips to Mario's cheek. He tilted his head and kissed her on the mouth, then flashed his gorgeous smile and turned to go down the steps.
Unable to breathe, Gail walked closer to the windows.
This morning she'd hardly recognized him without his braids. The beads and long hair had been a distraction. Now she could see the shape of his head, the curve of his neck, the slim hips and easy motion of his long legs. Mario got into his car, a tiny European model of some kind, spray-painted lime green. A cloud of smoke rolled from the exhaust. He stuck a lean, muscular arm out the window. The tiger tattoo was a flash of orange and black, and gold winked at his wrist.
"Ciao, mi ángel."
Angela
waved. "Ciao."
Gail put out a hand to steady herself on the pillar dividing the windows. Her heart thudded in her chest. She murmured, "You're wrong. You're being completely stupid. It's not possible. Stop it."
But the image of Anthony's face, superimposed over Mario's, had incised itself into her mind. She sank down onto the low, tiled window ledge and took another breath. She counted backward. Anthony was forty-four years old. Subtract twenty—
The door swung open. Angela noticed her sitting there, and her smile faded. "Gail? Is anything the matter?"
"No, not at all." She stood up. "I've been waiting for Anthony, but I guess he's still having lunch with your grandfather."
"You saw Mario kissing me, didn't you? Don't worry, I'm not going to let it go too far." Her smile reappeared. "But I am over Bobby. So over him."
"Karen says you had an experience at the park."
"They found a body. He was a teenager, they said. Isn't that awful?" Long lashes gave Angela's velvet-brown eyes the look of a fawn, but her body was not that of a child. Her bare shoulders glowed like honey. A camisole top skimmed her waist and revealed the curve of her hips. A pink stone on a gold stud sparkled in her navel.
Angela said, "Mario was very upset. They think it was a murder. We didn't tell Karen. That is just so unheard of in Cuba. Someone that age, you know? Someone any age."
Gail asked, "Where's Danny? Did he go up?"
"He's not here?" Angela rolled her eyes. "My brother. He said he didn't want to walk around in the sun all afternoon so we left him downtown. He said was going to get a taxi and come back here."
"I haven't seen him," Gail said.
"Oh, is he going to catch it." Angela held up her hands. "Fine. I'm tired of dealing with him. If Dad grounds him for the rest of our trip, I couldn't care less. Gail, do you think Aunt Marta would mind if Mario came over sometime? Like Thursday night? I invited him already. I know his father is sort of persona non grata around here, but Mario isn't part of all that, I mean not publicly. If he said what he really thought, they'd put him in jail. That's what it's like in Cuba. You have to lie. Your whole life is a lie. Mario says it's like being dead already. Isn't that depressing? People are just waiting for Fidel to croak. Mario wants to get out. He says they won't give him an exit visa, but there are ways. There are definitely ways. I think Dad would help him. Don't you?"
Barely able to follow this torrent of words, Gail finally said, "Well... I don't know. Maybe. Listen, about Mario coming over for dinner. Let me talk to your father about it. Okay?"
"Okay. Thanks. Maybe he can soften Aunt Marta up." Angela kissed Gail's cheek and ran toward the stairs, swinging around the handrail, taking the steps two at a time.
Alone in the living room, Gail brushed back her hair with trembling fingers and noticed that her forehead was damp. She said quietly, "You could be wrong. You are wrong, you dunce. He would have said something. He would have."
Last night Anthony had made love to her. He had kissed his way up her body from her heels to her forehead, taking his time doing it, and any thoughts of his being with Yolanda Cabrera had flown out of her brain like leaves on the wind.
We will be home in six days, she reminded herself. He will forget, and it will all be normal again.
How? How was it ever going to be normal? Anthony wanted to bring Mario to Miami. And Yolanda and her husband—assuming José wasn't in jail. And all the better if he was!
So why don't you just ask him?
Gail's laughter echoed on the terrazzo and the stone walls of the living room. What in the name of God would she say? What if it was true, and he didn't know? Better to leave it alone.
But it couldn't be true. Meeting Mario's mother, Gail hadn't seen the least sign of guilt, shame, or duplicity. Nothing. Not from either of them. After ten years of watching courtroom testimony and paying attention to the most subtle clues of body language, Gail thought she could spot a he. Anthony might have unresolved feelings for Yolanda Cabrera, but that didn't mean he had ever slept with her.
Gail went through the kitchen, fixed herself a cola, cracked some ice from the metal freezer tray, then poured a little rum into the glass. She returned to the terrace. Karen was gone, and Irene appeared to be dozing.
A recollection swam into Gail's thoughts. Olga Saavedra had known the Leivas for a long time. Had she known Mario's father? Not José, his biological one. Gail wanted to clear this up before it started taking root in her mind. Olga would say she'd known Mario's father quite well, a short, fat man with blond hair, nothing like Anthony Quintana. Olga Saavedra would tell her—
"Shit," she said.
Opening her eyes, Irene said, "What's the matter?"
"I forgot to ask Mario to take me downtown."
"Well, Marta will be home soon." Irene turned her wrist to check the time. She was wearing a tropical-green Swatch. "I might go with you. I'm supposed to meet Yolanda at three-thirty. Don't worry, I won't get in your way. My guidebook says there's a perfume factory somewhere in the old town."
"Mother, I don't want you wandering around Habana Vieja by yourself."
"Why not? The worst that could happen is I'll get picked up by a hot young cubano trolling for female tourists." She smiled. "Wouldn't that be fun? If I called you from Varadero Beach? 'Hi, darling, I met this wonderful guy named Fernando, and he wants to show me his maracas.' "
"For God's sake, Mother, please."
"You're in a strange mood."
A movement at the corner of the house caught Gail's attention. For a brief second or two, a burly man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans appeared in the portico that separated the kitchen from the garage.
"Was that Cobo?" her mother asked.
"Unless he has a twin."
A door closed inside the house. Gail turned around to see her sister-in-law walking at a quick pace toward the stairs. Marta had arrived. She'd come in through the kitchen. Evidently she had gone to pick up Cobo, which explained the phone call she'd received just before she left. What was it, the Lada had broken down? Why not just say so? Why lie about needing groceries?
With a wave toward the two on the terrace, Marta vanished upstairs.
"Do you think she's all right?" Irene asked.
"I don't know. Should I go find out?"
"Yes, why don't you?" Irene got up. "I'll see what's for lunch."
By the time Gail reached the top of the stairs, Marta was nowhere in sight. Gail passed the girls' room, hearing low murmurs of conversation. At Marta's door, Gail turned her ear toward the crack. Water was running in the bathroom. "Marta? It's Gail. Are you okay?"
Her muffled voice said, "Yes! Fine!"
There was something wrong. Gail turned the knob.
"Momentito! Don't come in!"
She pulled her hand back. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes." Marta laughed. "I'm not dressed. You want to hear what I did? In the market, I made such a mess! I dropped a box of yogurt on the floor." Jo-gurrr. "It splashed on my pants. New pants. Such bad luck."
Gail leaned against the wall and stared idly across at the framed print of some Cuban abstract artist who liked a lot of brown and black.
The water was still running in Marta's bathroom.
She spoke through the door again. "Mother said she'd start lunch."
No reply.
"Marta?"
The water went off. There was silence, then a long moan. "Ay, Dios, se me olvidó el jodido pan." She had forgotten the f-ing bread.
Gail decided that if Marta could still curse, she was probably all right.
"I was thinking of going downtown. There's something I want to get for Anthony. Do you think Cobo could drop me off?"
"Cobo?"
"You brought him home. Didn't you?"
More silence. "Yes. He can take you after lunch. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Gail mouthed the word damn. She didn't have time to wait. Olga Saavedra might be gone. "Do you think I could borrow your car? I have a map of Hav
ana—"
"No! The traffic. Call a taxi. Wait for me. I will do it." Marta was getting annoyed. "Please wait downstairs."
In silent slow motion, Gail pounded her fist on the wall.
"Mom?"
She turned to see Karen standing in the hall. She had come out of Janelle's room. "Where are you going?" Karen asked.
"Nowhere special. To get something for Anthony."
"May I go with you?"
"No, sweetie, not today. I'll be back soon. Go talk to Angela. I think she needs company after what happened in the park."
But Karen followed her to the stairs. Halfway down she stopped and held on to Gail's elbow. "You're not going shopping for Anthony, are you? I wish people would stop treating me like a child."
"I don't, Karen."
"You most certainly do." At times Karen could look older than her twelve years. Her thin, straight lips would compress, and her eyes would focus like a pair of blue laser beams.
Gail sighed. "I'm sorry. I can’t explain right now."
"Jeez-us, Mom. What is going on around here? You and Anthony stay in your room and whisper all the time, and Mr. Vega didn't even come home last night until like two o'clock."
"Karen, my God."
"I wasn't spying. I just couldn't sleep."
"There is nothing going on." Gail lifted her hands and said quietly, "All right. The woman who was here this morning, the one doing the party for Janelle? Her name is Olga. Here's the truth, I swear. She's trying to get in touch with Anthony, and she can't, so she wants to talk to me."
"Why?"
"I don't know why. She just said show up at two o'clock."
"So... how are you going to get there?"
"Marta's going to call a taxi."
"It takes a long time for a taxi. Janelle says you can wait an hour."
"Oh, no."
"What you do is, you walk over to Quinta Avenida. You stand there and hold up a dollar. You don't have to call a taxi. People just give you a ride." Karen arched her brows. "I could show you."
Gail looked at her a second, then went back to Marta's door and told her thank you, but she could find a taxi on her own, not to worry. She used the telephone in the kitchen to try Anthony one more time before they left. After six rings, she hung up.
Suspicion of Rage Page 22
