Suspicion of Rage

by Barbara Parker

  "Marta, I'm fine. Ramiro had someone bring me a sandwich at the Ministry. Thank you, though."

  "Well." She picked up Gail's bath towel and smoothed it, then folded it neatly.

  Karen looked up. "Mrs. Vega? Are you going to cancel the quinceañera?.

  "No, honey, I wouldn't do that! Janelle would be so disappointed! Everything is almost ready. Your grandmother says she will help me. I love Irene. Oh, Gail if my own mother were still alive! I miss her so much, you know. She left us, but I always loved her."

  Marta's face reddened, then crumpled. She wiped away tears and laughed at herself. "Oh, I'm sorry. There is so much to do! Everyone is coming to the party. We are going to have a beautiful party!"

  Karen glanced at Gail, then went back to staring down at the display on the camera.

  "It's too bad about Olga Saavedra, eh? I wish it had happened next week. Ay, Dios, discúlpame, I don't mean to say that. Gail, what did the police tell you? I talked to Anthony, but he says they don't know anything."

  "They don't. I can't add to what Anthony told you."

  "I am very sorry, but a woman like that, she probably had friends in the black market. Thieves and profiteers. Even drug addicts. Don't listen to me, Karen. You shouldn't be hearing this talk."

  "That's okay."

  "No, honey, we don't have murder here like other places. I don't know what to say. It doesn't happen."

  "Two murders." Karen looked up. "They found a boy at Lenin Park today. We were there."

  "Yes, that's right. Angela told me. A young man. It wasn't on the news. They don't put things like that on the news." Marta went around and took Karen's hand. "So now you know that Cuba isn't perfect, eh? We have murders here too—but not many. No. We don't have crime like most other countries. I think that we respect life more. Most of us do. Not everyone. There are criminals in Cuba, like any place on the earth. There are people who do drugs, who are a drain on society, and they don't care. They are useless. But that isn't normal. Don't think bad about us. We are not rich, but we try to give equally to everyone, even in our hard times. We live simply, but we have enough. We take care of each other. I try to tell that to my children. You know what I mean, don't you, sweetheart?"

  Karen nodded.

  Marta kissed her. "I am so happy that you and your mother and Irene came to see us. My brother made a good choice this time. Oh, Gail, the trouble we go through to bring you here. Did Anthony tell you? Every time he comes, we have to get permission. Maybe you didn't know this. It's because Ramiro is in las Fuerzas Armadas. Some people tell me, no, don't let them stay with you because it would be bad for your husband's career, but I don't care. He is not a little low-rank sergeant! He is respected. I tell them, if my husband wants to have my brother and his family here with us, it is Ramiro's decision, so go to hell."

  Marta smiled. "Gail, I tell you the truth before God. Ramiro is a good husband and father, a good man, and he and the children are my life. I'm sorry that Ernesto hates us. He doesn't know us. If he came here, he would see. I wish it could be changed. When you go back there, tell them to tear down the walls. You speak to them, eh? You are a woman with a voice, and you must tell them the truth."

  Marta enveloped Gail in a hug, gave her a kiss on the cheek, leaned over to do the same to Karen. Her knee pressed into the mattress, and the tray tilted, sending the milk close to the rim. "My beautiful sisters. Las quiero mucho, mucho, mucho." Wiping her eyes, Marta went out.

  Karen looked around at Gail. "Is she okay?"

  "She's under a lot of stress right now," Gail said.

  "I've noticed that. This family is very strange. Janelle cries a lot too. And so does that man who works for them. He cries every night in his room. I'm not, like, going up there to listen or anything, but you can hear him if you walk in the backyard late at night. Is everyone like that in Cuba?"

  "No. Not everyone." Gail looked up at the ceiling. The horrible fluorescent fixture was buzzing again. "Listen, sweetie, I'm going to take a soak in the tub. Do you know how to turn on the heater?"

  "Sure." Karen scooted off the bed.

  Gail wished Irene would come see her. She wanted to talk to her, but what would she say? Whatever Gail said, the answer would be the same: Darling, of course you must tell him. Secrets between husband and wife will destroy the best marriage....

  Yes, Mother, but it isn't my goddamn secret, it's his and Yolanda's!

  She was up to her neck in water, which had gone tepid, when a soft knock came on the bathroom door. Anthony put his head in.

  "Marta wants to know if you're coming downstairs for dinner."

  "I suppose I should." She whispered, "How's Ramiro?"

  Anthony shut the door and sat on the edge of the bathtub. "All right. He's getting drunk."

  "Is he going to tell her?"

  "He says he will. I don't know."

  Sitting up, she gave Anthony the washcloth and soap. "Do my back."

  He swirled the washcloth in the water and squeezed it out. The muscles moved in his forearm, and the dark hair lay flat on his skin. "I have some things to do tomorrow," he said.

  "Really. Who are you meeting? The spook?"

  "That's a little later. I want to check out a couple of things with José. And if they know how to get in touch with Mario, I want to talk to him."

  "Angela says she and Mario are going over there tomorrow night for the meeting."

  "What meeting?"

  "The librarians and journalists?"

  "Ah, yes. Good. I'll see him then."

  Gail leaned her head against his thigh. "Am I invited?"

  "Of course."

  She said, "You're wrong to keep me in the dark. I've been thinking about that."

  "Let's not argue about it tonight."

  "It's not an argument. This is important, Anthony. There are things that we both need to talk about, and if you won't be honest with me, how can I have confidence that what I say to you will be listened to—"

  "We'll talk tomorrow."

  "Will be listened to with the same degree of attention. Oh, we'll talk tomorrow. Fine. You said that yesterday."

  "I promise. Te quiero, bonboncita."

  "I wish you wouldn't call me that. It's so... cute."

  "Abusadora. Bruja." Abuser. Witch. The washcloth went slowly up her leg. "Malcriada." Spoiled brat. Anthony lifted her hair and put more words in her ear that made her skin burn.

  She laughed. "Now? Are you serious?"

  He reached over and pulled the chain for the plug. "Hurry up. Where's your towel?"

  In the bedroom, he put the fan by the door and turned it on high so no one could hear them.

  28

  Standing at the window with the baby in her arms, Jennifer gazed down at the brick alley behind her town house. It was just past midnight. Frost twinkled on the tops of the cars. Snow lay along the wood fences in the narrow backyards. By morning the temperature would be in the teens again. A week of this! A record for D.C.

  The alley was dimly illuminated by a single streetlamp fifty yards farther on, where another alley bisected the block. Jennifer wanted to see a gold Saturn turn the corner. Her husband had gone to a dinner at the Grand Hyatt Health insurance providers, she thought Jeff was a lobbyist, and there were so many parties this time of year.

  She rocked the baby side to side, feeling his warmth and the pleasant pull of his weight on her arm. Sometimes for no reason other man this she would come into his room at night and pick him up.

  There would be no place for Jeff to park except right behind her Range Rover. The neighbors were always arguing about parking spaces. With so many SUVs, there was less room. Whoever got home late would have to park alongside the back wall of the mini-mart, which left hardly any space for a turnaround. Jeff had gone ballistic when he'd seen the scrape on the side of his Saturn. He had found gold paint on the bumper of the Ford Explorer that belonged to the new neighbor.

  The man lived in one of the town houses on Twelfth Street Southeast, perp
endicular to C. He had appeared a couple of weeks ago, but nobody had seen a moving van in the alley. He was gone most of the day, then would come home, park his Explorer, unlock the gate on the wood fence, go inside his town house, and never answer his door. Jeff had gone around to Twelfth to leave a note, but there had been no reply.

  The housekeeper had explained it: The man didn't speak English at all. Maria had come across him one day as she was taking out some trash. When Jeff complained that he hadn't gotten an answer to his note, Maria told him that he should have written it in Spanish. Why the fuck should I have to write it in Spanish? Why can't Manuel fucking speak English, if he's going to live here?

  Manuel. Not his name, but Jeff called him that, and they had begun referring to him in that way. Looks like Manuel came home ripped again last night. He knocked over the Kovaks' trash can.

  The baby squirmed and sighed, and Jennifer shifted him higher on her chest. Maria would stay if Jen had to work late, which happened frequently. She was a fourth-year at Kanner Wainwright, a boutique firm specializing in international tax law. She earned a blow-out salary, but 150K a year didn't go that far, even with Jeffs hundred added to it.

  The house was bleeding them dry. It was a 1905 town house on C Street. She and Jeff had paid $525,000, offering fifty thousand more than the list price, because the market was going crazy. Last year they had squeezed out the equity for a new roof and windows. They still didn't have a dining room table and chairs, but it didn't matter, because there was no time to entertain. The Capitol Hill area used to be fairly sketchy, but renovators were coming in. People could ride bicycles through the neighborhood and walk their dogs without feeling like they'd get mugged. A Starbucks had opened on the next block.

  She and Jeff planned to work in Washington for three more years, then find jobs in northern Virginia. The pay wasn't as good, but by then their law school loans would be paid off. They would have four bedrooms and a two-car garage. Jackson would be starting kindergarten. That was the dream.

  Jen kissed his warm, soft hair and walked a little closer to the window to lay her hand against the glass to check the temperature. It was double-paned. Even so, the electric bills were insane this month, with the endless cold.

  She saw the glow of headlights coming from the left, picking up the crevices between the bricks, shining on the dead clematis vine on the utility pole. She thought at first it might be Jeffs car, but the lights were too high. A dark green Ford Explorer came into the alley and swung right. Colors leaped from the darkness: a yellow VW, a small red pickup truck.

  The double-paned glass made the big engine sound far away. A front tire fell into the hole where the bricks were missing and cracked the ice. His favorite place behind his town house was already taken. The Explorer sat there unmoving for a few seconds, then the white backup lights went on. After a couple of tries, he got his SUV against the wall. Looking down, Jennifer saw the light go on. The door opened.

  He was short, and he had to slide off the seat, an awkward figure in a down jacket. He slammed the door and pressed his keychain to lock it. His breath was a cloud of white. He pulled his cap down on his head and wrapped his muffler around his neck as he hurried across the alley.

  Someone came out from behind the pickup truck.

  It happened so fast that later, when she talked to the police, Jennifer would not be able to say what the man looked like or what he was wearing, not his height or weight, or the color of his face.

  The man stepped out from behind the truck and walked quickly across the alley Three, four steps. His shadow moved ahead of him on the brick pavement. His arm lifted.

  Two flashes of light. Manuel held up his hands, stepped backward, and stumbled over the bricks. He crawled on his knees. The other man followed. More flashes of light. Manuel reached for the back of his neck as though to pull out a thorn. He dropped and lay still. The man stood directly over him. A light reflected on his face for a split second. He crouched down and felt under Manuel's coat as though he was looking for something.

  Then he walked away.

  Jennifer couldn't remember which way he'd gone. She didn't know how many gunshots. She hadn't even known she was screaming until she felt the baby struggling and thrashing in her arms.

  29

  The light came through the wooden louvers in stripes. Gail had been watching their slow progress across the bed when Anthony's cell phone rang. She nudged him. His hand came from under the pillow, found the phone, and pressed it to his ear. He listened for a minute, then murmured in Spanish. She heard the soft beep of a disconnect button.

  "Who was that?"

  "Hector. He's in Havana."

  Gail laughed softly. "What?"

  "He just arrived at the airport."

  "Under what phony name and false passport did he manage that?"

  Anthony sat on the edge of the bed and raked his hair off his forehead. The light curved across his back. "He says he needs to see me. Something's come up."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. He didn't want to talk about it on the phone." Anthony reached for his robe.

  "What's he doing in Havana?"

  "I asked him to come."

  "Why?"

  Tying the belt, Anthony said, "He might be needed."

  "When are you going to tell me what's going on?" By now Gail was out of bed. Anthony looked across the room at her. "Let's have brunch at the Nacional. I'm dying for a cheese omelet."

  When Gail came into the kitchen, her mother was putting on her sun hat and refilling her water bottle. She and Marta were going shopping together.

  Anthony poured espresso into mugs and used an old towel to take the pan of hot milk off the stove. Angela moved around him to turn off the gas broiler and take out the toast. She said they would all be leaving for Varadero Beach after breakfast, just to see it, because it was too cold to swim, unless you were Norwegian or something. "Gail, Karen can come with us, can't she?" "Sure, that's fine."

  Rinsing out the cafetera in the sink, then tossing it into the drainer to dry, Marta said she was sorry about what had happened to Olga Saavedra, but the food and drink still had to be purchased, the tablecloths and napkins picked out, and somehow she had to track down the agency that had arranged for the band. And the house needed a thorough cleaning. The housekeeper was useless, so the kids would have to spend the last day of their vacation from school helping out, like it or not.

  "¿Me entienden? You understand me?"

  Five sets of eyes looked at her from the kitchen table. Giovany and Janelle said in unison, "Está bien, mami." Marta pointed at their American cousins. "Hey! You are in this family too." They quickly nodded. So did Karen.

  Marta put both hands on her heart, then blew kisses across the room. "I love you!" She grabbed her purse and held open the door for Irene. It closed behind them.

  Gail and Anthony took their coffee to the patio.

  The air was still slightly chilly in the shade of the trees, so they pulled the old metal chairs into the sun. Shafts of light wavered as the breeze moved the branches. On the patio, puddles of rainwater darkened the mossy tiles. Anthony stood silently staring out at the backyard for so long that Gail tugged on the sleeve of his shirt and asked him what was wrong.

  He quickly smiled at her and sat down with his coffee. "Nothing. It's beautiful this morning, no?"

  "You're afraid this is the last time," she said.

  "No. We'll be back. I am sure of it. My father is here."

  Gail whispered, "Can't you talk to Luis about coming to Miami?"

  "I have. He refuses."

  "But if he knew that Marta was leaving. He could live with us. Okay, a condo isn't what he's used to, but we could find a house with a cottage in the back."

  Smiling, Anthony reached over to squeeze her hand. "Te quiero." He looked around when his daughter came out of the house. He held out his arm, and Angela leaned against him.

  "Papi, could I ask you a favor? I'd like it if Mario could come over to
morrow night. Not for dinner. He would just come by to say hello."

  Gail said, "Oh, Angela, I'm so sorry. You wanted me to mention it to your father, and I completely forgot."

  "That's okay. You had a lot on your mind after... you know, finding that woman. I would've been catatonic all night. So, Dad. What do you think about Mario coming over?"

  Anthony set his café con leche on the side table. "It's up to your Aunt Marta, don't you think?"

  "I know it is, but she'll probably say no unless you ask her. You're such good friends with Mario's parents. They're critics of the regime, but why must that fact be held against Mario? It isn't right that if Mario wants to see me, or you, we have to go somewhere else to talk to him. He's polite and educated. He won't start any arguments. He avoids political discussions completely. Aunt Marta and Ramiro don't know him. If people would just put aside their prejudgments, the world wouldn't be in the state it's in."

  "He has an excellent advocate." Anthony smiled and took her hand. "I’ll talk to Marta tonight."

  "Well... he needs an answer this morning. He's trying to arrange his schedule. Band rehearsal and so forth."

  "All right. Tell Mario to come over. I'll deal with your aunt."

  "Thanks, Dad." She kissed his cheek and turned to run back into the house.

  "Angela! How are you going to get in touch with him?"

  "A lady in his building lets him use her phone. She takes messages."

  "Before you leave, sweetheart, would you write the number for me?"

  When Angela had gone, Anthony picked up his coffee. He said to Gail, "Even his mother doesn't have that number."

  "Will you ask him about Olga Saavedra?"

  "If I can find him, I will." Anthony closed his eyes and tipped his head back. The sun put gold lights on his skin and mahogany in his hair. "Mario should leave here. I'm going to ask him about it. Help me twist his arm, will you? I spoke to Yolanda yesterday on the subject."