one hot summer

by carolina garcia aguilera

  I punched the button to summon the elevator. All I had to do was get through it. Then I could see Luther again.

  [29]

  I made myself as presentable as I could, using the resources available to me from my purse. Most of the traffic lights were red on the way over, so I could apply my makeup without steering with my knees at the same time—the custom in Miami. I did a pretty credible job, I thought, looking in the rearview mirror to check out the results.

  I wondered how Ariel was going to act toward me. He hadn’t sounded happy at all when I told him I was working late at the office. Normally I wouldn’t have been apprehensive about his reaction, knowing that I could humor him without too much trouble, but that was before Luther. Now I had to be careful. I didn’t want Ariel to notice any changes in my behavior that might make him suspicious.

  A Santos family dinner was not the ideal environment in which to ease Ariel’s unhappiness about my working late. It would have been better to see him at home, where I could control the situation. Ariel might have even worked later than me, and never known how much time I had spent at the office. Instead, we were going to see each other in the Santos family pressure cooker.

  I probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind. I was preoccupied as hell, both about the politics at the firm and about Luther. Mamá’s invitation couldn’t have come at a worse time. I knew what lay ahead that night for me, and none of it was good. I reminded myself not to take Mamá’s bait and argue with her, although I knew I would.

  We were a close-knit family, like most Latinos. We all lived in Miami, save for my cousin Magdalena—Tia Norma and Tio Roman’s daughter, an actress who waited tables in New York while auditioning in parts for plays that were so Off-Broadway they were actually staged in New Jersey. Papa was every bit the Cuban patriarch, and Mamá loved to show off, so our regular get-togethers were almost always held at my parents’ house.

  All together, there were sixteen of us in attendance. There were my parents and my two older brothers Mickey and Sergio. Mickey was still unmarried but Sergio was newly married to Victoria. There was Ariel and Marti and me—although my son was spared enduring the family dinners. Mamá was the only one on her side of the family still alive; her parents and older sister had passed away many years before, so long ago that my brothers and I never knew them. Apart from a few distant relatives we didn’t hear from very often, our family consisted of Papa’s siblings, along with their spouses and offspring.

  Papa had three brothers. Roman was married to Norma, and they were the parents of Magdalena and Francisco, whom we called Frank. Felix was married to Veronica, with no children. Ricardo was married to Maureen but recently separated—the rumor was that he got caught having an affair. Their three daughters were my cousins Bridgette, Moira, and Shannon.

  When we were younger, it was funny to watch the grown-ups making fools of themselves as the alcohol kicked in, but when we got older we realized that the drinks were acting as truth serum, and that long-hidden sentiments were coming out at the dinner table. In vino veritas was never truer than at a Santos family gathering.

  I turned onto North Greenway Drive, hoping that this night would be different, and that I wouldn’t get embroiled in some conflict. I couldn’t deal with it. Maybe, just maybe, we could coexist for an evening without arguing about politics, religion, and who had disappointed whom.

  I hadn’t spoken with Mamá yet, and I didn’t know which of my relatives would be in attendance that night, but judging from the number of cars parked on the street, it seemed dinner was going to be well attended. Cars filled the driveway and spilled out onto both sides of the street—my family doesn’t carpool. I saw there was no place to park the Escalade, so I swung around the driveway back out onto the street, where I eased into a spot between my cousin Bridgette’s black VW Beetle and Moira’s dark-green Cabriolet. Parked between those two small vehicles, my car looked like a huge, shiny, gas-guzzling set of wheels straight out of the ’hood. As I maneuvered into the tight spot, I tried and failed to conjure up some guilt about how much gas it consumed and how much air it polluted. I was simply too pleased with it.

  I was relieved not to have seen Ariel’s Lexus when I pulled up, assuming that he hadn’t arrived yet, but then I saw it partially hidden from view under the giant oak tree by the driveway. I had hoped to get there before Ariel, knowing it was the best way to fend off gratuitous remarks from my family about how I worked harder than my husband.

  Just outside the giant mahogany front door, I adjusted my clothes, pinched my cheeks to give them color so I wouldn’t be told I looked pale from working too hard, and knocked on the door. Mamá had gone overboard on the Spanish theme for the house’s exterior as well—the door knocker was made of solid iron, and must have weighed close to twenty pounds. My wrist always gave a little twinge of discomfort after I used it.

  The house’s front door was about six inches thick—Mamá must have feared an assault from the Moors when she bought it—but I swore I could still hear the rustle of Yolanda’s crisp, overstarched uniform as she approached to open it for me. It took both her arms and a great deal of effort to open the slablike door. When I stepped in, one look at the poor maid’s face spoke volumes about her misery. It didn’t take a psychic to see that Yolanda hated these family gatherings. Mamá, difficult under the best of circumstances, would invariably become ballistic with the stress of trying to impress all of Papa’s relatives.

  “Señora Margarita,” Yolanda greeted me. “Señora Mercedes was asking Señor Ariel about you, because you’re the last to arrive. Señor Ariel told her that you were working late at the office.”

  My stomach sank as I absorbed this unwanted bit of information. It wouldn’t be the first time that Mamá and Ariel ganged up against me. I knew that Yolanda telling me this was her way of putting me on notice that my mother was on the warpath and that I’d better be careful if I didn’t want to get chewed up. Yolanda and I got along pretty well, and we found solidarity in the fact that we both had to deal with Mamá’s moods. We tried to help each other out when the shit hit the fan, but so far I hadn’t been able to do anything about Mamá’s insistence that Yolanda wear stockings year-round. I was working on it, though.

  It wasn’t unprecedented for Yolanda to phone me at home and report an instance of Mamá’s impossible behavior, so that I could put out the fires she had lit as a consequence. We both knew that Mamá didn’t behave the way she did from any innate meanness of character, but rather because she was unhappy with her life. She may have had all the material things that she ever needed or desired, but I suspected that emotionally her life was empty.

  I had to apologize to the pool-cleaning service almost on a monthly basis because Mamá insulted one of their employees. She continually berated them about not knowing how to clean a swimming pool, and once tried to make them agree with her that an entire colony of frogs was living in the drain system. Mamá would point to some minuscule bits of dirt in the water and claim they were tadpoles. It was no use when the owner of the pool service came out in person to politely inform her that tadpoles couldn’t survive in chlorinated water.

  “Gracias, Yolanda,” I said. In a lower voice, I added, “Thanks for the warning.”

  With a sigh, I left the safety of the foyer and headed for the living room, where the family had broken off and clustered into small groups. In the gothic, dimly lit pseudo-Spanish decor, they looked as though they were plotting and planning conspiracies against each other. Order reigned for the moment, but I knew how quickly that could change. One look around told me all I needed to know about how the evening would go. Nino, the octagenarian butler whom Mamá hired when she was entertaining, held a silver tray and worked the crowd with brimming glasses of mojitos, a Cuban specialty. A mojito was a delicious but deadly combination of rum, lime juice, sugar, and crushed mint leaves. The consequences of drinking several were comparable to having injected pure alcohol into one’s bloodstream.

  I said hello to my brothe
rs and two of my uncles, Roman and Felix, who were seated opposite each other, hunched over a square table. They were so engrossed in their game of dominoes that they barely acknowledged my greeting. Dominoes is a passion for Caribbean men, and my family was no exception. Because the game was all-consuming and provided the men with an excuse not to socialize, Mamá had forbidden anyone to play during family dinner nights. This was one decree of hers that no one had ever paid much attention to.

  Seeing as how I wasn’t going to get much interaction from my uncles or my brothers—who were concentrating on watching Roman and Felix, and offering heckling and advice in equal measure—I kept going. The next person I saw was my Tia Norma, the plastic surgery addict. She was talking in an excited tone of voice to my other aunt, Veronica, the liposuction queen. They both stopped to greet me, and I almost reeled from shock when I leaned over to kiss Tia Norma.

  I thought Mamá was exaggerating when she told me about Tia Norma’s latest face-lift, but for once Mamá’s observations hadn’t been malicious gossip. My poor aunt’s face was stretched so tight that it was reflecting beams from the overhead lights, like a skin-colored mirror. I was almost tempted to get closer, just to check how my hair looked, but I was frightened by the fact that I might actually be able to. I turned away so I wouldn’t have to get a better view of my aunt’s latest foray into plastic-surgery hell.

  Instead I turned my attention to Aunt Veronica who, according to Mamá, had just undergone yet another round of liposuction. I had no idea where the plastic surgeon had found any fat on her; my aunt was already so thin that her veins were visible through her skin. Surely all of her procedures were putting her surgeon’s children through private school. I was very fond of both my aunts, although I knew for a fact that they were both confused and basically unhappy women. It would probably take years of therapy to begin to straighten them out.

  I moved on to my cousins. Bridgette, Moira, and Shannon were all dressed in total hootchie-mama outfits, and I could see that they were doing their best to establish a world record for mojito consumption in the shortest possible period of time. I caught a glance of Nino’s long-suffering expression, and could tell that he didn’t appreciate slaving in the kitchen squeezing all those limes just so these teenage girls could get buzzed. Their Irish-American mother, Maureen, would never have allowed them to dress or act that way, but Maureen wasn’t there.

  “Margarita!” Bridgette, the oldest, said with transparent mojito cheerfulness. “Come sit with us! Have a drink.”

  “In a little while,” I said. “I have to find Ariel.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Moira gushed. “They’re still in love even though they’re…they’re…”

  “Old and married?” I laughed.

  “No!” Moira said, mortified. She nearly spilled her drink on Mamá’s sofa cushions. “I meant—”

  “I know, Moira,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll come back and have that drink with you, I promise.”

  Papa and Tio Ricardo—and my good-for-nothing cousin Francisco—were standing together over by the French doors. There were several empty mojito glasses on the table beside them, and they were smoking cigars and telling jokes. From their loud laughs and exaggerated joviality, I could see they were competing with my young cousins for the mojito-drinking record. It felt as though the general volume level in the room had risen in the short time I’d been there, with the deep voices of the men competing with the women’s laughter. I put all the men’s glasses on a small empty tray on the table, knowing that Nino and Yolanda would probably receive a dressing down from Mamá for failing to clear away the empty glasses fast enough. I broke through the thick cloud of cigar smoke, kissed all three of the men briefly, and moved on. I could sense their relief when my unwelcome female presence was lifted, and they could return to their innuendos and stories.

  Then I saw them: Mamá and Ariel, huddled together just inside the dining room, so engrossed in conversation that I was apprehensive about going over there. From their guilty looks when I approached, I could tell that they had been talking about me.

  “Margarita!” Ariel came to me with such enthusiasm, anyone would have thought he hadn’t seen me in months. “How are you, querida?”

  He kissed me and escorted me and Mamá to an open set of armchairs. I leaned down to kiss Mamá, who was impeccably turned out in her favorite Valentino. I could see that she’d spent the day at the hairdresser and stylist, and her coiffure framed her professionally made-up face. Mamá had gone all-out for this dinner—she had opened up the safe, and was wearing the set of diamond earrings, necklace, and bracelet that had belonged to my maternal grandmother and which had been smuggled out of Cuba.

  “Margarita, dear, you look lovely,” Mamá said, taking me in. “I really like that suit. Armani. Last season, right?”

  I smiled in agreement, but inwardly I was gripped by anxiety. I knew from experience that Mamá was never so gracious about my clothes and appearance unless she felt guilty about something she had done to me or said about me.

  Ariel let his hand rest on the back of Mamá’s chair, as though they were the best of friends. I couldn’t help but remember the first time they met, when Ariel came to the house to pick me up for our first date. Mamá had totally disapproved of this penniless young liberal Cuban lawyer—from the wrong side of the tracks, no less. As time went on and our relationship got more serious, Mamá softened and got to know Ariel better. The Matos settlement, of course, had cemented my parents’ approval of Ariel, and from that day on Mamá became one of his most enthusiastic backers.

  Mamá knew she always had an ally in Ariel as far as I was concerned—they may have been on opposing ends of the spectrum politically, but they thought alike in regard to me. Mamá could even tolerate the fact that Ariel had voted for Bill Clinton because he agreed with her that I had proved the point that I could succeed in the cutthroat Miami legal world. Having made partner in a major firm in my early thirties, they both felt it was now time to dedicate myself wholeheartedly to my family.

  I knew they spoke often and that I was the primary topic of their discussions. Mamá and Ariel didn’t feel they were being malicious or in any way conspiring behind my back—they thought they were trying to do what was best for me, and looking out for my best interests. They both thought I was too involved with my career to know what was best for me. My head had been turned by success and women’s rights, and it was up to them to lend a hand and show me what was important. Sometimes I was insulted that they thought of me in such a patronizing manner, but I knew their attitude came from love and not condescension. It was simply part of being a Cuban woman with a strong mother and a husband who felt protective toward me.

  Still, it pissed me off sometimes.

  That night they had probably been talking about the possibility—no, the probability—of my return to the firm after my leave of absence concluded in a few weeks. Neither of them would come right out and say anything to me, but I knew how they both felt about the decision. I should stay home with Marti, and have another child with Ariel right away. They were as close to me as anyone could be, but I couldn’t trust their clouded judgment or come to either for an unbiased opinion. They each had an agenda, and I was at the top of it.

  Ariel was ostensibly a liberated Cuban man. He voted a straight Democratic ticket and even admitted to doing so—an amazing feat for a Miami Cuban. But at heart he was still traditional. He wanted his wife at home waiting for him, and at the end of the workday he wanted to be greeted by his numerous children and smell food cooking in the kitchen. He was proud of me and my accomplishments but, to his mind, it was time for our family to get back to basics. Scratch the surface of any Cuban man—Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative—and he wants his woman barefoot and pregnant, cooking up some arroz con pollo in the kitchen while her children all play around her.

  Mamá’s reasons for wanting me not to work were more complex. She wanted more grandchildren, first of all—
Mickey was a bachelor, and Sergio was newly married and couldn’t be counted on to produce children with his wife anytime soon—so I was the best candidate to fill that need. Mamá’s competitive side kicked in when it came to family size. All of her close friends had many grandchildren, and she had only one. I could see in her face that she felt she was losing ground.

  There was another, unspoken reason. Because I worked and had a career, she felt she suffered in comparison, as though her value was lessened because she stayed at home, and because her greatest achievements were radical home redecorations. The truth was, women of her generation and class weren’t expected to work outside the home or have careers. I’m sure that, if she had really wanted to, Mamá could have worked outside the home. She hadn’t chosen to, and she still believed that wives should only work if it was an economic necessity. The reality was that Mamá lacked the education and skills necessary to find work that was on a level with her social standing. Her reasoning on this topic was pretty much bullshit, and I had gently hinted as much, but she didn’t take my opinion into account. I knew it was harsh for me to think this way, but I knew part of Mamá wanted me to quit working because then I would be on her level.

  There was a third reason Mamá didn’t want me to work—if I didn’t, I would be available to meet with her more often, and spend days together with her at Bal Harbour, the very upscale mall in North Miami Beach. What she didn’t realize was that, if I started to live my life like that, pretty soon I would start adding vodka to my orange juice at breakfast.

  For all the frenzied activity and fuss that filled her days, the bottom line was that Mamá was lonely with a big void to fill—and she had decided I was the perfect candidate to do so. I had encouraged her to take up a hobby—apart fro

  m spending Papa’s money redecorating—but she had never been the slightest bit interested.