Cuba 15 (19 page)

Clarence was right on time. I invited him into the kitchen, where I was whipping up a pan of brownies. Leda had said chocolate was an aphrodisiac, which I figured couldn’t hurt.

When the brownies came out of the oven, I refilled our pop glasses and steered the guy whom, by the second date, I do believe I could call my boyfriend to the screened-in back porch. My lair had been sealed off from the winter weather with quarter-inch-thick Plexiglas storm windows. The old True Value space heater and some carefully selected slow blues on the boom box made the porch almost cozy.

Clarence and I sat together on the rickety couch, drifting along with the music, not talking much. We were listening to a CD he’d brought over when the sliding door opened and Mark burst through, followed by Dad with an unlit cigar in his hand. Dad wore his favorite yellow shirt with the monkeys on it—he’d gone out in public in that. Mark’s face was a chilly pink from shoveling snow.

Dad switched on the ceiling fan and lit up. “Hey, you two. I’m back. Up for some
domino
?” he asked disingenuously, as though I hadn’t spent fifteen minutes the night before telling him when and where
not
to let Mark bother me. I’d forgotten to include Dad in that.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to play,” Clarence said, removing his warm arm from my shoulder.

“
Es facil,
we’ll teach you,” Dad insisted, dragging over the card table and setting the domino board on top. He pulled a cassette from the pocket of his monkey shirt and motioned for Clarence to switch the music.

Mark thrust an open palm in my face. “Dad gave me a whole five bucks in dimes!” An overt bribe.

Knowing when I was beat, I cashed in a dollar from my pants pocket and split my dimes with Clarence.

Dad turned the red and white dominoes out of their wooden box onto the board, and we all joined in the shuffling, then chose pieces.

“The biggest double starts. Double nine!” called Dad, to no response. “Double eight!”

“Four, six, eight. That’s me!” said Clarence.

And we were off and running.

We had eaten half the brownies and Mark was sitting on a pile of dimes by the time Mom walked in at about six o’clock, with Chucho at her heels. I introduced Clarence to her and Chucho. The dog had been at the groomer’s and resembled a genetically modified sheep.

“Clarence,” Mom said, still in her coat and boots and carrying a shopping bag of convention freebies. “Nice to see you, but your father has been waiting for you out front in the cold. Didn’t anyone hear the doorbell?”

We turned down the Etta James tape and admitted that we hadn’t heard a thing. Dominoes will do that to you.

I enjoyed a wisp of a kiss as Clarence hurried out the front door with a few brownies for the road. Mr. Williams waved from the car, and they were gone down the plowed street.

31

The next afternoon, the telephone rang. I got up from practicing my scales on the piano and answered it. Anything to put off scales.

“Hello, Violet?”

That liquid velvet voice again.

“Hi, Clarence. Let me switch phones.” I grabbed the cordless and brought it up to my room. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to tell you I had a good time yesterday.”

“At my house?”

“Sure.” He chuckled softly. “Learning dominoes and everything. It reminded me of your speech. I could really see where some of it came from.”

“Yeah, I can’t make stuff up.”

“Not at all,” he argued. “You . . . bring it to life. It’s not an easy thing to make others see what you see.”

“Really?” This was a skill?

“I wish I could do that.”

“I’ll bet you can,” I said. “Maybe Extemporaneous Speaking isn’t right for you. Maybe you
should
be doing Oratory with Leda.” He hadn’t seen a final round in a while either.

“Hmmm,” he murmured into my ear. “I could give it a try. But you, Violet. You’ve definitely found your event.”

“Guess I can’t help it if my family is crazy enough to make everyone laugh.”

“Yeah! Like when your dad knocked that domino off Mark’s head with Chucho’s slobbery ball.”

I smiled. “Maybe I’ll work that into the routine.”

“And when he got up and did the macarena—what was he talking about, calling that ‘your’ dance?”

Now I blushed. And him not here to see my rosy cheeks. “Oh, he was talking about my big
quince
party, coming up in May.”

“Your what?”

“
Quinceañero
. It’s this Cuban celebration for—being fifteen.” I wasn’t about to mention the woman part.

“Yeah? Tell me more.”

I drew a breath. It’s just Clarence, I thought.

I described “All the World’s a Stage” and told him how Abuela had come up with the idea in the first place, and how Señora Flora was putting together the party. “But I designed the program.”

“And you’ll be the star. That sounds perfect for you,” he said. “And then there’ll be Cuban food and dancing?”

“As Cuban as it gets.”

“Interesting.”

We paused, and it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“I noticed your dad kept calling you Violeta.”

A slight embarrassment washed over me, and I remembered what Dad had said about wanting to be American. “He calls me that sometimes.”

Clarence cleared his throat. “Violeta. Sounds . . . mysterious. Can I call you that too?”

Jeez, I liked this guy.

“Sure, Clarence.”

Life took on a new rhythm, for some of us, at least. Clarence came over to play dominoes on days when I had to watch Mark. He was getting pretty good. Mom was busier and busier with classes. Even Chucho displayed a renewed vigor with the coming of the longer days.

But Dad was still stuck in his rut, just working, working, working, or trying to recuperate from work. He and Mom would go out and bowl a few frames or hit some balls at the driving range, but that was about all he could handle. They’d had to give up their leagues.

“Forget about it,
muchacha,
” Dad said when I asked him if we could drive out to St. Ignacio’s for Mass one Sunday.

“Aw, come on, wouldn’t you like to see your friends for a change?”

He sighed wearily. “
Claro
que sí
. But I will see them in a couple months, at your
quince
.”

And that was the end of it.

Springtime was slow to arrive. It had been the winter that wouldn’t quit, with all the trademarks: power failures, school closings, and snow on Easter. Leda and I had skied a few trips, once at Little Switzerland and twice at giant Alpine Valley. I kind of hated to see winter end.

The speech season had, unfortunately, closed with less of a bang than The Ax would have liked: Tri-Dist took third in state, and Zeno won again, but his and Trish’s duet didn’t make it out of sectionals, and they had been our stars. The highlight for Janell and me, and a few more kids, was getting back on the roster in time for the second overnighter, the Peekasau tournament. We decorated our motel room with socks and took a picture. This finally shut up Leda’s squawking. She had returned from Middleville with a fourth-place trophy . . . and the DO NOT DISTURB/
NO
MOLESTE POR FAVOR
sign from her room, which she had taped onto her Spanish folder.

With speech competition over, Leda was back to her old grudging-activist schedule. And I was fielding invitations again.

“Come on, Paz, what could be better than a
raffle
? In
Spanish
?”

Another fund-raiser for the Cuba Caravan. Beth and Niles were dragging her along.

“Why don’t you ask Janell?”

“She can’t make it. Look, you could even bring Clarence—that is, if I can find a suitable date of the male persuasion. You should get him to take Spanish with you next year,” she encouraged me. “Then you could travel together on that class trip to Mexico. It could be your honeymoon.”

I flushed. “Get out. Anyway, the trip is for juniors and seniors.”

I had recently broken the news to Leda that I wouldn’t be taking first-year German with her next term. All that new vocabulary was too confusing. Besides, after hearing about Luz’s
quince
trip, I really wanted to find a way to go to Guadalajara. Maybe Mexico wasn’t as cool as Spain, but it had once been a colony of Spain, or something. And as far as I knew, the school district wasn’t sending anyone to Cuba.

“
Please,
Paz, come with me to the rally.”

This time I didn’t immediately say no. I got up from the purple-covered futon in Leda’s bedroom and joined her at the computer. She had asked me over to invite me, in person, to the Cuba rally. And to get me to help her with her Spanish paper, one of those who-do-you-admire things,
en
español
. I was writing about Luz.

“I thought I’d do mine on Che Guevara,” Leda had said on the phone.

“You admire him?” I asked. I didn’t remember her ever mentioning Che.

“No, I just think he has a cool name. Let’s get on the Internet and see what we can locate.”

As we typed into the search engine, I found myself half-looking over my shoulder for Dad, as though researching Cuba on the Net were right up there with bogus psychics and kiddie porn.

We did some checking and learned that Che Guevara, a partner of Fidel Castro’s, helped lead the Cuban peasants out of oppression by the corrupt Batista regime in the 1959 revolution. Che died in Bolivia a few years later, trying to do the same type of thing there.

“He wasn’t even Cuban!” said Leda. “I thought he was a big national.”

“He was born in Argentina,” I read. “It was the cause, not the country, for him.” Thinking about this, I could kind of understand Leda’s parental units, Beth and Niles, and the Causes. It must feel good trying to do the right thing.

Leda, looking for more background, had punched in
Cuba
and eventually ended up with a list of Cuba-focused peace organizations. I was fascinated. People all over the globe were working to normalize relations with the island. People who weren’t even Cuban. I wanted to ask them why.

“That’s the one!” Leda said, highlighting a selection with her mouse. “That’s the Illinois group that’s doing the fund-raiser.” She clicked on their site. “There’s the notice,” she said.

Over the speakers came Latin dance music. The screen read:

PEACE WITH CUBA Rally and Fund-raiser,
2 p.m. Saturday, Aurora Center.

Sponsored by Clergy for Cuba.
Join PWC for an exciting afternoon of Cuban cuisine and music
to raise money for medical supplies.
See video footage of the latest carpentry campaign in Matanzas.
Salsa dance at 5. Book sale and CD raffle!

Jeez, a raffle. What could be better than that?
The Lundquists would be there. Maybe I would too.

32

Over the next few days, the different faces I’d seen on the Cuba Web sites haunted me. Questions I couldn’t ask at home bubbled up relentlessly in my mind, only to pop unanswered. So, on Saturday, I went with Leda to the Cuba thing.

I crossed my fingers and told my folks it was a Free Tibet fund-raiser, figuring what they didn’t
sabe
couldn’t
molesta
them. Mom said, “It’s nice of the Lundquists to invite you,” and Dad proceeded to warn me of the dangers of peace marches, but said okay when he found out we wouldn’t be marching.

The rally was held in the big gym at a community center. Even though Leda didn’t have a date, she let me bring Clarence. I’m sure he earned her some bucks in the walkabout fund. Beth and Niles rushed off to talk to their activist friends, leaving the rest of us to ramble.

Leda, Clarence, and I browsed the book table, picking up some free literature and bookmarks. There was even a printed timeline of U.S.–Cuba events, from the revolution to the missile crisis to the embargo, and beyond. Just what I needed. The people at the table acted normal and nice, not like scheming Communists. They said if I had any questions after I read the pamphlets to e-mail them.

“Check it out, Paz!” Leda pointed to a Che Guevara poster for sale. “I’ve got to have it.”

I was more interested in a coffee-table book about Havana. The streets were alive with people in every photograph. The stone and stucco buildings showed layers of white or pastel paint. Even in a crumbling state, arched doorways and wrought-iron balconies cut magnificent shapes out of a blue sky.

Clarence hung over my shoulder. “Kind of reminds me of New Orleans,” he said, pronouncing it “N’awlins.” “We have cousins there.”

I turned the page to a shot of the Morro Castle, an imposing offshore battlement out in blue, blue Havana Bay.

“What about you, Violet?” Clarence rubbed my neck with his fingers. “Violeta,” he said more intimately. “Do you have family in Cuba?”

“No, I . . .” Wait. I always just assumed. “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“That’d be cool,” he said.

“Yeah, it would.”

We ate mounds of black beans and rice, and squares of
flan
for dessert. I plunked down five dollars for the raffle but didn’t win. After some of the organizers from Peace with Cuba spoke and played a video, the dance began.

The three of us stood around in the corner for a while, swaying to the music. When neither Leda nor I made a move to dance, Clarence looked at me and stuck out a palm. “Well?”

I hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?”

Just then, a dark-haired guy wearing two gold earrings and a POWER TO THE PEOPLE T-shirt walked over and touched Leda on the elbow. She ducked her head, leaning closer to hear what he was saying, and then followed him onto the dance floor.

“Er, I’m not waiting for anything,” I told Clarence. “Come on. Let’s
baile
. Mmmm, merengue, my favorite.”

Something Clarence had said got me thinking.

“Dad,” I asked one evening after he’d worked the day shift. He and Mark were putting together a 3-D puzzle at the kitchen table. “Do we have relatives in Cuba still?”

Mark glanced up.

Dad’s face started to harden. I reached out and touched a hand to his arm. “Dad?”

He tensed.

Now both Mark and I looked at him, questioning.

He took a breath. “
Seguro,
many of Mami and Papi’s
familiares
continue to live there.”

“Do you ever hear from them?” I asked.

His eyes cloaked. “I was just a baby when we left Cuba. I don’t remember them. We’ve sort of—lost contact.”

“Do you think I’ll ever get to meet them?” asked Mark.

Dad was touched by the question. But he dropped his head to search for another puzzle piece.

“No one knows, little brother,” I answered. “That’s why they call it the future.”

Mom was working on restaurant plans again, only this time it was for her final business class project. The catering idea was taking shape.

She and I walked the aisles at Food Depot, Mom jotting down prices for black beans and olive oil, spices and rice. She had to present a bid and then meet her budget.

We paused at the ice cream display.

“Just think, if your
quince
were a few months later, I’d be catering it,” she marveled, scribbling something with a nifty mechanical pencil she’d bought. I guess she figured it was time to get serious about office equipment.

“Oh, Mom, I’m glad you’re not.”

She threw me a dirty look.

“I mean, you should enjoy the party. Look how much you’ve had to do to get me to this point.”

She smiled slowly, deeply. “Well, thanks, Violet.” She added a wry edge. “I’ve certainly had my hands full.”

“Just think, when the party’s over and school’s out, you’ll be able to concentrate on starting your catering business.”

She looked surprised to hear someone else say it, but she nodded, punching a number into her calculator. “And I’ll be hiring. Do you know of any teenage girls who might need a job?”

I flashed on Janell, Leda, and me, chopping up veggies and pulling stunts, laughing our heads off. And making money doing it.

“I might,” I said, smiling.

Mom tossed her calculator in the grocery cart and hugged me, right in the middle of the frozen foods aisle.

A few days later, I tried my hand at making
frijoles
negros
while Mom worked on her project at the kitchen table.

Mark sat next to her, flipping through a baseball magazine. “They don’t smell like Abuela’s beans,” he complained.

“That’s because they’re not done yet,” I said. They’d been cooking for hours, and they still looked kind of— crunchy.

Dad came in from work with his white coat over his arm, humming “Cielito Lindo.”

“How was your day,
mi amor
?” Mom asked him.

Dad stopped his humming. “
¡Fantástico!
Great day!” He took a cigar from the refrigerator, unwrapped it, and stuck it, unlit, in his mouth. Rolled it around a little.

He did look happy, and more at ease than I’d seen him in a long time.

He took the cigar out and waved it at us. “Don’t you want to know why I am so happy?” he coaxed.

The three of us waited.

“Drumroll, please.”

This time I obliged until just past the point of annoyance.

“Violet, please. My news is: I got a new job.”

Whoosh,
our heads turned. We stared at him.

“You quit the Depot?” I asked, incredulous.

“I just gave notice.”

Mom was shocked. “Without telling me?”

“I wanted to be certain,” Dad said, smiling a good rendition of one of Abuelo’s mile-long grins. “Day shift. Great bennies.” He came over to the stove and looked in the bean pot with a squint, then waved a hand under his nose.

“That’s great, Dad.” I squeezed his shoulder.

“Will we have to move?” Mark said hopefully.

Dad shook his head. “Lincolnville Center Pharmacy. It’s ten minutes closer to the house.” He beamed. “Let’s all go out to Red Lobster to celebrate.”

“I’ll go get dressed,” Mom said, also not hungry for black beans for some reason. “Mark Edward Paz, when’s the last time you combed your hair, young man?”

“Aw, it’s baseball season!” Mark stomped off into the house behind Mom.

Dad rolled his Corona y Corona around in his mouth and puffed out happy little smoke-free breaths.

The Loco Family.
My
loco family: If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I turned off the stove and went upstairs to get dressed.