Suspicion of Rage (29 page)

"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 Havana—"

"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.

 

 

 

 

24

 

 

They sat in the back of a maroon 1950 Plymouth with bulbous fenders, a split windshield, and truck tires. The windows were cranked down to get rid of the diesel exhaust coming through the floorboard. Karen had changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans. She sat in the middle with her backpack between her feet. She and Irene would find something to do before meeting Yolanda Cabrera at the
Centro Comercial.
Gail didn't know where that was but had no doubt Karen could find it.

The driver said the ride would cost five dollars. Karen had argued with him, shaking her head, holding up three dollar bills until he finally snatched the money out of her hand and told them in fast Spanish to get in before the police saw them. Gail began to object, but Karen pushed her toward the open door and told her not to worry about it.