Fifty Grand

“Yes,” he said apropos of nothing and then he lay on his back, put his hands behind his head, and gazed up into the palm tree. How he missed the sausages I have no idea. He muttered something to himself-the words of a song, I think-and then after a minute he turned to me.

“We better go inside. Isabella’s getting your cousins, we’re having an early dinner,” he said.

“I’m not even hungry yet,” Ricky said.

Dad ignored Ricky and lifted him onto his shoulders, something he hadn’t done since Ricky was about five. I took his hand.

We walked into the house.

Dinner. The UFC man’s dining room. A hardwood floor elevated so that you could see through the Spanish windows to the old coffee fields beyond. China plates, silver serving spoons, and even a chandelier that had been in the house since the twenties.

We had changed into our best clothes, Ricky in a stiff shirt and me in a black Sunday dress.

It was still hot. The house had an electric fan but it wasn’t working.

Around the table: Aunt Isabella, Mom, Dad, Ricky, me, Uncle Arturo, María, Juanita, Danny, Julio, and the new arrival, little Bella. I was jealous of María and Juanita that they had a baby in the house and I wondered when Dad and Mom were going to make a sister for me.

Servants were forbidden in Cuba, but Uncle Arturo had two: a black woman from the village called Luisa Pedrona who made the food and a girl from Las Tunas who brought it to the table. Aunt Isabella was famous for her inability to cook, but the fiction around the table was that she had made everything.

“These plantains are amazing,” Mother said.

“Did you try the ajiaco?” Aunt Isabella asked.

Mom said that she had and that it was delicious too. She turned to Dad but he merely grunted and I could see that he’d hardly touched anything.

I wolfed it all. Luisa was good at Cuban specialties and this was a Cuban meal that included such exotic things as fish, beef, and fresh fruit.

The men talked baseball and the woman talked children and the children said nothing at all.

We were onto the coco quemado when the phone rang. Juanita got it and announced that it was for Dad.

The phone was in Uncle Arturo’s “study,” a small adjoining room that had a patio and leather chairs. It was where Uncle Arturo kept several hundred of the UFC man’s English books locked in a glass case, and it was where he had his own stash of Marlboro cigarettes and pornographic magazines in a rolltop American desk.

Dad bowed to Aunt Isabella, excused himself, and went into the study. The adults resumed their talk, which was something about President Clinton and the Miamistas. I was nearest the study door and couldn’t help but listen in on Dad’s end of the conversation.

“Yes? Yes? What is it?… Impossible. I’m in Santiago. You know what that train is like. How can I… No, no, no, of course not… They can go to hell… Yes. I’ll get the overnight. I hope this is not indicative of the state of the rest of the… Ok… Goodbye. Wait, wait, please tell José to remember the diesel.”

The conversation stopped.

Uncle Arturo was fortune-telling: “I predict that President Clinton and the pope will come together to Cuba for a visit. Mark my words. Remember this date.”

I remember. October 1, 1993.

The phone. The cradle. Father running his hand through his hair. He came back to the dinner table. His coconut pie was cold. He looked at Mom. He grinned at me and, reassured, I went back to my dessert.

“What was the call?” Uncle Arturo asked.

“Aldo got sick, my stand-in. They want me for the morning.”

Arturo was appalled. “You can’t go back. You only just got here. The kids haven’t had any time to play with their cousins. We haven’t even been to the beach.”

Dad shook his head. “No, no, everyone will stay. I’ll get the ten o’clock train back tonight.”

“Can’t they get anyone else? Why is it always you?” Mom asked.

“I’m the only one they trust,” he said, then walked over and kissed her on the forehead. Mom frowned, wondering, I suppose, if it was really Aldo or some hussy from the Vieja that Dad had been planning to see the whole time.

Sundown.

Games of canasta and poker and my favorite, twenty-one.

Uncle Arturo told a stupid joke: “What do you call a French sandal maker? Answer: Philippe Flop.”

Dad told a subversive joke: “What are the three successes of the Revolution? Answer: Health care, education, and sport. What are the three failures of the Revolution? Answer: Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Supper of nutella on toast.

The bed. Ricky on one side, me on the other.

The fields alive with insects and huge colonies of Jamaican fruit bats blotting out the moon.

Dad in for the goodnight story and the kiss.

Rum breath. Tears in his eyes. No story. Nothing. Not even goodbye.

Next day.

The beach. The tide out and the sand wet, freezing. Kelp on the dunes, see-through jellyfish. My hands blue. A cut on my right thumb hurting in the wind.