The Red Umbrella

The crisp ten-dollar bill crinkled as I reached into my purse for my boarding ticket. Mr. Ramírez had given us the money before we left the camp. It was the first time I’d been given any American money. Between this and the boxes of cigars that Papá had given us before we left, I felt rich.

I adjusted my yellow headband and glanced up at the large clock on the airport wall. We’d been waiting in Chicago for our connecting flight for about three hours. I still wasn’t sure where Grand Island was, and I’d been too embarrassed to ask anyone at the camp.

I began to imagine the sea air, sand, and small fishing boats … like in Puerto Mijares. But even if it wasn’t exactly like Cuba, at least it was an island, and no matter where you went in the world, an island was still an island.

My thoughts continued to swirl when I noticed two men walk by with trench coats draped over their arms. Immediately I sat up and clutched my purse. Frankie and I had heard stories about Chicago, and I’d seen movies about Al Capone and the mob. My heartbeat quickened as one of the men stopped and doubled back toward us. He paused in front of a small kiosk, bought a newspaper, then continued down the terminal.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was silly for me to imagine mobsters lurking around, but still, I was happy we’d found seats against the airport wall … just in case.

*  *  *  *  *

The airport in Nebraska was empty compared to the ones in Miami, Chicago … even Havana.

“Hey, is that for us?” Frankie pointed to a petite older woman with short blond hair who held a cardboard sign with the words LUCÍA AND FRANCISCO ÁLVAREZ written on it.

“Must be,” I said.

The woman waved at us and said something to the large man behind her. He seemed less than happy to be at the airport, but he followed her as she walked over to us.

“You two must be Lucía and Francisco.” She gave us a big smile that showed all her teeth. “I just knew it had to be you. Wearing those pretty linen clothes. Nothing like that around here.” She threw open her arms like a magician’s assistant. “Well, I guess this is … welcome to America!”

“Gracias, um, thank you.” I smiled politely.

“Oh, you speak English, that’s good. I was worried that you wouldn’t understand me. So, do you have any questions? Ha, listen to me.” She looked back at the large man, who had yet to even crack the slightest smile. “I haven’t even introduced us. This is Mr. Baxter, and I’m Mrs. Baxter. We’re your foster family.”

“Yo soy Frankie.”

Mrs. Baxter shook his hand and laughed. “Well, I certainly didn’t think you were Lucía!”

Mr. Baxter gave us both a nod, then checked his watch.

“So, do you have many bags?” Mrs. Baxter asked. “I expect you don’t. I’ve read some horrible things about what’s been happening in Cuba. You must be so happy to be out of there. Oh, I can’t imagine living like that. In all that fear. You’ll be safe with us till your parents can get out of Cuba. Did you tell me how many bags you brought?”

“¡Esta mujer habla más que un cao!” Frankie whispered.

He was right … she did talk a lot. What was worse, she was speaking so quickly that I had no idea what she was saying. I heard blah, blah, blabbity, blah, Cuba, then some more blabbity blah.

“I sorry. I no understand,” I said in my best broken English.

“Oh, you don’t know English. Why didn’t you say so before? I guess I’ve just been rambling on a bit.” She pointed to the floor and said in a loud voice, “This … is … Lincoln. We … go …”—she pointed outside—“to … Grand … Island. Our … home.”

Frankie and I giggled. I liked her more when she talked fast.

“I speak a little English. We happy to be here.”

“Good. I’ll just talk a little slower, then. I seem to speak quickly when I get excited. Well, like I was saying, you’re safe here, and you don’t have to worry about going back to Cuba.”

Not go back to Cuba? Did she think we were staying here for good? I thought about the correct words to say.

“No, we go back to Cuba soon. When things get better, then Mamá and Papá send for us,” I explained.

“Well, we can certainly hope. Now, let’s go get your things and head home. Mr. Baxter likes to have dinner by five o’clock.”

“Humpf,” Mr. Baxter muttered. It was the only thing he’d said so far.

*  *  *  *  *

As we drove from the airport and got onto the highway, I realized that it didn’t seem like we were anywhere near water. In fact, from the airplane all I’d seen were green fields. I wondered how long before we reached the coast and if maybe I should’ve gone to the bathroom before leaving.

“How much time to Grand Island?” I asked.

“Oh, ’bout an hour and a half. Noventa minutes.” Mrs. Baxter winked and nudged Mr. Baxter. “See, I remember a little of my high school Spanish. I can still say any number from one to a hundred.”

Mr. Baxter kept his eyes on the road ahead.

I was surprised at how much English I actually understood when she spoke more slowly. The years of required English classes at school were finally paying off. “We take boat to island?” I asked, envisioning a ferry like the ones I’d seen in some magazines.

Mr. Baxter glanced back at me as if I’d just come from Mars.

“Boat?” Mrs. Baxter chuckled. “Oh my, you thought it was an island because of its name.” She looked back from her seat in the Ford Fairlane to face me. “No island, no water. Just cornfields.”

I gave her a blank look.

She pointed out the open window to the little green stalks growing on either side of the road. “See … corn. No island.”

“¿Eso es maíz?” Frankie asked.

“Yes, corn. Now you say it, Frankie. Corn.”

“Repítelo,” I told Frankie.

“Corn,” he repeated.

“Good. That’s our first English lesson. What better word to learn first? Tomorrow we’ll start a full day of English classes. By the time school starts, the two of you will be talking up a storm.” Mrs. Baxter turned back around and spoke to her husband. “You know, I always wanted to be a teacher when I was growing up in Minnesota.”

“Hmm,” he answered.

I watched as the minutes went by and the flat green fields never ended. The road stretched out for miles and miles without a town or intersection to break up the monotony of the scenery. That, combined with the slight rumbling of the car, had already put Frankie to sleep. His head leaned against the side door. I looked out my window and wondered what Mamá and Papá were doing in Cuba right then. Was Papá out trying to find work? Were they still being watched? Would they get involved with the underground or try to fit in with the new system? Were they thinking of ways for us to be able to return home? Could it be we’d never go back? Would we be stuck here forever?