The Red Umbrella

The warm summer days had become hot summer weeks, but the cool nights were always a reminder that we were far from home. A home that, with each passing day, seemed to drift farther away. I tried to push aside the fear that I might never see my parents again, but the hope that we’d be going back to Cuba, a better Cuba than the one we’d left, was quickly fading.

Every day I’d read the newspaper, searching for more information on Cuba. I was desperate to learn about what was happening back home, but even on days when there was no news about Cuba, I still read all the articles. It kept me up-to-date on what was happening in other parts of the country and the world.

At first, I was surprised that the paper would report the bad things that happened in the United States and that there were even stories that directly criticized President Kennedy. It was a sharp contrast to Cuba, where anyone who spoke out against the government or Fidel was considered a traitor. I guess the promises made by Castro and Che of helping the less fortunate sounded so good at the time that losing some of your freedoms didn’t seem too high a price to pay.

What a difference a few months made! Before, I didn’t want to think about people being jailed, killed, or forced to leave their homes. I thought those people must have done something wrong or just didn’t love Cuba enough. But now I knew better. It had all become clear. Castro was, in one way or another, eliminating those who did not agree with him. He had even forced my parents to eliminate me from Cuba.

Now I could only hope that my parents would not be eliminated in a more sinister way.

*  *  *  *  *

“We’ll only be here five minutes. I just want to say our hellos and leave. I know you want to rush home in case the call to your parents gets connected,” Mrs. Baxter said as we walked into the church’s social hall.

I nodded. Mrs. Baxter understood the importance of those calls. Usually I loved going to Sunday Mass. That, along with our Tuesday visits to Grand Island to run errands, was the only time we left the farm. But it was more than just leaving the house that made Mass special. The time we spent in church reminded me of how Cuba used to be, before the priests and nuns were kicked out. The service at St. Mary’s was in Latin, just like in Cuba, so for that one hour, I could close my eyes and, with those familiar sounds in my ears, it felt like home.

After Mass, there was always coffee and doughnuts in the parish hall. The Baxters would introduce us to their friends, who were all very pleasant, but none of them had kids our age. The teenagers all seemed to skip the doughnuts and preferred to hang out by the fountain that had a statue of Our Lady of Lourdes in the center. Through the window, I’d see them laughing and having a good time, but I stayed inside with Frankie. I couldn’t help wondering if they were sometimes laughing at me.

“Frankie, I spoke with Father Kirkland,” Mrs. Baxter said. “He says that once your English is a little better, you can start going to Sunday school with the other kids your age. Won’t that be nice? You won’t have to stand around here while all us old people catch up with each other.”

“I like it here. The doughnuts are good.” Frankie leaned over and whispered to me in Spanish, “Does she really think I want more schooling? Maybe I shouldn’t learn any more English.”

“Don’t say that, Frankie,” I chided. “Besides, once you know more English, you’ll be able to make some friends.”

“Nah, I can make friends without knowing English. Anyway, it hasn’t helped you any.”

I stole a glimpse at the girls outside. If any of them wanted to be my friend, wouldn’t they approach me?

“Not much to say now, huh?” Frankie teased.

I gave him a shove. I hated that he was right.

“All right, you two, settle down. Frankie, I know how much you love those doughnuts, but today we need to get going. So, hurry up and take one for the road.” Mrs. Baxter faced her husband as Frankie rushed to the corner table. “No chitchatting today, Henry. That call from Cuba might come in anytime now.”

“Humpf.” Mr. Baxter adjusted his jacket. He never seemed comfortable wearing that suit, and by the time we’d reach the car, he usually had the tie undone, and his jacket was ready to be handed over to Mrs. Baxter.

“Helen, Helen!” An older woman with gray hair piled up into a small beehive hairdo called out to Mrs. Baxter.

Mrs. Baxter waved. “Oh, it’s Jane. I haven’t seen her in months.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mr. Baxter pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets.

“Helen, my dear, you look lovely in that blue dress. Makes you look ten years younger.” The woman took a sip of her coffee.

“Aw, aren’t you sweet? But you’ve seen this old dress before. If I look younger, it’s because of these kids.” Mrs. Baxter put her arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “They’re bringing new life into our house.”

“Oh yes, I heard that you had some new guests.”

Mrs. Baxter grinned. “Yes, this is Lucía. Lucía, this is Mrs. Trenton.”

“Nice to meet you.” I stretched out my hand.

“Oh, how nice that you speak English.” Mrs. Trenton shook my hand. She glanced back at Mrs. Baxter. “She does understand, right?”

Mrs. Baxter nodded.

“Well, it’s very nice to finally meet you,” Mrs. Trenton continued. “All I heard about when I got back from my trip was the wonderful Cuban children that were staying with the Baxters.”

“And that little rascal over there by the doughnuts is Frankie.” Mrs. Baxter pointed to the table, where Frankie was balancing a doughnut in his mouth while wrapping another one in a napkin and hiding it in his suit pocket.

“So, it’s been going well?” Mrs. Trenton raised an eyebrow, tilting her head toward Mr. Baxter, who was now standing by a few men who looked equally unhappy to be in their suits. “Even with Henry?”

Mrs. Baxter leaned a little closer to Mrs. Trenton and lowered her voice. “Better than I could have imagined. He’s taken a real liking to the kids.”

I did a double take. Mr. Baxter liking us seemed to be a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like he tolerated us.

“They are both adorable. If Stan and I were younger, we’d get one, too.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air. I squirmed, remembering how Angela had described us as being like puppies at the pound. Was that how they saw us here?

Mrs. Baxter seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Well, they’re not pets, Jane. They’re children. Keep that in mind.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It just seems like such a wonderful thing that you’re doing.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “All I’ve done so far is help collect clothing, but I’d like to do more. In fact, I could send over some of the nicer things for Lucía and Frankie.”

“That’d be wonderful, Jane. We’ll talk again later, but Frankie’s done and we need to be going.” Mrs. Baxter pointed to Frankie, who was weaving his way back to us with a doughnut in each hand.

“All right. I’ll call you,” Mrs. Trenton said as Frankie joined us.

I opened my eyes as big as I could at Frankie. Why had he taken so many doughnuts? What would people say? What would Mrs. Trenton think?

“For you and you.” He handed one to me and one to Mrs. Baxter.

Mrs. Trenton mouthed “So cute” to Mrs. Baxter before walking away.

“Thank you, Frankie. That’s very sweet. I’m not very hungry, so you can have mine.” Mrs. Baxter smiled as she gave it back to him.

“Okay,” he answered, and gobbled it up before she could change her mind.

“¿Y el que tienes en el bolsillo?” I pointed to his pocket.

“Es para Mr. Baxter,” he said, walking over to where the men were standing.

I watched as Frankie tapped Mr. Baxter’s arm. All the men stopped talking to look at him. He then pulled out the napkin-wrapped doughnut from his pocket. Mr. Baxter hesitated for a moment, smiled, and patted Frankie on the back.

We were ready to go.

*  *  *  *  *

“Don’t worry, Lucía,” Mrs. Baxter said as we entered the house. “I’m sure the call didn’t come in while we were at church. We were only gone a couple of hours.”

“But it’s been almost two days since we asked for a line to Cuba.” I touched the white phone in the living room, hoping it would ring. Usually, if the call was to be connected at all, it would happen within twenty-four hours.

“Hmm.” Mr. Baxter took the Sunday newspaper with him to the back porch.

“Can I go outside and play with my baseball?” Frankie asked.

Mrs. Baxter nodded and placed her small white gloves on the fireplace mantel. “But first, change out of your good clothes. Don’t forget to hang the suit back up.”

Frankie ran to his room.

The Baxters were good like that. They treated us like we were their own children, which meant we had chores to do, but we were also given freedom to make our own decisions … even if they were the wrong ones. Like when Frankie spent his entire weekly allowance on that baseball instead of putting it toward our Calls to Cuba Fund. I couldn’t really blame him, though. I secretly wanted to spend some of mine on a lipstick. But I knew how difficult it was for Mamá and Papá to make calls to the U.S., so it was up to us to save all our extra money and call them. But the calls were expensive. We had to space them out to every three or four weeks, and we’d only speak for a couple of minutes. Yet that was our only real expense. I couldn’t imagine how my parents were surviving with the little money Papá earned doing odd jobs.

Mrs. Baxter touched my shoulder. “If we don’t hear from them today or tomorrow, we’ll try again on Tuesday.”

I nodded, but I didn’t want to wait a few more days. I wanted the call to come in now. It had been almost a month since we’d spoken to Mamá and Papá, and although we’d receive letters from them every few days, I just wanted to hear their voices.

I stared at the phone.

Ring. Please ring.

“Why don’t we listen to some music? I’ll put on a lovely Andrews Sisters album. That’ll get our minds off the waiting.” Mrs. Baxter flipped through the record albums that were stored in a dark wooden cabinet.

They reminded me of all the ones I’d left in Cuba. My Elvis, Beny Moré, and Celia Cruz y La Sonora Matancera records. I wondered if they just sat in the corner of my room gathering dust. The music started playing, but it was the song of a different generation, of a different country. I once asked Mrs. Baxter if she had any Ricky Nelson records and she just laughed. Said that was for the young, but if I saved up, I could buy some and she’d let me play them … every once in a while.

I twirled the ribbon wrapped around my ponytail as music filled the room. During the last few weeks, the days had been so hot that my hair was almost always picked up. It was no surprise that Mrs. Baxter kept her hair short. She would cut it herself every few weeks and had even offered to trim mine. But I knew how much Mamá loved my long hair, so I’d said no.

If only the phone would ring. I glared at it. Ring, I commanded.

The jarring sound of a call coming in startled me. It worked!

Mrs. Baxter raced to the phone. “Hello,” she said, almost before picking up the receiver.

I waited. Every second was valuable.

“No, Gladys, I can’t talk, we’re waiting for our call to Cuba.” Mrs. Baxter paused. “No, I don’t speak to them, the kids do.” Another pause.

I pleaded with my eyes for Mrs. Baxter to get off the phone.

“Gladys,” Mrs. Baxter continued. “Gladys, I have to hang up. I can’t tie up the line. The call could be connected any minute and they’d get a busy signal. No, we never know when the operator will call back with the connection. We’ll talk later.” Mrs. Baxter hung up the phone and smiled at me. “It was Gladys.”

I nodded. Maybe I could do it again. I stared hard at the phone. Ring. Ring!

Nothing.

“Why don’t you help me prepare a nice Sunday lunch?” Mrs. Baxter held the kitchen door open for me.

I hesitated. It would mean stepping away from the phone.

“I’ll turn down the music. We can hear the phone from the kitchen.” She walked over to the large piece of furniture that housed the family’s record player. Just as the singers were saying “Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream,” the phone rang. Mrs. Baxter once again ran toward me and answered the call.

“Yes … we placed the call a couple of days ago … go ahead. Hello, un momento.” She smiled and handed me the phone. “Lucía, it’s your father. I’ll get Frankie.”

I was on the clock. I could only afford three minutes and had to leave time for Frankie to talk. I grabbed the phone.

“Papá?”

“Hola, mi hija. How are you? How’s your brother?”

A sense of joy filled my heart at the sound of his voice.

“Bien, Papá. We’re both fine. We’ve been learning a lot of English.”

Papá chuckled. “You’ll be my little Americanita pretty soon. So how’s life on a farm?”

I felt my shoulders drop. Just hearing his voice filled me with a sense of calm. Letting me forget for a moment the miles of separation between us. “Good. The corn in some of the fields around here is already higher than my waist, but they say by October it’ll be about seven feet high. But tell me I won’t see that. That we’re going home.”

“Ay, mi hija, I wish I could.” He sighed. “Maybe soon … I don’t know. Things here are …” A clicking noise on the line reminded us both that the soldiers could be listening. Papá’s voice became a little stiffer. “Things here are the same. Let’s just say people like your tío are the ones making all the decisions, but your mother and I are managing.”

“But how?” I wrapped the phone cord around my fingers, trying to feel the connection between us.

“We have friends.” I could almost hear the smile on his face as he spoke. “And I’ve been finding jobs painting houses and fixing roofs.”

I overheard Mamá say something in the background.

“Yes, yes. Your mother wants me to tell you that she’s now taking in some sewing and ironing. She’s a working woman! Here, hold on, she wants to speak to you.” He paused for a moment. “Te quiero, Lucy.”

I took a deep breath. I was not going to let Papá know how much my heart was breaking. “I love you, too.”

“Lucía, it’s Mamá. Your mother. How are you, mi hija?”

I smiled. How could I not know it was her? “Hola, Mamá. Estoy bien. Frankie’s doing fine, too. Mrs. Baxter’s been teaching us lots of English.”

Mrs. Baxter had returned and now beamed at the mention of her name.

Mamá continued talking. “I’m glad you’re learning so much, Lucía. You’re remembering to use your manners, right?”

“Of course, Mamá. Have you heard from Ivette? I need to talk to her … to apologize.”

“I know. I think her brigade gets back in August or September. The public schools will start again by then.”

“Oh. Well, I sent her a letter, but I’ll try again.”

“Mi hija, remember that all the mail goes through censors, so she might not even get it. Plus, she may not be the same girl who left a few months ago. Las cosas cambian.”

“But not everything changes. Anyway, I’m not the same girl, either, but we can still be friends … I think.”

“What do you mean you’re not the same?” Mamá’s voice had a worried tone.

“I’ve just grown up a little. Frankie and I living here, by ourselves, it’s different. Not in a bad way, though.”

“Lucía, I’ve seen those Elvis movies where the American teenagers go crazy. A mi no me gusta eso. You know I don’t approve of that type of thing.”

I twisted and untwisted the phone cord. How could Mamá think that movies and TV showed what things were really like?

“I know, Mamá, but things aren’t like that here.”

“Seriously, I don’t want you dating boys, or thinking that just because we’re not there, that means …”

I shook my head as Mamá kept talking. She was still trying to tell me how to act, even though she was so far away. Yet the last thing I wanted to do with the few seconds we had was argue.

Frankie pulled on my arm. “Hurry up. It’s my turn.”

I nodded and raised a finger to let him know it would be just one more moment.

“Mamá, I have to go. Don’t worry, we haven’t even made any friends. We live on a farm, miles away from the city.” I twirled my long ponytail in my hand.

“Está bien, but I want you to be happy, too, and make some nice friends. I love you, Lucía, I just worry. Don’t wear makeup, either.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, sí, Mamá.”

“And don’t wear your skirts too short.”

“Sí, Mamá.”

“And no high heels.”

“Sí, Mamá. I love you.”

I handed the phone to Frankie before she could say anything else.

Mrs. Baxter stood by, looking at her watch. “Fifty seconds,” she said.

Frankie started talking about a mile a minute. He wanted to know if they’d received his drawing of the fireworks he’d seen on the Fourth of July. Then he went on to describe every one of them. What a waste of a phone call!

Then again, I couldn’t believe Mamá had spent her time with me telling me how to behave. It was like she didn’t trust me. She’d sent us to a different country by ourselves, but she was worried about my wearing makeup? Here I was, taking care of Frankie and myself … and I was doing a pretty good job. I certainly was old enough to make my own decisions.

“Mrs. Baxter?” I said.

“Frankie, you need to hang up now.” Mrs. Baxter touched Frankie’s shoulder.

He nodded and said his good-byes.

“Yes, Lucía?” She turned to face me as Frankie rubbed his eyes and hung up the phone.

“I want you to cut my hair … short. Really short.”