The Red Umbrella

The Baxter house sparkled with multicolored lights and evergreen garlands draped with icicles. The piney scent of a real Christmas tree mixed with the aroma of cinnamon from the gingerbread cookies reminded me of … nothing. Christmas Eve was not like this in Cuba.

Here, everyone talked about Santa Claus bringing presents the next morning, and Mrs. Baxter planned on making a ham, scalloped potatoes, and her special carrot-pineapple gelatin salad for our Christmas Day lunch. But Christmas Eve was like any other day during the holiday season.

For me, Nochebuena meant the smell of onions and garlic cooking while my parents prepared the roasted pig, ellechón. We’d also have black beans, rice, and yuca. There’d be music playing, and those rhythmic sounds would get inside me and make me want to dance the whole day. It was wonderful how everyone, Tío Antonio, Abuela (before she died), and even some of our neighbors would come over and have dinner with us. I didn’t have a big family like Ivette, but on Christmas Eve, you’d never guess that. Tables would be set up outside where we’d eat, laugh, and play dominoes under the stars until it was time to go to midnight Mass. It was like one big party.

I bit the edge of the letter I’d just written to Ivette. If only she’d see what it was really like here, she wouldn’t mistrust the Americans so much. I wanted her to see all the similarities, but in the end, there was no comparison. As much as I liked being in the U.S., Cuba was my home.

“Lucía, can you go get Frankie? Mr. Baxter is washing up already.” Mrs. Baxter placed two trivets on the dining room table.

“I’m here. Hope dinner is ready ’cause I’m as hungry as a house.” Frankie bounded toward the table.

“You mean hungry as a horse,” Mrs. Baxter corrected him.

“Ohhh. Now it makes sense.” Frankie started pouring water into each person’s glass.

“Ready, Helen?” Mr. Baxter asked, walking to the table and taking his seat.

“Yes, one second.” She made a quick run to the kitchen and brought out a covered dish.

“We can help you, Mrs. Baxter,” I said, prodding Frankie to stand up.

“No, no, not today. I want you all to stay seated.” She ran back three more times, bringing out more covered dishes.

When everything was out, she looked at Mr. Baxter and said, “Now we’re ready.”

Mr. Baxter nodded. “Thank you, Lord, for this food we’re about to receive. Thank you for our many blessings. Keep us and our families, both those in Boston and Cuba, safe from harm. Amen.”

I smiled as we all said “Amen.” Mr. Baxter always said grace before dinner, but it was during the last couple of weeks that he’d started mentioning not only Carl but also my parents. It was like we were all somehow related.

Frankie reached over to uncover the dish closest to him, but Mrs. Baxter put a hand over it.

“Hold on, Frankie. I want to say something.”

Mr. Baxter leaned back in his chair.

“I know it’s been difficult for the two of you to be away from home and all your customs during the holidays. I didn’t even know that you celebrated Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day until Lucía mentioned it a couple of days ago. Anyway, I did the best I could with the food. Had to improvise a little, though.”

Mrs. Baxter uncovered the first two dishes. Rather than our typical roasted pig and black beans, Mrs. Baxter had made pork chops and baked beans.

I smiled from ear to ear.

“This one was easy.” She uncovered a bowl of white rice. “But I had no idea what yuca was, so I made”—she removed the final lid—“potatoes.”

“I never liked yuca anyway,” Frankie said, already holding his plate up to be served.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

Mrs. Baxter grinned. “And tonight we all have to go to bed early because Santa Claus will be visiting.”

“Wait, if Santa Claus brings us toys on Christmas, do los tres reyes magos still bring us stuff on January sixth?” Frankie asked.

“No, Frankie.” I shook my head. “I already told you. The three wise men bring toys on January sixth to children who live in Cuba. If you live in the U.S., Santa Claus might bring you something on December twenty-fifth. You don’t get both. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Baxter?”

“Afraid so, Frankie. But think of it this way, you’ll get to play with your toys all the sooner.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Just as long as someone knows I’m here.”

Mrs. Baxter looked over at her husband with a secretive smile. “I wouldn’t worry, Frankie,” she said. “I think someone knows.”