“This will be your room, Lucía. It was my son Carl’s room until he got married and moved to Boston.”
I walked into a small bedroom with dark wood panels on the walls. A faded blue quilt lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and a desk was placed under the only window. I gazed outside and saw an empty field.
“Yes, our fields are bare. Mr. Baxter hurt his back a couple of months ago, and we missed the corn-planting season. Lucky for us, my brother gave him a job at the feed store in town so we can make ends meet until it’s time for the winter wheat.”
I touched the small lamp on the desk.
“Thank you. Is very nice,” I said.
“It is very nice. We need to start improving your English.” Mrs. Baxter smiled and pointed to the hallway. “Frankie is right across from you in our guest room, and this”—she opened the closet door—“is for you.” Inside were dresses, each similar to the one Mrs. Baxter wore. One seemed to be about four sizes too big, and the others were a few inches too short. There was also a skirt, a pair of faded pants, and a green coat with a small hole in one of the sleeves.
“Gracias … thank you,” I said.
“We’ll fix those up for you. I already have some people at the church who said they’d donate their kids’ old shoes for you to wear, too. All the parishioners at St. Mary’s want to help.”
I was going to be wearing hand-me-downs. Used clothing. I’d never had to do that before. We always bought the very latest fashions. Ivette would be mortified to see me wearing these clothes.
I missed her. I also missed Mamá and Papá, my room, my school, everything I’d left behind. Tears started to form, but I took a deep breath to try to keep them from falling. I didn’t want to cry anymore.
Mrs. Baxter was still talking. “My friend Gladys was telling me that Cuba used to be a lovely place. She went to Havana about twenty years ago on her honeymoon. Says it was almost like Europe but more colorful.” Mrs. Baxter turned to face me. “Oh, honey, you’re crying. Was it my talking about Cuba? Brings up some bad memories for you?”
I wiped away the tears. I wasn’t even paying close enough attention to what she was saying to really understand her.
“Well, I’ll let you unpack, then you can help me set the table for dinner, all right?” She touched my shoulder.
“Yes,” I said, and opened my suitcase.
Mrs. Baxter smiled, and as she left the room, Frankie ran in and jumped on the bed.
“Lucy, did she give you new stuff, too?” he asked.
I glanced at the closet of old things. “Not exactly new.”
“Well, my room has a box full of clothes and toys. I think she said something about it belonging to someone named Carl. Lucy, there’s even a cowboy hat and sheriff’s badge. It’s great!”
“That’s good.” I unpacked my nice dresses, hung them in the closet, and placed some shorts and shirts on a shelf. I took out the box of Cuban cigars and placed it in one of the desk drawers. “Frankie, go get me your box. We’ll keep them in here until we figure out how to sell them.”
“Fine, but remember, that’s my money, too.”
* * * * *
Dinner was … different. Mrs. Baxter gave us green beans and this thing with meat and potatoes all mixed together. She called it Mrs. B’s casserole, and she was supposedly famous for it. I picked at the vegetables and ate a little of the beef thing. It wasn’t too bad, but I missed Cuban food. Even at the camp, they kept giving us salads and all these vegetables. At home, we’d have yuca or potatoes, but most of our vegetables were cooked with something else. Like in a stew or as flavoring for the main dish. I was craving picadillo, rice, black beans, café con leche, Cuban bread, and most of all, Mamá’s flan.
“Come, Lucía, help me clear the table. Frankie, you can go play until bedtime.” Mrs. Baxter picked up the water pitcher as Mr. Baxter dropped off his plate in the kitchen and went outside.
Frankie stared at me, waiting for me to translate.
“Puedes ir a jugar,” I said.
“Wait. Lucía, how do you say go play?” Mrs. Baxter asked.
“Ve a jugar.”
“Okay, Frankie. Vay a who-gar. Go play.” She pointed to him. “Now you.”
“Go play,” Frankie repeated.
Mrs. Baxter grinned. “Wonderful. You’re going to be such a fast learner, I can just tell!”
Frankie shrugged and ran off to his room.
I stacked a few plates and followed Mrs. Baxter into the wallpapered kitchen. It was a medley of yellow and green flowers on the walls, with mustard-colored appliances.
“Thank you, Lucía.” She took the plates and put them in the sink.
“You’re welcome.”
“It’s so nice that you know some English. Ever since Carl left home, it’s been so quiet around here.” She picked up a sponge and gave me a dry towel. “But I already told you about him. Tell me a little about where you’re from. Where is Porto Mee-ja-rays?”
“Me-ha-res. It is east of Havana. On a bitch,” I explained.
“Oh my! No! Never say that. Look at me.” She pointed to her lips. “Be-e-each. Now you.”
“Be-e-each,” I said, contorting my mouth into the same huge smile she had.
“Good. Well, what about your house. Big like this one or little?”
I looked around at the small house. Our home in Cuba was twice as big.
“More big. Not so much land.”
“Bigger, not more big.” She continued to wash the dishes and pass them to me to dry. “And your father, what does he do for a living?”
“He work at the bank.” I remembered the soldiers taking Papá from our house. “But la revolución no let him work now.”
“Oh, that Fidel is just destroying your country. He’s a Communist, I tell you, no doubt in my mind.”
I continued drying the dishes, unsure of what I was supposed to say.
After a few minutes, when we were done, I asked Mrs. Baxter if we could call my parents in Cuba.
“I’m afraid that’s very expensive. Why don’t you write to them?” she offered while taking off her apron and hanging it behind the pantry door. “Mr. Baxter and I can give you and Frankie fifty cents every week as an allowance.” She glanced up at the ceiling as if retrieving a distant memory. “It’s just like when Carl was young.” Mrs. Baxter then looked back down at me. “You’ll both be given responsibilities around the house, but we’ll also give you certain liberties. For instance, you can spend your allowance on anything you like, including stamps, but there’ll be limits, of course.”
I reached into my skirt pocket and pulled out the ten-dollar bill. “I have some money.”
“So I see, but calling Cuba may cost more than that. You can save up your allowance, and when you’ve got enough, we’ll make the call.”
“We have two boxes of cigars, too. We sell those and have more money.” I wanted, no, I needed to make that call.
She smiled and went to the cupboard. “I’ll have Mr. Baxter take the boxes into town on Monday to see what he can get for them.” She pulled down a small blue jar. “Here, put your money in this.” She took the lid off and waited for me to put the bill inside. “We’ll call it your ‘Calls to Cuba Fund.’ Whatever the calls cost, we’ll take the money from here. But if there’s no money, there’ll be no calls.” She reached up and put the blue jar on the top shelf. “It’s not that we don’t want you to talk to your parents, we just can’t afford it right now.”
My heart sank. I’d have to wait.
“Está bien … I mean, okay.”
* * * * *
“They seem nice, Lucy. I’m glad we’re here,” Frankie said, playing with a few toy soldiers on the floor of my room.
“Uh-huh.” I concentrated on the letter I was writing to Mamá and Papá. It had to be a balance between telling them where we were, finding out what was happening at home, and still not writing anything that might get them into trouble if the soldiers were to read the mail.
I read what I’d written so far.
Dear Mamá and Papá,
First, let me say that Frankie and I are fine. We’ve been sent to live with the Baxters in Grand Island, Nebraska. They are a nice older Catholic couple. I think we will be happier here than at the camp because we are together now. I know in my earlier letters I didn’t mention the fact that Frankie and I were staying at different camps, but the camps were across the street from each other and I didn’t want to worry you.
How are things for you? Has Tío Antonio come by again? Do you think we’ll be home soon? When?
Mrs. Baxter walked into my room. “I see you like the toys, Frankie. But it’s almost eight o’clock and you two need to go to bed.”
I looked up from my desk. It was still light outside. Did everyone in America go to bed this early?
“Now, remember that the toothbrushes I bought for you are in the medicine cabinet, right next to Mr. Baxter’s shaving cream on the bottom shelf.” She walked over to Frankie and placed her hand on his back to coax him out of my room. “You’ll translate for him, won’t you, Lucía?”
I nodded. “Que los cepillos de dientes están en el gabinete al lado de la crema de afeitar del señor Baxter.”
“I really am delighted to have the two of you here with us,” Mrs. Baxter said as she guided Frankie toward the door. “Tomorrow we’ll have our first full day together. I’ll wake you both up so you can help Mr. Baxter with the chickens.”
Frankie stared up at her. “Chee-kens?”
“Yes, you know, chickens. Bawk, bawk, bawk.” She flapped her arms.
Frankie giggled and whispered over to me in Spanish, “I think she wants to make chicken for dinner tomorrow night.” He turned to her and said in his best English, “Me like chee-ken.”
“Well, that’s a healthy work attitude.” Mrs. Baxter ushered him toward his bedroom. “Now skedaddle. I want lights out in two minutes. So good night and I’ll see you at dawn.”
Work? Dawn? Suddenly I didn’t think Frankie was right about the chickens just being our dinner.
