Before We Were Free Page 5

  “I think her feelings are hurt,” Oscar replies. “Hey, Anita, wait up,” he calls. I can’t believe it’s Oscar who understands my feelings, not Sammy, whom I’m secretly planning to marry.

  When they catch up with me, it’s also Oscar who says, “I was wondering where you were.”

  “Yeah,” Sammy adds, and sunshine breaks upon my heart again.

  “The entire country is in trouble,” Oscar explains. We’re sitting under the trampoline after having busted one of the ropes by all three jumping on it at once. “Mami saw Mrs. Brown at Wimpy’s and she said the school might have to close because so many families are leaving.”

  “We’re staying!” Sam announces proudly. “We’ve got amnesia.”

  “Amnesty,” Oscar corrects. I bite my lip so as not to smile. Even though I’m almost in love with Sam Washburn, I can’t resist feeling proud when a Dominican corrects an American’s English. “But you mean immunity,” Oscar goes on. “We have immunity, too, because my father is with the Italian embassy. Lots of people hide in the embassy because the SIM can’t touch them if they’re on another country’s property. Like your uncle,” he says, turning to me.

  “Which uncle?” I want to know. Of course, I’m thinking of Tío Toni.

  “I’m not supposed to mention names. But the embargo means countries are closing their embassies. That’s why you don’t have an embassy anymore,” he points out to Sammy. “Just a consulate.”

  “My father’s the consul,” Sammy boasts.

  “I know, but he’s not the ambassador.”

  “So?”

  Oscar shrugs. “Just that he can’t help the people who want to free this country.”

  We are free! I want to cry out. But thinking about how the SIM raided our property, how Tío Toni had to disappear, how I have to erase everything in my diary, I know that Oscar is telling the truth. We’re not free—we’re trapped—the Garcías got away just in time! I feel the same panic as when the SIM came storming through our house.

  “Your father,” he points to Sammy, “and yours and mine, too,” he adds, pointing to me and then to himself. “They all know about this, but they don’t want to worry us.”

  “So, how do you know all of this stuff?” Sammy confronts him.

  A slow grin spreads across Oscar’s face. “I ask a lot of questions.”

  So do I, I’m thinking, but until now I never got any answers.

  All these things that Oscar tells us I write down in my diary.

  I don’t know what I’d do without it. It’s like my whole world is coming undone, but when I write, my pencil is a needle and thread, and I’m stitching the scraps back together. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night crying out. I cross the hall to Lucinda’s room and slip in beside her. She seems to welcome my presence because she lets me stay there instead of telling me to scram, like in the old days.

  The worst stories Oscar tells are the ones about El Jefe. When I first heard how bad he was from Lucinda, I felt so confused. Everyone had always treated El Jefe like God. I shudder to think how many times I’ve prayed to him instead of to Jesus on His cross.

  “He does even worse things than crucify people,” Oscar tells us one time. “He disappears them.”

  I remember Chucha saying the SIM disappeared people. “What exactly does that mean?” I ask Oscar. He’s so much easier to talk to than Lucinda. I usually have to beg her and then throw in a free back rub before she’ll tell me anything.

  “He arrests people, then cuts out their eyes and fingernails, and throws their cadavers in the sea for the sharks to eat them.”

  “Wow!” Sammy says, impressed, his eyes greedy for more awful details.

  I feel sick to my stomach. The thought of Tío Toni, eyeless and fingernail-less, is just too horrible to think about. But I don’t want to throw up in front of a boy I’m falling in love with and a cousin I don’t want to be related to. “We have a mystery ghost,” I speak up, wanting to change the subject. I mean to make my news sound scary, but a ghost now seems harmless compared to what we just heard.

  “He comes at night, then leaves during the day,” Sam adds. I’ve told Sam about the light I saw at Tío Toni’s house Christmas Eve. We fill Oscar in on all the particulars of the unlocked door and cigarette butts.

  “Let’s go see,” Oscar insists.

  As we head for the back of the property, we hear hurried footsteps coming down the walk toward us.

  “What are you doing back here?” Chucha questions, looking from one to the other, as if she’s trying to figure out which one of us will be most likely to tell her the truth.

  “We’re allowed to,” I announce, showing off in front of my friends.

  Chucha levels her gaze at me. I know she’s about to say that she’s the one to allow or not to allow things, as she once changed my diapers.

  Quickly, I back down and explain. “Somebody’s been in Tío Toni’s casita, Chucha.”

  Her dark eyes widen in warning. “You have to be very careful,” she whispers, making the familiar gesture of cutting off her head. “Things will be happening soon for which there is no protection.” She looks up at the sky and then all around her as if she sees signs everywhere. “No protection but silence, no protection but dark hiding places, wings, and prayers.” Listening to her, I remember how Chucha sometimes sees the future in dreams. I shiver, wondering what she has seen.

  Although Sam knows a little Spanish, he rarely understands Chucha, who has a tendency to mumble and mix in Haitian words with her Spanish. “What’s she saying?” he wants to know.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “Sometimes she talks in riddles and you have to try to figure out what she’s saying.” Turning back to my old nursemaid, I ask her what’s uppermost on my mind. “Is Tío Toni all right?”

  As if Chucha not only gives answers but makes them materialize, a face appears at the window of the small house. There’s no mistaking the dark, curly hair, the strong jaw, the good looks that make pretty girls call up my aunt Mimí and ask if they can come over and look at her orchids. I feel a rush of relief to see my uncle intact, no eyes or fingernails missing. But I have sense enough not to call out his name.

  “Who’s that?” Sammy asks. He and Oscar are peering in the direction I’m looking.

  I don’t know how Chucha can guess what Sammy has asked, since she doesn’t know a word of English, but she replies, “Tell the americanito that it’s someone he did not see.”

  Even though I know English, I don’t know how to translate something that makes no sense at all, even to me.

  Tell him it’s someone he did not see, I’m writing in my diary when there’s a knock on the door. “Un momentito, por favor,” I call out, and quickly erase the page I’ve been writing before shoving the diary back under my pillow.

  It’s Mami at the door. “Everything all right?” she asks, looking around the room, probably wondering what I’m hiding that I need the delay of “un momentito” before I say, “Come in.”

  “I want to show you something,” Mami says, motioning mysteriously for me to follow her outside.

  She leads the way out past the patio and around the front of Mamita and Papito’s house to the pond that used to be filled with Tía Mimí’s water lilies. Now it’s covered by a layer of green scum and overrun by bullfrogs. We sit on the stone bench, and Mami takes my hands in hers.

  “I know many unusual things have been happening, Anita,” she begins. “And I know there are many questions and worries in your head.” She touches my face ever so gently, as if she wants to banish all the worries that have been piling up in the last month. “Suddenly, you have to be a big girl—”

  “I am twelve, Mami!” I sigh and roll my eyes. Recently, if anyone talks to me as if I’m a little kid, I get mad. But I also feel sad that I’m not a little kid anymore and that I know as much as I do. I’ve written about these confused feelings in my diary, too, but this is one confusion that doesn’t get any clearer by writing about it.
br />   “You are a young lady,” Mami agrees. “And I’m going to confide in you the way I do in Lucinda and your brother. Okay?” she adds uncertainly, as if she isn’t sure whether to take the next step.

  I roll my eyes. “Mami, I know a lot more stuff than you think I do!”

  “Oh?”

  I wonder if now is the time to tell her about all the scary things Oscar has told me or about seeing Tío Toni at the window of his casita. But I’m afraid if I say a word, Mami might never get to her story. “Just stuff about becoming a señorita.”

  Mami hesitates. “Have you gotten . . . your period?”

  I shake my head. I used to think when I started bleeding between my legs, Mami would be the first to know. Now I’m not so sure that I want to tell Mami something that personal.

  “What happened was your uncles and their friends were unhappy with the government and they had a plan that the SIM found out about.” Mami’s story follows the same lines as what Lucinda has told me. “Many of those friends were arrested. Some, like Tío Carlos, left the country. Some were killed.”

  Mami stops a moment and wipes her eyes. Then her hands curl up into fists on her lap.

  “At first, your father didn’t want to endanger his family. But sometimes life without freedom is no life at all.”

  It sounds scary. Like something someone facing a firing squad might say before they’re shot. “Then why not go be free with the rest of the family in Nueva York?” I ask, hoping that she’ll reassure me that we’re not trapped, that we can leave if we want to.

  “No!” Mami says, her hands formed into fists. “What would have happened to the United States if George Washington had left his country? Or if Abraham Lincoln had said, ‘I’ve had enough’? The Negro people would still be slaves.”

  I feel ashamed of myself for being a scaredy-cat. I think about what Papi has said about having a country where everyone, including Monsito, can have a chance.

  “And someday,” Mami continues, “we will be free, and all your cousins and aunts and uncles will come back and thank us.” She looks around at the scraggly grounds, the overgrown bushes, the abandoned houses. A sad look crosses her face. “In fact, the embargo is already helping. Some observers are here from other countries and the government’s trying to show off how fair it is. That means all Tío Toni’s friends in prison have been freed. Things are going to change, but until that day, we have to be patient and make some sacrifices.”

  I knew she’d get to the hard part sooner or later.

  “Your uncle Toni has been . . . in hiding,” she explains, choosing her words carefully. “Now he can come out. But the SIM can still decide at any minute to take him away. He’s pretty safe in the compound with Mr. Washburn next door. But it’s best if you and Sammy and Oscar avoid going back there.” She nods in the direction of the casita. “Also, you are not to speak about this to anyone. Only to your pillow . . .”

  I must look guilty just thinking about what’s hidden under my pillow right this very moment. It’s as if my mother can read my thoughts. “One last big favor to ask you, mi amor. No more writing in your diary for the time being.”

  “That’s so unfair!” Mami gave me the diary for Christmas. Telling me not to write in it is like taking away my only present.

  “I know it is, Anita.” Mami wipes away my tears with her thumbs. “For now, we have to be like the little worm in the cocoon of the butterfly. All closed up and secret until the day . . .” She spreads her arms as if they were wings.

  Hearing the thrill in her voice, how can I refuse her anything she asks me?

  I go back to my room and erase every page of my diary. Then I put it away in my closet beside Carla’s things. Until the day.

  five

  Mr. Smith

  Now that I’m grounded from roaming the property, I spend a lot of time playing card games with Sam on our patio. I really don’t understand why Mami has to be so cautious. With the consul living next door, marines guard the compound round the clock. Sometimes, I wake to the click-clop of their boots as they patrol the grounds at night.

  We play casino and canasta and concentration. Susie and Lucinda, who are as bored as we are, join us. Except for school, which has finally reopened, we don’t go out anymore. Parents are being cautious, especially the parents of young ladies.

  “Why’s that?” I ask. We’re sitting on the patio, playing casino.

  Susie fans out her cards in her hand. Her nails are painted pale pink like the inside of a conch shell. “On account of Mr. Smith,” she says, eyeing Lucinda meaningfully. Both girls burst into giggles when Sam and I ask together, “Who’s Mr. Smith?”

  “Mr. Smith’s not his real name.” Susie lowers her voice. Even she whispers when we get onto certain subjects. “He’s a very powerful guy. And he likes girls—young, pretty girls. So parents won’t let their daughters go out to public places where they might be seen by Mr. Smith. Because if he sees them and wants them, he gets what he wants.”

  I shudder and look over at Lucinda. The nervous rash on her neck has reddened, and she’s scratching it.

  “Hey, genius, who’s winning?” Susie asks Sam, who is keeping score. She often addresses her younger brother with sarcasm. “Ooooh, Lucy-baby! You’ve got fifteen. Lucky number!”

  In two weeks, Susie will be turning fifteen. Lucinda has told her how a girl’s fifteenth birthday is really important in our country. Some parents throw quinceañera parties as lavish as weddings. “We just have to do something for your birthday,” Lucinda insists.

  “Like what? We can’t go to the country club, we can’t go to the beach.” Susie goes through her list of grievances. I have a feeling that she goes through this list often with her mother, probably as often as Lucinda does with ours. “I’m soooo bored. I wouldn’t mind a little excitement.” Susie lets out a long sigh, just like her mother when she has a bad hand.

  “How come you don’t just have a party here?” Sam says absently. He’s tallying up the scores again—and again he has the lowest score so far. “This place is like a country club.”

  Both girls look at him as if he has sprouted wings.

  “Well, it is,” he adds defensively.

  “Samuel, dear,” Susie says, “that’s a fantástico idea!” She reaches over and smacks a kiss on her brother’s cheek, which he immediately wipes off, making his I’ve-got-an-anaconda-around-my-neck face.

  “My brother, the genius,” Susie declares, this time without sarcasm.

  At first, Susie’s parents are not keen on a big quinceañera party. “They wanted me to wait until I’m sixteen!” she complains to Lucinda and me. We’re practicing the twist in her room, listening to a guy called Chubby Checker on Susie’s portable record player. Sammy’s out at a Scouts’ meeting, so I’ve been invited to join them. Lucinda usually tells me to scram when she’s with one of her girlfriends. But recently, she’s being a lot nicer to me. Maybe she’s realizing I’m not just a stupid little sister but a potential friend. Well, potential friend is maybe stretching it!

  “ ‘Now, Susan Elizabeth,’ ” Susie says, imitating her parents, “ ‘you can have a big party for your sweet sixteen back in the States.’ Can you believe it?”

  “That’s terrible,” Lucinda says.

  I nod. “I didn’t have a party for my birthday, either,” I offer.

  “Poor kid,” Susie commiserates. “But guess what?” Her face is full of excitement. I know better than to take a guess.

  “I told my parents what you guys told me about fifteen being the big birthday here. They’re the ones always saying that in Rome you’re supposed to do what the Romans do. Anyway, they said yes! So, we’re going to twist, twist, twist all night.” She raises the volume on Chubby Checker and we twist in celebration.

  Susie’s party is planned for her birthday, February 27, which is perfect, as that’s our national independence day. “You’ll have free fireworks,” Lucinda notes.

  For the next two weeks, it’s as if someone is gettin
g married in the compound. The Washburns hire two gardeners, who spiff up the grounds. The property begins to take on its old groomed look of a park. Paper lanterns are hung from tree to tree, and Tía Mimí’s lily pond is cleaned out so we can again see the coins we once threw in for good luck. The canasta group meets daily to make party favors and help with the invitations. The party will start with refreshments, followed by dancing—rock and roll on the record player for Susie’s friends and merengues and cha-chas by a live Dominican combo for her parents’ guests. Susie’s quinceañera has become a full-blown reception by the consul. But it can’t be helped, Mr. Washburn explains. In the touchy atmosphere of a country under embargo, you have to be careful not to step on any toes.

  In our own house, Lucinda tries on every one of her dressy dresses, Mami watching and commenting. They have an ongoing argument about necklines and bare shoulders. Finally, they settle on a strapless pale yellow gown, a hand-me-down from a glamorous aunt who used to be a beauty queen before she married and had kids. It has a narrow waist and a crinoline skirt that bells out like a ballerina’s tutu. Lucinda agrees to wear a shawl, not to be modest, but to hide the rash on her neck that won’t go away. “That shawl must not come off,” Mami keeps reminding Lucinda, who is disgusted enough to roll her eyes at me in the absence of a friend her own age.

  “As for you, young lady,” Mami says, turning to me, “I hope you know this is an exception.”

  Of course, I know that going to a night party where there will be boys is unusual for a girl who has not yet turned fifteen. But this is supposed to be a “family gathering,” hosted by our neighbors next door. I’m glad I haven’t told Mami about my feelings for Sam, or she would make me stay home, trying to fall asleep to Elvis Presley howling “You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog,” or the merengue band singing “Compadre Pedro Juan” and “Last Night I Dreamt About You.”

  (And I would die if I didn’t get to dance with Sammy!)

  Tío Toni is back. Every night, visitors drop in to see him. They sit on our patio, talking for hours. Sometimes, they walk off to his casita for more privacy. Mr. Washburn often joins them.