Before We Were Free Page 6

  Papi and Tío Toni usually speak in English with Mr. Washburn. They both went to school in the States, Papi to Yale, which poor Mami always mispronounces “jail.” The first time she met Mrs. Washburn, Mami bragged that her husband had gone to jail. The consul’s wife smiled tensely and said, “Oh, dear, that’s too bad,” which baffled Mami completely, as she thought Yale was the school where the best families in the United States educated their sons.

  Tío Toni always joins us for meals, not that he eats much. Sometimes he tells about what happened to him in the last few months. How the SIM raided one of the meetings he was at with friends, how he managed to get away, but rather than come home and put his family at risk, he went into hiding, going from one safe house to another, never sleeping more than a few hours a night. He’s still real nervous all the time, jumping up whenever the door bangs or Lorena drops silverware on the floor. He’s attentive to everything, noticing Lucinda’s rash and Mundín’s bitten nails. It’s una vergüenza, he keeps saying, his jaw tensing, a shame that children can’t be children anymore in this suffering country.

  Papi is nodding little nods like those dogs with springs in their necks that people put in the back windows of their cars. “Democracy,” Papi says, “but democracy is only the beginning. Education is the key.”

  Mami hushes them both with her eyes. We have to be careful of being overheard by someone on the SIM secret payroll. Lorena was recently caught “cleaning” the desk drawers in Papi’s study.

  Papi and Tío Toni are so brave. It makes me want to be like Joan of Arc, a courageous girl who heard heavenly voices. But unfortunately, unlike Saint Joan, I’ve yet to hear a voice tell me what I can do to help my suffering country.

  “I hear there’s going to be a big fiesta next door,” Tío Toni says at dinner one night.

  “Aren’t you coming, Tío?” Lucinda seems surprised that our handsome uncle would pass up a party. He’s a great dancer and extremely popular with the ladies.

  “I think it’s best if your tío doesn’t say pío.” Tío Toni laughs. Best to lay low. Besides, he hasn’t been invited. Mr. Washburn has to turn in his guest list to the Foreign Ministry every time he has a gathering. It would look bad for the American consul to be hosting a man who has only just been pardoned by the government.

  “I wish I could be there,” he adds, winking at Lucinda. “I’d like to see that trail of broken hearts.”

  “Ay, Tío, don’t start,” Lucinda scolds, pretending to be disgusted.

  “I mean it,” Tío Toni persists. “You will be the queen of the ball.”

  I glance over at Lucinda, and I’m surprised at how pretty she is. Her dark hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and her dimples show when she smiles. Lucinda reminds me a lot of the oldest girl on the Mickey Mouse Club show I’ve seen on the Washburns’ television. “Hi, I’m Annette!” the girl calls out.

  “And this señorita isn’t far behind,” Tío Toni says, winking at me. My uncle claims I’ve grown up in the months since he has been gone. In fact, I’m not a señorita, as I haven’t gotten my period yet. But odd things are happening to my body. My breasts have swollen into two small buds that hurt if anyone bumps into me. I’ve also grown a whole quarter inch since Christmas. Maybe I’m not going to stay small forever, like poor Monsito, who never gets enough to eat.

  Inside my heart, odd things are happening as well. By now, I’m almost one hundred percent in love with Samuel Adams Washburn. The one percent doubt has to do with what happened on Valentine’s Day. I mean, what didn’t happen. I didn’t get a card from Sammy—but then, none of the girls got valentines from boys, that I know of.

  Before Tío Toni leaves, he puts his arms around Lucinda and me. “I want my two butterflies to take care of each other,” he says in a soft voice, squeezing our shoulders.

  “We will, Tío,” Lucinda promises, kissing my uncle. Then she leans over, brushes away my bangs, and kisses me!

  On Lorena’s day off, two men come over from the consulate to check the whole house for bugs. And I don’t mean insects, either. The SIM like to hide little devices in houses so they can listen in on what you say. They might have planted some when they came for their raid . . . or someone could have planted some since then.

  “Who?” I ask Lucinda. She spells out Lorena’s name in English!

  That afternoon, I overhear Mami talking to the canasta group on the patio. “The place is clean, thank God!”

  “What about the girl?” someone asks.

  Mami hired the recent graduate without checking her references because we desperately needed another maid to help Chucha. “She showed me her diploma from the Domestic Academy.”

  “Don’t you know?” Mrs. Mancini whispers, looking over her shoulder. I pull back just in time from the doorway. “That place is nothing but a front for the SIM. They train those poor girls to be spies in households!”

  Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me. I jump. But it’s only Chucha! She leans forward and whispers one of her favorite sayings: “Camarón que se duerme, se lo lleva la corriente.” The shrimp who falls asleep is carried off by the current.

  I guess if I’m going to spy, I’d better watch out for other spies— like Chucha!

  The night of the party, we hear cars going up and down the driveway. Voices drift over from the neighboring yard, punctuated every now and then by the report of firecrackers going off in different parts of the city in honor of Independence Day. The early guests are starting to arrive.

  Lucinda has taken her dress to the Washburns’ so that she and Susie can get ready together. Mami is delayed in the kitchen, where she and Chucha and Lorena are frying extra batches of the Washburns’ pastelitos for the party.

  “When are we going over?” I keep asking. I know I’m nagging, but I’m dying to get all dressed up and have Sam see me.

  “With patience and calm, even a burro can climb a palm,” Chucha reminds me.

  “Take this over, please,” Mami asks Lorena when the first batch is done.

  “Let me do it,” I volunteer.

  But Mami shakes her head sharply. “That’s enough, Anita.”

  As soon as Lorena disappears down the shortcut path through the hibiscus hedge, Mami calls out, “Coast is clear!” Papi and Mundín slip out and join some men who have crossed over from the party to talk to Tío Toni. Tonight, I’m too excited thinking about my first grown-up party to ask Mami what is going on.

  Finally, the frying is done. Mami and I dress quickly—she in her long black gown with the slit up one side so she can walk. When Chucha first saw it, she told Mami to take the dress back to the seamstress and have that rip sewn up.

  I get to wear Lucinda’s pale blue organdy she’s outgrown but won’t let me keep. Mami puts some lipstick on me, but I refuse the hairspray because Sam says that sprayed hair looks like an astronaut’s helmet. As for Lucinda’s old patent-leather heels I wore at Christmas, they no longer fit. But I’ve found some blue satin flats of Carla’s that match the dress perfectly and are honestly much easier to walk in.

  We cross over, Lorena and Chucha bearing the platters of pastelitos, Mami carrying the tray of sugared almonds to put inside the swan baskets the canasta group has prepared as party favors. We’re headed the long way down the driveway, past the hibiscus hedge, Mami cautious in her spiked heels and tight dress that make walking on the dirt shortcut path too difficult.

  Just ahead, a line of black Volkswagens crawls up the main driveway. Mami stops short. “Ay, Dios, I forgot my shawl,” she says in a tense voice she tries to disguise. “Chucha, you and Lorena, go on ahead. Here, take this tray. We’ll be right over.”

  “I’ll get your shawl for you, Doña,” Lorena offers. “I know where it is.”

  A look passes between Mami and Chucha. “You’re not leaving me to carry all these platters!” the old woman snaps at the younger one. “Come along now, don’t dawdle. The pastelitos are getting cold.”

  The minute they’ve gone a few steps, Mami grabs my arm
and pulls me back behind the hedge of hibiscus. “Listen to me, Anita,” she whispers fiercely. “I want you to run back to Tío Toni’s casita and tell Papi and the others that Mr. Smith’s friends are here. You hear me? Mr. Smith’s friends. Hurry!” she says, practically shoving me on my way.

  I’ve been wanting to hear a voice like the one Joan of Arc heard, and here it is! I run down the dirt path all the way to Tío Toni’s pad. Mr. Smith’s friends are here. Mr. Smith’s friends are here, I say over and over under my breath—as if there’s any chance in the world that I’m going to forget.

  The men stand abruptly when they hear my footsteps, Tío Toni yanking something out from under his belt, Papi pulling Mundín behind him. But the minute he sees me, Papi calls out. “Es mi hijita.” It’s my little girl.

  “Papi,” I gasp, before he can scold me for the scare I’ve given them, “Mami says to tell you, Mr. Smith’s friends are here.” I don’t know exactly what I’m saying—though, of course, I remember what Susie and Lucinda said about a Mr. Smith who likes pretty girls.

  The effect of my words is instantaneous. It’s as if one of the firecrackers that have been going off all day long has suddenly fallen in the center of the group. In seconds, the men take off, some with Tío Toni into the darkness of the back of the property, some following Papi and Mundín at a run toward our house.

  When we reach our patio, Papi lets go of my arm. He holds up a hand, signaling everyone to slow down. He speaks in the tensest voice I’ve ever heard him use. “Con calma, como si nada.”

  Calmly, as if nothing is going on, we walk slowly down the path toward the Washburns’ lit-up patio, where the party is in full swing. Elegant ambassadors with their fancy wives on their arms pick snacks off silver trays. Oscar and Sam, wearing bow ties, have been enlisted to take drink orders. Here and there, military men in fancy dress uniforms are looking up at the distant flashes of fireworks in the sky. Lucinda and Susie and their girlfriends sit on lounge chairs, their crinoline skirts spread around them like the petals of flowers. Young men surround them, as if drawn by the perfume of those flowers, closer and closer.

  From their post by the buffet table, my mother and Mrs. Mancini are nervously scanning the crowd. They look relieved when they spot us coming back from the garden. Mami turns her head slightly, signaling to Papi. Men in dark glasses who look like the thugs who raided the compound months ago lurk at the shadowy edges of the patio.

  What are the SIM doing here? Perhaps they’ve been summoned to protect the high-ranking military guests and ambassadors? I’m about to ask Oscar what he knows when there’s a shout. “¡Atención!”

  The party goes silent. The crowd parts as if a god is coming down among us. An old man, chest gleaming with medals, face whitened with pancake makeup, steps onto the patio.

  “¡Que viva El Jefe!” a woman’s voice cries out.

  “Long live the chief,” a chorus of voices echoes. Boom, boom, boom, the fireworks explode, lighting up the sky. For a moment, night turns into day as Mr. Smith lifts a small, spotted hand and gives us a weary wave.

  six

  Operation Maid

  Mami and Papi are still in shock as we cross over to our house after the party.

  “I can’t believe it!” Mami is saying.

  “Nobody was expecting him,” Papi agrees. “Washburn got a call at the last minute. El Jefe wanted to drop in and congratulate the young lady. Imagine! How could he refuse? Washburn says before he could even think to come over and tell us to break it up, the SIM were at the door. If it hadn’t been for our little messenger here . . .” Papi reaches out a hand and I take it.

  I feel so brave and proud—even if the evening was a disappointment. I never did get a chance to dance with Sam. Mami made me stick to her side as if someone was going to pounce on me.

  “We’ve let ourselves get careless!” Mami continues as we climb up the driveway toward our house. Tío Toni and his constant flow of visitors have to go somewhere else. “They’re putting our children’s lives in danger.”

  “Where can they go?” Papi argues back. “This is probably the safest place for Toni right now. For all of us.”

  Just then, we hear the clang of Lorena trailing behind us with an armload of empty platters. Mami always says that one thing Lorena never learned at the Domestic Academy is how not to make a racket.

  “We have to find a way to let her go,” Mami whispers to Papi. It won’t be easy. We can’t get on Lorena’s bad side. Out of spite, she might report any number of curious things to the SIM. In fact, Mami has been bribing her with old clothes and tips and extra days off to keep her happy with our family. There is only one way to get rid of her, and that is to enlist Chucha’s help in scaring the young woman. It’s no secret to any of us that Lorena is really superstitious and squeamish. She won’t wash her hair or cut her nails on Friday. She can’t stand the sight of blood. She never sleeps faceup because she believes the devil will take her soul. She is deathly afraid of seeing the dead and has all kinds of charms pinned to her bra to keep a ghost from coming near. Needless to say, she is terrified of Chucha, who dresses in purple like a bruja and sleeps in a coffin.

  Up ahead, Chucha stands at the door to her room, watching our progress. She must have crossed over earlier and turned on the lights to guide our way. Seeing her there, backlit, in her long gown, I feel that no harm will come to us as long as Chucha is around. Recently, she told me of a dream she had in which first Lucinda, then Mundín, then Mami and I sprouted wings and flew up into the sky.

  “What about Papi?” I asked worriedly.

  “Not everyone can be a butterfly,” Chucha replied.

  The morning after Susie’s party, a black limousine with palace plates rolls up our driveway and delivers a bouquet of roses tied with red, white, and blue ribbons, the colors of our flag. The little card reads:

  Para la linda Lucinda,

  flor de la patria,

  de un admirador.

  “ ‘For the beautiful Lucinda, flower of the nation, from an admirer.’ ” Mami flings the card to the floor as if it’s contaminated. “I told you to keep that shawl over your shoulders,” she scolds Lucinda. Poor Mami is so desperate, she has to find someone to blame.

  Lucinda bursts out crying the minute she realizes the roses are from El Jefe. Her neck is more inflamed than I’ve ever seen it. “He’s not going to take me away, is he, Mami? Oh please, Mami, don’t let him take me away.” Lucinda looks as scared as “the little baby” who sometimes crawls into bed with her at night.

  Mami hugs Lucinda so tight, her hairband falls off. Normally, Lucinda won’t permit Mami to give her these bone-crunching hugs. Now she collapses into Mami’s arms. “That man gets near mi señorita, I’ll cut off”—Mami glances over at me—“I’ll cut off his hands,” she vows.

  “We’ll protect you,” I join in. My voice sounds small and silly even to me. Lucinda bursts out crying again. I feel like crying myself.

  Midmorning, Susie and Mrs. Washburn drop in. They saw the palace limousine turn up our drive and wondered what was going on. “Goodness gracious,” Mrs. Washburn says, putting the card back in its envelope. “That old goat!”

  “Don’t worry, Lucy,” Susie reassures her friend. “Daddy won’t let anything happen to you.” I nod, hoping that what Susie says is true.

  “I told her to wear that shawl.” Mami starts up her scolding again.

  “Carmen, honey, I don’t think that shawl would have made a darn bit of difference. You can’t hide your light under a bushel. And that old codger’s got eyes on his”—she notices me. Why is everyone always looking at me when they are about to say interesting things?—“eyes on the back of his butt.”

  “Honestly, Mother,” Susie says, rolling her eyes at Lucinda. But my poor sister is too scared to share in Susie’s disgust.

  “Where’s Sam?” I ask. It suddenly strikes me that Sam has not come over with his sister and mom like usual.

  “Young Master Sam and Master Oscar are prob
ably sleeping off a mighty hangover. Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Washburn adds, nodding at my mother. “Those two boys got into the rum last night. One of those tin-medal generals bullied them that they had to learn to drink like little men. Mr. Washburn can’t wait for Samuel Adams to recover from his hangover so he can get what else is in store for him today.”

  I wonder what else is in store for Sam today. Do the Americans punish their children by making them sit on a punishment chair, the way my parents once did? We’ve all outgrown that chair. In fact, it seems we’ve outgrown punishment altogether in the last few months. All we need to get back in line is one of Mami’s desperate looks or Papi’s stony-faced ¡No! that allows for no further argument or discussion.

  When the phone rings, we all jump. Once, twice, three times, it keeps ringing until Lorena picks it up. In a minute, she is at Lucinda’s door. “It’s for la señorita,” she calls out through the door.

  “¿Quién es?” Mami calls back.

  “Un señor,” Lorena replies. As a graduate from the Domestic Academy, Lorena knows to ask for the name of a caller. Unless, of course, that caller is someone who needs no introduction.

  Lucinda sinks back in her pillow and begins to sob again.

  Mami stands to take the call, but Mrs. Washburn comes to our rescue. “Let me handle this.” She opens the door and follows Lorena down the hall. “I’m sorry,” we hear her say in her bad Spanish. “There’s no one here by that name.”

  When Papi comes home from work at noon, Mami tells him what has been going on all morning. Papi is so upset, he won’t eat his lunch even though it’s his favorite, a sancocho, with leftover pastelitos from the party. He and Tío Toni go off to the back of the property, and a little later, Papi crosses over to discuss things with Mr. Washburn.

  Meanwhile, the phone keeps ringing. Mami has instructed us not to answer it. As for Lorena, there’s no danger of her interference. Mami has given her the rest of the day off. “I’ve been overworking you, and it’s not fair,” Mami said, stuffing a tip in the young woman’s pocket and practically pushing her out the door.