Find Me in Havana Page 6

  “Thrown him into the street in the middle of the night?”

  “Exactly.”

  “He slept on the couch.”

  “Not good enough.”

  A rage hits me, then turns on Mamá for being so rational, for being right, and then back at myself for being naive, but mostly the rage flies straight at Alfonso. I want to rip his hair out, claw his eyes. It amazes me to think how attracted to him I was last night, how envious I was of that girl he had his eye on. Now the thought of his flushed, drunken face rising from my daughter’s bed revolts every part of me.

  I storm from the kitchen and into our bedroom. I pull his clothes from the drawers and closet and smash them into a suitcase. I dump his toothbrush and shaving kit in, slam the top down. The suitcase bulges as I lean in to latch it. I curse as I do this, out loud, in Spanish, spitting and swearing as I drag the suitcase down the hall, through the kitchen, past Mamá—who sits exactly as I left her—and out the front door. I kick the heavy luggage down the stone path, hard, bruising my toe and wincing in pain. I kick it again. I don’t care who sees. I’ll tell the neighbors he slept with another woman, anyway. When Alfonso shows up, I’ll scream the lie for everyone to hear. Damn him to hell.

  Back inside, I slam and lock the door, catching a glimpse of my scrubbed-clean face in the mirror, my pale lips and showered hair that is drying into a frizzy puff. I take a deep breath, calming myself as I take a barrette from the hall table and secure my hair into a knot behind my head. I smile into the mirror, distorted, fake and then stick my tongue out at my reflection.

  In the kitchen, I make coffee and ask Mamá if she would like a cup. “Si, por favor,” she says and I take two cups from the cabinet.

  I am rung out, exhausted and hungover.

  The practical task of scooping coffee from the tin into boiled water, the smell and warmth of the cup in my hand, grounds me. I think of the role Duke has promised me, Consuela, the success filling me with a bloated excitement that allows me to push the events of last night to the dark edge of my mind.

  There it will become an outline, a perimeter, thin as a pencil mark, erasable with time, and we will never speak of it. I will call you tonight, tell you that Alfonso is gone and that I love you, and that will be that.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Chu Chu

  Mother,

  Except, that night stays between us, sharp and tender as if carved into me with the point of a knife. And when you call, you forget to tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that I did nothing wrong and that you forgive me.

  What I think, when you hang up, is that I have ruined your marriage and that you will marry again, and this time you will make sure I am never around.

  * * *

  Behind the front desk, Sister Katherine takes the buzzing receiver from my hand, looking uncomfortable as she drops it back into its cradle. She shifts her eyes so they don’t meet mine and asks if there’s anything I need.

  So many things, I think but say, “I’m fine, thank you.” I make my way upstairs to the bathroom, the empty hallways echoing and ghostly, the vacant rooms with their wide-open doors: frightful, dead spaces. It is creepy being here by myself. I’d take Sister Katherine’s company over the emptiness, but she does not have personal relationships with the girls. It is one thing to talk over our heads at assembly or lecture us in front of a classroom, another to face a single, damaged girl head-on.

  I brush my teeth, splash my face with cold water and return to my room, leaving the door open. One of the sisters has made up the bed while I was at dinner, and I slide under the starched sheet and pull the blanket over my head. My room still smells of bleach and cleaning detergent, but my window is open, and the air is finally cool. In the distance, I hear a steady swish of cars and wonder what it would feel like to run away. It is satisfying to imagine how much you would miss me, how sorry you’d be.

  On the phone, you told me you kicked Alfonso out, and I want to believe you, but I am sure Grandmother Maria made you do it. This should make me love my grandmother more, but it doesn’t; it makes me angrier, proves that you’ll do whatever she says. I hate that you don’t know how to protect me without her.

  Pulling up my knees, I roll onto my side and squeeze myself into a tight ball thinking I may never sleep again as I try to forget the wet warmth of Alfonso’s breath in my face, his fingers on my neck and his stiff, gross penis against my thigh. Instead, I focus on the feel of Grandmother Maria’s firm hands on my shoulders, her deep-set eyes on mine, the even tone in which she said she’d take care of it, and within minutes my thoughts break apart, and I drop into a heavy sleep.

  The nuns don’t wake me. When I finally drag myself from bed the next morning, my room is bright and the city noisy with traffic. Not being woken at the crack of dawn is one advantage of being the only girl at school. That and the fact that I don’t have to wear my uniform. I put on the checkered skirt and blouse I wore yesterday and go downstairs to the large, industrial kitchen where a cook wearing a cap shaped like a paper boat is wiping down the metal countertop. She is old, the hair sticking out around her neck lavender white.

  “That’s for you.” She nods at a plate of eggs and toast. “Rinse the plate in the sink when you’re done,” she says, tossing her rag in the sink and leaving me to eat alone. I had hoped she would stay. The disadvantage of being the only girl here is how lonely it is.

  I decide not to eat in the cold, chrome kitchen. I hate eggs, anyway so I scrape them into the garbage bin, rinse the plate and leave with a slice of buttered wheat toast clutched in each hand.

  The library is where I spend the next three days. The chairs are stiff and uncomfortable, but I prefer the colossal ceilings and wood-paneled walls to the bright white box of my dorm room.

  It is midmorning on Wednesday, while I sit reading Jane Eyre at a table slick with fresh polish, when the loudspeaker crackles my name, calling me to the front desk. I shut my book and slide back my chair, the legs scraping the floor and echoing against the vaulted ceiling. It seems ridiculous to be called over the loudspeaker when I’m the only student in the building, but I suppose the nuns don’t know where to find me. My only interaction with them has been at dinnertime and morning prayer, where they treat me delicately, clearly confused how to handle a girl who’s been molested—a word I will learn years later, not from you or Grandmother Maria but from my psychology professor in a class on post-traumatic stress disorder.

  For now, I think what happened is singular and freakish, something that has only ever happened to me and that I did something wicked to bring it on myself.

  As I approach the front desk, I see a man leaning against it, impeccably dressed in a white suit jacket and pants, a white fedora with black ribbon trim tilted forward on his head. Behind him stands Sister Katherine, smiling widely, her mouth all teeth.

  The man turns, and I stop as if I’ve run smack into something, my mind scrambling to make sense of why my father is standing in the entryway of Villa Cabrini Academy. My father has never stepped foot in my school before, or shown up anywhere in my life unannounced, and the only thing I can come up with is that something terrible has happened. There’s been an accident. You are dead, I think, and my heart accelerates with irrational fear. Only, my father is smiling, walking toward me with his arms raised as if he means to embrace me. Chu Chu—I have never called him Dad—is as handsome as you are beautiful. His skin gleams as if he’s had a recent facial, and his eyes blink rapidly like someone caught in a lie.

  “Nina!” He embraces me, and I fall stiffly against his chest, my arms pinned to my sides, my nose pressed into the lapel of a coat that smells of cigars and something faintly sweet, like honeysuckle.

  My father and I do not have a hugging relationship, and when he releases me, I am more certain than ever that the worst has happened. “What is it? What’s wrong? Where’s Mom?”

  Chu Chu pul
ls back, surprised. “Something has to be wrong for me to visit my daughter?”

  “No,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the tops of his white pants with their perfectly ironed crease down the middle.

  He gives my shoulder a gentle shake that irritates me. “Is this any way to greet your father? I thought a surprise visit would delight you.”

  “It does. It’s fine.”

  “Well, all right, then.” He yanks the bottom of his coat into place. “I’m taking you to lunch.”

  He turns on his heels, his movements crisp, sharp and deliberate. He walks past Sister Katherine, who gives us a little wave. “Have a lovely time.”

  None of this makes sense, but I hurry to follow him, knowing that if my father is here to take me to lunch, he’ll do exactly that. Chu Chu Martinez is a man of few words and zero explanations, a famous singer in Mexico who visits me once a year when it coincides with his US tour. He was just here two months ago, in June. He brought me packages from Mexico, stuffed with gaudy dresses I’d never wear and took me to lunch at a restaurant with chandeliers and waiters in white jackets who laid a napkin in my lap and refilled my water the moment I took a sip. Snobby, you said and laughed when I described it to you later. We prefer diners with greasy fries and apple pie à la mode. But Chu Chu has no idea what we prefer.

  Once he must have known what you liked, but you never speak about him, and when he visits, you are nowhere around. This is either because you still love him and it hurts, or because you hate him and it hurts. I’ve never asked which. Once I found a photograph of the three of us: you and Chu Chu kneeling in front of a Christmas tree with plump baby me on your lap. Chu Chu’s arm was around you, and you were smiling. But people always smile for photos, so this doesn’t mean much.

  I follow my father into the portico and down the stairs to a car that waits with the engine running. A driver in a black cap leans against the bumper, righting himself as we approach. He opens the back door, and I slide onto the cool leather seat and lean my elbow out the window. The sky is white hot, the sun ablaze.

  We pull away, and I keep my eye on Mother Cabrini, that boneless mass of stone. I wonder if I love her more not being real; she looks immutable and dependable and indestructible.

  All the things you, Mom, and I are not.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Gone

  Daughter,

  From the porch I hear the telephone ringing while I fumble with my keys. It is getting dark. The porch light is off, and I can’t see a thing. The phone was ringing when I got out of the car, then it stopped, and now it’s started up again. The lock finally gives way, and I hurry into the kitchen and snatch it up. “Hello?” I gasp. “Hello?” but I am too late and there is only static.

  I hang up, my purse sliding from my arm to the floor. There’s something nerve-racking about someone hanging up right when you pick up. I’m later than I intended, and it’s unusual for Mamá not to be home. Clicking on the light, I pick up my purse and pull out the signed contract for Rio Bravo, with Warner Bros Pictures stamped in gold at the top. I am supposed to meet Dean Martin, Duke and Angie Dickinson at Romanoff’s in an hour to celebrate. I was hoping to have a glass of champagne with Mamá beforehand. Where is she?

  I prop the contract against the crystal vase on the table, picturing Mamá’s face when she sees it. A part of me wishes this was old hat and I didn’t feel so gaga over the new role, but Mamá and I are banking everything on this picture. Duke told me about the emergency meetings last week at Republic Studios. Things aren’t looking good. If the studio goes under, my contract with them is bunk. I’ll have to return to singing full-time, which wouldn’t be too bad but a step backward nonetheless. Rio Bravo, on the other hand, is a gigantic leap forward.

  The phone rings again, startling me, and I pick it up. “Hello?” I stretch the cord over the kitchen table and reach for the bag of bread on the counter. “Hello?” There is no answer, and I wonder if Alfonso is harassing me. I haven’t seen him since the day I kicked him out. He came home that afternoon—sheepish but unapologetic—took one look at the stuffed suitcase in the driveway and told me I was acting crazy. He insisted he’d done absolutely nothing wrong and that if I was going to kick him out, he’d take me for all I’ve got. “Go ahead and try,” I’d spat at him.

  Through the receiver I finally hear, “Is this Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Sister Katherine.”

  “Oh, hello, Sister.” I pull a slice of bread from the bag and take a bite, chewing discreetly. “Is everything all right? I hope Nina isn’t in trouble.” I’ve been worried that you might act out but hoped you’d at least wait until the other girls arrived.

  “No, no, she’s not in trouble, exactly. It’s just that...” her voice trails off. I’ve never liked Sister Katherine. She is grim and vague and has never had anything good to say about you.

  “I’m so sorry, but what exactly can I help you with? I don’t have much time. I have a dinner reservation.”

  Sister Katherine clears her voice. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, it’s just that her father hasn’t brought her back yet, and it is getting late.”

  I choke on my bread and sputter. “Her father? What do you mean her father?”

  “Chu Chu Martinez.” Sister Katherine sounds confused. “He was here this morning. Mr. Martinez said he’d just seen you, and he was making a last stop to take Nina to lunch before heading home.”

  This lie sends a cold slice of fear down my spine. Why say he’s seen me when he hasn’t? I drop the remainder of my bread on the counter, following the swirls of gray-and-white tile with my eyes. “What time did he take her?”

  “A little after eleven this morning.”

  “Did he say where they were going?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Well, no.” Sister Katherine takes on her best schoolteacher voice. “He’s her father.”

  “Has her father ever shown up at school to take her to lunch before?” I shout, not letting her answer before saying, “Call me the instant he brings her back.” I move back across the kitchen to slam the phone down, look at the clock and do some quick math. What could you and Chu Chu possibly be doing for nine hours? The telephone book sticks in the drawer as I yank it out, tearing the front cover. Thumbing through it, I find a number for the Chateau Marmont, but when I call, they say there’s no reservation under Chu Chu Martinez, and he hasn’t stayed there since June.

  I close my eyes, praying Mamá has something to do with this.

  When she returns, it is after nine o’clock. I’ve canceled dinner and spent the last hour calling every LA restaurant where Chu Chu has ever dined. I’ve called his booking agent and everyone else I could think of.

  “Where have you been?” I rush at Mamá as she comes through the door.

  “Goodness, what’s wrong with you?” She takes a step back, pulling off her gloves and tucking them into her purse. “I was at the movies.”

  I tell her what’s happened, my hands moving rapidly, spit flying from my mouth. “Have you spoken to Chu Chu? Did he tell you anything?”

  Mamá stands very still. Her eyes are on me, and I don’t like the look in them. “This is not good,” she says quietly, taking a deep breath, her chest bulging against her jacket as she walks past me into the living room. She drops onto the narrow arm of the couch in a compromised, awkward position.

  “Why? What do you know?” I follow her, hovering, hoping for some impossible good news.

  She shakes her head. “All I know is that Chu Chu is a calculating man. If he hasn’t returned her, I’m not sure he means to.”

  A strangling sensation pinches my rib cage. “What do we do?” I cry, needing Mamá to snap to her feet and put everything back together.

  Only, she sinks farther forward, her knees od
dly bent, her eyes on the floor. “We wait. Either he will bring her back, or he won’t.”

  No, no, no, I want to scream. This is not a solution. I wonder if my mother is weakening because she believes this is her fault. It is, I think bitterly. She should never have called him.

  I move to the window hoping by some miracle that you and Chu Chu will step out of the darkness. Under the patio lights, the bushes around the pool shudder and bend in the wind. Pool water ripples, and dust blows across the stones, but no one steps from the shadows. I drive my fingers through my hair, scraping my nails against my scalp as I tell myself Chu Chu is doing this to teach me a lesson, to frighten me, but that he wouldn’t dare keep you out all night.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Faults

  Mother,

  The car picks up speed and the statue of Mother Cabrini disappears from sight as we race down Cohasset Street. It feels indulgent and devious to be whisked away from the boring old nuns by my enigmatic father. His attention, however lacking, has always made me feel important, and since he’s never taken me out of school before, it makes all of this especially exciting. Grandmother Maria grumbles about his neglect, and you complain that he could show a little more interest, but I’ll take what I can get.

  There was a brief time when I thought I missed Chu Chu, when I wished he’d visit more often. When I was little and he showed up, I wanted to cling to him and make him stay. I was certain he had something to offer. But over the years, I realized it was the idea of a father that I missed. A father you depended on. This man who came once a year had nothing to offer besides gifts and candy, and after he left I stopped feeling sad. I never knew this father well enough to miss him, or long for him. Over the years, our annual luncheons became a nice holiday with an indulgent relative, a day to look forward to, like a birthday, which makes today like a fortuitous gift.