The Red Umbrella (13 page)

Mrs. Eckhart walked over to me, and in her heavily accented Spanish she tried to explain the problem. “We simply cannot have unsupervised boys entering the girls’ building. You’re a young lady now. Imagine if someone else’s brother were to come
in … get into your bed. How do I know he won’t do this again?”

“I won’t. Promise.” Frankie gave her his sad-puppy-dog eyes.

Mr. Ramírez raised his eyebrows.
“Oye
, that’s what you told me the last four times I caught you sneaking out.”

“¿Cuatro?”
I asked.

Frankie shrugged and dropped his head.

“It’s become a pattern, except tonight he wasn’t caught until he’d snuck into the girls’ building. Mr. Ramírez, I don’t think there’s any other choice. He needs to be sent to the Cuban Home for Boys.”

“No!” Frankie yelled.

“Wait, where is that? Isn’t that far away?” I stood up. “That’ll mean we won’t get to see each other except on Saturdays.”

“Lucía, we’ve tried, and Frankie knew there’d be consequences.” Mr. Ramírez shook his head. “He’ll be well cared for over there, and as soon as a foster family becomes available, we’ll reunite you.”

I slumped back into my chair. “Frankie, what have you done?”

Frankie jumped up and put his hands on his hips. “If you send me away, I won’t stay there. I’ll just run away again. I want to be with Lucía!”

I pulled him down by his elbow. He was making things worse.

Mrs. Eckhart threw her hands up. “This is why I oversee the girls and not the boys,” she muttered.

“Please,” I begged, “give him another chance. I’ll help. He won’t do it again.”

Mr. Ramírez’s face softened.

“It’s just that in Puerto Mijares we were never really apart.” My voice shook.

Mrs. Eckhart shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lucía. I have to think of the facility’s reputation and what’s best for all the girls.”

“Puerto Mijares? That’s where you’re from?” Mr. Ramírez asked.

I nodded as I tried to think of something else to convince them to let Frankie stay.

“Wait a minute. Lucía Álvarez? Are you related to Fernando Álvarez?” Mr. Ramírez searched my face as if trying to see a resemblance.

“He’s my father,” I said.

He shook his head in disbelief.
“¡Increíble!
The last time I saw your father, you were only four or five years old.” He turned to Mrs. Eckhart. “Lucía’s father is the one I told you about. Why I took this job. That man helped me when I had no money. He even paid for the medicines that my youngest needed.”

Mrs. Eckhart smiled at me. “Sounds like your father is a very special person.”

Mr. Ramírez placed his hands on Frankie’s shoulders. “He didn’t even want to be repaid. Said that
someday I’d help another child and that’d be repayment enough.” He paused to look at Frankie and me. “Martha, we can’t separate them.”

Hope filled my heart. Frankie just crossed his arms and kept the defiant look in his eye.

“But we can’t make an exception. It wouldn’t be fair to the other children and …” Mrs. Eckhart faced Frankie. “I’m sorry, I just don’t trust that you’ll follow the rules.”

Mr. Ramírez snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! What if they take the place of Barbara and José Camacho? They left with a relative this morning, so we have an opening with the Baxter family.”

Mrs. Eckhart pursed her lips. “It’s not the way things are normally done … we have a process.”

“What’s normal these days?” Mr. Ramírez paused, gauging Mrs. Eckhart’s reaction. “Martha, I owe it to their father. It’s the least I can do.”

My heart pounded. This might be our only chance.

Mrs. Eckhart gave a slight nod, relenting.

“¡Perfecto!
Now you two can stay together, but the flight is scheduled for this morning and—”

“We’ll do it!” I said.

“Yes, but you should know a few things,” Mr. Ramírez added.

“¿Qué?”
I waited for the catch. There was always a catch.

“Most of the foster families live in different parts of the country and speak very little Spanish.”

“I know.” I looked at Mrs. Eckhart. “Are we going to Oregon like Angela?” I dreaded the idea of living so far away from Cuba, in a cold place, but at least Frankie and I would be together.

“Oh no. Not that far away. This family lives near Grand Island, Nebraska.” Mr. Ramírez glanced over at Mrs. Eckhart. “That reminds me, we’ll have to contact the Baxters, let them know about the change.” Mr. Ramírez gave me a wink. “But I’m sure there won’t be a problem. You’re in agreement with all of this, right, Lucía?”

“Sí,”
I said, although inside I was trying to remember where Nebraska was on the map. I thought it was one of the states in the middle of the country, but if we were going to an island, then it had to be on the coast. Maybe it would look like Cuba.

“You’re good with this, too, Frankie?” Mr. Ramírez dropped to one knee and looked Frankie squarely in the eye. “Remember that you’ll be a guest in their home. No funny business. I don’t want to hear any complaints, because I won’t be able to help you again,
¿comprendes?”

Frankie smiled. “If I can be with Lucy and take care of her, then I’ll be okay.”

I shook my head.
Frankie, my hero
.

“All right, it’s settled. I’ll take care of the paperwork and sending a telegram to your parents telling them of the change. Mrs. Eckhart will make sure you go back to
your own beds and get a few more hours of sleep. You can pack your bags right after breakfast.”

I stifled a laugh. Pack? There wasn’t anyone at the camp who had ever unpacked.

*  *  *  *  *

“I can’t believe you’re leaving before me,” Angela muttered as she scooped up the last of her cereal. “You going to eat that?” She pointed to my untouched toast.

“No, I’m not really hungry.” I slid the plate toward her.

Most of the girls in the dining hall were finishing their breakfasts and dropping off their trays at the door. Classes were about to start, and another day of waiting, waiting for real life to begin, lay ahead.

“Are you excited?” Angela asked.

“I don’t know. It’s happening so fast, I’m not sure how I feel.” I stirred my soggy cereal.

“I think it’s great. You said it’s an island, right? Maybe their house will be on the beach. Plus, don’t you want to be with your brother?”

“Of course. It’s just, well, who knows what these people are like. Besides, here everyone else is like us.”

“I’m sure they’re nice. Why else would they agree to take you in?”

I stayed quiet. Frankie’s fears about being slaves suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched.

“Look, I’ve got to get to class. You’ve got my address in Cuba. When we’re back home, write to me and tell
me how your summer went. I’ll let you know all about Oregon, okay?” Angela walked around the table and gave me a hug.

“Sure, maybe you can come to my
quinces
in November.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Cuídate
, Angela,” I said as she picked up her tray.

“You take care, too. See you in Cuba.”

The crisp ten-dollar bill crinkled as I reached into my purse for my boarding ticket. Mr. Ramírez had given us the money before we left the camp. It was the first time I’d been given any American money. Between this and the boxes of cigars that Papá had given us before we left, I felt rich.

I adjusted my yellow headband and glanced up at the large clock on the airport wall. We’d been waiting in Chicago for our connecting flight for about three hours. I still wasn’t sure where Grand Island was, and I’d been too embarrassed to ask anyone at the camp.

I began to imagine the sea air, sand, and small fishing boats … like in Puerto Mijares. But even if it wasn’t exactly like Cuba, at least it was an island, and no matter
where you went in the world, an island was still an island.

My thoughts continued to swirl when I noticed two men walk by with trench coats draped over their arms. Immediately I sat up and clutched my purse. Frankie and I had heard stories about Chicago, and I’d seen movies about Al Capone and the mob. My heartbeat quickened as one of the men stopped and doubled back toward us. He paused in front of a small kiosk, bought a newspaper, then continued down the terminal.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was silly for me to imagine mobsters lurking around, but still, I was happy we’d found seats against the airport wall … just in case.

*  *  *  *  *

The airport in Nebraska was empty compared to the ones in Miami, Chicago … even Havana.

“Hey, is that for us?” Frankie pointed to a petite older woman with short blond hair who held a cardboard sign with the words LUCÍA AND FRANCISCO ÁLVAREZ written on it.

“Must be,” I said.

The woman waved at us and said something to the large man behind her. He seemed less than happy to be at the airport, but he followed her as she walked over to us.

“You two must be Lucía and Francisco.” She gave us a big smile that showed all her teeth. “I just knew it had to be you. Wearing those pretty linen clothes. Nothing
like that around here.” She threw open her arms like a magician’s assistant. “Well, I guess this is … welcome to America!”

“Gracias
, um, thank you.” I smiled politely.

“Oh, you speak English, that’s good. I was worried that you wouldn’t understand me. So, do you have any questions? Ha, listen to me.” She looked back at the large man, who had yet to even crack the slightest smile. “I haven’t even introduced us. This is Mr. Baxter, and I’m Mrs. Baxter. We’re your foster family.”

“Yo soy
Frankie.”

Mrs. Baxter shook his hand and laughed. “Well, I certainly didn’t think you were Lucía!”

Mr. Baxter gave us both a nod, then checked his watch.

“So, do you have many bags?” Mrs. Baxter asked. “I expect you don’t. I’ve read some horrible things about what’s been happening in Cuba. You must be so happy to be out of there. Oh, I can’t imagine living like that. In all that fear. You’ll be safe with us till your parents can get out of Cuba. Did you tell me how many bags you brought?”

“¡Esta mujer habla más que un cao!”
Frankie whispered.

He was right … she did talk a lot. What was worse, she was speaking so quickly that I had no idea what she was saying. I heard
blah, blah, blabbity, blah
, Cuba, then some more
blabbity blah
.

“I sorry. I no understand,” I said in my best broken English.

“Oh, you
don’t
know English. Why didn’t you say so before? I guess I’ve just been rambling on a bit.” She pointed to the floor and said in a loud voice, “This … is … Lincoln. We … go …”—she pointed outside—“to … Grand … Island. Our … home.”

Frankie and I giggled. I liked her more when she talked fast.

“I speak a little English. We happy to be here.”

“Good. I’ll just talk a little slower, then. I seem to speak quickly when I get excited. Well, like I was saying, you’re safe here, and you don’t have to worry about going back to Cuba.”

Not go back to Cuba? Did she think we were staying here for good? I thought about the correct words to say.

“No, we go back to Cuba soon. When things get better, then Mamá and Papá send for us,” I explained.

“Well, we can certainly hope. Now, let’s go get your things and head home. Mr. Baxter likes to have dinner by five o’clock.”

“Humpf,” Mr. Baxter muttered. It was the only thing he’d said so far.

*  *  *  *  *

As we drove from the airport and got onto the highway, I realized that it didn’t seem like we were anywhere near water. In fact, from the airplane all I’d seen were green
fields. I wondered how long before we reached the coast and if maybe I should’ve gone to the bathroom before leaving.

“How much time to Grand Island?” I asked.

“Oh, ’bout an hour and a half.
Noventa
minutes.” Mrs. Baxter winked and nudged Mr. Baxter. “See, I remember a little of my high school Spanish. I can still say any number from one to a hundred.”

Mr. Baxter kept his eyes on the road ahead.

I was surprised at how much English I actually understood when she spoke more slowly. The years of required English classes at school were finally paying off. “We take boat to island?” I asked, envisioning a ferry like the ones I’d seen in some magazines.

Mr. Baxter glanced back at me as if I’d just come from Mars.

“Boat?” Mrs. Baxter chuckled. “Oh my, you thought it was an island because of its name.” She looked back from her seat in the Ford Fairlane to face me. “No island, no water. Just cornfields.”

I gave her a blank look.

She pointed out the open window to the little green stalks growing on either side of the road. “See … corn. No island.”

“¿Eso es maíz?”
Frankie asked.

“Yes, corn. Now you say it, Frankie. Corn.”

“Repítelo,”
I told Frankie.

“Corn,” he repeated.

“Good. That’s our first English lesson. What better word to learn first? Tomorrow we’ll start a full day of English classes. By the time school starts, the two of you will be talking up a storm.” Mrs. Baxter turned back around and spoke to her husband. “You know, I always wanted to be a teacher when I was growing up in Minnesota.”

“Hmm,” he answered.

I watched as the minutes went by and the flat green fields never ended. The road stretched out for miles and miles without a town or intersection to break up the monotony of the scenery. That, combined with the slight rumbling of the car, had already put Frankie to sleep. His head leaned against the side door. I looked out my window and wondered what Mamá and Papá were doing in Cuba right then. Was Papá out trying to find work? Were they still being watched? Would they get involved with the underground or try to fit in with the new system? Were they thinking of ways for us to be able to return home? Could it be we’d never go back? Would we be stuck here forever?