They are, after all, countrymen.
Family.
She finishes getting ready, putting on the last piece of jewelry—
The diamond earrings she bought herself to celebrate when she graduated from law school all those years ago.
She studies her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the image staring back at her, her heart quickening as the phone rings once more, this time the voice on the other end of the line inviting her to an impromptu celebration—expected, yet long overdue.
It is, perhaps, poor taste to celebrate a death, even Fidel’s. It might be tempting fate to rejoice in the misfortune of another who has succumbed to the travails of time when she stares it down herself. But this is both celebration and mourning—not for Fidel, never for Fidel, but a way of laying all she has lost to rest now that the villain has finally been brought to a justice of sorts for his crimes.
It’s not the justice she wanted, of course, but she’s learned life doesn’t always give you what you want; time has a way of sorting things out in its own peculiar, indecipherable manner.
When Fidel dies . . .
She goes out into the night.
chapter thirty-one
The letter is delivered in the waning days of November, as the weather turns cooler, Palm Beach readying itself for another season—minor royals and Kennedys, steel magnates and celebrities, descending on the island.
The messenger is Eduardo himself, the intervening months since we last saw each other restoring him to his prior health, his skin tan, his body less slight, more muscular than when he returned from Cuba.
His expression is dark.
“Bad news?” I ask, letting him in.
“Is Preston here?”
“No, he’s in Dallas with the president.”
Eduardo stops in his tracks. “What do you mean he’s in Dallas?”
I hesitate. Nick’s purpose on the trip isn’t exactly secret, but at the same time, I’m not sure he wants me sharing his affairs with Eduardo of all people.
“There are problems within the Democratic Party in Texas. One of the men was Nick’s roommate at Harvard. Kennedy thought Nick could help smooth things over.”
Eduardo is silent.
“What happened? Why are you here?”
“Dwyer couldn’t come himself, but he asked me to deliver this to you personally.”
Our fingers brush as I take the letter from him, and I open the envelope, unfolding the paper and reading the words written there.
You’re getting your chance.
My heart pounds as I look up at Eduardo.
“What does this mean?”
“They’re sending you to Havana. In four days. We’ll bring you in by boat.”
“We?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing the past few months? I wasn’t going to stop just because Fidel had the temerity to throw me in prison.”
“I would have thought—after Playa Girón—”
“That I’d give up? Go back to my dissipated ways?”
“That you wouldn’t want to risk any more.”
“Why would I care about the risk? It’s not as though I have anything left to lose.”
“That’s not true. You have people who care about you. Your parents—”
“And what about you? Do you care about me?”
“You’re a good friend,” I answer carefully.
He sighs. “Ah, Beatriz. Sometimes I can’t tell if you think you’re lying to me or if you know you’re lying to yourself.”
He inclines his head toward the note. “I’ll pick you up at six A.M. on the twenty-sixth.”
I knew it was coming, suspected it might be close after my father’s visit. But now this is really happening. I will have to tell Nick something; will have to say good-bye to my sisters, to my family. This might truly be it; I might go to Cuba and end up in a cell somewhere like Eduardo, or dead on the street like my brother.
Suddenly, four days doesn’t feel very long at all.
Eduardo turns and walks toward the front door. He stops, his hand on the wood, turning back to face me.
It’s the kindness in his voice that catches me off guard.
“There was a shooting in Dallas.”
My heart drops.
“The president was shot in his motorcade with the First Lady by his side.”
“Is he—?”
I can’t finish the thought, even as I worry for Nick. He surely wouldn’t have been in the motorcade. He was there for meetings.
I sway, and Eduardo reaches out, steadying me.
“The president is in surgery,” Eduardo answers. “You should turn on the news. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything else.”
* * *
• • •
A knock at the front door pulls me away from the living room, where I sit watching the television, waiting for news of the president, the phone silent beside me.
I open the door, surprised to see Maria standing on the other side, still dressed in her uniform from school, her eyes red, her skin blotchy.
“Why aren’t you in school?”
I usher her into the room.
“I left.”
“You left? You can’t just leave school. They’ll be worried about you. You have to tell someone when you go, you can’t just—”
“They shot him,” she says. “The president. They shot him.”
Her eyes well with tears, and I am reminded of the night we watched the election together, of the excitement in her eyes, of the pad of paper and pencil she held as she kept a tally of the electoral college votes. I am reminded of what it felt like to be young and hopeful, and unable to make sense of the world around me when that hope was dashed.
I wrap my arms around her, letting her hug my waist, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Maria.”
She looks up at me, and in that moment, so many things flash before me, and I am transported back to a different time, a different place, a different memory: of the uncertainty in her eyes as we left Havana that fateful morning, the fear in mine, the sense of powerlessness that overwhelmed me that day.
Perhaps it is foolish to think we are ever in charge of our destinies.
“Is the president going to be fine?”