No one in his immediate familia knew Alejandro had spent that too-brief time in Cuba several years ago. Nor of his search for their roots. The beginning of their legacy. The one his papi was convinced he had rejected.
But there, on the streets of Centro Habana, Alejandro had stood before the old restaurant. Long closed and left to withstand the harsh elements—but never forgotten. The single-story building lay in forlorn shambles. Windows hazy, most jagged and broken, like the dreams of many who once ate, drank, and celebrated within. The proud name scrawled over the arched door in a painted flourish mostly scraped away by Mother Nature’s brittle nails. A photograph with stories to tell.
Another prized image featured an aging park in Santiago de Las Vegas with its circular fountain—derelict and long dried up. The shadows of his grandparents and countless others, meeting up with their friends at the park to promenade alongside each other, lingered. Another photograph with its own stories to tell.
And yet another, this one of his abuela’s childhood home, still inhabited by a cousin Alejandro had never met but who had welcomed him like a long-lost son. Something his own father couldn’t, wouldn’t, do. The home’s structure may have been a little dilapidated, but the heart and soul of those inside beat strong and proud.
Those photographs . . . moments of perfection gifted him through his camera lens . . . pieces of his familia that couldn’t be snatched away from him . . . had remained on his laptop and saved in the cloud, for his eyes only. His personal treasures. Never shown to anyone. Until now.
Perhaps.
Was he brave enough to share them? Offer them up to the prying eyes of others who had no knowledge of their significance to him? More important, to a man who would more than likely think Alejandro unworthy of the connection they represented.
That uncertainty kept him from letting his mami in on his secret project. From one moment to the next he found himself either exhilarated by the reality of his first showing in his hometown and anxious about how his papi might take the news. Worried he would view it as another affront to everything Alejandro’s abuelo had sacrificed for them.
Enrique slowed his vehicle to make a turn off Simonton into a parking area alongside a light tan–colored stucco two-story building Alejandro didn’t recognize.
“I gotta grab something from my locker,” Enrique said.
“Is this the new station?”
“Not so new anymore. We opened in 2015. Pretty sweet, huh?” The pride of two generations of firefighters rang in Enrique’s voice.
Alejandro had seen pictures of the remodeled station. The Old Town Fire House’s grand opening had been prominently covered by the Key West Citizen, and he occasionally checked the local newspaper’s website for updates. Catching sight of familiar names and places gave him a taste of home when cravings hit.
Enrique pulled into a spot at the end of the building where the sidewalks along the perimeter and parking lot met in an L shape, leaving a large open area in the back corner behind the station. An outside stairway with a metal railing zigged, then zagged up to a red door on the second level. A firefighter in full gear and lugging a sandbag over one shoulder climbed the last step to the top landing, then immediately pivoted and headed back down. Several others milled about on the sidewalk near Enrique’s SUV. Their helmets, jackets, and air tanks lay in discarded piles at their feet. Sweat streamed down the men’s faces and plastered their gray KWFD T-shirts to their chests. Two greedily chugged bottles of water. The other sloshed his drink on top of his bald head, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.
Off to the right, on the edge of the sidewalk, lay a monster-sized tire. At the far end, about fifty feet away, sat two five-gallon buckets.
“Looks like we caught the shift wrapping up their exercise drills,” Enrique said as he put the vehicle in park. “I’ll be right back.”
Outside, he high-fived his hellos to the three firefighters who had finished the drill. They gathered around him, and the bald dude whose ripped arms and barrel chest stretched the material of his wet tee clasped Enrique’s shoulder with a beefy hand. The older guy’s deep mahogany skin glistened with sweat and the water he’d just dumped over his head as he motioned toward the building.
The welcoming smile on Enrique’s lips melted into a grimace at whatever the big guy was saying. Alejandro followed their gaze to the firefighter descending the steps. Based on the guy’s smaller size, he was probably a young rookie.
At the bottom of the stairs, the firefighter slung the bag of sand over the railing, then tugged at his chin strap. A second later he dropped to the sidewalk, his elbows bending and straightening in a quick series of push-ups. Enrique and the others approached the smaller firefighter, who paused, arms extended, his body in a straight plank position. The sun glinted off his helmet as he shook his head, then continued his workout.
The others waited a beat, the bald guy shaking Enrique’s hand before they returned to gather their gear, then mosey up the stairs, clearly worn out by their drill.
Enrique stayed behind. He crouched beside the lone firefighter still racking up push-ups. Perhaps working off some kind of punishment or well-intentioned hazing. All with an idea of making him better, stronger. Safer. For his own good and the good of his fellow firefighters.
From his haunches, Enrique shot a glance back at his SUV. A frustrated scowl tugged at his brows. Alejandro leaned forward, straining to get a better look at the young firefighter, but it was impossible to tell who he was or why Enrique might be annoyed.
Several beats passed; then Enrique shook his head and rose to take the concrete stairs up by twos. By the time he reached the top, the other firefighter had hopped to his feet, his booted steps taking him toward the monster truck tire to the right of the SUV.
As the kid drew near, the name written on a wide piece of tape across the front of the bright yellow helmet became clear. Navarro.
Alejandro muttered a curse. This wasn’t a kid or a rookie, and whatever kept Anamaría out here in this intense heat, she wasn’t thrilled about it. Whereas the other firefighters had looked beaten up and ready for the showers, she strode toward the huge tire with determination. Underneath the shadow of the helmet’s black-lined brim, Anamaría’s tight jaw and stoic expression screamed back-the-hell-off.
As she drew even with the SUV, her boot toe caught on a crack in the sidewalk and she stumbled a step. Her mutinous expression faltered. In the last second before she turned her back to the SUV to continue the circuit of exercises, Alejandro could have sworn he caught grief on her face.
Anamaría squatted behind the supersize tire, her growl carrying on the humid breeze as she rose and hefted the black rubber, pushing and tossing it end over end until she reached the far edge of the sidewalk at least fifty feet away, where the five-gallon buckets awaited. There, she squatted to clasp the aluminum handles, then she lifted the buckets. Water sloshed over the sides as she took a jerky step, then another back toward Enrique’s SUV. Dark splotches of water marked her path along the wide sidewalk like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs.
Alejandro stared at her, riveted.
Not by her display of strength as she lugged the heavy buckets weighing down her arms or tossed the monster truck tire, nor the sun glinting off the reflective stripes on her uniform reminding him of the danger she willingly placed herself in each shift.