When We Left Cuba(43)
The rest of us watch the election on-screen with varying levels of interest, Chet Huntley and David Brinkley reading off the early returns. My mother is unconcerned with politics; our father has been closemouthed about the entire affair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hedged his bets, doing everything he can to forge relationships with both parties. I’ve learned from our experience in Cuba that in my father’s eyes, business supersedes ideology.
If the media reports are to be believed, this contest between Kennedy and Nixon will be a close one indeed, the election dragging on into the early hours of Wednesday morning. My interest in the results is much narrower. Is the lack of communication from Mr. Dwyer a result of the upcoming election, the waiting game the CIA is playing to see how the administration changes hands? And if so, will the election’s outcome affect our plans for Castro and Cuba?
Nixon’s position mimics President Eisenhower’s: that the administration has helped the Cuban people realize their goals of progress through freedom. Kennedy challenges the position, labeling Castro’s regime as communist and decrying Eisenhower’s—and Nixon’s—inaction in preventing Cuba’s slide toward the Soviets. I admit to a degree of hope when I hear Kennedy’s thoughts on Cuba; there is comfort to be had in the fact that someone recognizes the political situation in my country for the farce that it is. Will Kennedy sign off on the CIA’s plans if he’s elected? Will he take military action against Fidel? The hope of it is enough for me to support Kennedy and his Democrats. That he and Nick share a political party in common doesn’t hurt, either.
It’s been a month and a half since I last saw Nick, his business card tucked away in a drawer, the number never called. What would I even say? There’s no future in this flirtation, and I wasn’t lying when I told him I had no desire to be a mistress, and even less to be a wife.
“Kennedy won Connecticut,” Maria announces triumphantly, jotting down the result on her pad. “He leads in the popular vote, too.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, even as a pang of sadness hits me.
How will she feel when we return to Havana? Even in the best of circumstances, it’s hard to imagine our country won’t undergo a massive transformation period. Will she be able to experience the same level of freedom the Americans enjoy in their country? Will her vote truly matter in Cuba one day?
Change is all around us, both at home and here, and where I once fought so hard for change, now I must admit I fear it, a bit. Change is good in principle, but there is no guarantee in terms of what you will end up with, and I wouldn’t wish our experience with Fidel on my worst enemy.
Tonight, the trend seems to be a growing movement toward a new guard replacing the old, a slate of handsome, young, privileged men with heroic military backgrounds ushered in on the wave of Kennedy’s enthusiasm and success. Nick would fare well in such a climate, and I wonder where he is tonight, if he’s sitting beside his friend Jack Kennedy in Hyannis Port waiting for the results, or if he’s home in Connecticut surrounded by his family and fiancée.
“The race is tightening,” Maria declares, the pencil between her teeth now.
“I’m going to sleep,” our mother announces, sweeping from the room in a cloud of Chanel with a pat on the head for Maria and a nod for Isabel and me. Given our one-sided conversation about my prospects, I receive a frown my sisters don’t.
“Senator Kennedy is still leading,” Isabel says once our mother has left the room. “And the Senate results?”
I flush, staring down at the silk couch to avert my gaze from my sister’s prying eyes, running my fingers along the floral pattern.
“I imagine they will come later,” I reply.
“Things would probably be easier if he didn’t win,” Isabel whispers.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Quiet,” Maria admonishes. “I can’t hear. Vice President Nixon is about to speak.”
Isabel ignores her. “Beatriz.”
“Isabel.” I mimic her tone as I did when we were younger just to annoy her.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asks.
“Right now? I’m watching the election coverage with my sisters.”
“You’re not going to be watching with your sisters for much longer if you both don’t be quiet,” Maria hisses through gritted teeth.
“Don’t be obtuse,” Isabel snaps, ignoring Maria once more.
Of all of my siblings, Isabel and I have always been the most likely to butt heads, our personalities the most distinct. There is an ease to Elisa, a youth to Maria, and my brother was the other half of me. But Isabel is surprisingly obstinate despite her reticence, and we’ve always been oil and water.
“Don’t presume to know my affairs.”
“Quiet,” Maria interjects again.
“I saw you with him during the season,” Isabel retorts, disapproval dripping from her voice.
“That was months ago. Do you think I’ve been carrying a torch for a man I saw a few times in a crowded ballroom?”
“And next month? When they all return to Palm Beach?”
Have I thought about how it will feel to see Nick again? Of course. Have I wondered if he thinks of me? If he regrets those days between us? If he’s moved on to another girl, another affair?