When We Left Cuba(52)
“Of course not. And I hardly think I’ve been pushing you away.”
“I’m not talking about your body, Beatriz.”
There’s a sharpness to his tone I’m not used to hearing when he speaks to me.
“I’m talking about everything else. The secrets you keep. The double life you lead.”
“You have everything else.”
“No, I don’t.” His mouth tightens in a thin line. “How far does this thing go? Are you involved with the planning of the invasion everyone is whispering about?”
“No.” I hesitate. “Eduardo has kept me separate from most of it.”
“Eduardo is the one who got you involved in this mess with the CIA, though, isn’t he?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it?”
“Are we back on you being jealous again?”
“We’re back to me being worried about your involvement with the CIA. You need to stop going to the meetings in Hialeah. You need to stop trusting Dwyer.”
“Don’t you understand? This is all I know. In Cuba, it was me and my brother and Eduardo going to meetings and organizing against Batista. This was my life before Castro. This is my future. My brother isn’t here to carry on the work we once did. Now it’s my job to continue the fight.”
“Beatriz.”
“I should leave. I can’t do this. I can’t compartmentalize these different parts of my life. I don’t want to lie to you, but just like some things are off-limits to me—your fiancée for one, your job—this is off-limits to you.”
I move to leave, but he reaches for me, and that’s all it takes for me to hesitate.
“I’m sorry. I know how important this is to you. I’m just worried about you. I don’t trust the CIA.”
“I understand why you’re worried, but I know what I’m doing. My eyes are open on this. I promise.”
I lie back on the bed next to him, staring up at the ceiling, the fight draining out of me.
I lay my head on his chest, breathing in his scent, hoping something will change.
My mouth finds his in a fierce kiss, our limbs entwined.
Sex is easy. It’s everything else that’s so very complicated.
chapter nineteen
We see less of each other after Valentine’s Day, Nick’s weekends in Palm Beach fewer and farther between, his time spent in Washington, working in the Senate, caught up in President Kennedy’s political agenda.
Isabel’s wedding continues to dominate our mother’s interests, the unrelenting not-so-subtle hints about throwing Thomas’s cousin and me together. I spend as much time out of the house as I can, splitting my days between the communist meetings in Hialeah and volunteering in the camps set up by the Diocese of Miami to accommodate the growing number of children being sent out of Cuba to protect them from Fidel’s policies.
As I walk through one of the camps, I am struck by the sight of their young faces, see myself, and Maria, and Isabel, and Elisa in their eyes. Everyone is doing the best they can to make this situation as bearable for the children as possible, but by its very nature, none of this is bearable.
And when I sit in those meetings in Hialeah and listen to the communists spout ideology, it’s these children’s faces that I think of. I want to shout at those pampered students whose notions of war came from something they read in a book. I want to tell them that this is war: not some words scribbled down by Marx, but the haunted eyes of thousands of children who have crossed the ocean on their own, who are now crammed together in camps, waiting to be reunited with their families, waiting to go home, waiting for the revolution to end.
This is what Nick doesn’t understand when we fight about politics. For him, politics is an external entity. It is his job, but it is not who he is. And for me, none of this is just politics. It’s personal.
* * *
? ? ?
At the end of March, I accompany my parents and Isabel to a party thrown by one of my father’s business associates. I’m eager for the season to end this year, for everyone to go up north and leave us alone. I’ve attended far fewer events than normal, but still, rumors are growing about Nick and me, and I look forward to the break from all the scrutiny.
He’s stayed behind in Washington D.C. this weekend, preparing for an upcoming vote in the Senate.
“That’s a pretty bracelet,” Isabel comments, eyeing my outfit as we ride in the car to the charity event.
Perhaps it was foolish to wear the bracelet Nick gave me for Christmas, to attempt to pass it off as a piece of costume jewelry and nothing more, but I couldn’t resist. I’ve missed him since he’s been in Washington more frequently, the phone calls doing little to alleviate the distance between us. Maybe Nick was right; maybe the secrets between us are creating a gulf we can’t cross.
“Is it new?” Isabel asks, her voice loud enough to threaten our parents overhearing. It’s a trick we perfected when we were younger and wanted to get a sibling in trouble or bend them to our will.
I flash her a smile that’s all teeth and plenty of bite.
“Did you go out last night? I could have sworn I heard footsteps outside your room.”
Isabel has been less and less discreet lately, sneaking out of the house at all hours, a skill she never quite excelled at as well as the rest of us.