When We Left Cuba(89)
“I love you, too,” I echo.
Maria’s voice interrupts me as I hang up the phone.
“Beatriz.”
Before I even look at the television, Maria’s cries tell me all I need to know.
At two thirty-eight in the afternoon, Walter Cronkite confirms the news we have all feared.
President Kennedy is dead.
* * *
? ? ?
I sit with Maria while she sobs, holding her head in my lap, stroking her hair as I did when she was younger.
As horrible as the events of today are, there is numbness inside me. Maria is too young to have truly experienced the terrors of the revolution, but they’ve inured me to the horrors of life. And still, I mourn the president. Even though I disagreed with him on some of his policies, as I imagine his wife, his children, those who loved him, his friends like Nick, a country now thrown into the grip of something so unexpected, I feel a deep sadness. He was not a perfect man, but I do believe he was a good one, and we are the worse for his loss.
Kennedy gave a nation—the world, really—so much hope. And despite the fact that his life was cut short before many of his promises could come to fruition, a pall of sadness has been cast across all of us. Perhaps he was the idealist men like Mr. Dwyer criticized him for being, but he was at his core a good man who cared about his people, who wanted more for his country and genuinely sought to bring that change about, and in this world, those are qualities to be honored and venerated indeed.
I walk Maria home, her eyes red. I don’t have the energy to go inside with her and face our parents. Not today.
When I am back in the comfort of the house on the beach, I curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, the events of the day hitting me in waves. Is this why Dwyer wants me to go to Cuba now? Does the CIA suspect Fidel’s involvement in the assassination attempt, in Kennedy’s death?
I am to leave with Eduardo in less than four days, to see Cuba again. Once, it was my greatest wish. Now, I am afraid of what will be waiting for me when I do.
I doze off at some point in the night, only to be awakened by the sound of the front door opening, heavy footsteps against the marble floor.
I sit up, fumbling with the lamp on the end table.
Nick freezes, his overnight bag dropping to the ground.
“Beatriz.”
He says my name as though he’s reassuring himself I’m not an apparition; the keys drop from his hand and hit the table with a clunk.
He looks exhausted, his clothing rumpled from travel and wear.
I rise from the sofa and walk toward him, wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, tears trailing down my face, wetting his shirtfront, the haze surrounding me finally pierced.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
He hugs me, his hands fisting my hair, his mouth finding mine, his hands fumbling with my clothes as he bends me over the couch and we sink into oblivion.
chapter thirty-two
Grief surrounds us in the days following President Kennedy’s death. On the streets, people break into tears; in private, we are reduced to a state of somber shock.
On Sunday, just a few hours ago, the news announced that the president’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was shot and killed by Jack Ruby, a Texas nightclub operator, in the basement of the Dallas police station en route to a more secure jail facility, the entire situation too bizarre to be believed. The chaos of the past few days reminds me so much of the hectic times between Batista’s departure from Cuba and Fidel’s arrival, when the news was simply too outlandish and erratic to be predicted. There’s a sense of helplessness that can be found in such turmoil, the feeling that you have been swept up in the unrelenting curl of a massive wave, carried on against your will with no choice but to wait and see where the wave will take you.
Kennedy’s state funeral is tomorrow.
Nick’s anger is a palpable thing, and though we speak little of the president, his grief is a palpable thing, too.
“I don’t want to leave you, but the funeral—” He swallows. “I need to be in Washington.”
“I know. I understand.”
“I wish you would come to Washington with me.”
My heart aches. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
Since Kennedy died, the timing hasn’t been right to explain about my mission to Havana, to compound his grief. And yet, I’m running out of time. I received a note from Eduardo yesterday morning.
The mission is still scheduled for us to leave for Havana the morning of the twenty-sixth.
“Because I can’t.”
I lean back against the pillows, watching Nick pack his suitcase. Is this the last time we will ever see each other?
Long ago, I thought I’d come to terms with the idea of martyring myself for Cuba, but now death is not as easy to reconcile as I once imagined. When I originally became involved with the CIA, I was so upset over Alejandro’s death that I didn’t think it mattered if I lived or died, as long as I took Fidel out with me. But now, I don’t want to die. Somewhere in this waiting to go home, I’ve made a life for myself.
“Will you be here when I return from Washington?” Nick asks.
I can’t lie to him.
Nick sets the final shirt down in his suitcase and looks at me across the bed.