BUT IN THE morning there was no time to talk. Mama woke me by shaking my shoulders and saying, “Jenny! Jenny! Come on, get up! We’re going to be in the movie! Wake up, honey, you’ll want to wash your hair—” I opened my eyes to find her sitting on the edge of my bed looking as beautiful as any movie star, hair fixed just so, fire-engine-red lips smiling. She wore a fresh dose of perfume and a full skirted red-flowered dress.

“You look beautiful, Mama,” I said.

“Come on, Jenny, hurry.” Daddy stood behind her. He was dressed for the movie, too, in a clean white shirt and khaki pants. I didn’t ask any questions. I jumped up and took a shower and put on my middy-blouse outfit and some of Mama’s dusting powder. I parted my hair and combed it carefully, and made spit curls over my ears. Then I put on a whole lot of Mama’s makeup, turning the corners of my eyes into silver points like shark fins, like angel wings. Mama and Daddy looked at each other but did not say a thing about my makeup.

They grabbed my hands and we set off down the street along with the crowd. People poured out of motels and shops and restaurants—tourists, tramps, artists, merchants and shopgirls, and women wiping their hands on their aprons. Even the iguana man fell in, with his big lizard circling his shoulders. It was a holiday. “Buenos días, Jenny,” called Luisa, mincing along in yellow short shorts and high heels. Sleepy-eyed Rosa waved. Mama’s eyebrows made little arches of surprise. She jerked my hand. “Jenny, who are those girls?” But I didn’t have to answer, because somebody started singing: “You had a wife and forty-nine kids, but you left, you left, you left, right, left,” and everybody took it up. We became a parade.

We trooped to the Navy yard and onto the docks, bursting into a spontaneous cheer at the sight of the pink submarine that steamed back and forth in the harbor, decks covered with actors. I had never seen it under way before. Against that bright blue water, the pink submarine was miraculous. Mama squeezed my hand. Pelicans and gulls wheeled overhead. Camera crews were everywhere: on a launch in the water, on an official-looking truck at the dock, on top of a warehouse. A man with a beard and a bullhorn was lifted high above us on a crane.

“Okay!” His amplified voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! We appreciate your participation here today! Now, all you have to do is cheer—” At this point, we drowned him out. He had to wave his arms back and forth to restore order. “Good! Very good! All you have to do is cheer—just like that—when the sub comes up to the dock. That’s it! Got it?”

We cheered again. My throat was getting sore already, and it didn’t even count yet.

“Okay! Now save it. Don’t do it until I give you the sign. Then you start, and be sure to wave hello. These guys have been out in the Philippines winning a war for you, so you’re glad to see them, right? Okay?”

I strained to see Tony Curtis on the deck of the submarine, but it was still too far away. The actors looked like ants. The director held his bullhorn up against the sky, then brought it down. Great puffs of white smoke shot out of the smokestacks as the pink sub headed toward shore, toward us, toward home. I started crying and couldn’t stop. The crowd went wild. I could hear Mama’s high voice, Daddy’s piercing whistle. My makeup was running but I didn’t care. I wiped silvery tears off my chin and kept on crying. It was the happiest moment of my life. We waved and cheered until the pink submarine was at the dock, and Tony Curtis looked straight at me, I swear he did, and winked.