I stood on the deck of the Mamita, my hand on the steering wheel. The engines grumbled quietly beneath my feet. All I had to do was activate the anchor hoist and we could be gone.
“Lupe, don’t just stand there, let’s go.” Barbara emerged from below, changed into a clean floral-print maternity blouse and skirt—ones that Pedro and Tomas had overlooked when they ransacked the cabin on our arrival.
She was almost begging me to return with her. I don’t think she was concerned only with crossing the straits alone—there was a delicacy in her voice, as though everything that had happened might have been too much for delicate little me.
Barbara sat down heavily in the captain’s chair and looked up at me, then reached out and touched my face with surprising gentleness. “Lupe, let’s leave,” she said. “We’ve been through so much. Anyway, you’re smart. You can think of some story, or hire a laywer to get us out of this mess when we’re back in Miami.” “It’s just that—”
“Lupe, think,” she interrupted. “At least now we have a chance to get out alive. If we stay here we have no chance. Don’t be stubborn. Those people, your clients, they don’t expect you to risk your life any more. You’ve done everything you could.”
I suddenly realized that Barbara had become my friend. I also knew there was no way I could make her understand what saving Michelle meant to me. Michelle Moreno had somehow become a symbol of the children I left on the oncology ward at Jackson. And I thought of my mother, who would have wanted me to continue—even though she surely wouldn’t have let me.
“I can’t go,” I said, speaking without thinking. “I just can’t leave without at least trying to find Michelle’s mother. I’m so close.”
Barbara closed her eyes, her dark cheeks flushed. “I just killed three people, Lupe. Maybe you think that’s easy for me, that I’m some kind of savage, but it isn’t easy. I need to get out of here.”
“And counting Alberto and Regina, that’s five people dead,” I said. She stared at me. “All the more reason to make something good out of all this.”
“What do you think the Cubans will do to us if they find Tomas and Pedro dead—not to mention Samuels in the locker?” she asked in a quiet, angry tone, as if talking to a child. “Now come on. Raise the anchor and let’s go home.”
“I’ve put too much into this, seen too much,” I said. The sun had risen while we were in the boat, and I looked at its reflection on the still waters. “You can leave without me if you want.”
“Lupe, don’t do this,” Barbara said. “Stop fooling. Please.”
“You can make it back by yourself,” I said hopefully. “It’ll be difficult, but I know you can do it. You did most of the work coming over, anyway.”
I felt like a real shit, suggesting she pilot the boat alone, and I didn’t even want to think how I’d get home if she left. But this was stronger than I was. I had systematically screwed everything up, and the only way to redeem myself was by finding Michelle’s mother. I didn’t have time to explain to Barbara about the past, about what drove me.
I was genuinely surprised when Barbara, looking revived and energized, turned away from me and started walking the deck. With angry motions she unfastened the sail covers and started loosening ropes here and there. With a practiced hand she pushed her stomach to one side so she could crouch to reach a stubborn coil of rope tangled in a cleat on the deck.
She started to work her way back toward me, still focused on her tasks. For a fleeting instant I was afraid my friend had become my adversary, that she might even get rid of me with her machete. But then she turned toward me and slapped the boat’s rail. “How do you even know she’s alive? Don’t tell me you believe Samuels, that she’s really in Sagua la Grande?”
“It’s the only lead I have,” I said. “I have to believe he was telling the truth. Besides, I’ve been doing some thinking. I may have figured something out.”
“I’ll leave you here!” Barbara shouted, turning away from me again. “You think I’ll do whatever you say, but I won’t! I’ll go home and take care of myself and the hell with you.”
“I … I guess I’ll help you get the boat going,” I said.
She turned and stuck her finger in my face. “And suppose by some miracle you find her, what are you going to do then? Samuels said she wouldn’t want to come with us.”
“I thought you said you didn’t believe Samuels.”
Barbara stared at me as if I had slapped her. Then, with a weary heaviness about her, she took off her shoes, went below, and lay down on the bunk in the cabin, the bloody knife in her hands. I followed her down.
“There are some clothes in storage that you can put on, to help you fit in,” she said, closing her eyes. “Just don’t take too long. I don’t want my baby born in Cuba.”
* * *
I nearly fell out of the mango tree as I steadied my binoculars. After a two-mile hike through scrubland—twice hiding from passing wagons bearing fishing equipment and boisterous, smoking fishermen—I had asked a little girl and gotten directions to the convent of the Order of the Holy Rosary in Sagua la Grande on the near edge of the village. Thank God it was mango season—the sizable clumps of fruit kept me hidden from the few passersby. Also, I was finally able to eat something.
It had been years since I last climbed a tree, and I was proud to get up there with little more than a few scrapes. Once I made sure my abrasions weren’t too bad—and noticed they blended nicely with wounds incurred earlier in the day—I relaxed a little.
Looking north, I could see the convent clearly, without obstructions. While I didn’t know as much as I would like about the local geography, I knew a little about Sagua la Grande from the bedtime stories Papi used to tell. It was one of the oldest cities in Cuba. Once it was illustrious—a bustling tobacco and coffee center with access to the sea. But since the revolution it had become a sleepy backwater town.
Papi used to tell us about the moro crabs and oysters from this part of the country, and about the cattle industry. Actually, he used to do cow imitations for us, but I got the picture. I also knew there were sugar mills in the area, since confiscated from their owners by the government.
I remembered another place Papi told us about—La Libertad, a wide, beautiful square in the center of town. He described the royal palms and the stone benches arrayed along lush flower beds. Ever the tourist, I stood up partway on my branch, hoping to catch a glimpse. A breeze caught the branch and I quickly settled in again. I whispered a quick prayer, hoping it would be answered efficiently—after all, I was so close to a convent.
From my perch I was able to see all four corners of the building. The binoculars were powerful, so I had no problem with visibility. So long as I didn’t tumble to the ground and knock myself out, I was fine.
I was following a hunch. There were too many details that didn’t fit what I knew so far. Something Maria Rosario inadvertently said during our brief conversation worried me. I’d never told Lourdes that Michelle’s mother was from Sagua, because I had no way of knowing, and Maria Rosario clearly intimated that she was.
Maria Rosario knew a lot more than she could have learned from an abbreviated, clandestine radio transmission. It was hard for me to think a nun had lied to me, but there were too many coincidences. The more I considered it, the more I knew Maria Rosario was the key that would lead me to Michelle’s mother.
I didn’t even think about what she had said, in the rush back to the Mamita, until Samuels claimed the same to be true. And Samuels said that Betancourt had met a prostitute from Sagua la Grande while visiting Havana, sparking the entire baby-selling scheme. I felt the contours of an idea coming together, and my answers lay inside the innocent facade of the convent.
The convent was a beautiful Spanish-style, two-story old stone house, set far back in the walled courtyard. The long building itself made up the fourth wall of the compound, looking out on a life-size statue of the Virgin and a huge wood cross. In the tree I could smell perfume from the blooming roses planted in the garden.
About a dozen women of all ages, dressed in short-sleeved shirts and long skirts, moved in and out of the main building on their daily rounds. Scarves tied around their heads, kerchief style, were the only obvious signs of their calling. Now and then one of them would leave or enter through the imposing iron gate in front of the property.
Time passed, and I started to worry about Barbara on the Mamita. I was fairly confident she wouldn’t leave without me—really, I had to be—but I worried that someone might have found Pedro and Tomas. The house we left them in seemed abandoned and out of the way, but I couldn’t be sure.
I really didn’t want to think what would happen if Barbara was captured. I had left her alone on that boat to follow up on a half-assed hunch. I felt responsible for her, and for her baby—hell, I felt responsible for a lot of people, and I could barely take care of myself.
After two hours of waiting and a lifetime of muscle cramps, I still hadn’t spotted Maria Rosario. It was almost three in the afternoon, and I was exhausted. I don’t do well without sleep, and hadn’t had a decent rest in days. I began to wonder what the hell I hoped to achieve by waiting in a mango tree all day, praying and worrying.
I almost yelled out in triumph when I saw her walking around the courtyard with another nun. They seemed to be talking about the garden, pointing at bare spots in the rough lawn. I hoped she would leave the enclave, but instead she ducked into an open door along the east side of the convent. At least I knew where she was, which was some consolation as I settled in for another long vigil.
Wedged in the branches with my back tight against the tree, I must have dozed off for a few minutes. I awoke, disoriented, to the mental clang of the heavy iron gate. It was Maria Rosario, alone, heading toward town. Fighting off the pins and needles in my legs, I shinnied down the tree and followed her until she was alone on the path. She was so intent on her errand she didn’t notice me behind her until I tapped her shoulder. She turned and recoiled in horror.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes darting. “I thought you had gone!”
“We’ll leave soon,” I said, “But first I need to find the little girl’s mother.”
She examined the clothes I had borrowed from Barbara’s locker—a man’s shirt and pants, both way too big for me. She was young, and naive, and couldn’t act well enough to convince me she wasn’t hiding something.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, leading me under a tree by the side of the road. “It’s too dangerous in Cuba for you and your friend. Where is she? Did she come with you?”
“She’s on the boat, waiting for me.”
We stood by the side of the main dirt road leading through the area, alone for the moment but basically in plain view of anyone who might pass. There was no vehicular traffic, because of poverty and the gas shortage, but I could see a group of people walking toward us. I’d been told that Cubans can spot foreigners, even in brilliant disguises such as mine. I took Maria Rosario’s arm and led her down a side path, toward the shadows of an obviously abandoned warehouse.
“I know you could get in trouble for being with me,” I said when we were out of sight. “But do you know where I can find the woman I’m looking for?”
She looked down without saying anything. I knew then that she was under some kind of pressure not to answer. But I had spent my mango tree time well, and had put my ideas together.
“She’s at the convent, isn’t she?” I asked quickly, without giving her time to tell me a lie.
The young nun looked so thoroughly miserable, and youthfully conflicted, that I felt sorry for her. She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
I tried to stay nonchalant, as though I had everything figured out. But I was on a roll. Not only was the birth mother alive, but she was only a few minutes away. Of course, those few minutes could have been light-years, I thought, remembering the walls and iron gates of the place.
On the main road the people I’d seen passed by. They didn’t see us. “And when you said Mother Superior sent you to observe what happened to me, you only told me part of your duty. You were supposed to do more, weren’t you?”
She nodded in response, and big silent tears rolled down her cheeks. I thought I sensed relief amid her torment.
“What exactly were you supposed to do?” I asked, pressing on even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“I was supposed to help you if I could,” she said, with genuine kindness. “And then I was supposed to make sure you left Isabela de Sagua as soon as possible.”
“You did a good job,” I said. “We almost left, and we will soon. I have another question for you. How many birth mothers do you have living at the convent?”
“There are eight of us. Wait!” Maria Rosario covered her mouth with her hand in astonishment. “How do you know?”
“Dr. Samuels told me,” I said. “Well, sort of. I figured out most of it on my own.”
I didn’t want to tell her more than she needed to know, so I didn’t mention that Samuels was dead. I didn’t know if she would have told anyone about Pedro’s and Tomas’s deaths, but she probably hadn’t—she didn’t see the actual bodies and had told me how frightened she was of them.
Maria Rosario’s innocent confession explained everything. When Samuels explained the scheme he developed with Betancourt, it made sense—to a point. I knew about the girls from the Cuban provinces who were driven to Havana in search of a living, and who found no way but to enter into prostitution. Maria Rosario’s appearance raised new questions, especially after she slipped up and I realized she was lying about the supposed message from Lourdes.
The Catholic church’s stance on abortion is well known. But the church is also practical. When Maria Rosario showed she knew too much, I understood: this tiny Cuban Catholic order was involved with Betancourt and Samuels. The church could help destitute young girls through their pregnancies in exchange for services after the babies were born. Maybe Betancourt paid the church for the babies, maybe he didn’t. Some townspeople got goods and money, the church avoided abortions and got grateful young girls for novices, and Betancourt and Samuels got rich.
“I thought you believed me,” Maria Rosario said, downcast. She was too calm, though, and I suspected that she knew more, that I had yet to figure everything out.
I actually found myself consoling her. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “And you probably saved my life under that window. I won’t forget that.”
She blushed and looked away. “I am sorry for everything.”
“Then you’ll tell me more,” I said. “Lourdes had nothing to do with this, did she?”
“No,” Maria Rosario said plainly. “At least, I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of her before. I was simply told her name by Mother Superior when she asked me to follow you. In fact, we rarely have contact with other orders in America.”
I guessed as much. Lourdes had sworn on Mami’s image and rosary beads. She was protective, but it had nagged at me that she would break an oath so serious. I tried to piece it all together: The order wanted me out of Cuba quickly, because they were involved with Samuels and didn’t want it discovered. Perhaps, knowing what he might be capable of, they also wanted to save me from Samuels, as long as I left without proof of their involvement in baby trafficking.
Maria Rosario remained fixated on her sense of guilt. “It was my fault you stayed. I failed,” she said. She was going to make a good nun.
There was something else I had to tell her. “I received a message on my way here that I couldn’t figure out at the time, and once we arrived I didn’t have a lot of leisure time to think about it.”
But in the mango trees I did. “Your friend” had to be Regina, home from her trip to North Carolina, and she must have left the message with Leonardo just before she was murdered. The “offense against God and His children” she talked about referred to those the church feels are particularly blessed by God—literally, children, in this case the unborn.
Combined with her never-filed complaint against Samuels, Regina’s message told me what she had discovered: Samuels was dismissed from Jackson for performing third-trimester abortions. He was caught either for the illegal procedure or for falsifying records afterward. Regina must have been incensed to discover that a man she respected was responsible for crimes against her religious morality. I wished she’d never found a thing.
I told Maria Rosario about Samuels’s background. She was incredulous. “He told Mother Superior he helped us because he didn’t believe in abortion.”
If all the other girls were as naive as she, Betancourt and Samuels never had to worry about any trouble from the Cuban end of their operation. Samuels had claimed that Betancourt murdered Regina, which might have been true, but it was as much for the retired doctor’s benefit as for the lawyer’s.
I sat down on the ground, exhausted and unsure precisely what to do. Maria Rosario joined me. “What is the mother’s name?” I asked.
She hesitated, then gave in. She had told me so much already, there was no point resisting. “Maribel Montero,” she said.
“I need to speak to Maribel and explain why I need her to come to America,” I said. “She can make her own decision then, but it’s my job to tell her that she’s needed in the States.”
“Maribel is very young, younger than me,” Maria Rosario said. “She’s found a real home with us at the convent. You’ll have to meet Mother Superior before you can speak with her.”
That’s what I was worried about. “Isn’t Maribel free to come and go if she wishes?”
Maria Rosario glanced toward the road. “Mother Superior usually makes those decisions for us.”
“I get your point,” I said. “Let’s go see Mother Superior.”
We rose from our hiding place and started up the dirt road leading back to the convent. My legs were stiff, and I felt cold, tired, and hungry. I wanted to go to sleep with this nightmare over, in a hot bath with plenty of bubbles. I wanted a manicure. I wanted to go home.