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LATE IN THE afternoon, we descended the rutted road that snaked over the Escambray Mountains and into the southern foothills. We had passed some trucks and a cheerful man in bright red pants on a tractor, far from any fields, but otherwise the route had been empty of traffic. My head hurt and my hands tingled from the constant vibrations of the washboard roads. Hot winds blew past us and rippled through the fields of tobacco and cane stretched across the plain below us. In the distance, a colonial mansion, a remnant of plantation days, stood among a group of outbuildings on top of a low hill. From here, the area seemed more prosperous and well-cared for than we had dared to hope for our Tomasito. I could only pray that he was alive somewhere down there.
I pulled the DeSoto over at a small turn out and stopped. My sister had slept through the many kilometers of rough terrain. How, I don’t know. She slumped with her head back and knees sprawled open. Drool trickled out of the side of her mouth. If only her admirers could see her now, I thought, but then guilt wrapped my arms across my chest. I must have been tired, because I imagined her life empty of her three girls. She had not once sighed or complained since their departure. Instead of poking her awake, as I would normally, I cupped her mouth and wiped the saliva away with my thumb. She nuzzled my hand before rolling open her eyes.
“Wake up, little dove.”
Rosita stretched and arched her back before sitting up, knees together, to look around. “Water?”
She retrieved the jug and cup from the floor and handed them to me. I poured a cup for us to share while she rummaged in her pocketbook.
“Don’t put on lipstick before we drink,” I said. It would be just like her to leave bright pink lip prints, so hard to clean, on the plastic cup. My sympathy vanished in the heat and the pressure behind my eyes.
“I won’t,” she said, although she did take out her compact and fuss with her headband. I swallowed a healthy gulp and gave the cup back to her. She dove into her bag again. “I was looking for this.” She held up a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, its white wrapping battered and tinged gray by a crowded life in the bottom of her bag.
“From Key Biscayne?” I was fascinated that she could hoard such a treat for over a year.
“Miami Beach.” She whipped off the red string and popped off the top of the pack. As we had since we were girls, I pulled a stick by its waxed tin wrapper and left the white jacket with its fellows in the pack. Rosita did the same.
“Let’s stretch.” She got out, leaving the door wide open. She leaned against the car and looked out over the valley. Clouds crept over the mountains, portending an early evening storm. The fields nearest to us lay in the broad shadow of the mountains and the encroaching clouds, but the red-tiled roofs and white walls of the distant mansion glowed in the late afternoon sun. I scooted across the seat and through the open door to stand beside my sister. It was my turn to stretch.
I popped the stick of gum into my mouth. Instead of folding with freshness, the stick broke but quickly became pliable as I worked my jaws. Rosita puffed her cheeks to blow a bubble. We both knew it was impossible with Wrigley’s, even when fresh. When her noisy exhale made no bubble, her laughter trilled into the sodden air. It was a pure sound that I hadn’t heard since the children had left.
A million questions ran through my mind, but before I could voice one, Rosita said, “Campo Doblase, do you think?” She spoke with a curt nod toward the valley.
“It must be.”
She pushed off the car and returned to the passenger seat. “We must be sure.” She pulled out her lipstick, then wrenched the rearview mirror around to inspect her face.
“Rosita!”
“What?” She made an O with her mouth and applied bright pink to it.
“Don’t do that again. The mirror is never the same.”
“You’re just tired,” she said. “I’ll drive.”
She threw the lipstick and gum back into her purse and dropped it on the floor in front of her. After sliding over to the steering wheel, she turned the key. Even after kilometers of punishment, the DeSoto’s engine roared to life.
“Come on,” she said.
I bent down to get a good look at her. “Since when do you drive in the country?”
“I’m refreshed, you’re tired. We’re almost there. It’s as simple as that.” She twisted the mirror back to face the driver’s seat, took off her headband, and tossed it on the seat beside her. “Come on, let’s go.”
I was tired and my head still throbbed. “You’re in charge now?” Nevertheless, I climbed in the car and closed the door. I never could fit into Rosita’s space. I rearranged the bags and jugs and food sacks to make space for my feet.
“A Montero girl does what she must.” She shifted into gear.
I didn’t like the way she yanked the gear shift. “Careful. You have to . . .”
“I know what I have to do.” Her mouth worked. I thought she would try another bubble, but instead she shot the gum out the open window.
“Rosita! You spit out your gum.”
She looked out the window with a slight frown. “The flavor was gone.”
She wasn’t aware of her misdeed. I rooted around my own mouth with my tongue. True, the stale gum didn’t have much flavor after the first few chews. That’s no excuse.
“Gum’s essential for emergency roadside repairs,” I said. “What if a stone kicks up and drills a hole in the gas tank? We may need the entire pack to fix that. Yes?” I took out my gum and groped around the seat for the waxed foil wrapper. I held both up. “This is what you do.” I carefully covered the gum and put it in the glove compartment.
“You didn’t even know I had it.”
“But now I do.”
Rosita fell forward, her forehead banging on the steering wheel. She slammed her hand on the horn for one long blast that pulsed in my temples and startled a flock of finches out of the bushes below us. Such drama.
“Mary, Mother of God, please keep me from strangling this woman before we see our Tomasito again.” She was silent a moment before she sat up again. The finches resettled and the wind blew stronger.
“I don’t know what you’re going on about.”
She looked at me with her patient face, the one she reserved for a slurring husband who wants to drive home after having too much fun at a party. I hate it, and I hate it more when she uses it on me.
“Querida, please close your eyes,” she said. “We’ll be there in no time.”
I would have given her a verbal backhand, but the wind brought no reprieve from the steamy heat and my vision blurred with pain. I took some aspirin with water from the jug and settled back in my seat. Maybe I was exhausted. A few minutes of quiet would do me good. After all, we must stick together and be strong for Tomasito’s sake.
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I HAD CLOSED my eyes for just a moment, or so I thought, but when I opened them, the mountains had receded to the horizon, and the sky had filled with racing clouds. We were idling in a dirt clearing at the center of a small cluster of bohios. The main plantation house we’d seen earlier was hidden from sight, but perhaps we had come to the small settlement the letter had referred to. Dust swirled in the freshening wind. Although space opened in the center of the cluster, a short end of every rectangular, thatch-roofed bohio faced the dirt road. Neighbors, yes, but each also looked outward in the hopes of witnessing something of the passing world.
“Where are we?” I asked as I peered at the tidy huts through the growing dusk.
“Here,” Rosita said. She turned off the ignition.
