Constant Craving: Book Two, page 11
I turn to look at him. “How did she die?”
“Respiratory infection. That’s the official word from the government.”
He’s telling me things I never knew about my mother, details that jog my memory and make my world suddenly shift on its axis.
Things like how she’d bring home warm bread once a month, when she could afford it; how she’d wake up early and read; how she’d taken in a neighbor lady whose spouse beat her.
I’d forgotten about that until now, how the woman slept on our sofa for a week and cried every night. How my mom would make her tea.
You will never treat a woman that way, Rafael, my mother had whispered to me late that night, after the lady was asleep. You always must respect the women in your life.
The memories are too painful. Christ, I need a drink, but it’s only noon. “I spent years wondering about my mother. Do you know that, for a while, I even thought she might have been a prostitute?”
“None of your theories about her were true. She was a dissident.” Carlos sips his fifth cafecito. How he remains so calm with all that caffeine is beyond me.
I start pacing, and the polished gray concrete floor is cold on my bare feet. “Let’s go over this again. She worked against the communist regime?”
“Sí. And your father was a Spaniard.”
“Do you have his address?”
Carlos takes out a pair of reading glasses and opens a leather binder. “I’m still researching that. I have some information about him, though.” He flips a page. “Your father visited the island frequently to help smuggle books, videos, and photos from the government opposition to Europe for publication in newspapers and on websites. That’s how he met your mother. She was part of a group of women fighting against the Castro regime. They were mostly peaceful, but she suspected she was close to being arrested. Oh, and one other thing I discovered: she wrote a series of essays about the reality of women on the island. I have copies of them.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Are you bullshitting me? She was a writer?”
Carlos nods.
What the hell? Why didn’t my aunt or uncle tell me any of this?
“And what else?” I practically spit the words out.
“Apparently, your mother and the Spaniard fell in love. He was in Spain when she discovered she was pregnant with you. Then he was barred from returning to the island for political reasons. I spoke with an elderly lady who was friendly with your mother in your old neighborhood. She was the neighborhood gossip and knew the entire story. I have your father’s name, but not much else at the moment.”
I heave a sigh. I want to be angry at someone. My mother. My father. The Cuban government. Truthfully, I’m just plain sad. I’m not the only one in Miami whose lives—and families—were ripped apart by politics in Cuba.
“His name is Alejandro Menendez. I’m not sure if he’s still alive. I need to check some things if you want me to continue going down that path.”
I nod twice and grunt a yes. I’ll be in Madrid in a few weeks. Would it be worth looking for my father? Probably not, after all this time. What would I say to the man, a virtual stranger? Dammit, I wish Justine was here. She’d know what to do and how to soothe the churning feelings inside of me.
I need to get back to St. Augustine to tell her all this in person.
Carlos continues, flipping through the file. “Apparently when you were about five, your mom got word from a friend in the government that she was about to be arrested for anti-communist activities. That’s when she put you on the boat with your uncle. She didn’t want you to end up in a work camp for dissident children, or worse, a Cuban orphanage.”
I choke back a lump in my throat and glare at the sea, the same one that brought me to the shores of Florida.
“And then?”
“She was arrested soon after you left. You didn’t hear from her because she was in prison. She died there about three years after she put you on that boat.”
“So she had a reason for abandoning me,” I say, nodding slowly.
Carlos sighs—a long sympathetic noise—and sits back on the leather sofa. “She didn’t abandon you, Rafael. She saved you.”
I switch to rapid-fire Spanish, as I always do when talking about my family. “I wonder why my aunt and uncle never told me all this.”
Carlos smiles kindly. “Cuban families are so complicated in these situations. Perhaps she wanted you to make up your mind about your heritage and where you grew up. Maybe your mom asked them not to say anything, hoping you’d think of them as your parents. Or possibly they decided against telling you because they wanted you to think of them as your parents. Some people prefer to be in denial. Does it matter at this point?”
Suddenly my mother’s face comes to mind and the recollection that she smelled like jasmine, how she hugged me tight, how she cried when I sailed away on that small boat.
I’d spent my entire life angry, thinking that my mother had put me on a boat to Florida because she’d desired to be free of the responsibilities of caring for a child. In reality, she was something very different.
Something to be proud of.
She probably would have loved Justine. And Justine would have loved her.
“You know, you can go back to the island and talk to some of these neighbors yourself. Some of them are quite elderly so you might want to go soon.”
It’s a touchy subject with some Cubans like me, going back to the island. I shrug.
“I’ll think about it. I’ve always resisted returning.”
“Understandable. A lot of Miami Cubans do. But there’s no shame if you decide to go and find out more about your past.”
I remain silent. Part of me does want to return because I have memories of Cuba. Blood memories, I think they’re called. Memorias de sangre.
And if I go, there’s only one person I feel comfortable sharing that journey, and those memories, with.
* * *
It’s been five days since I spoke with the PI, five days since I returned to St. Augustine, and every day—hell, every hour—I’ve been thinking about telling Justine that I love her.
Something inside me has blossomed, going from revenge to acceptance to a measure of regret that I haven’t tried to patch things up with her before now. Maybe it was finding out about my mother. Like the PI, Justine also asked me if I wanted to return to Cuba, and I’d maintained my usual stance—no way in hell—but truth be told, I’ve been thinking about it more and more.
Maybe it’s because Justine and I are getting along with all of the ease of a warm knife in soft butter and I can see a future with her. Somehow I want to make peace with my past.
All of my past.
I don’t tell her any of this. And she doesn’t let on how she’s feeling. Plus, we’re too busy acting like hormonal teenagers.
“I still don’t know how you make me so horny just by kissing you,” I whisper one night, after we’ve left the paper and are on our way home. We pull over to watch the sunset over a river, and I take her face in my hands. The contrast between her pink cheeks and my golden brown skin steals my breath with its stark beauty.
She makes little mmm noises as we kiss slow and deep in the car.
We’re getting along so well that I don’t want to raise the topic of the paper just yet. That’s the wild card. There’s no way the Times can survive in its current form. Justine’s father spent way too much money that he didn’t have, and advertising and circulation never caught up.
Funny how I’d thought Edward Lavoie was such an astute businessman when I met him. How I’d been intimidated. Now, he just seems pathetic. Fuck him. This place is mine, and Justine will be soon, too.
Maybe this weekend in Orlando I’ll tell her I love her. Orlando’s a great place for a happy ending, with Cinderella and all that. Maybe I’ll ask her to move in with me, come to Miami, and leave all this crap behind.
I’m certain she’ll want to. And maybe we can think about starting a family—she’s been talking non-stop about Diana’s shower and the baby, and then she fixes those big eyes of hers on me and my heart just fucking melts.
I want to give her what we lost.
We’re leaving for Orlando in a few hours. I’m in the café across the street, and Justine’s trying to finish proofreading the migrant farmworker project.
“What’ll it be, man?” The owner, Mark, peers at me.
I’m in a sour mood most mornings, but today I’m feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous. Justine had woken me with a flutter of kisses on my neck and had made bacon and eggs. I smile.
“Double espresso. And an iced chai.”
Mark laughs. “She has you fetching her tea?”
Since I haven’t been paying attention to anything but my thoughts about Justine and Orlando, and whether I’ll tell her I love her at the Waldorf-Astoria or in front of that theme park castle, I shoot him a surprised look.
“Justine. She orders the iced chai.”
I nod. “Oh. Yeah. It’s for Justine.”
“Well, tell her I said hello. And let her know that I’m counting the days for our dinner date.” Mark sets the cups on the counter, and I narrow my eyes.
Dinner date? My chest feels like it’s in a vice grip. “Dinner date? Well. Que suerte. Lucky you,” I reply with a steel-edged voice.
Mark wipes his hands on his apron and doesn’t notice the angry vein throbbing at my temple or the way my hands are twitching into fists at my side. Or he ignores it and is smirking at me triumphantly.
Justine agreed to go out with this guy? Has she been playing me the entire time? The betrayal is like a swift kick to the throat.
“Yeah, I saw her on Sunday. She stopped in, and she said she’d love to have dinner with me in a few weeks when she’s finished with her…your…deal,” Mark says.
Nodding, my hands shake slightly as I take my wallet out of my pocket and withdraw cash. With cold precision, I set the money on the counter and glare at Mark.
“Right. Our deal. She’ll definitely be free after that. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be available sooner.”
My fury rises deep in my stomach, a gripping, sickening feeling. Justine made love to me not long after agreeing to have dinner with another man? After I’d bared my soul about my mother and practically cried in her arms?
Incredible. I’d never doubted her fidelity when we were together, but she’s obviously changed more than I thought.
Somehow, I make it out of the café without flattening Mark. It’s actually a miracle, I think, that I didn’t explode. Instead, I get outside, set the tea and the coffee on an outdoor table, and slip on my sunglasses. My breath comes in short, sharp sips.
I normally don’t get emotional. It’s how I’ve become so successful. But I haven’t followed my own playbook here in St. Augustine. Emotions. I need to shut them off.
All I need is to walk around the block to compose myself. Recalibrate and get back to basics.
I should pull my support for the paper. No, I can’t do that, we’ve signed a contract. Would she hold me to it? Who knows. I thought I knew Justine, but obviously, I don’t. Turns out I don’t know her at all.
Or I could cancel Orlando altogether and return to Miami.
No, I should go to Orlando and toy with her.
All the old feelings of revenge and rage are back, and by the time I stride into her office, I’m smirking and plotting. I refuse to let her see my anger, not yet. After all, she does have the speech to give later, and I don’t want to derail her from that. I’m furious, but I’m not about to interfere with her professional success.
Not yet, anyway.
Justine’s at her desk, poring over the proofs of the project going in the Sunday paper. I set the tea down.
“Thanks for the tea, Rafa,” she coos.
Dios, she sounds so fake. How did I not notice this before?
“I need to take care of some at from the house. I’ll pick you up at three.” I reach for my wallet and take out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Here.”
I casually toss a thousand dollars on the newspaper in front of me. She gapes at me with big, confused eyes the size of saucers.
I stare at her, unblinking.
Allowing her to get under my skin is my own mistake. How did I not realize that Justine’s no better than the other women I’ve casually fucked, women who desired me only for my money and status? There haven’t been many of them, I haven’t fallen for any of them, but they’ve been background noise for years.
“I was jogging by that lingerie store the other morning and thought they had beautiful things. Buy yourself something for this weekend. Don’t bother with the white lace, I’m sick of the purity act. Make sure it’s extra slutty.”
Her jaw drops. Good. I’m going to shock her a lot more before the day’s over. I slip out of her office without a kiss or a goodbye.
16
Not Tonight
“Justine, I want to thank you again for helping organize that Newspapers in Education curriculum. I know you’re busy, but your input was incredibly helpful. It’s working so well in the Fort Lauderdale area that we’re going to expand to Palm Beach.” An older woman sitting next to Justine at this journalism banquet has been bending her ear for a half hour. She’s a newspaper publisher from Tallahassee, and she gives Justine’s arm a motherly squeeze. “You’re such a dear.”
Justine glances at me quickly. I think she can sense I’m angry, because I barely paid attention to her on the drive over, instead choosing to talk on my earpiece to David about the Miami project. I’ve also been tersely businesslike with her at this banquet, speaking with other newspaper executives about their businesses, subtly probing on whether they’d be interested in selling.
Now it’s almost dinnertime, and we’re sitting at a round table of people inside this gold-and-white banquet room at a hotel. There are seven of us, and we’re near the front of the room, which positively radiates bland, faux-French decor. I’m the only non-journalist at the table, and frankly, I’m getting a bit bored. I’m nursing a martini and fighting the urge to eat the two olives on the little toothpick in the glass.
I’m pissed, and I’m starving. When will the food be served? I check my watch. The banquet room echoes with loud conversation, the clink of glasses, the rumble of laughter.
I pull on my tuxedo shirt collar for the tenth time tonight. Damn, it’s warm in here. My stomach rumbles, and I wonder if it would be bad form to stand up and grab the basket of bread from the other side of the table. I’ve been running more in the mornings, and it’s making me ravenous.
“Justine’s involved in everything.” The older woman leans over Justine and addresses me while keeping a hand on Justine’s arm. “You’ve got one hell of a business partner here. Tough and kind. And gorgeous.”
“So I’m finding out,” I say, a tight smile on my lips. Why does everyone in this damned place keep talking about how great Justine is?
She’s involved with Newspapers in Education; she gave some publisher’s kid an internship; she donated five hundred dollars of her own money toward a scholarship in the name of a former reporter with a brain tumor.
She’s like the Mother Teresa of Florida journalism, apparently.
“Are you familiar with Rafael Menendez?” she asks the woman, then launches into a long recital of my accomplishments. The woman shakes her head and makes little coos of admiration.
Justine rests her hand on my arm. “And he was also named one of the most eligible bachelors in Miami.”
Why the hell is she bringing this up? All night, she’s been telling people about me. How I’m a Cuban immigrant, how I worked my way up as a realtor to a land speculator to a condo developer. The mention of being an eligible bachelor grates on me, and I hold up my hand.
“That’s not really an accomplishment in Miami,” I say.
“Oh, but I’m sure it is, with all those gorgeous women there trying to snag you,” the woman titters.
Justine laughs and stares at me, her blue eyes a challenge. It’s as if she’s showing me off to her colleagues. Like I’m a zoo animal, something to be gawked at and scrutinized.
Look at the rich guy from Miami! He’s here to save my newspaper! Isn’t that wonderful!
My mood grows darker when the waiter brings a small salad with a single cherry tomato cut in half and some curly lettuce. I could eat ten of these and still be hungry. Hopefully, the entrée will be bigger. I spear the tomato so hard that the little seeds squirt everywhere.
“Dammit,” I swear under my breath while checking my tux. I exhale when I don’t see any stain on my clothes.
As I’m finishing the rest of my miniscule salad, a man stands at the podium and welcomes us. After abut ten minutes of platitudes, he introduces the guest speaker—Justine.
She beams at the man, then turns to me, as if she’s looking for reassurance. In another time, I would have kissed her on the cheek, given her a hug or a murmur of encouragement in her ear.
“Good luck.” I nod, downing my martini. Her sugary scent washes over me as she gets up from the table. The smell, like cake, makes me think of food and sex, and I mash my molars together.
I watch as she threads her way through the tables and chairs to the podium at the front of the room. Tonight she looks beautiful, a simple blue dress hugging her curves and her hair pulled back in a loose bun.
“Thank you,” she says, as the crowd applauds. “It’s always an honor to be here with you, my fellow publishers. It’s a dwindling and tight-knit club, isn’t it? We all understand what each other is going through in this time of turmoil in our industry.”
I zone out as she speaks about advertising and circulation declines. That’s all I’ve been dealing with for a couple of weeks now, how dismal the Times’ revenue streams are. My mind wanders to one problem in particular: how the paper can charge more for online archive access. If I could monetize the photo archive, too, perhaps that would bring in some cash…
