Rosa Jordan - The Woman She Was

Joe instantly saw that whatever his brother had been up to during their decade-long separation had put him on a fast track to middle age. The grey hair was why he hadn’t recognized him from the back, that and the way Luis’s broad shoulders had hollowed out and become slightly stooped. He might have known that once Luis stopped playing baseball he wouldn’t keep himself in shape. Joe had, of course: regular workouts being virtually obligatory in the medical supply business in order to project a healthy image. He was not entirely surprised that Luis had come to meet him, but Celia—why was she here? Maybe she wasn’t married? Or had been and was now divorced? Kids? Well, maybe that would be to his advantage. A protective barrier, so to speak. Even as Joe’s mind was scrabbling for ways to maintain a safe distance, his gaze never left her face and his feet carried him directly to her. Without so much as a glance at Luis, he dropped his bags and wrapped his arms around her. “Celia! You haven’t changed at all!”

She slid out of his embrace and moved close to Luis. “Hola, José. You’re alone?”

“All by myself,” he said in a tone of hearty good humour more feigned than felt. He turned to his brother and, as Luis had not extended his hand, Joe thumped him on the back. “Luis, man, you’re looking great! I can’t believe I’m here.”

With a resentful glance at Joe’s expensive bag, Luis said, “I hope you don’t have more luggage. The Fiat is quite small.”

“No problem. I got a rental car. Didn’t expect you to come all the way out here to meet me.” Joe tried to catch his brother’s eye, to convey appreciation that he had.

Luis refused to meet his gaze. “It was you who broke off contact, José, not us. As far as Mamá is concerned, we are still a family.”

Just what I figured, Joe thought. You told me not to write, I didn’t, and you haven’t forgiven me for it. Mother will, of course, and Celia’s neutral. Or pretending to be. He shifted his gaze to Celia. “How about riding back with me, Celia? Fill me in?”

“You know the way,” she snapped.

“No I don’t,” Joe grinned. “If you recall, I didn’t leave by air. I don’t think I’ve ever driven from the airport into the city. I might get lost.”

Celia folded her arms. “Maps are sold inside the terminal.”

Luis laid his hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead, Celia. Ride with him.” To Joe he said, “Mamá and I will be waiting for you.”

Joe noted the look that passed between Celia and his brother. Although Luis, tight-jawed, had urged her (given her permission?), she was reluctant. Her eyes remained on his face, warm and worried.

Luis spoke in a low, firm voice. “It’s best for you to go with him. Really.”

Celia turned to Joe, gaze level and cold. “All right, José. Let’s go.”

He located the car and she got in, leaving as much space between them as was possible in such a compact vehicle. She gave directions for getting out of the airport complex and onto the highway. “The quickest route is the Primer Anillio, the freeway that circles the city.”

“Quicker to where?”

“Habana del Este, where I live. You can drop me off, then zip through the tunnel and take the Malecón to Vedado.”

“Mother still lives in Vedado? In the same apartment?”

“Naturally.”

The way she said it reminded Joe that spending one’s entire life in the same home was the norm in Cuba; something he had completely lost sight of in the States, where frequent moves were expected of everyone. A sudden image of his diminutive mother in the apartment where he had grown up gave him the first pang of nostalgia.

“How is she?”

“The same.” Celia paused. “It is a shame that you came alone. Seeing your children would have meant a lot to her.”

Joe took a deep breath. Might as well get it over with, he decided, and told her about the divorce. “I had a good lawyer,” he explained. “He worked out a deal where support payments go straight from my account to hers. That way I don’t have to have personal contact with her or the girls. I figured that was best—a clean break, you know?”

Celia said nothing. They drove in silence, except for Celia’s indication of the entrance onto Primer Anillo, and a few kilometres later, one leading onto the Vía Monumental. After a lengthy silence, Joe asked, “Did you stay in medicine?”

“Sí. Pediatricas. I work there.” She pointed to a large hospital, and at the same time indicated the Habana del Este exit. He followed her directions along the edge of an apartment complex that sprawled over several blocks and along a waterfront street. Four-storey apartment buildings faced the sea, separated from the rocky shoreline by the street and a strip of windblown weeds. Celia indicated her building and he pulled to the curb. It was one of the older buildings in the complex, probably built by the original micro-brigaders back in the 1960s. Some windows still had the original wooden slat shutters. Quite a few were broken or hanging awry.

Without looking at him, Celia said, “How sad.”

Assuming she meant the divorce, Joe said, “That’s life. Nowadays anyway. Hell, even Fidel got divorced. And there was that long custody battle for his son.”

“But not his daughter.”

Joe shrugged. “If she was his daughter,”

“I don’t understand how a father could walk away from his little girls.”

Joe realized that it was that, not the divorce, she had meant when she said it was sad. He muttered, “Fidel never jumped through hoops to see his.”

“If she was his.”

Joe noticed with mild amusement that Celia had switched sides, but he was tired of the conversation. “Yeah, well, when it gets to be a hassle, what’s the point?” He looked up at the building, which was as bleak as modern function-over-form architecture could make. Although some nearby buildings had recently been painted, hers was a mouldering grey. “This is it? Which apartment?”

She pointed to the top floor. “The one with red geraniums on the balcony.”

“Looks like a Miami slum. Public housing gone to seed.”

“Oh? Since when do the Yanquis put low-cost housing on waterfront property?”

He thought of Miami’s bleak, crime-ridden public housing and conceded the point. “You do have a good view. Prime location.”

“Wasted on the working class?” she asked sarcastically.

Joe laughed. He had remembered her face and figure but had forgotten that quick ironic wit. “Are you trying to pick a fight? Forget it. Let me take you to dinner.”

“I am working this evening,” she said and promptly got out of the car.

He caught up to her on the sidewalk. “I’ll pick you up at the hospital after work.”

“No, thanks. I always ride my bike.”

“At night?”

Her eyes flashed contemptuous. “Día, noche, no importa. Habana no es Miami.”

“You are trying to pick a fight. And I’m warning you, you’d better lay off or I’m going to kiss you.” Joe tried to slip his arms around her, but she peeled out of his embrace even quicker than she had at the airport and stalked up the sidewalk.

“Wait!” Joe moved to mitigate her annoyance. Or her pretended annoyance. In his experience women were never all that upset to discover that a man found them attractive. “Just one question?”

Celia stopped and half-turned, warily.

“A personal one. Do you live alone?”

“No. Carolina’s daughter, Liliana, lives with me.”

“Don’t tell me that crazy sister of yours made a career of the army and dumped her kid on you!”

“Carolina was with the Cuban armed forces in Angola. With her husband. They were both killed there.” Celia’s voice was low and unemotional, but there was something in her eyes that said that she liked slapping him in the face with such harsh news, that it served him right for being flippant on subjects he knew nothing about.