Texas Pages

January 1958

It was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes that morning. An
orange rectangle, the color of hot lava, hovering on the wall of my
bedroom. It was from the light, which was streaming through the window
in a dusty ray, playing on the wall like a slow and quiet movie. Just
this strange, orange light. I was sure that at any moment it would vanish,
like when a rainbow appears and immediately starts to fade, and
you look where you saw it moments before and it's gone, just the
faintest color, and even that faint color you might be imagining from
the memory of what you just saw.

I went to the window and looked out. The sky was a hazy violet,
like the color of the delicate skin under Mother's eyes, half circles that
went dark when she was tired. The sun was a blurred, dark red orb.
You could look directly at it through the haze, like a jewel under layers
of tissue. I figured we were in for some kind of curious weather. In
eastern Cuba, there were mornings I'd wake up and sense immediately
that the weather had radically turned. I could see the bay from my window,
and if a tropical storm was approaching, the sunrise would spread
ribbons of light into the dense clouds piling up on the water's horizon,
turning them rose-colored like they were glowing from inside. I
loved the feeling of waking up to some drastic change, knowing that
when I went downstairs the servants would be rushing around, taking
the patio furniture inside and nailing boards over the windows, the air
outside warm and gusting, the first giant wave surging in a glassy, green
wall and drenching the embankment just beyond our garden. If a storm
had already approached, I'd wake up to rain pouring down over the
house, my room so dark I had to turn on the bedside lamp just to read
the clock. Change was exciting to me, and when I woke up that morning
and saw a rectangle of orange light, bright as embers, on my bedroom
wall, it seemed like something special was about to happen.

It was early, and Mother and Daddy were still asleep. My brother,
Del, had been gone for three weeks at that point, ever since we'd
returned from our Christmas vacation in Havana. Daddy didn't talk
about it openly, but I knew Del was up in the mountains with Raúl's
column. I'd never been much for the pool hall in Mayarí, but I started
hanging around down there after he disappeared. In Preston it was difficult
to get information about the rebels. The Cubans all knew what
was going on, but they kept quiet around Americans. The company
was putting a lot of pressure on workers to stay away from anyone
involved with the rebels. Who's going to talk to the boss's thirteen-year-
old son? Down in Mayarí, people got drunk and opened their
mouths. The week before, an old campesino grabbed me by the shoulder.
He put his face up to mine, so close I could smell his rummy
breath. He said something about Del. He said he was still young, but
that he would be one of the great ones. A liberator of the people. Like
Bolívar.

I could hear Annie making breakfast, opening and shutting drawers.
I put on my slippers and went downstairs. It was so dark in the
kitchen I could barely see. Annie had latched all the windows and
closed the jalousies. I asked why she didn't open the shutters or put
on a light.

Servants have their funny ways--superstitions--and you never
know what they're up to. Annie didn't like to go out at dusk. If
Mother insisted she run some errand, Annie put a scarf over her
mouth. She said evil spirits tried to fly into women's mouths at dusk.
Annie and our laundress, Darcina, both listened to this cockeyed faith
healer Clavelito on radio CMQ. Darcina sometimes cried at night. She
said she missed sleeping in a bed with her children. Mother bought her
a portable to keep her company and ended up buying one for Annie
as well, just to be fair. Mother was big on fairness. Clavelito told folks
to set a glass of water on top of the radio, something about his voice
blessing the water, and Annie and Darcina both did.

Excerpt provided courtesy of Simon & Schuster.