The Red Umbrella

The frigid winter slowly began to give way to the extremely cold spring. The warming temperatures brought new life to Grand Island as everyone geared up for the large bird migration. Yearly festivals were held in honor of the migration, parties planned, even a parade was on the schedule. It was as if the whole town were celebrating the arrival of a long-lost friend.

Jennifer looked up at me as I stared off into space, lost in my thoughts. She leaned across the library table and whispered, “Pick anything. It really doesn’t matter which.”

I glanced down at the book in front of me. “It’s just that Mrs. Brolin said she’d be displaying all our projects in the main library downtown. I want it to be really good. Plus, it’s a big deal to everyone in town.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a bird project. Really, it’s not that important. Every year the teachers assign something to do with the big migration.”

“Do you really get a lot of geese passing through here?” I flipped through the pages of The Complete Pictorial Encyclopedia of the Midwest Migration, looking for something special.

“More than you can shake a stick at.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a saying. It means a lot. Actually, something like fifteen million birds will fly through here. You’ll see how people from all over come to see them. It’s like a people migration, too.”

“And you don’t think that’s cool?”

Jennifer shrugged. “I guess, but ugh, wait till you have to clean up after them. The birds, I mean, not the bird-watchers. They make a mess on the cars, the sidewalks, everything! It’s disgusting! Betty even got pelted in the head last year walking into school.”

The image of Betty wiping bird poop from her head was too funny. A loud giggle escaped into the quiet library.

Immediately the school librarian lowered her pointy glasses and shushed me.

Embarrassed, I sat up straight in the wooden chair and tried to look studious. Then I caught a glimpse of Jennifer, who was acting like she was dodging bird pellets. Both of us started laughing.

The librarian pursed her lips and raised a single eyebrow. She normally saw me in the library by myself, scouring the newspapers for stories on what was happening in Cuba. She wasn’t used to seeing me make noise. She cleared her throat and brought a finger to her lips.

For some strange reason, this made us laugh even more. To avoid being kicked out, we covered our faces with our notebooks. For a full minute, all you could see of us were notebooks bouncing up and down. Finally, we caught our breaths and tried to refocus on choosing my bird.

Jennifer glanced at her watch. “Look, it’s almost four. Mom said she’d pick us up at about four-fifteen. We don’t have much time left and I want to talk to you about what I should wear to the freshman spring dance. We’re still going, right?”

I flipped through several more pages of the book. “I think Rita and Susan would kill us if we didn’t go.”

“Did you tell your parents?” Jennifer asked.

The mention of my parents made me pause and look up. “Uh-uh. Why risk them saying no? Besides, they already have a lot to worry about.” I looked down at the page again. “I figure teachers will be chaperoning the dance and that should be good enough, right? I can always tell them later.”

“That’s true. Plus, missing our first high school dance would definitely not be cool.” Jennifer put her hand over the book. “Do you think you’ll dance with Eddie?”

I felt my entire body tighten up at the thought of dancing with Eddie. Until now, we’d just been friends, but that could all change so quickly. I hadn’t really planned what to do if Eddie asked me to dance or if he tried to kiss me. I didn’t want what happened with Manuel to repeat itself.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to rattle your cage,” Jennifer said. “He has no idea you even like him—”

“Kind of like him,” I quickly corrected her.

“That’s what I meant. We’re all just going to have fun and hang out together. He may not even ask you to dance. Don’t think of backing out on me, okay?”

I took a deep breath and muttered, “Okay.” I tried to focus on the birds on the page again, but nothing seemed to interest me.

“Lucía, really, just pick anything. Here.” She snapped the book shut and handed it to me. “Now just open it, and wherever it lands, that’s it.”

She was right. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I was making everything too complicated. It was just a school project. It didn’t mean anything. There was nothing special about the bird I would choose.

I grabbed the book and closed my eyes. I popped it open to a random page in the middle, ready to accept whatever fate had in store. Then I saw something familiar.

A smile inched its way across my face.

There on the page was a white heron like the one I’d seen on the beach in Puerto Mijares. The book showed how some herons had migration routes that crossed through Cuba and Nebraska. This was it. This was my bird. A bird that lived in both my worlds.

*  *  *  *  *

When I got to the Baxters’, the table had already been set. The nice white tablecloth we used for Thanksgiving and Christmas was laid out. We were celebrating something.

“What’s all this for?” I asked.

Mrs. Baxter was singing as she folded the napkins. “The doctor gave Mr. Baxter the all clear today. He’ll be able to farm again.” She twirled around the table as she fixed each place setting. “I swear, I haven’t heard that man so happy in months. He’s overjoyed, I tell you.”

Mrs. Baxter’s excitement was contagious. It felt like a party.

“Look what I made!” Frankie held a drawing of a man in the middle of a cornfield. On the top he’d written “Welcome Back!”

“He’ll love it. You know, he keeps the picture you made him for Christmas in the drawer next to the bed. Mr. Baxter can be quite the sentimental guy.”

I chuckled at the thought.

“No, really. He might not show it, but I know he feels it.” Mrs. Baxter smiled. “He loves you kids.”

A rumble in the driveway told us that Mr. Baxter had just pulled up.

“Oh good, he’s here.” Mrs. Baxter clasped her hands together. “I made all his favorites. Liver and onions, corn soufflé, green beans, dinner rolls. We’re having a feast tonight!”

Mr. Baxter walked in and, without saying a word, took off his coat and hat, like always.

“I’m so happy!” Mrs. Baxter threw herself around him.

Mr. Baxter stood motionless for a second, then slowly put his arms around her waist. “Me too,” he whispered.

Frankie squeezed in between them to show off his latest drawing.

“Hmm, looks quite a bit like me,” Mr. Baxter said.

Frankie jumped up and down. “And see, the corn is high. Ready to be picked.”

Mr. Baxter put a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “I see. You just might make a good farmer one day.”

“Maybe … or an astronaut.” Frankie stuck out his arms and pretended to fly around the room.

Mrs. Baxter stifled a laugh. “Oh, Frankie, you’re too much!”

“Congratulations, Mr. Baxter. I’m very happy for you,” I said.

“Thank you, Lucía.” He went to his coat and pulled something out of one pocket. “This came for you.”

Mr. Baxter handed me an envelope with no return address.

“I’ll read it later,” I said, folding it into my skirt pocket.

*  *  *  *  *

After dinner, Mr. Baxter decided to survey the fields with Frankie. Mrs. Baxter was on the phone with her friend Gladys, so I settled onto the lime green sofa in the living room to read the evening paper. As I sat down, the envelope in my skirt pocket crinkled. I almost didn’t want to read Ivette’s letter. She really hadn’t responded to most of my letters, and Mamá said Ivette had become the leader of the Jóvenes Rebeldes group in addition to recruiting new kids for the brigades. It was hard to believe that this was the same girl who’d gone to kindergarten with me, who’d spent hours at my house listening to music and planning my outfits, the one who’d bring me the latest fashion magazines when I was sick with the flu.

I opened the envelope. The letter was very short.

Dear Lucía,

Have you completely sold yourself to the materialism of the American society? You are falling into an obvious imperialist Yankee trap. You should be here, with the rest of your countrymen, where even if it’s tough, we’re united in our suffering for a better Cuba.

It was all propaganda-speak.

You need to convince your parents to stay in Cuba or none of you will ever be allowed to return. You’ll be people without a country, without a home, because the U.S. will never truly accept you. If you decide to stay where you are, then you are no better than all the other gusanos who’ve abandoned their homeland. Then you deserve to never see this place again. Tell me that you want to be part of the revolution, or else don’t bother telling me anything at all.

The words stung.

Not because they were true, but because they were such blatant lies. How could Ivette change so much? America had done nothing but help me and Frankie. And here I’d met some of the nicest and friendliest people in the world. People who cared for me.

My heart ached. I had wanted to go back to Cuba. To my parents. To my best friend. But that didn’t seem possible anymore. That Cuba, that friend, simply didn’t exist.

*  *  *  *  *

It was dark as I walked in the bitter cold toward the mailbox. I’d just finished responding to Ivette’s letter, telling her how wrong she was … about everything. That in the U.S., I’d found friends, happiness, and something she could never have with the revolution … freedom. It was here that people were free to choose their own path in life, free to speak their mind, free to have a different opinion, free to be themselves … all without fear.

I wrote about how she might be able to feel the Cuban soil under her feet or the smell the Caribbean Sea as it hit the powdery beaches, but I would carry Cuba with me wherever I went. That no matter what, I’d never stop loving my childhood home.

I glanced down at the envelope I was about to mail. A wave of sadness swept over me as I realized that my friendship with Ivette was ending. It had died a slow death over the past few months, and now it simply couldn’t survive the different choices we were making. I knew that after reading my letter, Ivette would not write to me again.

I pulled open the mailbox, placed the envelope inside, and lifted the little red flag. I slowly turned around and trudged back through the snowy night into the warm and brightly lit Baxter house.