11

Jack went food shopping with Abuela. This wasn’t just the dutiful grandson taking his grandmother to the grocery store. This was Jack’s biweekly lesson in Cuban culture.

“What you like for eating, mi vida?”

Mi vida. Literally it meant “my life,” and Jack loved being her vida. “Camarones?” he said.

“Ah, shreemp. Muy bien.”

It was part of their routine, Jack speaking bad Spanish, Abuela answering in bad English. Jack did the best he could for a half-Cuban kid who’d been raised one hundred percent gringo, which, of course, was the point of their little visits together to the grocery store. Mario’s on Douglas Road was the neighborhood market in an area that began to establish itself as Cuban American with the first wave of immigrants in the 1960s. More than three decades later the conversion was complete, and Mario’s Market was virtually unchanged, owned and operated since 1968 by a smiling old man named Kiko (there never was a Mario, he just liked the alliteration). A cup of café con leche was still just thirty-five cents at the breakfast counter in front. Nine aisles of food were stuffed with the basic essentials of life, including twenty-pound sacks of long-grain rice, bistec palamillo sliced to order, delicious caramel flan topping, an assortment of cooking wines to satisfy the most discerning chefs, and glass-encased candles painted with the holy images of Santa Bárbara and San Lázaro. Established customers could buy on credit, and the best Cuban bread in town, baked on the premises, could be purchased straight from the hot ovens in back. All you had to do was follow your nose, or for the olfactory deprived, follow the signs and arrows marked PAN CALIENTE. Jack had driven past the store a thousand times on his way downtown, and he would have kept right on driving for the rest of his life had his grandmother not come to the United States and opened a whole new set of doors for him. Twice a month they visited Mario’s together to select the freshest ingredients, and then Abuela would come over to Jack’s kitchen and demonstrate the old family recipes.

Abuela was a phenomenal cook. She always seemed to be preparing a meal or planning the next one, as if on a mission to make up for thirty-eight years of living under Castro with virtually nothing to cook and nothing to eat. Almost five years had passed since Jack’s father called to tell him that Abuela was coming to Miami, and Abuela became Jack’s window to the past-to his mother’s roots. Of course there would always be the gap that no one could fill, the gaping hole of a life that was never lived, the tragedy of a mother who died bringing her son into the world. Jack’s father had told him stories about Ana Maria, the beautiful young Cuban girl with whom Harry had fallen head over heels in love. Jack knew how they’d met, he knew about the fresh yellow flower she used to wear in her long brown hair, he knew how jaws would drop when she walked into a party, and he knew that when someone told a joke, she was the first to laugh and the last to stop. All of those things mattered to Jack, but even on those rare occasions when his father did open up and talk about the wife he’d lost, he could offer Jack only a snippet of her life, just the handful of those final years in Miami. Abuela was the rest of the story. When she talked of her sweet, young daughter, her aging eyes would light up with so much magic that Jack could be certain that Ana Maria had truly lived. And Abuela could be certain that she still lived, the way only a grandmother could be certain of such things, the kind of certainty that came when you took a grandchild by the hand, or looked into his eyes, or cupped his cheek in your hand, and the generations seemed to blur.

Abuela placed a loaf of Cuban bread in their shopping cart, then continued down the aisle. “So, who is the young lady?”

“What young lady?”

“I see you at Deli Lane the other day. Very pretty young lady with you.”

Jack realized she was talking about Lindsey. Obviously she’d spotted them before things had turned nasty. “Her name is Lindsey.”

“She live here?”

“She does now. She moved here from Guantánamo Bay.”

“ Cuba?” she said, her eyes sparkling. “She Cuban?”

Jack smiled, knowing that nothing would have made Abuela happier than for her grandson to meet a nice Cuban girl. “No, she just lived in Cuba.”

“Not Cuban, but she lived in Cuba,” said Abuela. “Maybe I can live with that. She good friend?”

“She’s actually more of a client than a friend.” An ex-client, but Jack didn’t want to get into that.

“She have trouble?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“They say she killed her husband.”

Abuela’s mouth was agape. “She kill her husband?”

“No. She’s accused of it.”

“Dios mío!” she said with a shudder. Then she did a double take. “That’s her, no? That your friend Lindsey?”

The man behind the checkout counter was watching a small portable television, and Abuela was pointing in that direction. Sure enough, Lindsey’s image was on the screen, the lead story on one of the Spanish-language news stations. Jack understood the language much better than he spoke it, so he stepped closer to catch the report in progress.

“Lindsey Hart, the daughter-in-law of Brothers for Freedom founder and president Alejandro Pintado, surrendered to federal marshals this afternoon after a grand jury returned an indictment charging her with murder in the first degree. Ms. Hart allegedly shot her husband, Oscar Pintado, a captain in the United States Marine Corps. Captain Pintado, the thirty-eight-year-old son of the well-known Cuban-exile leader, was found shot to death in his home on the U.S. Naval Air Station at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. At a press conference today, United States Attorney Hector Torres announced that he, personally, would see to it that his office would commit whatever resources were necessary to ensure that justice was done in this matter. Mr. Pintado is reportedly pleased by today’s developments and was unavailable for comment. However, Sofia Suarez, the attorney for Lindsey Hart, had this to say about the indictment-”

“Her attorney?” Jack said, his words coming like a reflex.

The on-screen image switched to an attractive female attorney, standing on the courthouse steps and speaking to a bouquet of microphones. “My client is shocked by today’s indictment. Lindsey Hart is completely innocent. I cannot get into the details of our defense at this time, but suffice it to say that we smell a cover-up. We are convinced that Captain Pintado was murdered for reasons that this indictment does not even begin to describe, and we intend to prove that the military has something to hide here.”

Jack had no idea who this Sofia Suarez was, or when Lindsey had even hired her. But the whole idea of taking on the U.S. military from the get-go seemed a bit over the top.

The anchorman returned to the screen and said, “Ms. Hart entered a plea of not guilty at her arraignment late this afternoon. She was denied bail and will remain in custody pending trial.”

The newscast switched to another story, and Jack turned away from the television set. He’d known for some time that an indictment was looming, and it certainly wasn’t unusual for the accused to be denied bail in a case of first-degree murder. But the thought of young Brian having to deal with his mother’s incarceration was still difficult for Jack to stomach.

Abuela grabbed his hand and said, “Listen to me, mi vida. I saw how this Lindsey look at you in the restaurant. It seem nice, when I thought she maybe was good for you.”

“Looking at me how? She was a client.”

“Aye, you are so blind. That woman is big trouble. You forget that one. Understand me? Forget that one.”

He was still reeling from the news of the indictment, but Abuela’s words struck a chord. Forget that one. People were so quick to judge, and Lindsey was getting it from everyone-from people she once considered friends at the naval base, and from people she’d never even met, like Abuela. Who could blame her for having been so angry at the restaurant, after her own lawyer had laid on a hefty dose of doubt?

“Forget about her, you say?” said Jack.

“Sí, sí. Forget her.”

Jack shook his head, his thoughts still with Lindsey’s son. His son. “It’s not that easy.”

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