The Offering (10 page)

A baby, of course. Until she held her little one in her arms, she would probably worry about every detail.

An inner voice warned me not to get too close, but still my heart went out to her. I had never yearned desperately for a baby, but I had once yearned for Gideon. I could remember being completely convinced that I would never know true happiness unless I had his love.

Simone Amblour was no love-starved romantic, but she was a woman. And something told me that we women loved, hated, and desired with an intensity many men would never experience.

While I waited to hear from the reproductive endocrinologist about how I should begin preparing for the embryo transfer, holiday festivities continued at the grocery. Three days before Christmas, a busload of residents from a retirement center pulled into the parking lot.
“Ay, caramba,”
Mario muttered loud enough for me to hear.
“Me olvidé de las personas mayores.”

He hurried to attend to something behind the butcher counter while I watched the old folks step from the small bus, their careful movements reminding me of the elderly Carlos and Yaritza Fernandez.

“What's this about?” I asked as Mama Isa came over to check out the new arrivals. “We have tourists now?”

She nodded, her eyes intent on her potential customers. “The activities director promised to bring twenty-four people, and it looks like they all made it. Mario and Jenna prepared box lunches of a traditional Cuban Christmas dinner, so the old folks are coming to visit the grocery, then they're taking their boxes and eating at the park across the highway. It won't be exactly traditional, but at least it'll be something different for them.”

Mama Isa sashayed toward the door while I watched the seniors gather in the parking lot. Their faces shone with expectation, and I could only hope our little shop didn't disappoint. What memorable gems did they expect to find in a Cuban grocery?

A moment later Mama Isa pushed the front door open and welcomed them in a cheerful voice.
“¡Hola, bienvenido!”
She nodded toward a tall gentleman who inched forward with small, cautious steps.
“¿Cómo está, señor?”

“No speak-o Spanish-o,” he said, offering his arm to one of the women following him. “English only.”

“Then welcome to our grocery.” Mama Isa stepped back so he could enter. “If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask.”

A moment later Amelia came out of the office and joined me at the register, but I hadn't exactly been bombarded with folks rushing to purchase Goya beans, packaged cockles, or suckling pigs.

“They've already paid for the box lunches,” Amelia told me, looking at an old man who kept smiling at her. “So unless they buy something else . . .”

I folded my arms and watched a woman sniff a can of coconut milk. “Looks like they're more interested in looking than buying.”

“What do you think?” Amelia smiled at me as she leaned against the counter. “Will we be riding a tourist bus one day?”

I shrugged. “We'll be lucky to live so long.”

Amelia straightened as a woman plucked something from a
nearby vegetable bin and lifted it into the air. “What's this thing?” she yelled. “It says
boniato
—”

Amelia hurried to the woman's side. “Ma'am, that's a sweet potato.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?” The woman dropped it back into the bin and turned toward the door. “I can't read any of the signs in this place. What time is lunch, anyway?”

I turned toward the cash register, hoping one of them would at least buy a candle or a bag of plantain chips, but kilt-clad Claude Newton was the only customer coming toward the checkout stand. He dropped a pack of gum onto the counter and grinned at the seniors around him. “They should come hang out with my posse,” he said, winking as I rang him up. “Maybe they'd feel a few years younger.”

After a few minutes the seniors' activities director, a young woman in navy slacks and a white blouse, walked to the center of the store, blew a whistle, and announced that her group should head toward the front door. Claude shuffled out with them, but instead of boarding the bus, he hopped on his bicycle and peddled off to wherever he hid when he wasn't lounging around with the nudists.

The driver of the seniors cranked the engine as the last strains of “¡Feliz Navidad!” faded from the radio, then the announcer's voice cut in. Something in the man's tone snagged my attention, and when I heard the words “jetliner” and “terrorist,” my heart congealed into a small lump of dread.

“Two Florida men were arrested today,” the announcer said, “for allegedly attempting to carry Tasers aboard an American Airlines jet leaving Tampa International Airport. No one was injured during the scuffle at the security checkpoint, but the men screamed out threats as they were led away, increasing fears and tension during this busy holiday season.”

I looked out the window as my heart began to thump almost painfully in my chest. Fools like those two men were going to get
my husband injured or killed in some stupid international incident. I hated worrying about Gideon, but I simply couldn't bear it if he were hurt or disabled. The military was pretty good about taking care of its own, but what would become of our dreams if Gideon spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair or a hospital bed?

A darker prospect loomed as well, but I couldn't think about that. Losing Gideon would be horrible for me, but even worse for our daughter. So I refused to consider the possibility.

I watched the young activities director hold out her hand and herd the remaining senior adults onto the bus. Those people had enjoyed a long life, but with crazy people making threats every week, was my generation going to be able to do the same? How could I help my daughter thrive in a world where the man seated next to her on a plane might be determined to kill everyone on board? Or when the next piece of mail she opened might be filled with some variety of powdered poison? Gideon and his men were risking their lives to keep our country safe, but they were only a few men, and the world brimmed with lunatics. . . .

The little bus had just pulled out of the parking lot when angry voices shattered the sudden stillness in the store. After checking to be sure none of the seniors lingered in the aisles, I left the checkout stand and walked toward the back. I found Amelia and Mario standing in the stockroom, their faces tight with frustration.

“You can't blame me,” Mario yelled, apparently not caring that they were no longer alone. “It's not my fault you're not pregnant.” He followed with a stream of Spanish so intense I couldn't catch a word.

Anger blossomed in Amelia's taut face. “Oh, yeah? Maybe it
is
your fault.” She switched to Spanish, too, and spoke so precisely, so sharply, that I caught something about staying out too late and leaving nothing for her.

“Maybe I should find a woman who sees me as a man and not a stud service.” Maybe Mario spoke in Spanish; maybe English, I don't know. But his meaning would have been clear in any language.

Knowing I could be setting myself up for a full dose of Cuban fury, I stepped between them and held up my hands. “Hey, guys.” I looked from Amelia to Mario. “Anything you want to talk about . . . outside?”

Amelia turned away, her lower lip quivering, while Mario stormed out the back door without even looking at his wife. I watched him go, then moved to comfort my cousin.

“Hey.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Things are gonna be okay.”

She shook her head. “I don't see how they can be. I love Mario, honestly I do, but sometimes he can be so bullheaded.”

“So—this is about getting pregnant, right?”

She laughed hoarsely. “I guess it's no longer a secret, huh? Mario yelled it out for the entire world to hear.”

“No one heard. The store is pretty much empty now. Your mama went outside to say good-bye to the old folks.”

“Then we were lucky, because these days Mario isn't thinking before he speaks.” Amelia looked up, her eyes damp with pain. “Mama knows about our problem, but I don't want her to hear us arguing. The frustrating thing is we both want a kid, but all this trying and waiting is driving us nuts.”

“Maybe you two need to relax. Go on a vacation, take a second honeymoon. Have fun and don't even think about getting pregnant.”

Amelia gave me a sour smile. “Like we've never heard that before. ‘Relax,' Mama says, ‘and it'll happen. Wait for God to answer.' Well, we've tried relaxing, and it hasn't happened. We've tried taking my temperature every morning and Mario's been wearing baggy underwear, which he despises. I've even asked Yaritza about old wives' tales. I've prayed for a baby until I feel like I'm just repeating useless phrases, and I've even been tempted to get one of those talisman fertility candles. . . .”

“Don't waste your money on superstitious junk,” I whispered. “And I know God hears your prayers. He wouldn't be God if he didn't, right?”

“Mama says if I feel like I was meant to be a mother, he's probably not saying
no
. He might be saying
wait
. But wait for
what
?” Amelia swiped tears from her face, then crossed her arms and gazed into private space. “I've been waiting a long time. I'm twenty-seven, and I'm not getting any younger. I want to have kids while I still have enough energy to chase after them.” She sniffed when the bells on the front door jingled, then jerked her thumb toward the register. “You should get back in there.”

“That was probably your mother coming in.” I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “Have you thought about investigating other options? There's in vitro fertilization and artificial insemination. You should talk to your doctor about other ways to have a baby.”

“Mario's old-fashioned.” Amelia pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket, then blew her nose. “He will barely talk about this, and he won't admit that any part of it could be his fault. If the doctor asks him to—” She shuddered. “Never mind. I think he'd cut off his nose before he'd go in for an exam. And those other things you mentioned are expensive. Our insurance would never cover those kinds of elective procedures.”

The bells above the front door jangled again, and this time Amelia stepped away. “I've gotta get some cartons unpacked. Don't mind me. There's nothing you can do, anyway. And please don't say anything about this to Gideon. Mario would die if he thought the men in the family knew he couldn't get me pregnant.”

Amelia's heavy sorrow seemed to spread until it crossed the space between us and mingled with my own anxiety about a terror-filled future. During that awful moment, I wondered if darkness might manage to erase all the light in the world.

C
hristmas finally arrived, complete with a chilly breeze that blew down from Canada and forced us to haul our sweaters out of storage. I think my cardigans were grateful to come out of the closet, and Marilee absolutely loved the fuzzy red sweater I bought her for Christmas and allowed her to open early. The pullover was a little big on her, but it had a treble clef embroidered on one side and a bass clef on the other, so she rolled up the ribbed cuffs and promised that it fit perfectly.

Gordon and Yanela had brought many traditions with them from Cuba, but their love for the Catholic church's nativity service topped the list. Out of respect for the elders, the entire family came together every Christmas Eve to celebrate the Misa del Gallo, or Mass of the Rooster, at St. Joseph's Church. As usual, we paused in Mama Isa's living room so Yanela could tell Marilee why midnight Mass was named for a barnyard bird. “The only time the rooster crowed at midnight,” she said, wagging her finger as she smiled at Marilee, “was when the Baby Jesus was born.”

My mom had driven down from The Villages to spend the holiday with us, so she accompanied us on our traditional visit to church and to Mama Isa's house afterward. Mom stayed in the pew during the service, her Protestant conscience unable to
sanction taking Communion from a Catholic priest, but I had come to adore the beauty of the service and figured I could partake of the Lord's Supper with any group of believers that would let me.

After Mass, we climbed into our respective vehicles and drove to Mama Isa's house, a modest home only a block from the grocery. The house had originally been constructed with concrete block and jalousie windows, a style typical of old Florida, but over the years Isa and Jorge had added Latin touches. A knee-high concrete block fence, topped by white wrought iron and bright Christmas lights, enclosed the property, and Jorge had added a front porch supported by a row of square columns linked by arches. The entire house had been enclosed in pale orange stucco, and though a riotous thicket of purple bougainvillea grew by the side fence, over the years Jorge had turned the front lawn into a concrete parking lot.

Once when I asked Mama Isa if she missed seeing grass outside the window, she responded with a shrug. “Grass I have to cut and water, but concrete never complains.”

My mom had been horrified the first time she saw the stone forms spread over the lawn like a patchwork quilt. Personally, I had grown fond of the multisectioned slab—in it I could trace the family's past, from the original driveway at the left side of the house, the narrow two-strip drive that came later, the double parking pad installed when Amelia bought her first car, and finally the “everything but two flower beds” paving Jorge had surrendered to in the end. My neighbors in Town 'n' Country would stage a revolt if Gideon and I were to substitute concrete for landscaping, but no one on St. Louis Street dared rebuke Mama Isa.

As the cold wind quickened our steps and the moon played peek-a-boo in the clouds, Gideon carried Marilee into the house. I followed with our gifts and my mom.