The Coming Storm--a Short Story

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 “The Coming Storm” “Merry Christmas, Susan.” My mother handed me a small, wrapped box. I shook it, attempting to decipher what object was inside. “Mommy! Santa really did come to Cuba,” Stanley yelled next to me as he tore into a giant box before him. It was a bicycle, a Schwinn Jaguar. “I guess it wasn’t too hot for him after all!” I carefully unwrapped my box, peeling back the delicate paper, careful not to ruin the pictures of elves and reindeer. I was always this scrupulous. Opening the small box, I discovered a pearl necklace. “They’re real pearls, honey,” my mother remarked. “I bought them in Havana.” I removed the necklace, my fingers stroking the smooth surface of the white beads. “This is beautiful,” I said. “Thank you Mama.” “They would look lovely on you.” “Eleanor!” My father burst into the room. Daddy managed most of the Nickel plants owned by the United States government and National Lead, easily making us one of the wealthiest families in Nicaro. “We should go to the United Fruit Christmas party. It would be fun.” He looked over at Stanley and I. “Bring the kids, too.” “Are you sure it’s safe? You know Fidel Castro and his gang practically control all of Oriente.” She and my father, as well as everyone else in Nicaro believed my sister Catherine was kidnapped by the rebels that fateful night in April of 1957, more than a year earlier. I knew the truth. Catherine sympathized with Castro’s rebels. Only with me would she speak passionately of the abuse the poor Cubans endured under American hands. Yankee imperialism, Catherine called it. I began to choke up. Catherine was




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 my best friend, as well as my sister. We would confide everything to each other. I considered myself the most impacted by Catherine’s loss, though she wasn’t truly lost. The previous night, as I secretly tuned into Radio Rebelde on the back porch, I swore I heard Catherine’s voice. The signal was weak and she was speaking Spanish, but I was positive it was she. “Susan, wear the lovely dress your aunt sent you from Atlanta to the party.” I saw the dress carefully folded, still tucked into the box it arrived in. It was pretty, navy blue rayon with cream trim around the collar. “Those pearls would look great with that.” My mother sat next to me on the couch. “You are too lovely, Susan.” Since Catherine’s departure, my mother had begun to dote on me. I was her only daughter now. The three of us, Catherine, Mama and I, were carbon copies of each other, with long, blonde hair that we styled meticulously and mesmerizing green eyes. Daddy would remark that the Prichard women were the loveliest in all of Oriente, in all of Cuba even. I tried to imagine Catherine now, wearing the uniform of the rebels, her hair down, dirty and stringy, carrying a gun. “Can I ride my bike to the party?” Stanley had eaten all of his candy, a stocking full of little candy-canes, taffy and whatever else my parents could find in Cuba. We didn’t have to look far—Cuba was the world’s sugar bowl. Sugar and mining—United Fruit and Nicaro—kept the country afloat. Daddy laughed, a deep, strong laugh. “Son, you know we go over to Preston in a boat.” He hoisted Stanley up off the ground. “You like riding on the ferry, don’t you?” Stanley clapped his hands and cheered.




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 ***

I wriggled uncomfortably in my new dress as I sat on a couch in the corner of the room. My toes were being crushed in the pumps Mama made me wear. “You need to look like a lady,” she had told me while fixing my hair. I scanned the room. Couples twirled across the parquet dance floor, the women lovely and their men debonair. A banner that read “Merry Christmas 1958” hung on the opposing wall above where the band was playing. I felt someone sit next to me. It was Phillip Carlysle, another wealthy Nicaro boy. His father worked with my father and they were friends. “You look beautiful tonight.” I mumbled thanks and looked down, fiddling with my new silver charm bracelet, another gift from Mama. Phillip was seventeen, Catherine’s age, and I thought it odd he was taking an interest in me. He was cute enough, with short, tousled brown hair and a mischievous smile that never left his face. “You know, my father saw your sister this summer, when Raúl Castro kidnapped a bunch of Nicaro men and took them up into the mountains. It was when they were sailing back from Preston...” Phillip proceeded to embark on a dry narrative; he thought himself so interesting. I interrupted him. “Really?” “She was wearing a 26 of July uniform, carrying a gun and everything.” He sighed, shaking his head, looking up at me with the defeated look of disbelief that was so common lately. “This may be our last Christmas in Cuba, Susan. Fidel Castro hates the Americans. He’s a communist, you know. Red as a fire truck, red as a lady’s lipstick…” “No, I don’t think so. All the rebels seem to want is democracy and equality.”




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 Phillip gave me a quizzical look, a smile forming on his face. “Oh Susan,” he said, laying his hand on my knee. “You have so much to learn. Care to dance?” Soon enough I found myself fluttering across the dance floor with Phillip. He held me close, too close I thought. I hated it when boys flirted with me, especially pompous American boys like Phillip. Their pride absolutely sickened me, the way they strode around Oriente as if they owned Cuba. They did, or at least their fathers did. President Batista, Catherine had told me, was a US puppet; he did whatever the Americans told him. “Are you still talking to that Cuban boy?” I shook her head. Last summer, I got to know Alejandro Suarez, a boy around my age who worked at the United Fruit commissary across the bay. Not only was he cute, certainly cuter than any American boy, but he was fascinating as well. We talked about their siblings—my sister and his older brother Jorge—who ran off to fight with the rebels and sometimes we would even secretly listen to Radio Rebelde broadcasts in the back of the store, when Alejandro could take a break. My parents soon learned the reason behind all my trips across the bay and subsequently banned me from associating with not only Alejandro, but also any Cubans at all. I overheard Mama and Daddy arguing one night; Daddy wanted to ship me back to the States, send me to an all-girls boarding school in Atlanta, but Mama objected. She didn’t want to lose her other daughter. “Good. You know all those stupid Cuban peasants love Castro—bunch of communists probably.” He laughed. “The only thing they’re good for is cutting sugarcane and mining metal. You deserve better than that.” He tightened his grip around my waist and pulled me even closer. I could smell the pomade in his hair and I felt nauseated.




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 After we finished dancing, Phillip took me outside. It was colder than it was inside, which was a relief, but this was still Cuba, a place where the humidity could fill your throat with its smoky condensation and nearly choke the life out of you. “I have something for you, Susan. I hope you like it.” With that he took my face in his sweaty hands, ramming his lips against mine. I tried to pull away, but my attempts only made his grip stronger. Finally, I mustered up enough strength and pushed him away. “I’ll tell my Daddy what you did, Phillip, I will!” He laughed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “No one will believe you. No one listens to girls.” The sense of entitlement these wealthy American boys possessed positively enraged me. I knew revolution was inevitable, that society would completely turn on its head, that the longstanding American power structure and colonial economy would be torn down. Since Catherine opened my eyes to injustices of the world, I had yearned for the immediate downfall of oppression, of racism and classism and of our own subjugation of this little strip of land off our coast. Paradise it was, but paradise for a few. But then I thought of my parents, who would be hurt by what the rebels wanted. I slapped Phillip hard, leaving a red imprint of my hand on his cheek. I seethed with rage; my whole body shook. I struggled to think of the most terrible thing possible to say to Phillip. “I hope the rebels inflict on you the painful justice you deserve.” I stomped away, my heels clacking hard against the concrete.

***




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“What exactly was the meaning of your behavior tonight?” Daddy yelled at me as I sat completely still, my back straight against the kitchen chair, my hands placed properly in my lap. “The rudeness you exhibited is very unbecoming in young ladies.” Mama stood over me, next to Daddy. “I though we raised you better than that.” “The Carlysles are good friends of ours and good people. I’m extremely disappointed in you, Susan.” Daddy shook his head. “Charles, what did she say?” He continued to stare at me, his angry eyes burning into my soul. “Susan, tell your mother what you told Phillip tonight,” Daddy hissed. I possessed an amazing amount of self-control and self-restraint. Otherwise I would have leaped at them both, screaming and yelling, like some wild animal. “I told him that things were about to change here in Cuba and that his snotty attitude will soon get him in lots of trouble.” I spoke my words calmly, my voice monotone and dry. “You threatened him?” Mama gasped. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Daddy continued. “Since Catherine…” He struggled to find the right words. “You’ve either been depressed or ornery. And I, for one, am damn sick of it. It’s Christmas, Susan, Jesus’ birthday. Show a little respect, a little reverence, at least for the occasion, would you?” “Phillip Carlysle is in no way deserving of respect,” I said again, calm and collected. “Respect is earned, not given out freely to just anyone like jobs in Nicaro.” Daddy and Mama were silent for a moment, astounded either by my sheer impudence or the way I conducted myself, appearing devoid of any sort of passion. Yet beneath the surface,




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 anger and disgust that had manifested itself within me ran wild and rampant. Mama looked to Daddy for her next cue. “Well then,” Daddy finally said. “Go to your room.” He turned his back away from me as I rose from the chair, softly tiptoeing as to not awake Stanley, who was fast asleep, his head filled with all sorts of Christmas fantasies. I fanaticized that Castro’s revolution would destroy Phillip Carlysle.

***

In the next few days, things only became worse for us Americans. While Daddy and Mama were glued to CMQ in the living room, I secretly listened to Radio Rebelde on the back porch, where I could get the best signal. I listened to Che Guevara’s deep, gravelly voice speaking Spanish, making out a few words. He spoke of revolution, of victory, of imperialism. “Susan!” Daddy burst onto the porch. “President Batista has fled the country. Pack up, we’re leaving as well.” He began to pace around, his breathing rapid and rushed. “Goddamnit!” Looking around, he set his eyes on the horizon. “Everything, everything is going to hell…why…” I dropped the transistor radio. “Leaving?” I struggled to find a reason to stay; I loved Cuba, my little slice of paradise, my inspiration and the very thing that defined who I was. In my six years living here, I had grown to love this beautiful little island, so close to home and yet so far off and exotic. “Daddy, we’ll leave Catherine,” “Catherine is dead probably,” he said. “Dead like this godforsaken country.”




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We sped across the island in our Ford Fairlane. We weren’t the only Americans leaving Cuba; that fact became apparent by the long line that awaited us at Havana Harbor, a long line of white faces, waiting for the next boat to Miami. People in line whispered about the possible havoc Castro and his rebels would cause. “He’ll nationalize everything,” I heard one man say. “He’ll outlaw private property for sure.” “Sir, we’re sold out for today. You have to catch the boat tomorrow.” “You’re mistaken.” Daddy began to argue with the desk clerk. “Do you know who I am? I am Charles Prichard and I run Nicaro.” The best thing about Cuba to my parents wasn’t the pretty beaches or the consistently nice weather—it was the sense of power they derived from their position here. We were high society and among the elite. But ninety miles north, power and prestige would be stripped from our name and we would return to a state of drab normality. “We only have four people! My wife and children are skinny enough, we can fit!” I secretly hoped we would stay, at least for one more night. Stanley tugged at my hand. “What’s going on, Susan? Why are we leaving? Why is Daddy mad?” “Stanley, something huge is happening. You’ll remember this moment, I promise.” I smiled at him, attempting to raise his spirits. He didn’t appear to understand my statement, for Stanley pouted still. My prayers were answered. We would have to stay in Havana overnight.

***




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My last night in Cuba was a blur. The city was in bedlam, with constant rioting and mass rejoicing over the end of the Batista regime. I watched from the hotel window as people knocked down parking meters and looted stores, destroying any sign of American influence they saw. A roulette wheel from a ransacked casino caught my eye; it spun aimlessly on the sidewalk as people rushed by, elated. “Chaos, pure chaos,” Daddy remarked. “I suppose people get the government they deserve.”

***

We left early in the morning, the sun just peeking over the horizon. I sat outside alone, looking back toward Cuba, tears in my eyes. Before we left, I wrote Catherine a letter that I left folded in the dresser of our hotel room. I knew Catherine would probably never see it, but writing it was cathartic nonetheless. I wrote that I hoped we would meet again sometime in the future, that she would come back to me after things settled down here, or that I would find her again. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Stanley. “Daddy said things are changing. I’m scared, Susan.” He climbed into my lap. “You shouldn’t fear change, Stanley,” I said. “You should embrace it.”