“He was a genius,” my father said, sadly, as if this were a fact lost to the world.
The second appointment was at a larger facility, a hundred beds. The rooms were double occupancy. At Uriah’s establishment Grandpa would have been squeezed in with five other men. Here, although the rooms were institutional, like a hospital’s, at least they were bright, clean and a reasonable size, allowing for a few personal possessions. Again, Grandfather announced it was nice over and over as we toured. I was puzzled by his anxiousness to agree to become a resident of either place. I expected his senility to take a different form: fear and resistance to change. I understood when I took his arm as we walked down a flight of stairs to see the Activities Room. I whispered to him, “You really like it here?”
“Yes, it’s nice,” he said for what seemed like the twentieth time. “For a few weeks, it’s okay,” he added in Spanish.
“A few weeks?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“It’s nice,” he said in English. “Until my mind clears,” he said in Spanish; then back to English, “It’s nice.”
The bigger, more modern nursing home divided us. Diane and Cuco were in favor of it. Most of the residents were Latin, the staff seemed competent and not harassed. There were things to do besides watch television with Uriah Heep. And it was near old Ybor City, where my grandfather had once rolled cigars. In fact, we drove to Ybor City proper to eat my grandfather’s favorite lunch, Cuban sandwiches at the Tropicana. Francisco and I didn’t demur from Cucos and Diane’s positive comments about the nursing home, but we didn’t concede the decision was made either. Not that I felt my agreement was a factor for Francisco. As for Grandpa, the question was settled. “Let’s go back and tell them I’ll come in tomorrow,” he said, seeming much livelier as he bit into a flattened hero loaf, mustard oozing from its edge onto his fingers.
Francisco wiped his father’s fingers with a napkin. “Tomorrow? What are you talking about? They don’t have room until next month and there’s papers, lots of papers to sign. All those Medicare and Medicaid forms, right?” he smiled at Diane. She had questioned the administrator about insurance procotols, the liquidation of Grandfather’s assets, and so on, inadvertently showing off her expertise in dealing with bureaucracy. She handled all the paperwork for our clinic. She had impressed my father. “And we have to sell your house,” he added to Grandpa.
“Sell my house?” Grandpa took another bite speaking as he chewed, flakes of bread falling onto his chin. “You can’t sell my house. It’s for you. You and Cuco. You’re going to live there.”
“Until you’re settled, yes. But we have to go back to,” he lowered his voice to add, “Havana.” There had been a warning from Grandpa before we entered the restaurant that all the waiters were Cuban exiles. “Maybe they’ll ask for Cuco’s autograph,” Francisco had said breezily then, but he seemed wary now, checking the room after he said Havana, as if it might cause an eruption.
When the check came, I took it. My father grabbed the slip of paper out of my hand, saying, “No,” firmly, again the dog trainer.
“Is there a phone here?” Diane asked. “We should get our messages,” she added to me.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Grandpa, is there a phone here?”
“What?” He had been silent since Francisco told him they were going to sell the house on St. Claire Street.
“Where is the phone, Grandpa?”
He looked at me with old eyes, dead at their centers. “I don’t know,” he said with profound regret.
“If I remember,” Francisco said, “there’s a pay phone near the bathrooms. I’ll show you.”
“You first,” I said to Diane. She and my father stood up. Francisco pointed the way for her and continued on to the cash register. He handed over the check and money while saying something to the man behind the register. He laughed at my father’s remark and immediately they were in a friendly conversation. I felt someone watching me as I watched Francisco. I turned to find Cuco staring at me.
“He can talk to anyone,” I said.
“Yes,” Cuco didn’t seem any happier about that than I. “Sometimes I think the less he likes you, the more he’s your friend.”
I smiled at Cuco’s insight. “Yes,” I said.
“But it is not true,” Cuco said. “It appears that way because he’s harder on us, the people he loves.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you?” Cuco turned up a palm to indicate his confusion.
“For including me in the people he loves.”
“But of course he loves you.”
In Spanish, Pepín said, “It’s hot in here, no?”
“Do you want me to unbutton—?” I began and then waved my hand, giving up.
Cuco ignored Grandpa’s interruption. He continued to look at me intently.
“He doesn’t,” I said. My chin quivered.
“Yes,” Cuco insisted. “He told me about you. So did my mother and …” he nodded at Pepín.
“How is your mother?”
“I don’t speak to her.”
“You don’t speak to her?”
“You don’t know?” Cuco frowned. He looked at the remains of our lunch, moving one of the bread crumbs with a thick index finger into a puddle of water. It floated a little and then he crushed it. “She defected,” he said, obviously ashamed. “At the last Pan-American Games, she disappeared. We heard she was in Miami.” He sighed and returned his gaze to me. “They don’t tell you about me, but they tell me about you. He tells me,” he nodded toward Francisco, counting his change, still talking in great good humor with one of what he calls “the Gusanos,” the worms who deserted Cuba in her hour of need. “He says you are a great man in this country.”
“He doesn’t mean that as a compliment.”
“Yes. He does. He says you are a great doctor. He says you work for the poor. He says you could be wealthy and treat only the privileged classes, but you fight for the black children. That is what he says of you.”
I couldn’t answer right away. I found myself watching Francisco. Another man had come up to the register and now there was a three-way conversation going. I didn’t look at Cuco when I said, “I betrayed him.”
“Yo sé,” Cuco whispered. “My mother told me what you did. She didn’t forgive you.” He grunted bitterly, presumably at this irony, and then continued, “But he does. He says you don’t want to be a Neruda, but you have no choice. You can’t escape your blood.”
“What?” I couldn’t help myself from chuckling at Francisco’s melodramatic narcissistic fantasy. I forgot about studying him, and instead looked at my brother. I put a hand on his bicep. I was startled by the size and strength of his muscle.
“He says, you are a Neruda.” Cuco was grave. And his eyes were sad. “That is a compliment.”
I understood the sadness. I kept my hand on his powerful arm. “So are you,” I said.
It was Cuco’s turn to watch Francisco talking. We could hear the music of our father’s voice, not the individual notes. Eyes on Francisco, Cuco asked, softly, “You think I am?” And then asked me again, this time with his wounded eyes.
“Oh yes.” I nodded. “We’re both Nerudas.”
When Diane returned she said, “Sally’s got messages for you.” Francisco had finished talking with his new pals and was headed our way.
“Anything urgent?”
“They’re your messages,” Diane said with mock primness. “I told Sally you’ll call back.”
I went to the pay phone. My messages weren’t urgent, but one alarmed me anyway. Phil Samuel had called to ask if I wanted a copy of his new study. He could fax it or mail it. If the latter, he wanted to know whether he ought to send it to my home address.