—No shit, Little Fito said. All the way in New York? That’s fucking crazy.
—Woooooow, Weasel said, obviously less impressed. He put his cigarette back in his mouth and held it there, turning his head to the parking lot.
—I thought we didn’t see you because of your dad! Little Fito said. Or, I mean, you know, your mom?
He looked at his cigarette like it could answer the delicate etiquette question of how to reference my parents’ separation.
—My dad never mentioned I was away at college? I said.
The tip of Weasel’s cigarette flared orange.
—No! Little Fito said. I mean, yeah, he did, but we figured you were around, like at Miami Dade or FIU.
I was a breath away from telling him about Rawlings before thinking of Leidy. The fourth or fifth time she accused me of acting white was the afternoon of my second day home, when I told her how, when I’d gone to pick up Dante from daycare, the girl ranked ninth in my graduating high school class was there, working as a teacher’s helper and five months pregnant with her boyfriend-turned-fiancé’s kid. Without really thinking about it, I told Leidy that seeing that girl there was depressing. I think my exact words were, It just really bummed me out. She’d said, What the fuck is bum you out? Jesus, you sound so freaking white. I’d said, What does that even mean, stop saying that, and she’d said, Then shut the fuck up already, before storming from the living room, claiming Dante needed his diaper changed. I’d hurt her feelings without realizing it, which, based on my time at Rawlings, felt to me more white than anything else I’d done since being back—that, and what seemed like my atypical reaction to the daily Ariel Hernandez protests, which I felt were pretty intense but which most of Little Havana treated as a totally acceptable response. My inability to get as upset as my mom about Ariel’s possible deportation made me for the first time worry that Rawlings could change me in a way that was bad.
I decided to explain Rawlings to these cousins by saying how I’d first thought about it, which wasn’t accurate, but it would get me past them into their apartment.
—The school I’m at is more like UM than FIU in that it’s freaking expensive, but it’s sorta different, like the football team is shitty, and I got this stupid scholarship that covers a lot of it, so, yeah, that’s why I’m there.
Little Fito nodded and smiled, said, A scholarship, damn.
Weasel pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, tossed it over my head into the parking lot, grabbed the sliding glass door’s handle, and said, You want a beer?
Inside sat Tío Fito—Fito the Elder—eyes glassy and with a can of Becks (la llave, we called it, because of the little drawing of a key on the logo) snuggled between his legs. He was watching a Marlins game, which confused the hell out of me until Little Fito explained it was a tape of the 1997 World Series.
—Two years later and he still don’t believe we won it, Little Fito said.
Weasel laughed and went to the fridge to get cans for everyone. I almost joked that I was just happy they were watching anything other than the news like my mom, but then I thought better of saying her name, or Ariel’s.
Tío Fito stood up after placing his can on the tile floor and staggered over to me for a hug. He was shirtless and, aside from the preponderance of gray chest hair, the broken little veins sprawling over his cheeks, and the deep lines on his forehead that spelled out the eleven years he had on his younger brother, looked pretty much like a beer-drenched version of my dad, down to the goatee and the heavy eyelashes. He was the only one of my tíos to come from Cuba on the Mariel Boatlift, and his English wasn’t as good as it would’ve been had he arrived earlier and as a young teenager, like my father.
—Meri Cree ma! he slurred.
His hug was loose and floppy. The warmth of his bare chest and back felt weird—almost damp—against the insides of my arms.
—Merry Christmas, Tío. Where’s Papi?
He shuffled out from our hug and dropped onto the couch. He breathed in sharply, then pressed his hand to his belly and burped.
I laughed, then said toward Little Fito, He’s drunk already? Isn’t it maybe too early for that?
From the kitchen, Weasel said, Shut the fuck up.
—Eh? Tío said. ?Tu papá? No here.
He shook his head and flapped an arm around to indicate the living room and kitchen of the apartment.
Weasel yelled in my direction, You forget how to speak Spanish in New York?
—Relax, Wease, Little Fito said behind me.
—No, Tío, I mean where does he live?
—You don’t know where your dad lives? Weasel yelled into the fridge.
—Okay, that’s just messed up, Little Fito said.
I whirled around to him and yelled, He never told me.