In the heat of the day
Many miles away when the
Sun is beating down
Upon the main street.
I'll be waiting at the station,
I gotta move down the line.
They'll be dancing and singin'
And doin' their thing
And they'll be rockin' and rollin'
Until the day is done
You know I've got to
Make the deadline -
I gotta get that southbound train tonight -
If I don't get to the border then I'll write.
The Mardi Gras
Will be blowing strong
And the people dancing
All across the city,
I'm leavin' here tonight,
Gotta move down the line.
I'm gonna catch a ride on the 9:05,
I'm gonna ride the rails
Until we reach the morning,
Maybe thee or four
Hundred miles
When the wind is blowing
Softly through the streets
Of a little town
And the music's playin',
You're waitin' somewhere
Over the horizon.
It was a little town. Most of them dotted around the valley were. The Sierra Maestra of Cuba could be seen far, far on the horizon, and in front of them was the little flash of silver which Catherine knew to be the sea. He wouldn't be crossing the water to get to her, though.
She threw back her long, dark curls and sighed onto the mountain breeze, ears straining to catch errant voices lost on the wind. None. She was alone up here, except for Burro, her affectionately named beaten-up scooter.
There was a fiesta scheduled for tonight in the village, before Lent began. Her mother spent the last few days whipping the family into shape for it. "Papa's coming home, and Mickey's visiting!" was mama's answer to any plea to rest from cooking, baking, cleaning, shopping, decorating, etc.
Mickey, Catherine savored the way his name sounded in memory. She looked over the horizon again, Cuba now lost to looming low cloud, and recalled the last time they spoke.
"Sure, I'll be there!" His Texan twang sugared her heart. "I wouldn't dare let your mama down. Not to mention, I need to make a good impression on your father."
Her heart skipped a beat, too scared to inquire as to what was implied by that statement. How she managed to finish the conversation was beyond her. But she did remembered he arrived very early in the morning of Ash Wednesday. Who knew, she considered, the party may still be in full swing and she could grab extra memories of dancing with him.
Casting her eyes over the human ants busying in the village below, Catherine straddled Burro, giving up her sweet escape to join the mayhem of preparation in the Square. Burro made it down the mountain in less than 10 minutes, and her brother, Paulo, met her by the water trough.
"You shouldn't have come back." He rolled his eyes in the direction of their mother, who was currently blocking the Priest's path with a choice on which lace to decorate the altar with. "If I had escaped I would now be the first American Sanchez from this part of the family."
"Paulo!" She rebuked, but with a laugh. "Mama will hear you, and then there'll be trouble."
"Don't tell me about trouble. What do you think she's going to do with your precious Mickey if he threatens to make an honest woman of you? Papa will be forced to show him what a real cowboy is, and string him up in the barn."
She tutted at him, he laughed and left in order help some friends with street decorations. Deep down her stomach turned: she thought the same thing. Even Papa casually dropped hints about there being a great living to be made with as a modern Rancheros if a man were made of strong enough stuff. No-one expected her to leave if Mickey wanted to marry her. They assumed he would move here or, she would say 'No'. No-one, not since the first Spanish settlers, ever willingly left.
The night came, bringing with it the sweet scents of the wild orchids and plumeria to mingle with the musk and spices of the village air. The colorful, tiny lanterns lit the square, and cast warm glows over the happy faces of the dancers. Catherine smiled at their hedonism, soon she would have the joy of being in Mickey's arms, and feeling the beat of the music through the pulse of the music. Please, she whispered a prayer, come to me soon, my love - no tomorrows, no planning, just the dance of our love. Please come to me.
By three am, even the most energetic among the revelers settled to talking and drinking, and by three-thirty only a handful of die-hard villagers remained as the tea-lights winked out one-by-one, not to be re-lit.
Catherine, gave in to her brother's logic and accompanied him back home, where her parents were already sleeping soundly. She unhitched the little wooden cover to the window and lay on her belly, looking out of the ornate wraught-iron casement, along the dusty road to the rail station. It was a pipe dream to think he would make it to the festival, she reminded herself. Maybe a pipe-dream too, to pin her dreams to a year of letters, broken by sporadic phone calls.
At 10.15am, after mass, Catherine admitted to herself that her Cowboy hadn't made the train. Too early to cast her hopes aside, and too late to avoid the doubts which were breaking her heart. She would wait for him. He would come.
(787 words) |
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