Eduardo stops in his tracks. “What do you mean he’s in Dallas?”

I hesitate. Nick’s purpose on the trip isn’t exactly secret, but at the same time, I’m not sure he wants me sharing his affairs with Eduardo of all people.

“There are problems within the Democratic Party in Texas. One of the men was Nick’s roommate at Harvard. Kennedy thought Nick could help smooth things over.”

Eduardo is silent.

“What happened? Why are you here?”

“Dwyer couldn’t come himself, but he asked me to deliver this to you personally.”

Our fingers brush as I take the letter from him, and I open the envelope, unfolding the paper and reading the words written there.

You’re getting your chance.

My heart pounds as I look up at Eduardo.

“What does this mean?”

“They’re sending you to Havana. In four days. We’ll bring you in by boat.”

“We?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing the past few months? I wasn’t going to stop just because Fidel had the temerity to throw me in prison.”

“I would have thought—after Playa Girón—”

“That I’d give up? Go back to my dissipated ways?”

“That you wouldn’t want to risk any more.”

“Why would I care about the risk? It’s not as though I have anything left to lose.”

“That’s not true. You have people who care about you. Your parents—”

“And what about you? Do you care about me?”

“You’re a good friend,” I answer carefully.

He sighs. “Ah, Beatriz. Sometimes I can’t tell if you think you’re lying to me or if you know you’re lying to yourself.”

He inclines his head toward the note. “I’ll pick you up at six A.M. on the twenty-sixth.”

I knew it was coming, suspected it might be close after my father’s visit. But now this is really happening. I will have to tell Nick something; will have to say good-bye to my sisters, to my family. This might truly be it; I might go to Cuba and end up in a cell somewhere like Eduardo, or dead on the street like my brother.

Suddenly, four days doesn’t feel very long at all.

Eduardo turns and walks toward the front door. He stops, his hand on the wood, turning back to face me.

It’s the kindness in his voice that catches me off guard.

“There was a shooting in Dallas.”

My heart drops.

“The president was shot in his motorcade with the First Lady by his side.”

“Is he—?”

I can’t finish the thought, even as I worry for Nick. He surely wouldn’t have been in the motorcade. He was there for meetings.

I sway, and Eduardo reaches out, steadying me.

“The president is in surgery,” Eduardo answers. “You should turn on the news. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything else.”

* * *

? ? ?

A knock at the front door pulls me away from the living room, where I sit watching the television, waiting for news of the president, the phone silent beside me.

I open the door, surprised to see Maria standing on the other side, still dressed in her uniform from school, her eyes red, her skin blotchy.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

I usher her into the room.

“I left.”

“You left? You can’t just leave school. They’ll be worried about you. You have to tell someone when you go, you can’t just—”

“They shot him,” she says. “The president. They shot him.”

Her eyes well with tears, and I am reminded of the night we watched the election together, of the excitement in her eyes, of the pad of paper and pencil she held as she kept a tally of the electoral college votes. I am reminded of what it felt like to be young and hopeful, and unable to make sense of the world around me when that hope was dashed.

I wrap my arms around her, letting her hug my waist, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Maria.”

She looks up at me, and in that moment, so many things flash before me, and I am transported back to a different time, a different place, a different memory: of the uncertainty in her eyes as we left Havana that fateful morning, the fear in mine, the sense of powerlessness that overwhelmed me that day.

Perhaps it is foolish to think we are ever in charge of our destinies.

“Is the president going to be fine?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “They broke into As the World Turns with the news that the president had been shot. He’s in surgery. I don’t know anything else. They just broke in again a few moments ago, but they haven’t given an update on his condition. We can watch it together.”

The phone rings from its place in the living room, and we pull apart as I race to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Beatriz.”

My eyes close at the sound of Nick’s voice on the other end of the line, at the reassurance that he is alive. I sag against the arm of the sofa.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I wasn’t with the president, but he was shot in his motorcade while sitting next to the First Lady.”

“Was she injured?”

“No. She’s waiting at the hospital for word of the president’s condition now.”

“Where are you?”

“With some of the others who came on the trip with him. Governor Connally was shot as well. It’s a mess here. No one knows what’s going on. I have to go, but I didn’t want you to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I can. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I echo.

Maria’s voice interrupts me as I hang up the phone.

“Beatriz.”

Before I even look at the television, Maria’s cries tell me all I need to know.

At two thirty-eight in the afternoon, Walter Cronkite confirms the news we have all feared.

President Kennedy is dead.

* * *

? ? ?

I sit with Maria while she sobs, holding her head in my lap, stroking her hair as I did when she was younger.

As horrible as the events of today are, there is numbness inside me. Maria is too young to have truly experienced the terrors of the revolution, but they’ve inured me to the horrors of life. And still, I mourn the president. Even though I disagreed with him on some of his policies, as I imagine his wife, his children, those who loved him, his friends like Nick, a country now thrown into the grip of something so unexpected, I feel a deep sadness. He was not a perfect man, but I do believe he was a good one, and we are the worse for his loss.

Kennedy gave a nation—the world, really—so much hope. And despite the fact that his life was cut short before many of his promises could come to fruition, a pall of sadness has been cast across all of us. Perhaps he was the idealist men like Mr. Dwyer criticized him for being, but he was at his core a good man who cared about his people, who wanted more for his country and genuinely sought to bring that change about, and in this world, those are qualities to be honored and venerated indeed.

I walk Maria home, her eyes red. I don’t have the energy to go inside with her and face our parents. Not today.

When I am back in the comfort of the house on the beach, I curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, the events of the day hitting me in waves. Is this why Dwyer wants me to go to Cuba now? Does the CIA suspect Fidel’s involvement in the assassination attempt, in Kennedy’s death?

I am to leave with Eduardo in less than four days, to see Cuba again. Once, it was my greatest wish. Now, I am afraid of what will be waiting for me when I do.

I doze off at some point in the night, only to be awakened by the sound of the front door opening, heavy footsteps against the marble floor.

I sit up, fumbling with the lamp on the end table.

Nick freezes, his overnight bag dropping to the ground.

“Beatriz.”

He says my name as though he’s reassuring himself I’m not an apparition; the keys drop from his hand and hit the table with a clunk.

He looks exhausted, his clothing rumpled from travel and wear.

I rise from the sofa and walk toward him, wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, tears trailing down my face, wetting his shirtfront, the haze surrounding me finally pierced.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

He hugs me, his hands fisting my hair, his mouth finding mine, his hands fumbling with my clothes as he bends me over the couch and we sink into oblivion.

chapter thirty-two

Grief surrounds us in the days following President Kennedy’s death. On the streets, people break into tears; in private, we are reduced to a state of somber shock.

On Sunday, just a few hours ago, the news announced that the president’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was shot and killed by Jack Ruby, a Texas nightclub operator, in the basement of the Dallas police station en route to a more secure jail facility, the entire situation too bizarre to be believed. The chaos of the past few days reminds me so much of the hectic times between Batista’s departure from Cuba and Fidel’s arrival, when the news was simply too outlandish and erratic to be predicted. There’s a sense of helplessness that can be found in such turmoil, the feeling that you have been swept up in the unrelenting curl of a massive wave, carried on against your will with no choice but to wait and see where the wave will take you.