Papi

by J. B. Hogan

This time they found Papi four blocks from home in the Plaza del Caribe Mall, wandering around—lost, feverish, asking anyone who would listen to help him get to Miami. Alfonso raced out to get him about six-thirty and the security guard, who was locking up the mall, had been rather rude.

"You’d better keep more control over this old man," the guard told Alfonso after checking his identification carefully. Papi sat in a chair nearby, apparently not comprehending.

"Certainly," Alfonso said, a little annoyed at the guard’s tone.

"He’s a public menace," the guard said. Alfonso’s eyes flared.

"He’s an old man," he said sharply, "old and very sick. That’s as plain as the nose on your face."

"Well, move him out of here," the guard said. "Next time I’ll call the police."

"There won’t be a next time," Alfonso said. He helped Papi up, putting his right arm around the old man’s bony shoulder as support. "Come on, father. Let’s go." He glared back at the guard who gave a small snort of disgust.

"Gusanos," the guard muttered as Alfonso and his father walked away. Alfonso stopped. He turned back toward the guard.

"What’s that?" he asked.

"Nothing," the guard said, eyes darting from side to side, "just move along. Take the old man out of here." Alfonso, enraged, mumbled a curse, but led Papi away.

Back home, he put his father to bed and sat by him most of the night while the old man tossed and turned in his feverish pain. Early next morning, Alfonso’s wife, Eloisa, came into the guest bedroom and cleaned her father-in-law’s sweat covered face with a cool cloth. Alfonso pressed her free hand and smiled weakly. Eloisa kissed her husband on the forehead and patted his tired shoulders.

"He was trying to go to Miami," Alfonso said, "como siempre. Like he always does."

"I know," Eloisa said, wiping the old man’s brow. He stirred slightly and his eyes opened briefly. "Alfonso," Eloisa said.

"I see," Alfonso said. They looked down at the old man. He looked very old and very tired.

"Papi," Eloisa said, "can you hear me? Are you comfortable?"

"Miami," Papi managed to get out. When he pronounced the word it sounded like mee-ahm-ee. "Miami," he said again hoarsely, "un kiosk . . . hermanos."

Alfonso looked down at his father. For a moment he felt like he might cry.

"He’s delirious," Alfonso said, "the fever."

Eloisa nodded and went to soak the face cloth with cold water. When she returned, the old man was still very hot and incoherent. "Oh, Papi," she said, wiping his face gently, "poor Papi."

Alfonso got up and walked to the jalousied bedroom window and looked out of the house onto neighboring yards with their green lawns, rubber plants, and avocado trees. Miami windows, he thought with irony, Miami. Poor Papi.

"Miami," the old man blurted out again. Alfonso jumped. He looked at his father.

"Papi," Eloisa pleaded soothingly, "please. You have to stop thinking of Miami. You must rest. You’re sick."

"He always loved Miami," Alfonso said reflectively.

"Yes," Eloisa said, "though I don’t know why."

"It was because there were so many of his generation there," Alfonso said, "they wanted to escape Fidel."

"And what did they get in Miami?" Eloisa asked.

"I know, I know," Alfonso said, "but they’re old and they feel good together."

"A lot of young ones are there, too."

"Yes. There are many of them there in the barrio. They don’t call them gusanos in their own barrio."

"They’re no better off than they were in Cuba. Many are worse."

"They think they’re free."

"Yes," Eloisa agreed. She looked searchingly at her husband. She had never known for sure if Alfonso had left just for her and the children and for Papi, his father. Alfonso could be selfless, deny his own needs. He was capable of that. She knew he thought about Cuba a lot.

He often talked of Fidel and Che. Of the great revolution that rid the country of the dictator Bautista. He loved to tell people about the teaching medal presented to him by Fidel himself, and he liked to impress on anyone who would listen his high opinion

of Che’s honesty and integrity. He frequently had trouble with other Cuban exiles but he held onto his beliefs. Suddenly Papi jerked, forcing Eloisa back into the present reality.

"Habana," Papi said, his voice barely audible, "Habana."

Eloisa lifted her head and sighed. She looked at Alfonso and frowned. He lowered his eyes.

"Habana," the old man said again, his throat rattling weakly.

"He heard us about Cuba," Eloisa said, "now he’s confusing the two again. He doesn’t know what he’s saying."

"No," Alfonso said, "he doesn’t."

Papi suddenly grew still and his head rolled over towards his right shoulder. Eloisa bent over to check his breathing.

"Call the doctor, Alfonso," she said, straightening up, "and call Father Reyes."

"Stay with us, Papi," she said to the old man when Alfonso was gone. "Don’t go yet. We still love you. And the girls will miss you so. You have to get well so you can go to Miami. Your old friends are there. In Little Habana, right?"

She patted his face with the now nearly warm cloth. Looking at his washed out face, Eloisa realized her father-in-law would never see Miami—or Habana—again.

"We should have stayed in Cuba, abuelito," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "At least there you could have died at home. In the land where you were born. Oh, Papi, I miss it so bad sometimes. The family, the city, the mountains."

She took the cloth from Papi’s head and wiped away her tears. I mustn’t cry like a woman, she told herself, this is our life. It’s what we’ve made it.

"But, oh, Papi, I miss you already," she said out loud. "I love you." The old man did not stir.

In a few moments, Eloisa rose and took the cloth out to soak it again with cool water. When she came back, Alfonso had returned and was standing at the end of the bed. He looked worn and haggard.

"How is he?" he asked softly. Eloisa shook her head.

"The doctor and the priest will be here soon," Alfonso said.

"Good," Eloisa said without passion.

Alfonso cleared his throat. He moved up beside the bed and touched his father’s wrinkled hand. There was no response. Alfonso knelt and briefly hugged the old man. He stood up and put his hands on Eloisa’s shoulders. She linked her fingers with his.

"I’ll go tell the girls," Alfonso said simply.

"Yes," Eloisa said, looking up at her husband. "Yes."

J. B. Hogan is a freelance writer currently living in Ft. Collins, Co. with a Ph.D. in English (literature). Most recent publications include:  "Out at Sea" (short story), Mobius, Winter 2003, pp. 11-12; "Angels in the Ozarks" (minor league baseball history article), Mid-America Folklore Journal, July 2002, pp. 25-43; and "Napalm Night" (short story), Viet Nam Generation, Fall 1994, pp. 146-148.