“Keep playing, Cumba,” Mami says as she waves her hand at me. From what Papi told me, this was our last hope of ridding our island of Fidel’s oppressive government. The refugees tried to invade Cuba at the Bay of Pigs, but Fidel’s army quickly overtook them. Fidel’s soldiers defeated a force of Cuban refugees who had fled to the United States and were trained by the American government. They may be fooling Pepito, but they’re not fooling me. Mami and Tía Carmen exchange worried looks. My little brother, Pepito, starts to get up from his chair, but Mami puts her hand on his shoulder. Sharp shouts outside Tía Carmen’s house cut off the rest of her prayer. She reaches for the cross at her neck, and I hear her mumble the Lord’s Prayer. Mami paces behind Manuelito, twisting a red dish towel in her hands. “Don’t call me stupid,” I say, narrowing my eyes. His stubby fingers fidget over the remaining dominoes in front of him. My cousin Manuelito slaps another domino down on the table. Instead of a mango tree out front with a tocororo nest in its branches, there’s a crowd of soldiers, slapping one another on the back and firing their rifles into the night air. Tía Carmen’s kitchen doesn’t have my model of a P-51 Mustang or scattered pieces of Erector set.
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