Outnumbered. Mandi Eizenbaum

      I had no idea how big and diverse New York was until we began driving north toward my uncle’s home. The ride from the airport all the way out to his house in Poughkeepsie seemed to stretch on and on; it took what seemed like forever to get there. The whole island of Cuba could have fit in that stretch of drive from the airport. And the silence—the unnerving, familiar silence—that sat between my estranged uncle and me stifled us the whole way home. Home?

      Once outside the city’s borders I watched the unfamiliar scenery of beautiful green rolling hills float by quietly and calmly as I stared out the car’s windshield. My uncle drove, shrouded in his awkward silence, slowly and nervously out of the web of commotion that was Manhattan. His large hands gripped tightly to the leather steering wheel as he drove; I thought his bony knuckles would rip right through his skin. My uncle was clearly not comfortable behind the wheel of the car. In contrast, I couldn’t wait until I could drive—to feel the forward rush of freedom. When we finally pulled into the driveway of his home, Tío Daniel let out an audible gulp of relief.

      In this unexpected world into which I was now plunged, the air was markedly different; there was none of the salty sea air or constricting tropical clamminess that I had grown accustomed to in Havana; just a rich, earthy feeling that filtered easily through my lungs. The clean air outside the city washed through my veins and my spirit. I was especially glad to have the claustrophobic, foul plane ride behind me.

      Poughkeepsie was beautiful. An enormous, welcoming world captured in tranquility. It would be a fresh, new start for me, and the reassuring scents of honeyed blossoms and perfumed pines filled my weak lungs and my fiery soul. I would embrace that memory of newness forever.

      “I bet my father would have loved it here,” I muttered to myself on the driveway, looking up at my uncle’s house.

      Tío Daniel unloaded my case and drum from the trunk of the car, and I could hear my uncle mumbling, “Yes, he probably would have.” Then he fell strangely silent again.

      All the stress and commotion from traveling seemed to settle down once we got to my uncle’s place. There was an endless expansiveness, not just in time and space but in opportunity and success. I couldn’t believe I had been taken in with such good fortune, my past threatening to fade into pale memories behind the hope of the future.

      Tío Daniel’s home was a large two-story ranch-style structure painted a pale blue that matched the serenity of the clear blue sky that stretched over its hilly surroundings. A small front porch scattered with potted plants led up to the front door. The number “6300” marked the address above the double garage door in black metallic lettering.

      Sixty-three was the number for assassin, I noted quickly, but I tried to dismiss the thought with the shake of my head.

      What an odd calculation in the middle of all that calm and beauty!

      I refocused my attentions on the oak trees that were bigger and fuller than any palm tree in Cuba and the green lawns that filled the wide-open spaces between each house. Daffodils, endless rows of lilacs, and flickering lightning bugs all painted the sweet scenery with rich color and life. By the time my uncle showed me to my room in the basement, I was completely overtaken by the growing exhaustion that would not let go of me. That first night in my new home, I actually found sleep quickly and peacefully.