The Santero Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Rodriguez

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.

  Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may

  be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior

  written permission of the publisher.

  Omnific Publishing

  2355 Westwood Blvd., #506

  Los Angeles, CA 90064

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  First Omnific ebook edition, October 2018

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2018

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,

  is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Rodriguez, Kim

  The Santero / Kim Rodriguez – 1st ed. isbn: 978-1-623422-57-8

  1. Miami — Fiction.

  2. Cuba— Fiction.

  3. Romance — Fiction.

  4. Rich woman — Fiction. I. Title

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the great lovers of the world.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “That’s the reason I hate this book. Daisy’s so weak!” Maya Davidson’s small, heart-shaped face erupted into a tangle of fury and indignation. Like most young literature students, she slammed her book shut and pushed it across the table to underscore her point, too green to realize it was the classic sign of immaturity that professors quickly groomed out of the most promising graduate students. As a sophomore she wasn’t there yet, but I could see the promise in this one. I couldn’t hold back my smile as I let the students dive into what always proved to be a hot topic, even during our very first class together. After going around the room and introducing ourselves, we went straight into the text on the syllabus, The Great Gatsby.

  “Are you crazy? Daisy’s the biggest gold digger of all time. She’s a master manipulator!” shouted Rudy, a tall, thin African-American jock who’d made a point of stating that his interest in English lit was solely because of its worth as a pre-law major. Even though it was a more useful track for his career path, he hadn’t chosen rhetoric and composition, he’d explained, because of his love of debate. I couldn’t fault him; a lively conversation could be compelling and addictive with the right group, like this one.

  Collins College, affectionately called ‘Collins Country Club,’ was known for attracting children of the very rich and semi-famous. Offering only a handful of majors deemed mostly useless by the middle class, there weren’t any aspiring nurses or computer programmers here. Most of these students would collect their fancy liberal arts degree and head back to New England or the West Coast to a cushy job in their parents’ companies, never really experiencing or understanding the lives of characters in the classics. Yet, if I posed the right questions, the discussions could turn into something quite special.

  “Hang on, everyone,” I said, throwing my hands up. I was so glad Rafa had encouraged me to go back to work, practically shoving me out the door today when Dean O’Malley had called. Desperately in need of someone to teach an Am Lit section abandoned mid-term by a flaky lecturer related to someone on the Board of Regents, the dean had called and asked for the favor, just until he could find someone permanent. Rafa and I were still in bed when the phone rang.

  “Dr. O’Malley, I don’t know,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, my dear,” he said. “Long enough.” He was referring to the circumstances under which I’d left, to grieve the death of my son. “You belong in front of a classroom and we both know it. Can’t you step in for a couple of weeks? I’m asking as a friend.”

  “What?” whispered Rafa from his side of the bed, eyes barely open.

  “The dean wants me to take over a class until he finds a permanent teacher,” I said, holding the phone away from us. “Today.”

  “So do it,” he said, running his hands through his dark curly hair. “You should go back to work. It’s good for you.”

  “But I have other things to do now,” I said. He shook his head and pointed to the phone. “You can do more than one thing, mamita. Say yes. He’s probably in a jam.”

  “Want to sit in?” I asked Rafa after ending the call. I’d playfully hopped on top of him when he tried to get out of bed. “We can meet the contractors at Madrina’s as soon as class is over.”

  “I’d love to watch you teach,” he said, sitting up, the sheets just barely protecting his modesty, if he’d had any. “Absolutely!”

  So here I was again, back in the Collins College English department, everything the same except my office, which now belonged to Rita Blackstein. My return had been completely unplanned, probably the only way it could have ever happened. If I’d had too much time to think about it, I’m certain I would have said no, but now that I was here, I felt right at home, especially with Rafa in the back. Clearly fascinated by the building, the students, the subject and likely me, in a way he’d never seen me before, he was doing his best to follow the discussion even though I knew it must be difficult. Collins was such a small, casual school that it wasn’t unusual for friends of students to occasionally tag along to classes, so Rafa would have gone unnoticed had it not been for some of the girls’ not so subtle stares.

  “Have you learned about reader response theory yet?” I stared at the fifteen blank faces around the massive oval oak table. Clearly not a one. “Okay, you’ll get that in depth during Literary Criticism next year with Dr. Carlsen, but let me just give you a little preview. Reader response theory is the idea that the reader creates just as much meaning in the text as the author. There are sixteen people in this room, correct? We’re all reading The Great Gatsby, but we’re not all reading the same text. There are sixteen different texts in this room, and therefore sixteen different potential meanings. Fitzgerald as author is not the sole creator of meaning.”

  “So on the next exam I can write anything I want and it’ll be correct because that’s the meaning I give it?” asked a student in the back. “Sweet!” The class erupted in laughter and a few students gave each other high five.

  “Yes . . . and no,” I said. I ran a finger along a split in the oak at the head of the table, feeling how the rounded edges of the many layers of lacquer had softened the natural bite of the rigid wood. The Collins English Department was known for its small classrooms furnished with massive, hundred-year old oak tables that were so oversized you could barely get around them. In fact, they were so heavy that the only way to move them out at this point would be by crane, though no one would ever want to. They were the defining characteristic of the English building and both students and faculty alike were quite fond of them.

  “We only have about ten minutes left, so I probably shouldn’t start this now, but what the hell,” I said.

  “Damn I hate when it gets good and then class is over,” offered Lisa, a shy but slowly blossoming girl learning to find her voice. “It’s never as good the next time.”

  “So true,” I agreed. “But let’s just think about what that means.” I shut the book in front of me and placed it on top of the dictionary I always brought to class. “As a reader, you create meaning, but there are accepted interpretations of the classics. For example, Gatsby is not about spaceships or war. We can all agree on that, can’t we?” Everyone in the class nodded.

  “But it kind of is. War, I mean. You could say there’s a war inside Gatsby,” muttered someone.

  “Who was that?” I asked, trying to figure out who’d spoken. Rudy rolle
d his eyes and slouched in his chair as if he already knew. “It’s okay, I don’t bite, and you can say anything you want without fear of being embarrassed.”

  “Unlike Professor Adams,” said Lara to my left, locking eyes with the girl next to her. “What a raging asshole,” she hissed. I winced in sympathy. Joel was an asshole.

  “So what was that about war?” I asked. “Jeff?” Jeff Jones, the young man who had introduced himself as a gamer and tech aficionado straightened up in his chair and reluctantly shared his thoughts.

  “Gatsby’s been troubled, in turmoil, since Daisy rejected him. Now he’s at the front line, at war with Tom, Daisy. The world. Himself. It’s bloody. It ends with violence.”

  “Yes!” I said triumphantly. “Exactly! This is how we end up with post-colonial readings, feminist readings, and so forth. We can each make different connections, see different patterns. To you, Rudy, Daisy Buchanan is a gold digger, and to you, Maya, she’s a weak woman ruled by men. What Fitzgerald intended, in his own mind and the world he lived in, is only part of it. We can analyze the text and learn about his life and speculate on themes and subtexts, but really you complete the text. That is reader response, and it’s very powerful. You’re not going to draw a comparison to something ridiculous like a cartoon let’s say—although I swear some people could pull it off—but if you see parallels between one character and another, or one text and another, or even a character and a living person, then by all means please do so. Find their faults, where they fall apart and where they come back together again.”

  “But what if you hate the book?” asked Maya. “How do you write a good paper when you can’t stand the main character?”

  “You know, you’re not going to like every character in fiction. They’re not supposed to be perfect. They’re flawed, like people, but that’s what makes them interesting. I don’t think many of you have read Paradise Lost yet, but when you do, ask yourself how even Milton’s Satan has a story, how the author manages to humanize the most demonized figure or concept in all of history. And for kicks, compare Milton’s Satan to Dante’s Satan. Which one is more fun and why?” I wagged my eyebrows and couldn’t help but break into a smile. “Which one is a frozen block of ice and which one has real emotions? Which one is more human and therefore infinitely more entertaining?” I saw a few people write something down, including Maya, and then remembered to get back to her question. Sometimes it was so easy to get off course.

  “Real literature is not meant to teach you what kind of person you should be. That’s why the humanities are concerned with the human condition. What happens when characters are written without flaws? Are they believable? Do you believe anyone you know who claims to be perfect? Anyone?”

  “It’s phony,” said Rudy. “I really hate that, especially on social media.”

  “Exactly. A good story is not a morality play or a 1980s sitcom with a teachable moment at the end. Characters can piss you off, make you uncomfortable, enrage you, and that’s okay, but it doesn’t mean the story has no value. Quite the opposite is true, actually. Maya, to finally answer your question, what you do is write a criticism of Daisy, or of the book as a whole,” I said. “But I think as you get into your paper you will find that only the most masterful of writers can elicit such extreme reactions from their readers. Good writing is complex and not easily deconstructed. There’s more there than you might see at first.”

  “Daisy Buchanan reminds me of Scarlet O’Hara,” said Lisa quietly. “And I can’t stand either of them.”

  “Perfect. So write that paper,” I said. “Use that energy, work out your thoughts and write it. I’d love to read it. Just curious: does anyone disagree with Maya and Lisa?” I glanced around the room expectantly. “Is anyone inclined to write a defense of Daisy?”

  “I am,” said a junior named John. A creative type, John had introduced himself as an aspiring fashion photographer, so I knew his artists’ eye for beauty would no doubt make for a fascinating analysis. Some people just had a way of finding the most unique perspective.

  “Oh, this is getting too good,” I said, rising. “I have an idea. Let’s have a seminar next week instead of the midterm exam here on the schedule.” I flipped through the poorly written syllabus given to me by the department secretary on the way in and tossed it aside. I’d have to create a new one for this very bright group.

  “What’s a seminar?” asked Maya, putting her hair up in a ponytail. John glanced quickly in her direction and then stared straight ahead. Already a budding romance in progress.

  “It’s just a different classroom format that you usually don’t get until graduate school, but there’s nothing stopping us. I’ll teach you how it works at the next meeting. I want you all to write a short paper about Daisy, or really any aspect of Gatsby, and draw a connection between a character or theme, or even one sentence and another text or character. That’s called a comparative analysis. Help us see the text how you see it. We’ll each read our papers and then discuss. And we’re all going to be nice to each other.” I narrowed my eyes and made eye contact with every student in the room. “This classroom is a safe space where we can all express ourselves without fear of attacks or embarrassment. It’s not about agreeing with each other or being ‘right.’ It’s about sharing ideas. And it’s a much less stressful way to earn your midterm grade. Is everyone on board?” The whole class raised their hands with excitement, with the most nervous test-takers holding both hands way up high.

  “What if I write about a Bob Marley lyric that exemplifies a theme in Gatsby?” joked a girl named Lara.

  “Then I’ll be absolutely on the edge of my seat to hear it. I hope you do.” I glanced at the excited faces in the room around me. “Bring it, people. Blow my mind. The goal is for each of you to leave here published. Bring your A-game and then I’ll help you send some of them out on submission. During the seminar you can use your classmates’ feedback to polish them and then we’ll submit your papers to a few journals I have in mind.” Satisfied, I dismissed class, but Rudy asked one more question as everyone was gathering their books.

  “Professor, what do you think of Daisy?”

  “I’m supposed to find a nice way not to answer your question,” I smiled, rising from my chair. “In theory, I shouldn’t influence you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Rudy flashed a million-dollar grin at me. “We can already tell you’re different. That guy who was teaching before, Mr. Mason, didn’t know his ass from his elbow. This is the best class we’ve had so far.” Almost everyone in the classroom nodded or gestured in agreement.

  “Ok,” I said, gathering my books, “since flattery will get you everywhere, I’ll elaborate more in my paper, but basically—”

  “You’re going to write one too?” asked Maya, zipping up her backpack. “Cool!”

  “Of course,” I said. “In my opinion, Daisy is misunderstood and very alone in the world. She’s who she is because of the people around her, as we all are, and in order not to be lonely, she compartmentalizes the different parts of herself. The real Daisy can’t come out around shallow people like Tom, and she can’t step out of the shadow of Gatsby’s idealized image. She doesn’t have a lot of options, and she takes what she can get. What some see as losing herself, I view as compromise. The real Daisy, the complete, unadulterated individual, unmarred by the expectations of the world around her isn’t accessible to us as a reader because it’s buried too deeply. She hasn’t been lucky enough to be able to share it with anyone, maybe even herself. She never experienced that kind of freedom.” The freedom I finally found with Rafa.

  My eyes went straight to the back of the room where Rafa was already out of his chair and digging in his pockets for the car keys. I noticed two of the girls in the back elbowing each other, trying to decide which of them should approach Rafa first. Today he wore his customary white button-down shirt with my favorite grey suit, a rather typical look for Rafa these days, but because the Collins English building was over a hundred y
ears old and not air conditioned, I’d suggested he leave his jacket and tie in the car. However, even though he still looked much more like a businessman than a college student with his casually rolled up sleeves and unbuttoned collar, the girls just couldn’t help themselves. Well, who could blame them? They’d be beside themselves if they knew what he looked like out of the suit. I pictured him shirtless in my kitchen, leaning over a steamy pot of something delicious while barking orders into his headset, the way he spoke in Spanish when I wasn’t around: fast and loud. Before my mind went to other places, as it always did with Rafa, I remembered where I was and finished my thought.

  “So, Rudy, if you’re one of those people who believes a tree makes no sound when it falls if no one can hear it, then you could argue Daisy doesn’t exist except as a construct of other people. Someone said earlier—I think it was you Maya—that they don’t respect Daisy, but if she’s a victim of circumstance, if she’s human enough to crave a connection wherever she can get it, is it fair to judge her? If the people around you won’t allow you to be the person you want to be, is it really better to disconnect and be true to yourself in complete solitude? Is it wise? Is everyone strong enough to do that? Should we do that? Anyway, that’s where my thoughts are headed. Fair enough?” Rudy seemed pleased with my answer and pursed his lips, satisfied for now.

  “Alright, get going,” I said, shooing the class out. “Everyone bring food and an open mind to the next class!”

  As we walked through Collins’ exceptionally beautiful campus back to the car, Rafa took my hand as I pointed out my favorite places. Morgan Lawn was a beloved green space in the center of the already heavily treed and manicured grounds, a landmark so closely associated with Collins that there had been student protests in the 1980s when some of the administration had tried to turn it into a parking lot. I took Rafa to my spot by the lake at the very rear of Morgan Lawn and spread the blanket I’d grabbed from the faculty storage room on the way out. There, under the little tree where I’d eaten countless lunches and chatted with so many friends, Rafa and I relaxed by the shimmering water. Unlike the rough and tempestuous water of the open ocean, this lake had always been serene and peaceful.