Fiction Break

Libby’s Tricycle” was written in memory of my father whom I adored. It was published in World Literature Today 2: A Student Publication, Vol. 2, Number 1, Autumn 2000.

Libby’s Tricycle

By Carmen Palmier-Anchia

When Libby was three years old, her mother went out on an errand one Saturday afternoon without her. Kneeling on the couch, staring out the window, she watches the blurry figure of her mother walking away. She stays there until her mom turns the corner and leaves Libby’s universe.

Libby isn’t your typical three-year old. She is a child, yet something about her is old. Her parents are old. Her mom was 43 when she was born and her dad 56. Libby’s best friend is her grandmother, who is 64. – Over 163 years of pain, guilt, regret, and joy. – All their emotions she seems to sense without fully understanding. They flow through her, and you can see them in her eyes. You can catch a glimpse of them in the way Libby sits quietly, sometimes for hours, looking out the window. Her strength makes itself known through those two hazel orbs. It’s their strength, but she serves as the vessel through which all of their aspirations will be fulfilled. And looking in her eyes, it’s as if she knows this. Their collective years of life filter through her eyes.

Her parents named her Libertad - Freedom. She was born in the United States, and she embodies the hope and freedom her parents fled to. Caridad and Ramón left Cuba, abandoning everything they had worked hard for. They had been married for five years and had resigned themselves to not having children. There were so many things that they would have to resign themselves to do without. There were so many people that they were leaving behind. Yet Ramón understood that these things and their family were already lost. Even before he and his wife ever set foot on the plane, their life was gone. And so they left on one of los vuelos de la libertad. And it was this flight towards freedom that they came to believe awakened the life within Caridad, who brought Libertad into the world eleven months later.

Libertad was born July 16, 1966. It was their next door neighbor, a Norwegian woman, who first called her Libby because she couldn’t pronounce Libertad, and the nickname stuck. Even her parents call her Libby. It is such an appropriate name for a little girl. Libertad is so formal and imposing. So much bigger than life and yet precisely life itself.

Libby plays games with her grandmother, who dotes over her. They spend hours playing house and drinking imaginary café out of tiny tin cups. Her grandmother’s rocker faces the open window, and she can see Caridad coming. She tells Libby, who runs to the couch and jumps on it to look out the window. She sees her mother dragging, struggling with a big box. When Caridad reaches the door, she’s out of breath and flushed – “Ábreme Mamá que estoy sudando la gota gorda.” “¿Qué’s eso Mami, qué’s eso?” asks Libby, moving out of the way so her mother can come in. Un velocípedo responds Caridad, and she sits on the couch with a glass of water. Libby doesn’t know what un velocípedo is, but it has to be good; it comes in a big box, and big is good.

Discipline and love are one in the same to Caridad. With discipline, she will prepare her daughter for life. Having discipline means that no matter where life drops her, she will land on her feet ready to move forward. So Libby has to wait until her mom rests before the box is open and the tricycle assembly begins. Caridad saved green stamps for months until she had enough to get it. Then she had to take the bus downtown where the showroom is to buy it and then lug it all the way back home on the bus.

By the time Ramón gets home. el velocípedo is built. It’s shiny red with a white seat. Red, white, and blue colored streamers hang off the handles. Libby looks at it from every angle. It looks really different from the rest of her toys. It’s heavy and big, and it’s hers.

Caridad sits back exhausted but satisfied. She never had toys growing up, and she is happy that her daughter does. Now it is time for Ramón to take her out for a ride. Libby has no idea how the thing works. Her tiny feet keep slipping off the pedals, and once or twice she’s hit in the shins by the swinging pedals. But her father encourages her; and when the excitement bursts out of her in the form of laughter, he laughs right along with her. The first time out, they only go around the block, but Libby’s universe suddenly expands. She lives on a big block, and she’s travelling fast on three wheels.

Ramón has to work on Sunday, but he promises that after work he will take her out again. This time they go further, and she is able to pedal better, quicker. She goes fast, and it’s fun to watch Papi running to keep up with her. Libby is tired by the time they turn back. Her legs ache and she doesn’t feel like going fast anymore. In fact, she wants to stop. Ramón realizes that they have gone too far and that his little girl is tired. He smiles to himself at how she doesn’t complain. Wanting to spare her dignity, he suggests, “¿por qué no caminamos aguantados de mano para la casa?” Of course, Libby can’t refuse. So she gets off her tricycle and he holds her hand and carries the tricycle home in the other.

The next time they go riding, he brings along a rope. When he notices that Libby is tired, he ties it around the handles and pulls her all the way home. Libby raises her legs up as he pulls her. It’s as much fun as riding it on her own. It may even be more fun with Papi pulling.

On one occasion they go further than they ever have. Ramón wants to pass by the old roach-infested building they lived in when they first arrived from Cuba, in a sense, to reflect on how much they have prospered. He looks down at Libby and smiles. His whole face changes, and all the worries fall away. For at that moment, the only thing that matters is sitting on a tricycle right beside him.

While stopped on the corner, a little girl walks up to them and speaks to Libby in English. Libby isn’t used to children her age, and the little girl fascinates her. Although she doesn’t understand her, Libby seems to know that she wants to ride her tricycle. So Libby gets up, and the little girl sits on the tricycle and rides off. At first, the little girl rides in the parking lot of an apartment building. Ramón watches, amazed that his little girl can communicate with la americanita. But his amazement turns to concern when the little girl hits the sidewalk with the tricycle at full speed and starts riding away from them. He hesitates a few seconds, but seeing that she isn’t turning back, he tells Libby, “quédate aquí y no te muevas,” and he takes off after the little girl. He runs past her, stopping in front of her breathlessly and, stretching his right hand out, motions her to stop. The little girl does, and he said, “oquey, ya, bai bai,” and he carries the tricycle back to Libby, who hasn’t moved an inch. Taking her hand, he tells her “vamos rápido que la americanita esa se quiere robar tu velocípedo.”

They walk fast and cover two blocks without stopping. Turning a corner, Ramón looks over his shoulder and starts laughing as the absurdity of it registers. Libby looks up at him confused, and he tells her, “Libertad, a lo mejor lo que te dijo esa americanita en ingéls fue que le regalaras tu velocípedo. ¡Qué malo es no entender!”

Years later, Libby and her father still laugh about that day, remembering how Libby just got off and let the little girl have the tricycle and how he ran after her and got it back. By the time they get to the part in the story of their big getaway, they are both laughing so hard that they can hardly speak. And just when they begin to recover their composure, her father says, “esa americanita por poco te mafea el velocípedo.” And they start laughing once again.

© 2000 Carmen Palmier-Anchia

Posted by at May 31, 2005 05:00 PM

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Posted by: Kathleen at June 1, 2005 10:39 PM