90 Miles to Havana (5 page)

“Yeah,” I say proudly.

“The glove, nice touch. But it still doesn't look like me.”

That's the closest that I've ever come to getting a compliment from Gordo.

The next morning I volunteer to sneak the bird into the kitchen where Mami can find it. If she knew we broke into the Garcia's house, she would probably ground us forever.

When I swing into the kitchen with the bird in my pocket, Bebo is standing by the stove lost in thought and waiting for a pot of water to boil. I place it in a pudding dish in the cabinet where my mother always puts her rings. She'll think that Alida returned it there when she came for breakfast that last time.

When I turn around Bebo is still lost in the now gently bubbling water, his wooden spoon is hovering over the pot and ready to stir.

“What's the matter, Bebo?” I ask, then lean over the stove to look into his face.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” he says without looking up.

“Leaving, why?”

“Because they're going to send me to school, that's why. They say I have what it takes to be a good engineer.”

“Who's sending you to school?”

“The government. The woman across the street told me where to go so I could take the test. I did really well,” he says proudly. “It's a great thing. The school is free and I'll get a place to live.”

“I guess you like the omelet that they're cooking, huh, Bebo?”

Bebo looks at me for a second as if he doesn't know what I'm talking about, but then he bursts out laughing.

“
Caramba
, how could I forget? The eggs and the revolution.” He laughs. “You're right. I do like what they're cooking.”

I'm glad Bebo is going to school, but still I'm going to miss him.

“I wish you weren't going! Who else is going to teach me about carburetors and revolutionary omelets? And you said there was a lot more stuff that you wanted to teach me.”

Bebo shakes his head at me. “You're right, Julian. There is a lot more for you to learn, but I taught you how to use this,” he says and then points at his temple. “So the rest should come easy. I tried to teach you how to think—solve problems!” Bebo smiles and his gold tooth twinkles.

“When I get older I'm going to get a gold tooth just like yours,” I say.

Bebo laughs, sticks his big hand out and grips mine tight. “I've been watching you and your brothers grow up. Alquilino and Gordo playing ball, arguing and fighting, always competing, and you off to the side watching.

“I had older brothers, too. I was always trying to catch up, always trying to be just like them.”

“What's wrong with trying to be like them?” I ask.

“It's not always wrong; sometimes it's good because it makes you try harder. But sometimes it's not good to play someone else's game. It can make you feel like you're not as good as them.”

“I know how that feels,” I say.

“Now let me give you a piece of advice. You'll never really grow up until you get out of your brothers' shadows—find your own game.”

“What's my game, Bebo?” I ask, and Bebo laughs.

“I can't tell you that, Julian. But you'll know it when you find it. You'll feel it here,” he says putting his big hand on his chest.

“If you say so, Bebo,” I mumble even though I don't really understand. I bet Alquilino and Gordo never gave it a second thought.

“
Claro, chico
. Bebo knows about these things. You'll do fine,” he says just as the lid on the pot starts to rattle.

“
Caramba,
I overcooked the rice!”

Bebo's busy scraping the burned rice from the bottom of the pot as I say good-bye and walk out of the kitchen. His words are still spinning around in my head as I climb up the almond tree in front of our house. Sitting high up on my favorite branch, I can see the beach and the sea, and I can think; it's almost as good as drawing.

I'm gnawing at what Bebo said when I spot Gordo walking out of the house. He stops under the tree and looks up at me.

“What are you doing up there, Julian?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

I'm about to tell him what I'm thinking about but then I change my mind.

“Just checking out the almonds,” I answer, as he swings up into the tree.

I pick one out, check the color, and then bounce it in my hand.

“They're perfect,” I call down to him.

At this time of the year the green almonds are just the right weight and shape for throwing. They'll fly straight as an arrow and if you're the unlucky target you'll feel the sting well into the next day.

Gordo climbs up to my branch and then walks out heel to toe without holding on to anything just to show off. The branch bends as he stands over me. He pulls down a handful of almonds and then points at a street sign across the street.

“I bet you I can hit that sign!”

“I bet I can, too,” I say, but before I can get up his first shot clangs against the small rectangular sign.

“Bull's-eye!”

As I'm getting ready to throw, Gordo steps in front of me on the narrow branch.

“Gordo, you're in my way,” I complain but he's not listening. He's watching the kid with the stooped shoulders walking around the corner toward his house across the street.

“Look who's coming,” Gordo says. “It's the snitch. He's right on time.”

Gordo carefully sorts through the almonds in his hand as the unsuspecting boy ambles within range.

“Gordo, what are you doing?” I ask, as he nestles a perfect almond into his left hand.

“You can't do that! Remember what Papi said about his mother.”

“Quiet, he won't know what hit him.”

When the kid is perfectly framed in a big opening in the canopy, Gordo cocks his arm back.

Oh please miss!

Gordo bites down on his tongue, like he does when he's about to throw a fastball. He winds up and then lets go. The almond draws a straight green line out of the tree, and then smacks into the middle of the kid's forehead. His head snaps back, his mouth stretches open, but no sound comes out. Then his eyes roll like two black olives in bread pudding, searching the trees, asking, “Who, why me?”

“Gordo, why'd you have to hit him in the head like that?”

Gordo pulls me down. “Quiet, don't move.”

We peer through the leaves as the boy runs into his house crying.

“That's what he gets for being a spy.”

“You could have poked his eye out!”

“Julian, when are you going to grow up? You can't let people get away with things. That's the way it is in the real world.” Gordo jumps to the ground. “You're hopeless,” he says and then walks away.

“Maybe I just don't want to be like you,” I say, knowing he won't hear me. Then I yell as loud as I can, “And I'm not hopeless!”

Tonight my brothers and I set the table. This is the first time that my mother has cooked dinner since Bebo left three days ago. When she finally comes out of the kitchen she's carrying a plate stacked with something that smells like burning meat. She swings the plate over my head, and then sets it down in the middle of the table with a flourish of her hands.

We all nod admiringly at the dark smoldering shapes. My father is the first to guess.

“Pork chops?”

“I traded my alligator shoes for them,” she says proudly, and then launches into the story of the pork chops.

Just as she's getting to the end of her complicated
story the little woman and her son slam through the kitchen door into the dining room.

My mother bangs her glass down so hard I thought it was going to shatter.

“Who let you in to my house?”

My father pushes his chair back slowly and then gets up. “How may we help our neighbor?”

The little woman points at her son, leaning into the wall behind her. “Today someone hit my boy with a rock, almost blinded him.”

We all stare up at the angry red egg growing out of his forehead. Gordo looks down, trying to hide a smile.

She glares at us, searching our faces for a sign of guilt. “He couldn't see who it was, but he's sure the rock came from the almond tree in front of your house,” she says. “But we do know who broke into the empty house. My son is sure now that he saw your oldest son in the kitchen.”

Gordo looks across the table at Alquilino.

“That's impossible, they were in bed. You saw them,” my father says.

“Save it for the judge. I've filed the papers—I have my witness. Your son will be charged with trespassing on government property.” As she speaks her dull eyes range over every item on the table.

“It will take a little time but—” Then her eyes land on the now-cold, rigid pork chops. “There were no pork chops in the stores this week, or in the ration book.”

She picks up the burned meat, pointing it at us like an accusing finger. “How did you get this?”

Suddenly my mother grabs the plate, pushes her hip into the door and then disappears into the kitchen. The door closes, plates crash into the sink. When it swings open again, she steps out empty-handed, looking like she's about to explode.

“Magic,” she says calmly. “I clicked my heels and my alligator shoes turned into pork chops! Now, if there's nothing else we can do for our dutiful neighbor . . .” She pauses for a breath and then screams, “get out of my house!”

“Señora! It is against the law to buy food on the black market. You're setting a bad example for your children.” She throws the pork chop down and wipes her hands on my mother's good tablecloth. “You leave me no choice. They will be sent to one of our new schools where they can live in the proper environment, do healthy work, and start their reeducation.”

“No one is going to take my children away from me!” my mother hisses.

Papi wraps his arms around her. “I think you better leave now,” he says to the little woman, and then he escorts her out.

“Can she really send us away?” Alquilino asks.

“No, she's just a busybody,” Papi says trying to reassure us.

My mother waits for the kitchen door to slam shut and
then sits down. She hides her face in her hands. “She's not just a nosy neighbor; she
can
have you sent away.”

“I'm sure she can't—” my father starts, but my mother interrupts him.

“Yes she can and they're doing it already. First they send them out to cut sugarcane and then to a school in Russia where they can put whatever they want into their heads. When they come back, they're different. They won't even know us!”

“Where did you hear that?” Papi asks.

“The new radio station from Miami,” my mother answers and then crosses her arms. That's the signal that she's made up her mind, there's no need to argue the point.

Gordo pokes his older brother. “We'll cut cane, right, Alquilino? We're not scared.”

Making sure we're looking into her eyes, she says slowly, “I'll send you away before I let them get their hands on you.”

“Send us away?” I ask.

“Yes. There's a man that helps parents get their kids out of the country. I've already called and started the whole process. He said there are camps in the United States where Cuban kids can go to wait for their parents to get out.”

“You did this without telling me?” my father asks.

“No one's going to take my children away.” My mother's face has turned into a steely mask.

I recognize that look. I saw it on the faces of the parents
waiting in the saddest line of all. I look away from my mother's eyes and start shoving the burned black beans around my plate. I never thought my mother could be like the parents waiting in that line, so determined to send their children to a strange country all alone.

There's a suitcase open on each of our beds. My brothers are flipping through comic books they outgrew years ago; they glance at a page or two, and then toss them under the bed. I'm drawing the angry little woman on the wall next to my bed. She's waving a black pork chop, leading a parade of tanks and soldiers marching the length of my bed. She's the first in line but the last one I'm going to draw on this wall. We're leaving today.