Playing for Keeps (6 page)

“You must not call out,” Ricky whispered. “Will you help me?”

Agreeing with him seemed to be the only way to go, so I managed to nod assent, trembling as he released me and stepped aside.

“Will you check the passageway?” he asked. “Tell me if someone is there.”

Obediently, I peered through the peephole. The short section of the passageway I could see was empty, but I slowly opened the door, clinging to it for support, and glanced to both sides.

I could run. I could scream for help,
I told myself, wild thoughts zinging through my mind. But Ricky had made no move to harm me, and I could see that he was as frightened as I was. I silently shut the door and turned to Ricky, leaning against it. “The passageway is empty,” I said.

Ricky closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

“You said that someone is following you. Why?” I asked.

Dropping as though his legs no longer had the strength to hold him up, Ricky sat on the edge of one of the twin beds. “We hoped it would not happen,” he said. “The boatman swore he would not tell.”

“Tell what?” I asked.

Ricky looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. “Rose,” he said, “I have escaped from Cuba to seek political asylum in the United States. Now I am being hunted by the government. If they find me, they’ll take me back to Cuba, where I will be charged with desertion . . . a crime punishable by death.”

5

I WAS SHOCKED. “DESERTION? THAT DOESN’T SOUND right. How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in May.”

“Then surely the judge in your trial would—”

Ricky interrupted with a bitter laugh. “Trial? My case would come to trial only if the object would be to teach a lesson to others who try to escape the island. And it would not be the kind of trial that would take place in your country. It is more likely that I would be taken quietly to a Cuban prison. There I could be beaten and tortured, then ‘disappear.’ Only my aunt Ana would ask about me, and she would be ignored.”

I gasped. “You’d be killed?”

“There is an alternative—what they have done to some escapees who have been returned. My work in baseball would be discredited in the press, and I would no longer be allowed to play. I’d be assigned a low-paying, menial job.”

“What about the people who know you—your friends, your teachers? Wouldn’t they come forward to help you?”

Shaking his head, Ricky said, “Rose, there is a big difference between a democracy and a dictatorship. In Cuba you survive by
not
asking questions or offering help.”

“What are you doing on this ship?” I asked. “Don’t most of the people who escape Cuba try to take boats directly to Miami?”

“Yes,” Ricky said. “And with your coast guard on constant patrol, they are usually caught. By the laws your country established, those who set foot on your land may ask for political asylum. Those who are picked up at sea must be returned to Cuba. I must do all that I can to reach United States soil so that I can request asylum. I cannot, I
cannot
go back.”

I didn’t answer. I patiently waited for Ricky to get a grip on his feelings.

Finally he said, “I left Cuba, thanks to my uncle Martín. He made the plans. It was his idea for me to travel south, in the opposite direction from Miami, where air patrols would not be looking for escapees. With the help of his friends and Tía Ana’s friends, Uncle Martín hired the owner of a small fishing boat and instructed him to take me to people he knew about in Haiti. I joined some of those who were hired by the cruise line to work on Bonita Beach, where I hid until my uncle arrived. He brought me the clothes I have on and my I.D. card. He has other clothing for me in our stateroom.”

I spoke my thoughts aloud. “He paid your passage, and he hired someone your age to board the ship in order to get an identification card for you.” I looked up. “But what about your birth certificate or a passport? If they’re under your assumed name, they must be forged.”

Ricky shrugged. “Where Uncle Martín got the official papers needed, I do not know. That is his business, not mine.”

“What will happen if you get to Miami?”

Shuddering, Ricky whispered, “Not
if. When
I get to Miami, there will be friends of my uncle there to meet the ship. They will have a job for me with their ball club, and they will help me as I ask for political asylum.”

“You’re a baseball player?”

“Yes. Like my uncle Martín.” He shifted, rocking the bed. “I do not understand how the Cuban authorities suspected I would be on this ship,” he said. His voice dropped, as though he were talking to himself.

“My grandmother might have notified the
policía
that I was missing, but she would have done it out of concern. She would not have wanted me to come to harm. Since her university days in the fifties, she has been a strong, unyielding supporter of Fidel Castro, but I am her grandson.”

“Did your uncle Martín defect from Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“What did your grandmother do then?”

Ricky paused, staring down at the floor before he quietly answered, “When Uncle Martín left Cuba for the freedom of the United States, Abuela Beatriz denounced her brother-in-law as a traitor. She has not spoken his name since.”

Sighing, Ricky added, “You must not blame my grandmother for what she thinks. Our news media is controlled so that we see and hear only what government officials want us to know. Everything must be under the control of the state. The police have too much authority, and many people live in fear, but my grandmother stubbornly defends Castro and his regime. She—and many others—despised life under the dictator Fulgencio Batista and counted on Castro to better everyone’s living conditions. Instead, conditions under communism became worse. This is hard for those who favor communism to accept.”

Ricky’s face showed his misery as he said, “I am afraid my grandmother will have the same hatred toward me for defying the cause for which she risked her life.” He threw a quick glance at me. “You may think her stubborn, but it is a cause she believes in, one for which she has taken a stand. I do not expect you to
comprende.
”

In a way I
did
understand. “Always stand up for what you believe in,” Mom kept telling me. That was what Ricky’s grandmother had done. But what if people changed and dreams became twisted? I shook my head, trying to shoo the questions away. They made my head hurt because I didn’t have answers.

Ricky got to his feet and paced to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony. “If Abuela Beatriz reported to the authorities that I was missing, they would be looking for me. But why would they look toward Haiti and not Miami? There is a possibility, of course, that the boatman broke his promise of secrecy. Either he was caught returning to Cuba or he volunteered information, hoping to be rewarded.”

He thought a moment, then said, “I followed directions. What could have gone wrong? I don’t know what to do next. I can’t go to Uncle Martín’s stateroom. That is the first place they will look. Then they’ll search all the places on the ship where someone could hide.”

I glanced at my watch. “Glory’s going to come back to our stateroom soon. The bridge players will want to dress for dinner.” I sucked in a sharp breath as an idea popped into my mind. “If they search the ship and don’t find you, then they’ll decide they were wrong and you can’t be aboard. Right? So we’ll hide you—as least until after the ship sails. I think I know where you’ll be safe.”

As I reached for the telephone, Ricky moved quickly, clamping a hand over mine. His eyes had narrowed, and his breath came in shallow bursts. “Who are you calling?” he demanded.

“I know you’re afraid, but you came to me for help, and I’m going to help you,” I told him. “You’ll have to trust me.”

For a moment Ricky didn’t move or speak. I didn’t either. I could only wait for what he would say. Finally he pulled his hand away, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “I am
not
afraid,” he said. “I just don’t know whom to trust.”

“You can trust me,” I said again. I glanced at my watch again.
Don’t come yet, Glory,
I thought.
Give
us a few more minutes
. I quickly dialed Neil’s room number. As soon as he answered I said, “We’ve got a problem. I need your help right away.”

“Where are you?” Neil asked.

“In my stateroom.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

I hung up the phone, grateful to Neil for not wasting time asking questions.

When he arrived a few minutes later, his hair still damp from his shower, I motioned him to the small sofa. Then I said to Ricky, “You can trust both of us. I promise. Tell Neil what you told me. He’s going to help you.”

“I am?” Neil asked in surprise.

“Just listen,” I said. I sat on the sofa next to him.

“My name is Enrique Urbino,” Ricky said to Neil. “And you were right. My uncle is Martín Urbino, who was once a shortstop for the Havana Sugar Kings in Cuba. When he signed with the Cincinnati Reds in 1960, defecting to the United States, he was listed as a traitor to Cuba.”

Neil leaned forward eagerly. “Your uncle was one of many baseball players who left Cuba to join teams in the United States. Like Bert Campanaris, Tony Perez, Francisco—”

I put a hand on Neil’s arm. “Just listen,” I said. “We can talk baseball later.”

But Ricky was carried away, probably glad to talk about something familiar and safe. He told Neil, “The game of baseball is Cuba’s passion. Fidel Castro has always supported the league with his presence. Children are watched for signs of talent and promise in the game, and some are chosen to be enrolled at the special baseball academies for elementary school students.”

“Were you?” Neil interrupted.

“Yes,” Ricky said. “I have played with youth teams and then the minor league. Last year I was assigned to the Habana Leones, the top team in the Cuban league.”

Neil whistled. “What’s your position? Your batting average? Are you left-handed, like your uncle?”

“Neil!” I demanded. “Let Ricky tell his story.”

Voices rumbled in the passageway. For a moment they paused just outside the door and we all froze. We heard another stateroom door open, then close, and the voices moved on.

Ricky let out the breath he’d been holding, then told Neil and me about his nighttime trip from Cuba to Haiti. He slumped, adding, “Recently, I was publicly honored by Fidel. To leave Cuba after receiving this honor is not only treason but—in Fidel’s opinion—a terrible personal insult, embarrassing him in the eyes of the world.”

“Have you tried before to leave Cuba?” Neil asked.

“No,” Ricky answered.

“What about when your team played in other countries, like Venezuela? Or in the Atlanta Olympics, or the International World Cup? Couldn’t you have just walked out of your hotel and into an American embassy?”

Ricky’s mouth twisted. “I have not played for the Cuban National team in the United States. I have been allowed to play only in Central and South American countries. When we traveled, we did not stay in dormitories or hotels, as teams from other countries do. Cots were set up for us in the basement rooms of the stadiums. We slept and ate there under guard. We never left the stadiums until it was time for us to board the planes to fly back to Cuba.”

Neil thought a moment before he spoke. “Just a short time ago, two of your Cuban ballplayers asked the United States for political asylum. Rigoberto Herrera Betancourt, one of your pitching coaches, disappeared in Baltimore while the Cuban National team was on the way to the airport after winning over the Orioles. He showed up at a police station and asked for political asylum. He was offered a job with Madison’s Black Wolf team.”

“He had help,” Ricky said quietly. “Like the help Uncle Martín is getting for me.”

Neil looked serious. “The other one was Andy Morales. He was sent back.”

Ricky shivered, rubbing his upper arms as if he were cold. “He tried to escape by boat with around thirty other people. The boat ran out of fuel twentyfive miles from the Florida Keys, and the United States Coast Guard intercepted them. The Immigration and Naturalization Service sent all of them back to Cuba. That is the rule. If you’re picked up at sea, you’re sent back. If you set foot on U.S. soil, you can ask for asylum.”

My heart gave a jump as I thought of what it would be like to be sent back to Cuba. “What happened to Andy Morales?” I asked.

“It was announced that he had decided to quit baseball, since he was overrated as a player, and had chosen instead to work for the Cuban National Sports Institute, overseeing sports programs,” Ricky said.

“Oh, well, if he was overrated—” I began, but Ricky interrupted.

“That is not true. That is what the government announced. That is what the press reported. Anyone who tries to escape Cuba is publicly discredited. I know Andy. I know how he loves baseball and what a good player he is. And I do not believe giving it up was his choice.”

I looked at my watch again. It was five minutes to four. The ship was supposed to leave the harbor at four. Glory would be here soon to change for dinner. I had to break into the conversation.

“Neil, someone from Cuba is on this ship searching for Ricky,” I said. “We can’t let them find him. You said that your stateroom was connected to your grandmother’s but separate. Could he share your stateroom for a while? Can you keep him hidden?”

“Yes,” Neil said. He turned to Ricky. “We can stop off at your uncle’s stateroom and get your clothes.”

“That would not be wise!” Ricky exclaimed. “The stateroom may be watched.”

Neil shrugged. “We’re about the same size. You can borrow some of my clothes for now.” A smile flickered on his face as he said to me, “Except for my Hawaiian shirts.”

“Will there be any problem with your grandmother?” I asked Neil. “Is there any chance she’ll discover Ricky?”

“None,” Neil said. “Grandma is hard of hearing and has poor eyesight. Besides, she always knocks and waits for me to open the door to my room. We won’t have trouble keeping her from knowing Ricky is there. He’ll have time to duck into the bathroom to hide.”

The jangle of the telephone made me jump. As I reached for the receiver I realized my hands were shaking. “Y-yes?” I asked.

“Rosie,” Glory said, “at least I found
you
. Do you have any idea where Neil is?”