Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (11 page)

Or. Or, perhaps, Cuba would never recover from its economic devastation. Instead, Frank’s family could come to America to enjoy its bounty. Perhaps they would also live in Union City. For a moment, he pictured his jubilant relatives waving as they stepped off the airplane.

It had only been a matter of months since Frank had seen his family, but he missed them terribly. It was awful to leave them behind—not to hear their voices, not to enjoy their company, not to know whether he’d ever see them again. It created an ache in him that nothing but the love of a wonderful woman could begin to ease.

But he had that. His sweet Magda was sitting next to him, her hands smoothing the tension from his forehead, her body warming his. He nodded silently, soothing himself with the idea that their life together would go on forever. It was a comforting thought.

But it was not to be.

Political investigator First Lieutenant Torres completed his interview with Foreman Castillo at the sugar plantation where Pino was doing hard labor. Not liking what he had heard, he decided to talk with the former lieutenant.

Torres asked Castillo to relinquish his office so he could speak with Pino in private. The foreman agreed, walked out to the hallway, and began hollering orders to the cane cutters out the window.

Pino soon arrived at Castillo’s office looking tired and disheveled. Gone was his starched, polished look. Gone was his fine haircut. Gone was his neat manicure.

He strode into the room clad in muddy shoes and dirty clothes. His face sprouted a wiry beard. His limbs were covered in blisters as red and angry as boiling lava, even after several weeks of burn treatment at the clinic.

Pino saluted Torres and stood at attention until Torres asked him to be seated. The foreman’s desk consisted of an old door thrown atop two construction horses. A coat of brown dust covered his papers. The room was airless and stifling hot. A small electric fan circled lazily in the corner, humming, but providing little relief from the heat.

Torres completed writing a few notes before looking up at Pino. He dropped his pen and sat back in his chair, shaking his head in consternation.

“What are we going to do with you, Pino?”

The former lieutenant jerked his head at the remark. It sounded like something his father would say as a prelude to a beating. He
took a step backward. He was unsure whether this statement required a response, so he remained silent. He had long since concluded that in instances like this, the less said the better.

Torres shook his head in dismay. “I’m told you started a fight.”

Pino began to speak, but Torres raised a hand to stop him. “I’ve heard what Foreman Castillo has had to say. Now I’d like to hear your side.”

Pino looked at him, eyes defiant. He waved his arm in a circle to indicate the scope of the plantation. “This place is a pigsty. There’s no order around here, no control. What’s worse, nobody cares about the work. The men are a bunch of bums.”

“Bums?”

“Yes, bums.”

“So you got into a fight because the men are bums?”

“No, sir. I got into a fight because I was trying to bring some discipline to this operation.”

“And—?”

“And the men resented it and started a fight.”

“That’s not what I hear,” said Torres. Pino stared at him, knowing enough to allow him to finish his thought. “I hear
you
started the fight by ordering people around.”

Pino shook his head from side to side. “They needed to be told what to do. They were wandering around like dazed cattle. The cane wasn’t being harvested properly.”

“So you took it upon yourself to tell the ‘bums’ how to do it?”

“It had to be done. Time was being wasted—”

Infuriated, Torres slammed his fist on the table. “When are you ever going to learn your lesson, Pino?”

Pino’s face drained of blood and his skin prickled with fear. He grimaced and issued a small sound. “What lesson?” he said, a little too sharply.

“The lesson that you are part of a team—that you are not in control of everything—that there exists a chain of command—that you can’t take matters into your own hands.”

Pino lowered his head.
It’s the same old shit. They don’t give a damn about my years of training, about my intellect, about my leadership skills. They just want me to follow some half-assed rules like a brainless nitwit. Well, if that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get. I’ll play whatever game they want to get out of this stinking hellhole.

Torres continued, “How long will it take before you comprehend that it was this same kind of arrogance that got you into this fix in the first place?”

Pino straightened up and stared at Torres.
I’m smarter than this guy. I’ll outwit him. He thinks he’s in charge, but I control my own destiny. I’ll say whatever he wants to hear.
A moment of silence elapsed before Pino said, “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope you
do
understand, Pino. This is not the only place where you can do hard labor. If you don’t straighten up—and straighten up fast—you’ll look back at this time as a fond memory.”

Pino blanched and nodded while Torres gathered his papers. “I’ll be checking with Castillo and with your comrades every two weeks regarding your behavior. I don’t want to get a report like this ever again. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Torres started to walk out the door and then stopped, turned, and looked at Pino. “One more thing,” he said.

Pino glanced up, startled. “Yes, sir?”

Torres looked Pino up and down before his gaze settled on his jaw. As he did, Pino fingered his wound. He knew it detracted from his looks, and he was not happy about it. He had always prided himself on his appearance.

Torres hesitated a moment and said, “Take care of those damn blisters, for chrissake. You look like hell.”

“Yes, sir.”

Torres smiled slightly, saluted, and left Pino staring at the wall.

Frank woke up eager to explore Union City. After seeing Magda off to school, he donned his coat and strolled down Bergenline Avenue. The air was raw and chilly, and a watery sunlight glinted off aluminum grates that webbed storefronts. Factories belched black smoke, casting a mantle of smog over the city.

Frank thought he might look out of place in his new hometown, but that wasn’t the case. Throngs of people crowded the sidewalk. They walked in unison as if attached to each other and attended their business lost in thought. He passed sari-clad women with red bindis and pink lipstick, blue-eyed mothers with towheaded children, and black men with dazzling teeth and dreadlocks capped with rough plastic beads.

The crowd pushed him along, speaking a cacophony of languages—English, Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese. As he buttoned his coat against the cold, he accidentally elbowed a long-haired man about his age. The man’s eyes were glazed and dark as ink. His beard fell like rain over his tie-dyed shirt. Grumbling, he fanned his fingers into a peace sign. Enough dirt resided under the man’s fingernails to grow turnips. Not knowing how to respond, Frank lowered his eyes and kept walking.

Frank’s feelings vacillated between joy and sadness. Although he was thrilled to be in America, a longing welled up inside of him, a homesickness that he feared might haunt him forever. As his feet traveled the cement sidewalks, he longed for the smell of Cuba’s rich earth, the call of seagulls, and the throb of bongos that livened the streets of Havana. The only music to be heard here blasted from radios of Pontiac GTOs and Mustang convertibles.

Union City offered nothing as nature intended. Signs were everywhere—metal signs, wooden signs, neon signs—jockeying for position, plastered on buildings, and hanging like slaughtered cattle from poles and pipes. They proclaimed the merits of Chinese restaurants, coin-operated Laundromats, and check cashing stores. Most were written in English, their messages a mystery to Frank. He was frustrated to not be able to read them. The architecture was intriguing—not what he had expected. He thought Union City would resemble Cuba the way Miami did. He believed American cities would look pretty much alike, but they didn’t. There were no pastel-colored houses, no orange-tiled roofs, no wide verandas to corral the breeze.

The city was crowded and confusing. Frank was disoriented by the lack of elbow room. Not that his home in Guanabacoa was big. It wasn’t. But at least he had space to breathe. Here everything was bunched together, like plants competing for sunlight on the forest floor.

Buildings leaked into each other, one row house indistinguishable from the next. Images from television screens bounced off window panes, allowing him a furtive glimpse into private lives, private spaces. But doors were locked, hospitality in retreat.

Frank saw eyes that bespoke fear as they watched passersby behind lace curtains or through slatted venetian blinds. It was so different from his uncle’s house where he had to hide under the bed from his pursuers because the door remained open all day so friends and neighbors could come and go at will.

Although it was April, an apron of broken snow, remnants of a long-forgotten blizzard, lay in cindery mounds on the sidewalks. Ice piles shed water from their bottoms into gutters clotted with trash. The ice lay a half an inch off the sidewalk as if suspended by an unknown force. He had seen pictures of snow sitting light as bubbles on trees, filigreeing branches in sparkling white. He never imagined snow as hard as shells, languishing like a rotting corpse, oozing its essence into the ether.

Overhead, a tangle of wires cross-hatched a dull gray sky, and he realized how much he had taken for granted in Cuba—the scent of
wild lime and vanilla, arcades of coral stone archways, lizards changing color with the light, macaws grooming neon-green feathers. A crow screamed its rage, devoid of color.
Even the birds are black here,
he thought.

Frank walked up the street until he found a bookstore. To his surprise, it served Spanish-speaking people. He strolled down the aisles, admiring lavishly illustrated dust jackets. He was amazed at the number and variety of goods freely available to anyone willing to pay the price.

The store carried books, records, and greeting cards with ornate typefaces. They were designed to celebrate various occasions—birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, and graduations. No one hassled him or monitored his ration. No one forced him to wait in line. No one humiliated him for the sake of “the cause.” Frank’s heart quickened like the click of castanets. He felt free. He felt liberated. He felt good.

An attractive woman in a twin sweater set approached Frank, asking if he needed help. She spoke Spanish. For the first time that day he felt at home.

“Do you have any American history books written in Spanish?” Frank asked. The woman looked at him as if this were a common question.

“Where are you from?”

“Cuba.”

“Have you been in the States long?”

“I just arrived.”

“A lot of Cubans settle in Union City. I don’t know why, but they do. It’s probably because they know people here.”

“That’s why I’m here,” said Frank. “Where are you from?”

“El Salvador. I’m Maria. Maria Reed,” she said, extending her hand.

Frank shook it. “Reed?”

“It’s my married name.”

He nodded, looked at his chapped hands, and plunged them into his pockets.

“Follow me and I’ll show you the books,” she offered.

They walked past several cardboard boxes, half open and brimming with merchandise, before they stopped at a table stacked with
history books. One had a picture of George Washington on the cover. Another was about the US Constitution.

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

She handed him a book about Thomas Jefferson. A picture of a brick-domed building adorned its cover. She glanced at it. “That’s Monticello, Jefferson’s house.”

“Nice.”

“He designed it along with a whole lot of other things. He was a genius—like Benjamin Franklin.”

“It looks interesting. But I need something more general.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. She pulled a hefty book from the shelf. “This is a good one. It covers American history from the time of the Pilgrims to the end of the Korean War.”

“Who were the Pilgrims?”

She grinned. “You’ll hear more about them at Thanksgiving.”

Maria’s answer failed to enlighten Frank, but he was hesitant to ask her about Thanksgiving. He leafed through the book. It contained several images of American presidents along with pictures of the two World Wars.

“This is perfect. How much?”

“Twelve ninety-nine, plus tax.”

Frank paused, having no idea whether that was a good price. “Is that a lot?”

“It’s about right for a hardback. Shall I wrap it for you?”

Frank’s face grew hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money right now. I have to find a job. I’ll come back later.”

The woman’s eyes sparkled, and Frank’s spirits lifted.

“Okay,” she said. “Good luck!”

Frank walked out into the afternoon air, and the crowds seemed less intimidating. At least he knew where he could buy books. A smile danced on his lips. He had the feeling that life in America would be different, but doable. If there were Cubans in Union City, he knew he could make his way.

The next day Magda’s father told Frank about an apartment house that had rooms available.

“It’s not very big, but it’s a start,” he said.

“How much?”

“Sixteen dollars a month.”

“How far is it from here?”

“Only a couple of blocks. Close enough for you to see Magda without having to walk too far.”

That was all Frank cared about. He turned to his uncle. “We’ve got ten dollars between us. With the housing voucher they gave us at Freedom House, it’s enough for the first month’s rent.”

Luis grunted. “Let’s take a look. But we’ll have to get jobs—and fast—or we won’t be able to pay the bill for next month.”

They walked down Bergenline Avenue to inspect the room, wending their way up a narrow staircase to the third floor of an old building. The walls hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years. Two creaky beds were shoved against the wall with a narrow space separating them.