Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (16 page)

“None of your damn business where I got it.”

“Is it yours? Do you own it?”

“Damn straight.”

“All right, I can see I’m not going to get any answers out of you. At least nothing truthful.”

Frank drove as far as he thought was safe and then parked the car on the side of the road. Luis spit out his gum and lit a cigarette. They started out on foot. The night was one of egg-frying heat, the kind that causes nerves to fray and tempers to rise. A sallow haze hugged the horizon, evidence of the number of stores ablaze. Frank wiped a line of sweat from his forehead, trying to ignore the fear clawing his stomach.

“It doesn’t look good. Are you sure you have to conduct this ‘business’ of yours?”

“It’ll be okay,” said Luis, a crack in his voice betraying his words. “We’ll get in and out fast.”

Frank found his pronouncement less than comforting. They walked along a broken pavement blighted with refuse. A chain-link fence topped with a whorl of razor wire lay crushed on the sidewalk.

As they got closer, the city looked like a war zone. It was theater of the extreme, a freewheeling carnival of hate and greed. Nothing was normal. No vestige of civilization remained in sight.

Black-and-white police cars were parked at jaunty angles to protect firemen wielding hoses. Streams of water rose high into the air, creating a mist so thick it was like strolling through a sponge. Flames licked the sides of buildings like dragon’s breath. People were hollering and elbowing each other, jockeying for position to loot. Frank and Luis had never seen anything like it.

Police flashers broke the cloak of darkness, reddening puddles that reflected the grimness of the scene. Thick ash stung their lungs.
They buried their noses in their forearms, trying to avoid the soot that was ringing their nostrils.

People staggered about looking dazed and confused. Old men with canes shuffled along the sidewalk, shaking their heads in disbelief. A young woman walked by clutching her child in one hand and her meager belongings in the other. Frank knew instantly that the fires had left her homeless. He looked into her panicked eyes and reached out to steady her. But she stepped away, ducking her head in fear.

Looters were everywhere, some as serious as sledgehammers, others giddy with glee. It was as if the entire city had been granted a license to steal. A bare-chested teenager hurled a trashcan through a store window. The sound was deafening. A shower of plate glass fell like hail on the sidewalk, splintering into a thousand pieces. Frank could almost visualize molecular bonds being shattered. He stepped back, shielding his eyes as shards of glass crunched beneath his feet.

The interiors of multistoried buildings gaped empty, riot-shredded shells mocking hope. Some merchants had painted “Soul Bro” on the faces of their buildings in a futile attempt to thwart looting.

Frank looked to his right to see a young man—no more than thirteen—stumble under the weight of a console television set. He was biting his lip, his forehead oozing sweat. He weaved across a sidewalk tangled with dented appliances and clothes still clinging to hangers. Someone pushed him, and he dropped the TV on his foot. A police siren swallowed his screams.

Frank directed Luis’s gaze to a burnt-out shell of an overturned car that littered the street like a discarded snakeskin. With its underbelly exposed, its wheels spun aimlessly at a smoke-filled sky.

A sharp crack rang out as if something were being ripped from its hinges. Startled, Frank looked up to see a flaming beam fall from a burning building. It was headed right for him. He covered his head with his arms and leapt out of the way. The beam crashed to the street only feet from where Frank stood. Sparks jumped into
the air, singeing his legs like splattered grease. He brushed them off with the palms of his hands.

Frank walked a few feet and tripped over something solid, unyielding. He looked down in grim amazement to see a leg sitting in a pile of rubble at a right angle to the sidewalk. It was a woman’s limb with a nicely shaped calf and a high heel shoe hanging off a pretty foot. It was charred and half buried in debris. The violence had eaten its color. A chill tingled his spine just looking at it. His stomach clenched and his pulse thundered at his temples. He sucked in his breath and jumped back.

The scene felt surreal, like a painting he’d seen in a book his grandfather owned. Time stretched, elongated. His face felt hot, flushed. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he leaned against a building to get his bearings.

Frank raised his hand to his mouth, afraid he was going to vomit. His forehead felt clammy. He bent over and tried to quell the roiling acid in his stomach. It took him a minute to catch his breath. When he looked again, he realized the leg was part of a dismembered mannequin. He heaved a sigh of relief.

When Luis saw Frank’s reaction, he began to laugh. It was a cruel, pitiless sound, a caterwauling commensurate with the night’s events.

“What? Did you think it was real?” he asked.

Frank looked away, embarrassed at his own reaction, and disgusted with his uncle’s. He felt a sense of dislocation. He wanted out.

Frank turned to Luis and said, “I’ve had enough! Do what you want, but I’m going home.”

Luis stopped laughing. The alarm that rose in his eyes was too obvious to miss. “You can’t leave. Not now!”

“The hell I can’t,” Frank shouted. He turned on his heel and started jogging toward the car.

Luis hesitated a moment and then began running beside him.

“Wait! We have to talk. Don’t go. I need you!”

“You don’t need me,” said Frank. “You need your head examined. And so do I for being here.”

“I need
my
head examined? What about you? Working all night in that filthy factory for minimum wage when you can make real money working for me. When are you gonna wise up?”

“That’s a discussion for another day,” said Frank. He quickened his pace.

“But you owe me!”

“I owe you. But I didn’t go through hell to get out of Cuba to die in a place like this. I have no dog in this fight.”

“So you’re backing down on your word? You promised to help me.”

Frank stopped and glared at Luis. “Let me make myself clear. What you do is your business. I have no say in it. But this is madness, and I’m going home.”

Frank turned and started running.

“Stop!” screamed Luis. His voice sounded shrill and desperate. “We’re so close. Just give me a little time. You can stay here if you want. Wait in the car. I won’t take long.”

Frank slowed his pace as his uncle caught up to him. “I don’t think you heard me. I’m leaving.
Now!”

“You’re abandoning me? Just like that?”

“No, I’m going back to our room. Call it what you will. You can come—or not. It’s up to you.”

Luis looked around frantically, his dark features signaling disbelief. He jumped around like a boxer before an opening match. His eyes darted back and forth. He resembled a wild dog trying to get its bearings.

He made a small sound, raised his fingers to his mouth, and chewed his thumbnail. A moment of silence elapsed as Frank and Luis glared at each other. Then Frank turned and walked toward the car. “Hey!” hollered Luis.

Frank shook his head and continued walking. His uncle followed. Reaching the car, he opened the door, and settled himself into the driver’s seat. He was grateful to still have the keys and relieved to be in the safety of the vehicle.

Luis stood next to the Mustang, looking like he was going to kick
the tires. Frank wasn’t sure whether he’d get in or not. He didn’t care. He turned on the ignition and put the car into gear just as Luis opened the passenger door. He hopped into the car, stretched his legs, and slumped into the seat. He untied his sneakers, loosened his shoe tongues, and propped his feet on the dashboard. The smell of sweat filled the air.

A moment elapsed as Luis stared into space. Then he turned to Frank, and said hoarsely, “This is probably for the best. I bet the old lady wasn’t there anyway.”

“Yeah,” grunted Frank. “Probably not.”

Frank started driving down the road as Luis plucked a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. He threw the match out the window, inhaled deeply, and switched on the radio to the sound of The Supremes. Then he turned to Frank and said, “You still owe me.”

Frank glued his eyes to the road. He didn’t respond.

At eight-thirty in the morning on August 12, 1967, Magda stood before the full-length mirror in her mother’s bedroom, adjusting her lace wedding veil. Her hair lay in thick curls around her shoulders. A white organza dress embroidered with seed pearls grazed her high heel pumps.

Frank couldn’t sleep the night before, thinking about how Magda would look in her gown, and how he would feel walking back down the aisle arm in arm with his bride. His eyes misted just thinking about it. It truly was a dream come true.

He had arranged for Bruno, his supervisor from work, to wait outside Magda’s parents’ apartment in his blue Buick Riviera. His job was to chauffeur her to St. Augustine Roman Catholic Church in Union City.

Located on New York Avenue, the church was a modern, triangular-shaped building with rectangles of stained glass that rose to a peak in the front. A large cross adorned the building’s brick façade.

Twenty people filled the pews to witness the ceremony, including all of Magda’s relatives living in the States and some friends Magda and Frank had made since they had arrived in America.

Frank stood at the altar with Magda’s brother, who served as best man. The gold wedding bands, which Frank had purchased the week before, rested securely in his pocket.

The organist began playing the soft strands of music, and Frank’s heart skipped a beat. A few more guests wandered in and sat in the pews.

Frank adjusted his tie and stood a little straighter. Magda’s mother,
Aunt Sophia, and Uncle Rigo walked down the aisle and occupied the front pew. Tears dewed their cheeks.

A moment of silence, almost sacred, transpired before the organist began playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” All eyes turned toward the back of the church. Carrying a bouquet of white roses and carnations and holding her father’s arm, Magda slowly proceeded down the aisle, beaming all the way. She nodded to her guests, and then turned to Frank and smiled. She never looked more radiant.

Sergio stood for a moment at the altar and kissed his daughter on the cheek before giving her hand to Frank. He then joined Magda’s mother in the front pew. The opposite pew—the one that would have held Frank’s parents, siblings, and grandparents—sat as empty as a mask after Mardi Gras.

Frank had written to his family to tell them about his upcoming marriage. He hoped they had received his letter and were thinking of them. For a brief moment, he felt the presence of Abuelo. Wherever he was, Frank knew he was happy for them.

Magda and Frank turned toward the priest, who made the sign of the cross, kissing the gold crucifix that circled his neck before letting it drop to his waist. He nodded to the altar boys and ascended the stairs to begin the service, while Magda and Frank knelt before him on red-carpeted stairs. Two floor fans cooled the air as the priest began to speak in Latin. Frank could hardly focus on the Mass.

Young Sergio gave a reading from scripture in Spanish, and the priest urged Frank and Magda to remain faithful to the Church and to each other. He spoke of love and children. Frank was so eager to get married, he thought they’d never get to recite their wedding vows.

Just when he could stand it no longer, the priest came down the steps and stood before the couple. His eyes twinkled. He delivered a blessing and a short sermon about the sanctity of marriage.

Then he turned to Frank, and said, “Repeat after me: I, Frank Mederos, take thee, Magda Hernández, for my lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us
part.” Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He said the words with tears streaming down his cheeks. A hush fell over the congregation.

The priest turned to Magda. She reached over and wiped a tear from Frank’s face with her thumb. Frank took her hand in his and kissed it. She enunciated her marriage vows to Frank in a strong, clear voice. He nodded, savoring every word.

“The rings, please,” said the priest. The best man extracted the rings from his pocket and handed them to the priest. Frank took Magda’s hand and slipped the wedding ring on the third finger of her left hand next to the trinket ring he had given her in Cuba. The night before the couple had discussed whether Magda would continue to wear that ring, and she insisted, saying it was an emblem of their love that she would wear until the day she died. Frank was secretly pleased.

The priest waited as they placed the rings on each other’s fingers. Then, raising his hand in the sign of the cross, the priest said the sweetest words Frank had ever heard: “Frank and Magda, I join you together in holy matrimony, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” The priest turned toward Frank and said, “You may now kiss the bride.” Frank pushed Magda’s veil aside and kissed her on the lips. When he finished, she kissed him again. And again. Everybody laughed.

The recessional music began, and they exited the church in a flurry of excitement and confetti. They stood for a few minutes outside the church to take photographs before going to Sophia and Rigo’s apartment for a small reception. Sophia had decorated the table with white flowers, candles, and tulle. She served a generous buffet accompanied by Cuban coffee and several homemade desserts.

Around four o’clock, Bruno drove Frank and Magda to the Port Authority in New York City so they could catch a bus for a long weekend in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. At a friend’s suggestion, they stayed at a place called Cove Haven Resort on Lake Wallenpaupack. The honeymoon suite had a heart-shaped bed and bathtub. Mirrors reflected the light. The bedspread was
fluffy and red. Candles and a jar of pink bubble bath sat on the bathtub’s ledge, waiting to be opened. Seeing them, Magda blushed, and then laughed merrily.