Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (12 page)

An old dresser stood beneath dusty fiberglass curtains that hung askew and appeared to house a family of spiders. Green linoleum squares curled upward to reveal dried black adhesive. Frank sat on the bed. The room was musty and airless, and the one small window was painted shut. Frank looked at it and figured he could loosen the paint with a screwdriver. Still, he felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t imagine living in this room for any length of time. But the price and location were right. So he and Luis signed a month-to-month lease.

It was time to look for work. Luis quickly found a job as a dishwasher in a small Cuban restaurant. As luck would have it, Magda’s father, Sergio, had a brother who worked in a factory in Clifton, New Jersey—not far from Union City—and he put in a good word for Frank. The factory laminated fabric, and Frank was hired to work the second shift—seven p.m. to seven a.m. He carried eighty-pound rolls of cloth on his back before placing them on a compressor to be stretched, steamed, and laminated. The plant was old, airless, and dusty. But it was a job.

Dazzled by American consumer goods and hungry to obtain them, Luis focused on making money. He made friends quickly, and in little over a month he obtained a more lucrative job. Frank asked him about what he did on several occasions, but Luis failed to enlighten him. Frank had too much going on in his own life to give much thought to Luis’s evasive answers. One day Luis asked Frank how much money he made.

“A dollar sixty-seven an hour,” Frank told him.

“What’s that come to a week?”

“Around sixty bucks, depending on overtime.”

“That’s bullshit. Why would you work for chump change like that? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

Frank dismissed his uncle’s statement as bravado. He figured Luis was working at a job that paid little more than his own—he couldn’t imagine otherwise. But he was wrong. Luis was buying things that Frank could only dream of affording.

Luis filled the room’s small closet with expensive clothes, expensive shoes. A gold watch encircled his wrist. He smoked pack upon pack of cigarettes, puffed on cigars, and purchased beer and liquor by the case. He didn’t speak fluent English, and he didn’t have any particular skills. Where was he getting his money?

While Luis’s job obviously paid well, it appeared to involve people of questionable character. Luis began partying late into the night. He’d return to the room singing in Spanish and staggering from
drink. Sometimes his friends accompanied him. Frank feared he and Luis would be evicted.

Meanwhile, Frank’s life developed into a predictable routine. He hitched a ride to work with a Cuban who lived in the city, paying him five dollars a week for transportation. He volunteered for the least desirable jobs in the factory, and he worked all the overtime he could get.

Luckily, he befriended a factory supervisor who spoke Spanish, Italian, and English. He was young—about twenty-eight. Bruno took Frank aside for a talk one day.

“You seem ambitious, Frank. And I like you. So I’m going to give you a piece of advice. It’s good to speak Italian, and it’s good to speak Spanish. But if you don’t speak English in this country, you’re screwed.”

Frank knew Bruno made sense. “What’s the best way for me to learn English?”

Bruno looked at Frank and said, “Find yourself a tutor.”

Frank spent almost a week thinking about how to find a tutor before it hit him—the woman who worked at the bookstore might be able to help. She was friendly enough, and he figured she probably knew a lot of people in the area. It was worth a try.

Around ten o’clock the next Saturday morning, Frank returned to the bookstore, hoping Maria was working. He spotted her at the back of the store. She was leaning down, unloading boxes, her long black hair hanging toward her feet.

Frank walked up behind her. “Hi,” he said. She looked up expectantly.

“Oh, it’s you!” She smiled and straightened up. “I thought it was someone else.”

“No, just me.”

“What brings you here?”

“I have a favor to ask. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Shoot,” she said.

“I’m looking for someone who teaches English.”

“For yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s easy. There’s a guy right around the corner—a friend of my brother’s. They served in Vietnam together.” She thought for a moment. “In fact, I think he’s Cuban.”

“Cuban?”

“Yeah, he got wounded in the war and then had a terrible accident on top of that. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He backed his wheelchair into an elevator that was being repaired. Unfortunately, nobody put a sign up to that effect. The elevator doors opened, and he fell down the shaft.”

“Jesus!” said Frank. “What’s his name?”

“Marcos Rodriquez.”

“Is he any good?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“How can I find him?”

Maria pointed out the window. “Make a right at the light. Red door, first-floor apartment. Number one ten—it’s on the mailbox. Just knock on the door. He’s always there. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Frank walked out of the store, beaming.
What a stroke of luck. A Cuban English teacher!

Frank walked around the corner, easily finding the apartment building. He knocked on the door and heard the muffled sounds of children playing. “Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice. For a moment he thought he might have the wrong apartment. Then the deadbolt slid and the door opened. Frank looked at a freckle-faced girl with tightly coiled ringlets the color of sunrise. Her eyes were warm and green behind horn-rimmed glasses.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Frank sighed, knowing he’d have to make himself understood in English. “My name is Mederos. Frank Mederos. English lessons?”

The young woman smiled broadly. “Yes, yes. I’m Lauren. Come right in.” She removed a coloring book and a can of Play-Doh from the couch and gestured for Frank to take a seat. “He’ll be with you in a minute,” she said, nodding in the direction of her husband.

Marcos sat with his back toward Frank, talking on the telephone. When he wheeled himself around, Frank realized he was missing both legs. Marcos finished his conversation and hung up.

“What can I do for you?” he said in Spanish. His hair curled
over his collar. A red bandana hung at an odd angle around his neck. Frank tensed.

“I’m a friend of Maria’s—from the bookstore. She said you give English lessons.”

Marcos gave Frank the once-over. “It depends.”

“On what?”

The tutor lifted his chin, almost defiantly. “On whether I like you or not.”

“Okay,” said Frank tentatively. He shifted his body on the couch.

“Tell me about yourself,” said Marcos.

“I’m Cuban.”

“Obviously.” Marcos responded without a trace of a smile.

“What do you want to know?” asked Frank.

“Why did you leave Cuba?”

“To be with my girlfriend, Magda.”

“Any other reason?”

Frank hesitated, wondering what to say.

“Were you in the army?” asked Marcos.

“Yes,” said Frank. Marcos seemed to sense Frank’s apprehension.

“What did you do?”

“Special Forces.”

The muscles in Marcos’s face tightened. “You were a communist?”

“Quite the contrary.”

“Then why the force?”

“It happened. I was selected. I had to serve.”

For a moment a shadow passed over Marcos’s eyes. “No, you didn’t have to serve.” His voice was low and leathery. “You had a choice. We all have choices. You could’ve escaped.”

Frank felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked at Marcos, trying to fathom his thinking. From what Maria had said, Marcos had served in Vietnam. He had been in war. He knew what it meant to follow orders.

Frank looked past him to the maple tree whose branches were shyly greening outside the window. A robin landed on the windowsill
and pecked the peeling paint, looking for sustenance. A few moments passed before he responded.

Frank looked at Marcos’s eyes. They were as brown and big as olives. “I did escape,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper. Unspoken negotiations were contained in these three words. Marcos exhaled.

“Plane?” he said.

“Boat.”

Marcos gave Frank a long, hard look and then briefly closed his eyes. Something profound passed between the two men and remained suspended like dust motes. They sat in silence, their thoughts taking them both to a different place, a different time.

Finally, Marcos turned to Frank, and murmured, “I believe you.”

The men remained silent for a few more minutes, listening to the children’s voices rise and fall in play. The sizzle of grilled cheese sandwiches emanated from the kitchen.

Then Marcos cleared his throat. “Did you graduate from high school?”

“No, I—”

“No matter,” he said, waving his hand. “You’ll need to get your GED.”

Frank nodded, not knowing what he was talking about, but hesitant to ask. “All right.”

“Do you work?”

Frank nodded.

“My only available time is from nine to ten in the morning.”

“I work nights. I’m finished by seven and home by seven thirty. Nine is fine.”

“How often do you want to meet?”

“Often. I want to learn as quickly possible.”

“Five days a week?”

Frank hesitated, wondering whether he could afford to come that often.

“How much do you charge?”

“Five dollars an hour.”

Frank did a quick calculation. Tutoring would make things tight financially. On the surface, it appeared he couldn’t afford it. On the other hand, he figured Marcos was making what he was making because he could speak English, and he was making what he was making because he couldn’t. He’d have to work it out.

“Five days a week,” said Frank.

“Two other students will work with us,” said Marcos. “It’s not a private lesson. We only speak English—no Spanish. Just so you know.”

“Okay.”

Marcos nodded and extended his hand for Frank to shake. Lauren emerged from the kitchen, pushed her glasses up her nose, and wished Frank a warm good-bye.

When he reached the door, Frank turned to Marcos and said, “One question: what’s a GED?”

“Sorry. It’s your high school equivalency degree. You’ll need it to do just about anything.”

“Is it hard to get?”

Marcos looked Frank up and down. “It will take work. But we’ll get the job done. I’ve done harder things.”

Frank nodded and replied, “So have I.”

At nine o’clock sharp Frank arrived at Marcos’s apartment, ready for his first English lesson. He knew a few English words and phrases, things Magda and his Cuban teachers had taught him, jingles he had heard on television, curse words he had learned at work. But he had no grasp of grammar or syntax, and his vocabulary was weak. He had much to learn.

Marcos wheeled himself to his kitchen table and introduced Frank to two other men who were taking lessons. The students nodded to each other. Marcos began speaking to them in English as Lauren busied herself folding laundry.

The lesson reminded Frank of his time in Cuba’s Literacy Brigade, the nights he spent teaching a peasant family to read and write in the hills of the Sierra Maestra. Little did he know at the time that he would be a language student himself one day.

Marcos taught “conversational English,” and Frank had no idea what was going on. He sat bewildered, understanding little of what Marcos said. Marcos would point to objects and name them: lamp, table, rug. Frank repeated the words, but they vacated his mind the minute they left his tongue. Bone-tired from work, he tried to focus.

Having studied with Marcos for some time, the other men had a firmer grasp on the language, easily answering questions Marcos posed in English. Their progress gave Frank hope that he would eventually succeed.

When the lesson was over, Frank thanked Marcos and walked back to his room. The sun was shining, and he was looking forward to
some sleep. He trudged up the stairs and reached into his pocket for his key. When he opened the door, he found Luis drinking with his friends. Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor and ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. Frank kicked a beer can out of his way.

Luis stood to greet Frank, swayed, and plopped on the bed. His buddies lounged about as if they owned the place. It appeared as if they’d been there all night. Frank tried to corral his anger. He scowled and announced that he needed some sleep. He hoped the men would up and leave, but no one made a move.

Out on the street a car door opened, closed. Frank looked out the window and saw four men dressed in dark clothes. They appeared dirty, rough. They were all stocky, with thick necks and determined gaits. Looking both ways, they approached the building with caution. Frank heard footfalls on the stairs before a set of knuckles pounded on the door. The rapping came with the insistence of a staff sergeant.

Luis jumped off the bed like a squirrel avoiding an oncoming car, spilling his can of beer in the process. He licked his fingers and wiped his hand on his pants. Everyone in the room grew silent.

Luis stepped into the hallway, leaving the door half open. He spoke to his visitors in a hushed tone. As he did, his drinking buddies got up, looked at each other in alarm, and made their way past the thugs. Eager to leave, they wasted no time going down the steps. Frank strained to hear what was being said, but he could only make out snippets of conversation.

After a few minutes, the thugs departed. Frank watched them climb into their car. Their tires squealed as they sped away.

Luis reentered the room and sat on the bed. He looked at once sheepish and belligerent. The room became so quiet you could hear a handkerchief land on sand. Luis lay down on the bed and turned his body to face the wall, without removing his clothes.

“What was that about?” Frank asked. Luis rearranged his pillow, but didn’t turn around. “Who were those people and what did they want?” Silence.

Frank sighed and sat down on his bed. He rested his forehead on the palm of his hand before looking up. “Look, Luis, I have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, but it doesn’t look good to me. You need to lose these friends of yours, and you need to figure out how to bring Rosa and your girls to the States. I don’t like where your life is going without them.”