Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (28 page)

He kissed her. At first her breathing was ragged. Then it slowly became rhythmic, pushing and pulling, in and out, their heartbeats beating in unison, their breaths tumbling over each other like the ebb and flow of the endlessly churning sea.

Frank wanted to bequeath his breath to Magda so she could own it, use it, and extract every bit of love and energy from it. He wanted his breath to serve as a currency, a balm that would heal her, sustain her and nurture her for years and decades to come. But he could not. He was powerless to bestow this gift.

He took her in his arms and treated her body like fragile porcelain, fine and easily broken, never to be whole again. He was afraid of hurting her, yet she showed no sign that he was doing so. He wanted this moment to last forever, to carry them to a different time, a different place, a place of gentle breezes and blue-green water filigreed with lacy foam.

He wanted time to reverse, to expand, to stand still, to do anything but to advance in its inexorable progression into the dark, empty inevitable. Lines from a Carl Sandberg poem sprung to mind:

I never knew any more beautiful than you:

I have hunted you under my thoughts,

I have broken down under the wind

And into the roses looking for you.

I shall never find any

greater than you.

Magda’s body was as familiar to Frank as a glass of milk. He wanted to transport her to a place where she could forget what Fate had in store for her. At least for a while. But he couldn’t.

It was his last chance to please her, and he was determined to give it his all. She cried, and he comforted her as best he could. They repeated each other’s names as if the repetition would fix their place on this earth and stave off their parting. He remained with Magda until he could stand it no longer and then collapsed in a torment of grief.

He screamed his pain into the ether in a keening that arose from the depth of his being. He wanted to extinguish it, but it rolled over him, a swell of anguish that rivaled the thrashing waves of a storm, a tsunami of sorrow that could no more be contained than a comber reclaimed by the tide.

Magda gathered his head to her bosom and began rocking back and forth, making a cooing sound she used when Darlene was a baby. “There, there. It’s okay, don’t you worry,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair and blotting the tears from his eyes. He looked at her and she smiled, a strained smile that informed him it wouldn’t be long before she was gone.

He wanted to return her smile, to fondle her again with his eyes, but he could not. It was impossible. He was helpless in the face of her impending death. How many breaths did she have left? Enough to count? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? An hour’s worth? A night’s worth?

Grief welled in him as loud and mighty as a hurricane, shattering time, place, self, obliterating everything but this moment, this precious moment that refused to last, that refused to stand still, that could not be savored but could only be devoured like the menacing cells that were eating her body, endlessly dividing, multiplying, while at the same time plundering, destroying, diminishing, extinguishing.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. He rose from her bed and stumbled to the door, hoping to find refuge in another room, another place, wanting to lean against the steady trunk of a tree, to gain
comfort from the murmur of the nocturnal sounds of nature. He longed to hear the chirping cicadas, the croaking frogs, the birds calling their mates back to the nest. But he could not leave her.

With his hand on the doorknob, he dropped to his knees like a fallen icon, feeling the warmness of her body still on him and the coldness of the floor piercing his skin. He gulped great breaths of air, filling his lungs with sweet, precious life while knowing her eyes were upon him, watching him in sympathy, loving him faithfully to the end.

He put his head between his legs and pounded his fists on the floor until his hands were swollen and bleeding and his throat was so dry and parched from sobbing that he had to stand and stumble to her bed stand for a drink of water. He slurped it greedily, the water dribbling down his chin, wetting his chest, his fingers, his toes. It was the essence of life, and he would have all of it, every drop.

Magda looked at him with alarm in her eyes and reached out her hand to comfort him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. Come lie with me.”

Magda moved to one side of the bed, and Frank lay down next to her. They clutched each other like children in a typhoon, until his tears finally ceased, his hiccups of grief subsided, and the great heaving sobs no longer racked his chest and polluted the air. Frank took her hand in his, as delicate as a paper crane, and held it the way a child holds a kitten, gently, softly, petting her skin, her fingers, her nails. Frank struggled to stay awake, but soon found himself dreaming of a lone tree standing on a rocky hill. It was barren, stripped of its leaves, its bark, its flowers. The rock dissolved into dense sand, ebony grains that ran like hot oil through his fingers, leaving them black, charred, and numb.

He was watering the tree, trying desperately to provide it with nourishment, but its slender roots were turning inward, curling in upon themselves, seeking something Frank could not provide.

From the edge of consciousness, he heard his name being repeated
ever so softly—Frank, Frank, Frank. He awoke with a start and looked at Magda. Her eyes were closed, and she was turning her head from side to side. Her forehead was dotted with perspiration. He wet a washcloth in a glass of water on her bed stand and placed it on her lips. She raised her chin and sucked briefly. Her eyelids fluttered, but her mind was no longer focused.

The sun was lighting the sky to a bruised purple as he looked at her. Magda winced as a lance of pain gripped her and her body convulsed. She whispered Frank’s name in torment, beseeching him for relief, for rescue, for redemption.

But he could not save her.

It was a coarse, inconsolable sound that soured the air and singed his soul like flames consuming a martyr’s stake.

But he could not save her.

His throat clogged with a thousand tears. But he could not save her.

It was the last sound she ever made.

For several months after Magda’s death, Frank experienced an odd combination of grief and relief, grief that he had lost his wife and relief that her suffering had finally ceased. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read, and couldn’t think properly. He felt like he was walking through a thick mist, unmoored and unfocused. For a while he lost all faith in life, in God, and in love. He simply could not accept the fact that this awful thing had happened to Magda. Or that she was gone.

The emptiness rolled over him like white sheets of fog. There was no one to confide in, no one to shop with, and no one with whom he could discuss the day’s events over a glass of red wine.

He would turn to ask Magda a question, forgetting she was no longer alive. He would pick up the phone to check with her regarding an upcoming event, only to drop the receiver back in its cradle. He would reach for her in bed in the middle of the night, only to find an empty space. Those moments snuck up on him. He was continuously ambushed by surprise.

He’d see Magda wheeling a cart down a supermarket aisle, carefully checking her list. He’d glimpse her standing on street corners, her hair draped around her shoulders. He’d observe her waiting at stoplights, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Then he’d realize his mind was tricking him. It was not Magda he saw. It was someone else. She was everywhere and nowhere, and he feared his longing for her would never end.

Frank’s biggest concern was Darlene. Her world had been turned upside down, and he had no idea how to make her feel better. His answer was to surround her with as many loving people as
possible. Frank took his daughter back and forth to school, and her grandparents and Aunt Sophia babysat her whenever they could, sometimes at their houses in Union City and sometimes at Frank’s house in Lincoln Park. On Saturdays, Darlene would go to work with Frank, content to do her homework in his small office while he made sandwiches and waited on customers.

At night they’d have long conversations. He’d describe the house her mother lived in when she grew up in Cuba, and what she looked like when he first met her. He told her how smart her mother was and how everyone loved her at school. He told her about the childhood pranks he played with his cousins and friends. Those stories cheered Darlene up—at least for a while. But Magda’s death had left a giant hole in her life, one Frank felt unable to fill.

He approached work with little enthusiasm. Days went by when he was barely aware of what he was doing. He was short, irritable, and grumpy with his staff, complaining about their slightest transgressions.

The thought of remarriage never crossed his mind. Frank was of Spanish descent, and in some circles tradition demanded that a man not remarry after his wife died, at least for what was considered a respectable time—fifteen to twenty years. Frank was resigned to the idea and accepted it without examination.

One day an old customer came into Frank’s store. He had made small talk with the woman on several occasions when Magda was alive. Her name was Chris Ann, and she had moved from Montclair to Bellevue, a short distance away. She came back and forth to visit friends.

She was curious and inquisitive. Smart. Kind. Fun. She exhibited a keen interest in Cuba, questioning Frank about its history, geography, climate, and foliage. She wanted to know about the country’s politics, about Castro and Batista. After a while, she started to visit the store more regularly. When business was slow, she and Frank would have a cup of coffee together. And talk, talk, talk.

As they got to know each other, Frank told her about Magda and
Darlene. She was sympathetic about Magda’s death and concerned about Frank’s daughter. To Frank’s surprise, she asked whether he’d like to go bowling with her and her friends some time. He was pleased at her suggestion.

One thing led to another, and Frank and Chris began going out together. For the first time in his life Frank learned how to date the American way, which was far different from what he had experienced in Cuba. No one oversaw his dates with Chris, no chaperone came between them. The experience was strange but liberating, and it made Frank feel more integrated into American society.

Chris and Frank walked, talked, drank coffee, and laughed. She listened to his stories about Lieutenant Pino, his escape from Cuba, and the family and friends he had left behind. Frank listened to her stories of being adopted and growing up in a single-parent home. She told Frank how hard her mother worked, and how much she loved and admired her.

One day Frank told Chris about getting his first refrigerator. When they finished laughing, she sat back in her chair and asked, “Now that you have a house, two cars, and a business, would you do it over again?”

“Do what again?”

“Go to all that trouble for a discarded refrigerator.”

Frank considered for a moment and said, “No, I don’t think I would.”

Chris made a face.

“What?” he asked.

“You need to rethink your answer.”

Frank was surprised at her challenge. “Why?”

“Because it’s important to remember who you are and where you came from. The persistence it took to get that refrigerator is part of you, and you need to honor it.”

Frank sat back in his chair, stunned. Chris had spoken the truth. And he liked it. For the first time, he noticed the beauty of her shiny red hair, her big green eyes, and her lovely smile. And for the first time, he began to look at her not as a friend but as a woman.

In the early seventies, Frank’s father and grandfather had died, both of heart attacks. He was devastated at the news. One of his biggest fears when he left Cuba was that family members might die before he got to see them again.

At the time, Frank had been so busy building a life that he had given short shrift to the grieving process. He had tried to push down the pain, and it had worked—for a while. Magda’s demise had brought these previous losses to the front of his mind and had triggered a primal need in him to see his family in Cuba again, especially his mother.

More than a decade had passed since Frank had seen his mother’s face. During that time, they had corresponded, careful to avoid any reference to Frank’s escape or any discussion of politics in their letters. But Frank desperately wanted to talk to her in person. He wanted to tell his mother about his life in America and about the death of Magda. He wanted her to meet Darlene, his daughter, her granddaughter. He missed his siblings, cousins, nieces, and nephews, and he yearned to meet his many relatives who had been born since his escape.

For years Frank had wracked his brain for ways to get his relatives out of Cuba and had come up with nothing. It seemed well-nigh impossible. But in the spring of 1980, a glimmer of hope surfaced.

In early April, almost a thousand Cubans stormed the Peruvian Embassy, located in an upscale suburb of Havana. They were protesting the living conditions in Cuba and the policies of the Cuban government. Soon ten thousand Cubans petitioned the Peruvian
government for political asylum. The media dubbed them the “Havana 10,000.”

In response, Fidel announced that anyone wanting to leave Cuba could do so as long as they obtained an exit permit. It was his way of ridding the country of “troublemakers and undesirables.”

President Jimmy Carter agreed to welcome up to thirty-five hundred refugees from the embassy. No one could foresee that one hundred and twenty-five thousand Cubans would eventually leave the country as a result of these events.

Frank soon realized that this was an unprecedented opportunity. He spent two sleepless nights thinking about it. Timing was such that he couldn’t get word to his family in Cuba that he was coming, so he decided to wing it. The next night after dinner he told Chris he was leaving for Florida to bring his relatives back to the States—come hell or high water!