Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (3 page)

Brown appeared in Martinez’s office looking solemn and shaken. He had joined the military before Fidel came to power. Much of the land his Haitian family had worked so hard to acquire had been expropriated by the State under the Agrarian Reform Law of 1959. Brown had no time for the communists, but he was smart enough to keep his opinions to himself.

Brown was in charge of operations for the Special Forces unit, while Lieutenant Pino oversaw political affairs at the base. Pino relinquished authority to Brown in military matters, and Brown conceded to Pino in political matters. The two lieutenants disliked each other and vied for power. Pino had declared Frank’s escape a matter of national security, making it a political matter that fell under his authority.

Brown regarded Captain Carrilles warily. He saluted, took a seat near the window, and folded his hands.

The captain shifted in his seat. “Commander Martinez informs me that Pino sent the entire Elite Counterattack Force after Mederos. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Speak up? Call headquarters?”

“I am a soldier, Captain. My first duty is to obey orders. When my two commanding officers agree on a course of action, and that course of action is
not
to inform headquarters, that’s what I do.”

“So you felt powerless in this situation, Lieutenant?”

“It wasn’t a matter of feeling powerless, Captain.”

“Then what was it, Lieutenant?”

“It was not my duty to go over their heads, sir. I am a soldier, a graduate of the military academy. I obey orders.”

Carrilles gritted his teeth and glared at Brown. He waited a moment to regain control of his emotions. He turned to the officer at his right to make sure notes were being taken.

“Were you \at the Coast Guard station when Mederos escaped?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Describe what occurred there.”

“We got word that Mederos was in one of two boats filled with worms headed for the Florida Straits. A Guatemalan freighter had spotted them and had radioed the American Coast Guard to pick them up. The communication was intercepted, and Pino ordered our Coast Guard to go after them.”

“What about the director of the Coast Guard station? Didn’t he have anything to say?”

“He was furious that Pino was trying to take over. He went along with him for a while, but he eventually recalled our boats. Said he didn’t want an international incident on his hands. Evidently, members of his family were aboard one of the boats. I’m sure it influenced his decision. He and Pino argued, and the lieutenant lost. That’s about it.”

Carrilles thought for a minute and then stood up abruptly. The rest of the officers followed suit.

“I’ve heard enough for now,” he said. He turned to Martinez. “I am shocked and appalled at your spinelessness and recklessness in the midst of a critical situation. What kind of weak sister are you to allow this to happen under your command?” He practically spit out the words. “You are the most pitiful excuse for a commander I’ve ever seen.”

“I—”

“Shut the hell up, Commander. I’ve heard enough nonsense. As of now, you and your officers are under house arrest. Members of our delegation will take over the base until your replacements are appointed. Meanwhile, we will escort Pino to Managua where he will be held under guard until arrangements are made for his trial.

“Your actions could prove devastating to our great nation. Our delegation will investigate further to make sure no conspiracy was involved in this worm’s escape. If we find evidence to that effect, you—and anyone else involved—will be tried for treason. As you know, the penalty for treason is death. Meanwhile, you are relieved of your command.”

Carrilles turned to Brown. “I respect that you were following orders, Lieutenant. But for the time being, you are also relieved of your command. Perhaps, with further instruction, you can be salvaged to better serve the revolution. Time will tell. You are to report to the military academy for additional leadership training.”

The captain turned to his first lieutenant and said, “I will need to speak to all members of the Special Forces regarding this matter. Get me a list of men, and schedule interviews as soon as possible.”

The delegation saluted and walked out of the office, leaving Brown and Martinez ashen and spent.

After bidding farewell to the US Coast Guard, Frank Mederos and his party climbed aboard a bus headed to Freedom House, an agency that provided immigration, health, and settlement services. The agency, which served as a sort of refugee hotel, was located near the airport in Miami.

The group was a motley crew, their hunger for life, liberty, and safety now supplanted by their urgent need for a hot shower, dry clothes, and a decent meal.

The party numbered twenty-nine: two women awaiting childbirth, several traumatized children, adults of all ages, including Frank and his Uncle Luis. It took them a while to regain their land legs, the undulant motion of the sea clinging to their limbs like burrs to cotton.

They had been fed and issued blankets aboard the Guatemalan freighter
Gran Lempira.
Now Dixie cups filled with water were distributed and quickly consumed. Suffering from dehydration, many of the refugees urgently requested refills. They gulped down water as if they’d never had a drink.

Although exhausted and bedraggled, the group was electric with the talk of their adventure. To Frank’s chagrin, his Uncle Luis was carrying on as if he were the hero of the voyage when, at the height of their crossing, he had begged Frank to take the boat back to Cuba to avoid what he thought would be certain death at sea.

Frank had ignored his urgings, rendering Luis striated with fear and momentarily speechless. But Frank understood his feelings. He was familiar with the kind of cold terror that could sluice through
your body so rapidly it obliterated rational thought. He had tasted it, faced it, overcome it.

When Frank was younger, he regarded his uncle as a brave, loyal man. It was why he had asked Luis to hide him from the authorities—no small matter. If caught, Luis could’ve been sent “to the wall”—shot for harboring a fugitive. Yet he and his wife, Rosa, welcomed Frank into their home without reservation or complaint.

Their hospitality had meant more to Frank than a roof over his head—it had meant his life. Rosa had washed his clothes, slaked his thirst, and fed his body. What’s more, she had put her life and the lives of her two daughters at risk. For a mother, this was remarkable. No wonder she’d been a bundle of nerves.

Although his uncle was unemployed and strapped for cash, Frank was surprised when he asked to go to America with him. Luis had been a truck driver for Coca-Cola and had lost his job when Fidel nationalized the company. Coke absconded with its secret formula, and the company that replaced it produced a product that few people wanted to drink.

Now, Frank watched Luis effusively recount their experience as if he were a major player in their success. Frank looked at him askance. This was a real eye-opener for him. For the first time in his life he got the impression that his uncle was not the man he thought him to be.

Amid the commotion and babble, Frank’s thoughts turned to Magda. In the six months since he’d seen her, he missed her like an amputee misses a leg. His longing had reached a fever pitch. He wanted the comfort of her familiarity, the sureness of her unbidden support, the normalcy of being with her and doing something as simple as taking a walk. He planned to call her at the first possible moment to reassure her that he had escaped Cuba alive and to hear the excitement in her voice when she heard the news.

He needed her touch like he needed water. He needed her laughter like he needed air. He had survived a dangerous and circuitous path to reach her, and he was on the cusp of realizing his dream. What more could a man want?

When the group arrived at Freedom House, they were welcomed
as heroes, congratulated on their success, and praised for their courage.

Once the excitement subsided, they were issued clean clothes, soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, a razor, and a fine-toothed comb. Frank grabbed his toiletries and hastened to the men’s room.

He glanced in the mirror and studied his face, surprised at his reflection. His skin was blistered from the sun and caked with brine. His hair was askew, matted and curled with oceanic debris. Bits of seaweed clung to his beard, and fine red lines netted the whites of his eyes like ivy crossing a wall. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted salt, the essence of the sea that was so much a part of him.

His hands gripped the sink, as tremulous as wind chimes. He lowered his head, hoping the tide of adrenaline would stop flooding his bloodstream. He wondered what toll it had taken on his body during five months of running from the authorities, five months of crushing fear, five months of knowing he’d put his own life and the lives of his loved ones in mortal danger.

But he was young and strong. At nineteen he considered himself almost invincible. He nudged the thought from his mind. This was not a time for morbid musings, but rather a time for celebration.

A cruciform of sunlight bounced off the mirror, prompting Frank to shield his eyes with his fingers. It splintered in a brilliant flash—here for a moment and gone forever. Frank smiled, thinking it was a good omen.

Frank slathered his skin with shaving cream and dipped his razor into warm water. He drew the blade across his cheeks, enjoying the familiar rasp as the razor cleared a path through his beard. It was a simple thing. He was beginning to feel better already.

He brushed his teeth and ran the bristles of his toothbrush over his tongue, hoping to refresh his mouth and to obliterate the taste of the sea. He removed his clothes, knowing he could never bring himself to wear them again, and stepped into the shower. He twisted the valve and closed his eyes as a warm stream of liquid washed over him like baptismal waters. A shower had never felt so good.

He reached for the bar of hard-milled soap that sat in its dish like a jewel in a Tiffany box. It felt like polished granite. He admired its blue-green marbling and brought it to his nostrils. He inhaled the aroma of Zest, thinking it was the most refreshing scent he had ever encountered. He scrubbed his body vigorously and shampooed his hair, once, twice, thrice. He rinsed. When he ran his fingers through his hair, it squeaked like hinges hungry for oil. He smiled, listening to the sighs of other men as they performed similar rituals.

Once everyone freshened up, they gathered in the dining hall for cheeseburgers, French fries, and a salad moistened with Wishbone dressing. The rolls were soft, the beef well done. The refugees spanked bottles of Heinz ketchup with their fists to release the stubborn condiment. They passed a plate of crisp pickles and a basket filled with potato chips. Frank ate ravenously, consuming three burgers, which he chased down with two glasses of iced tea.

The group sat for a while after the meal was finished, talking about where their respective journeys might take them, while listening to the rattle of dishes and silverware. Women in white uniforms stripped paper tablecloths from wooden tables. They scrubbed counters and tabletops with squirt bottles and sponges. Disinfectant fumes scented the air. Ceiling fans twirled, and a vacuum cleaner hummed in the corner.

The refugees lined up to complete various forms and to go over the sundry details regarding their admittance into the country. Due to their number, the authorities requested that they limit their phone conversations to ten minutes a day.

Not knowing Magda’s number, Frank called Magda’s uncle who lived in Miami to see if he could obtain it. Her uncle had been involved in the Bay of Pigs invasion and was thrilled to learn of Frank’s escape. They laughed and exchanged family news. He assured Frank that he would do well in the States and promised to call him the following day with Magda’s number. Comforted, Frank smiled at the thought of soon seeing his sweetheart.

By nine p.m., exhaustion blanketed Frank like snow. He was
escorted to his sleeping quarters and assigned a bed. Despite his fatigue, he lowered his body to the floor and did a hundred push-ups—a habit he was reluctant to break.

He folded his clothes into a neat pile and placed them at the foot of the bed. He climbed into bed in relief, grateful to have a safe place to sleep. The sheets smelled of detergent, sunshine, and bleach. They felt fresh and clean beneath his skin. He rubbed the bottoms of his feet against the smooth fabric for the sheer pleasure of it.

The smell of the sheets reminded Frank of his mother. His mind wandered to the last time he saw her. It had been a brief encounter, a scant fifteen minutes, a surreptitious meeting to exchange final farewells. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her face was stricken with the thought of losing her son to jail—or worse.

Neither of them knew whether Frank would survive his escape. He could have been shot. He could have drowned, or been eaten by sharks, a fate that had befallen thousands of Cubans who had braved such a journey. His odds of survival were slim.

His mother looked at Frank with such tenderness he feared his heart would shatter. The stress of knowing her firstborn child faced such an uncertain destiny had etched deep lines in her face. Frank tried to reassure her that all would be well, but they both knew he was spouting platitudes. He could offer little balm for her suffering. She wished him farewell with a voice hoarse with sorrow. Her eyes were dry, but her words were wet with tears.

Yet she did not cling to him for solace, she did not try to stop him, she did not warn him of danger. Instead, she pulled Frank to her bosom and told him she would hold him in her heart forever. Hers was quiet, intense grief, a nod to the inevitable, a mother’s greatest gift: a willingness to let go.

Frank recoiled at the thought of having put his mother, his father, his grandfather—his entire family—through such pain. They deserved better. They deserved a son who would look after them, who would provide them with comfort and support, both emotionally and financially, in their old age. But he’d faced a terrible choice:
his country and his family, or his darling Magda and freedom. He had looked to the future, calculated the risks, assessed his skills, and made his decision. He had to go.