Stalked: The Boy Who Said No (30 page)

Days passed and Frank and Rolando received no word about their family members. Twice, different officials requested their relatives’ names and addresses, acting as if this were the first time the information was obtained and recorded. Frank and Rolando became increasingly afraid that their paperwork had been bungled or lost. Other boats had received their passengers, but they had not.

After twenty-three days of waiting, the authorities announced over a loudspeaker the names of the boats that would form the next flotilla. Due to the noise in the harbor, Frank found the news difficult to understand. Although he and Rolando paid close attention, they failed to hear the name of their boat.

Finally, the official announced
Me Why.
The name didn’t register with Frank, but Rolando stood up and beamed. “That’s us!” he said. Frank looked at him and realized that the Cubans were pronouncing
My Way
as
Me Why.

Rolando pulled up anchor and motored to the dock to see about their passengers. The guard handed him a list of eighteen people, twice their carrying capacity. Frank figured that overloading the boats was Fidel’s way of making life miserable for anyone wishing to leave Cuba. There was no use protesting. Frank closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, dreading the trip ahead.

Frank and Rolando eyed their passengers. Rolando’s brother was nowhere to be found; neither were Frank’s relatives. Frank shook his head. Several burly Haitians climbed aboard, swearing and sweating profusely. Their stares were hard. Their arms were well muscled.

The men had shaved heads, indicating that they might have been released prisoners. Frank and Rolando had no idea who these people were or what they had done. Their passengers could be rapists or murderers for all they knew. Frank tensed and watched Rolando’s throat work, fear entering his eyes.

The rest of the group comprised middle-aged men, several housewives, three teenagers, and two children. A little boy clutched a teddy bear, the only passenger carrying anything more than the clothes on his back. Frank wondered who had granted this gesture of kindness.

The last one to climb aboard was a pretty young girl wearing a yellow sundress and red plastic sandals. She looked about eight. She was unaccompanied by an adult, and carried herself with poise and determination. She asked for Frank by name. Rolando ushered her to Frank’s side and her eyes grew wide.

“Are you Frankie Mederos?”

Frank nodded, surprised that she knew his name. “Yes, and you are—?”

The girl swallowed hard and pushed her bangs from her forehead. “You don’t know me because I was born after you left. But I’ve heard a lot about you—everybody has.”

Frank looked closely at the girl. She was the spitting image of his deceased sister Teresa. Her father was in prison for political reasons, and Frank wondered whether he was one of the inmates who had been released. She interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m your niece, Mari—Maribel.”

Delighted at this turn of events, Frank threw back his head and laughed. Then he gathered his niece in his arms and kissed her. She seemed a little uncomfortable at his gesture.

“Where’s your grandmother?” he asked. “She was supposed to be here. So was your father, your Uncle José—”

Mari interrupted him. “I don’t know what happened.” She looked around nervously. “They told Grandma that you put in a claim for her. She was so excited about seeing you. That’s all she’s been talking about. She gave away all her stuff, but she was never issued a visa.”

Frank blanched and his throat tightened. “What do you mean she wasn’t issued a visa?”

“Just that—I don’t know why.” Mari hesitated. “But Uncle Carlos and Uncle José made it.” She looked around. “They were with me for
a while. Uncle Carlos was holding my hand, but we got separated. I think he’s on another boat.”

“And the rest of the family? Cousin Sonia?”

“I don’t know. She was here but—” Mari began to tremble. “There was so much confusion. I don’t know what happened to everyone.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Will you take care of me?” Her voice was small and plaintive.

“Of course!” said Frank, taking her hand. “Here, sit between Rolando and me, and don’t talk to anyone but us. This could be a long trip, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Mari settled herself on the cushion next to Frank. He tried to appear positive, but he was bereft that he couldn’t get his mother out of Cuba. He wondered whether he’d ever see her again. He shook his head, thinking this is what happens when you get involved with Fidel.

Once Frank fastened his niece’s life jacket, Rolando started the engine and pointed the boat toward the officials standing at the departure dock.

As they waited in the forty-boat queue for the Cuban authorities to finalize their paperwork, Frank announced the rules for the journey. The area where Frank, Rolando, and Mari sat was off limits, not to be breached by anyone, for anything.

No fighting or swearing was allowed. No one was permitted to speak to Mari. Women and children had first dibs on water and blankets, and the women were to be respected at all times. Coast Guard boats were everywhere, and Frank threatened to turn troublemakers over to the authorities for the slightest infraction of the rules.

“Try any funny business and you’re going back to Cuba,” Frank warned. A man smirked, and Frank stared him down. A stony silence blanketed the group.

With the wind against them, the trip back to Florida was longer and more difficult than the one going to Cuba. The sun beat down relentlessly and the sea rolled beneath the boat. Frank rubbed sunscreen on his niece and distributed his remaining Dramamine to the passengers. Still, some people became sick enough to vomit.

The passengers watched with apprehension as shark fins broke the surface of the water. Everyone realized the danger. Mari held on to Frank for dear life, occasionally shooting him a bewildered glance. To keep her calm, Frank talked to her about school and questioned her about her family and her life in Cuba. He reassured her that everything would be all right, and that she’d love living in the United States. But fear never left her eyes.

The Haitians were surprisingly well behaved, and Frank had to reprimand them only twice. The weather held for the entire
trip—no rain, no storms—and the passengers thanked their lucky stars. The boat rose and fell with the swell of waves, occasionally struggling to stay afloat. Many disabled boats punctuated the way. Frank was grateful that his boat was not among them.

With a strong headwind against them, the trip took close to twenty hours. The last two hours were the most difficult. People were tired, sunburned, and eager to stand on solid ground. Frank and Rolando yearned for a home-cooked meal.

With so many people on edge, Frank feared a fight would break out. He watched everyone carefully, ready to act should things get out of hand. When everyone’s patience was on the verge of exhaustion, Frank spotted the harbor in Key West. A
V
of geese heralded the boat’s arrival, and the passengers let out a rousing cheer.

Rolando motored ahead. Hundreds of boats choked the harbor with thousands of people in need of food, water, and medical assistance. The number of people who had participated in Operation Boatlift greatly exceeded the American government’s expectations. The system for processing immigrants into the country was overwhelmed. President Carter was under heavy pressure to deal with a situation that was spinning out of control.

As
My Way
inched into port, the Coast Guard approached. Two officers stepped aboard to examine the boat. They had a checklist and were looking for safety violations.

“Who owns this vessel?” asked the officer.

“I do.”

“Name?”

“Frank Mederos.”

The man raised his CB radio to his ear and talked to someone for several minutes while the other officer inspected the boat. After ten minutes, he handed Frank a list of citations, stating his boat lacked a horn, a sufficient number of flotation devices, and proper lights.

The officer directed Frank to report to the court in Key West. He handed him a ticket with a list of citations before placing a red “impounded” sticker on the windshield of his boat.

The passengers disembarked, trying to regain their land legs after their voyage at sea. They were beaming. The Haitians faced Cuba and flipped their middle fingers in a gesture of contempt, saying
“No mas Fidel!”

With Mari and Rolando at his side, Frank made his way to a crowded courtroom, a short distance from the dock. Petrified, Mari clung to her uncle’s side like a barnacle to a pylon.

They sat in court for three hours before the judge got to their case. He was a balding, middle-aged man with age spots dotting his head. He rifled through some papers and adjusted his robes. The judge pounded his gavel and looked at Frank over a pair of black reading glasses.

“Mr. Mederos, correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I see that the boat you took to Cuba was cited for several safety violations.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“What have you to say regarding this matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I bought the boat in Miami and was unaware of the violations. I was in a hurry to get to Cuba to rescue my relatives.”

“My notes indicate that you returned today—May eighteenth. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“So you were in the port of Mariel on May fourteenth?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And when you were in the port were you aware that on May fourteenth the President of the United States, Jimmy Carter, temporarily suspended acceptance of Cuban refugees into America?”

Frank looked at him, confused. “No, sir. I had no knowledge of that.”

“Did you not see empty boats leaving the harbor?”

Frank considered for a moment. “I did, but I thought they left because the Cuban government asked them to.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Hundreds of boats were in the harbor, causing delays in processing paperwork.”

“Were you aware that the president’s order had been broadcast on the radio?”

“I heard nothing to that effect, Your Honor. By the time in question, I had already given the names and addresses of my relatives to the Cuban authorities.”

“I understand. But you still must abide by the laws of the United States. As a result of your actions, the passengers you brought to the States are illegal. According to the law, you should have returned to Florida without them.”

Stunned, Frank looked at the judge. He was unsure of what to say. It occurred to him that he might be required to take his passengers back to Cuba, a sobering prospect.

Frank thought for a moment and said, “I hadn’t seen my family in thirteen years. If you were in my position, Your Honor, would you turn back?”

The question took the judge by surprise. He thought for a moment and said, “No, under the circumstances, I don’t think I would.” He hesitated. “How many people did you take out of Cuba?”

“Eighteen.”

“How many of your relatives were in your boat?”

“One,” said Frank, turning to Mari. “My niece.”

The judge looked at Mari and surrendered a small smile. “All right, then. You can go, but I want you to respect the laws of the United States from here on out.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge pounded his gavel, and said, “Case dismissed.”

Frank and Mari waited for several hours to get her papers processed before looking for the rest of the family. They finally located Frank’s cousin, Sonia, her husband, and children. Frank’s brother Carlos and his Uncle José were nowhere to be found. Mari was inconsolable.

Frank and Rolando got the family settled in a local motel, and Frank called Chris for assistance. She volunteered to fly to Florida and help Frank get everyone back to New Jersey.

Once Chris and Frank got Mari and Sonia’s family to Frank’s home in Lincoln Park, they had a small family celebration. Magda’s parents brought Darlene back to Frank’s house, and he introduced her to long-lost relatives. Darlene showed Mari her room, and the two girls began to bond.

Frank’s relatives spent the first few days sleeping on his living room sofa and floor, and catching up on family news. They were curious about the American lifestyle. Frank and Chris took them shopping to buy clothes, shoes, and toiletries, and they were amazed at the quality and quantity of consumer goods in the stores.

Around noon on May thirtieth, the phone rang. Frank had just gotten home from grocery shopping and was unpacking fruit and vegetables at the kitchen table. Chris picked up the receiver and quickly handed it to Frank. He beamed when he heard the person on the other end of the line say, “Frank?”

Although it had been thirteen years, Frank recognized the tone and timbre of his brother’s voice. For a moment Frank’s mind flashed back to games of hide-and-seek, to times when Carlos would holler, “One, two, three. Ready or not, here I come.”

Tears sprung to Frank’s eyes as he said, “Jesus, Carlos. Where the hell are you? We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“You won’t believe it,” replied Carlos. Thinking his brother had arrived in the States, Frank expected him to sound happy, but he didn’t.

“Try me.”

“I’m in a place called Fort Chaffee.”

“Fort Chaffee? Where in God’s name is that?”

“Wait a minute. I have the information here somewhere.” Frank heard Carlos struggle to retrieve what sounded like a piece of paper. “It’s a place called Arkansas. Is that a state?”

Frank laughed. “Yeah, it’s a state, but it’s hundreds of miles from New Jersey. How in God’s name did you get there?”

“There were too many refugees for the authorities to process in Florida, so they sent us here. We came by plane.”

“Is Uncle José with you?”

“Yeah, as well as about twenty thousand other people.”

“That many?”

“I wouldn’t kid you.”

“What’s happening there?”

“It’s bedlam. The place is a hellhole. It’s hot as Hades and people are going crazy. A bunch of people are high on marijuana and God knows what else. They’re stealing raisins and sugar from the barracks’ kitchens to make rum alcohol. Fights are breaking out all over the place. The authorities have confiscated all kinds of weapons—knives, clubs—the works. At the rate it’s going, somebody’s going to get killed.”