Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) Read online

  I quickly assessed the situation and knew he was right. The patrol boats crisscrossed every half hour, and we could never make it into international waters in time. We would surely be apprehended. There was no time for escape and no time to wallow in disappointment.

  Macho worked to keep the boat from capsizing, while I tried to comfort the boys. I was praying the motor would hold. Otherwise, we would be all lost at sea. The wind whipped the waves to new heights. They blasted the sides of the boat with such force I feared the wood would crack. The howl of the wind bellowed in fits like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

  We clawed our way through the choppy seas for two hours before we spotted the lights of Cojimar. The water calmed considerably and the rain slacked off as we approached the port. We were headed for the coast guard station where the boat would be inspected for escapees like us. Joey and Pedro exchanged frightened looks. They knew the danger we faced.

  “You’ll all have to hide,” hollered Macho.

  “I know. Where?”

  “Put the boys on the side of the boat under the ropes.”

  Pedro and Joey scrambled to hide where they were told. They were as quiet as cats stalking mice.

  “You,” said Macho, looking directly at me. “Get under here and don’t make a sound.”

  He pointed to a compartment on the floor, directly under the steering wheel. I bent down to enter the cramped and foul-smelling space. I wiggled my body to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. I just wanted to be able to curl up without pain. I managed to get into a position where my legs were turned to the side. I was facing upward.

  Slits in the floorboards enabled me to see the yellow light from the inspector’s flashlight as he walked back and forth on the deck of the boat, checking for fish and anything else he might find. Macho did his best to distract him by talking. Another guard stood on the dock, overseeing the inspection.

  “So how’s your family?” asked Macho. I was impressed with his feigned nonchalance.

  “Don’t worry about them,” said the inspector. “I want to know how many tunas you brought me.”

  “None this time,” said Macho with a sigh. He chuckled. “Hell, I brought you a bunch of fish the last time I went out. I must’ve given you enough for a week.”

  “Well, a man has to eat.”

  “Sorry, it was terrible out there. I couldn’t even fish for the waves and the rain.”

  “Is that so? It wasn’t bad here.”

  “Take my word for it. It was like a hurricane. Thunder, lightning, the works.”

  I heard the guard walking back and forth as he shot the breeze with Macho. The hold was full of gasoline, kerosene, and tar that clung to my clothes, my skin and my hair. The fumes were making my eyes water. I was hoping against hope I wouldn’t sneeze. If I did, it would be death—for all of us.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Macho. “I’ll bring you twice the number of tunas next time I’m out. How’s that?”

  “All right, just make sure I’m on duty when you come in.” The inspector shook hands with Macho and climbed out of the boat to open the way for us to pass.

  When we pulled into the dock, Macho took his time cleaning the boat and putting things away, while I remained hidden in the hold. I didn’t know whether he didn’t want to appear to be in a hurry or whether he was waiting for prying eyes to depart. After forty-five minutes, he opened the hatch to let me out. I was covered from head to toe in vile odors and substances. I feared I’d never be able to remove them.

  The boys and I walked back to the bar and Macho arranged for the boys’ father to come and pick them up. I found a blanket in the basement and threw it over their shoulders to keep them warm. Pedro was shaking violently, and Joey’s eyes were full of fright. He stood and gave me a hug. I tried to comfort him as best I could.

  The boys’ father arrived to get them. His face was ashen as he scooped them into his arms, telling them that everything was going to be okay. Señor Lopez nodded to me briefly before he left, obviously more concerned about his sons’ welfare than in talking with us. I watched in sympathy as he led his boys down the path.

  I was wondering what I would do next when Macho turned to me and said, “You can come back to my house for the night. I don’t live far—just up the hill.” It was about three in the morning, and I was glad to have a place nearby to stay.

  We walked through the rain to his small cinderblock house that butted up against the street. Three steps lead up to the doorway. It was dank and dark inside. I could hear the muffled sounds of children sleeping. A light rain pattered the windows and palm fronds lightly whipped the side of the house. I removed my wet clothes, and Macho switched on the light and opened the door to the bathroom. It was small and dimly lit. A rubber duck sat on the ledge of the tub.

  “You can take a shower in here,” he said, picking his children’s socks off the linoleum floor. “I’m sorry I don’t have any soap. What with the rationing and all—”

  “No problem. I understand. The shower will be fine.”

  “I’ll leave a change of clothes on the chair.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling grateful for the hospitality. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

  “My kids sleep in the other bedroom, so you’ll have to sleep on the floor in the room with my wife, Ana, and me. You can sleep on the throw rug. It won’t be too comfortable. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No apology needed. Any port in a storm.” We both smiled briefly.

  Macho got me a blanket and pillow from an old wooden chest, and I put on the clothes he had given me—a Hawaiian shirt with big yellow flowers and pants too short to cover my ankles. But at least they were clothes. I was grateful I wouldn’t have to sleep naked in somebody else’s house.

  Macho turned and looked at me. “One thing,” he said before he climbed into bed.

  “Yes?” I said. All I wanted was for him to turn off the light so I could go to sleep. I felt like I could not keep my eyes open one minute longer.

  “My wife and I have to leave early in the morning. We have some business to conduct in Cojimar—fishing affairs. I’d like you to get out of the house before my kids get up. My little boy frightens easily.”

  “I’ll do my best. Right now I’m just dog tired.”

  Macho nodded. “Please do. It’s important.”

  “Okay. How many kids do you have?” I asked, although I was just being polite. I was far too tired to care.

  “Three. One son and two daughters.”

  “That’s nice,” I mumbled. My eyelids were very heavy.

  I buttoned my shirt, adjusted my pillow, and fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 28

  I woke up the next morning with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. I had been dreaming of the day I first saw Fidel and how my grandfather had shielded me with his body. Only this time Fidel was a monster, his eyes fiery red, and his body covered in fish scales.

  Macho and his wife’s bed sat empty, their bedclothes tangled in a messy pile. I could hear a great deal of commotion outside. Sunshine warmed the bedroom floor and the curtains billowed in. When I turned toward the window, I could see faces of people peering inside. I stood up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Drowsy and disoriented, I stumbled toward the living room.

  The front door was open and Macho’s four-year-old son was standing on the sidewalk in his cotton pajamas. He was holding a tattered brown teddy bear and sobbing to a crowd of about thirty people that a stranger was in his house. He said his parents were missing, and he thought I had killed them. A woman stroked his forehead in an effort to soothe him. As soon as he saw me, he clutched his bear to his chest, pointed a small finger at me, and began to cry harder.

  In this neighborhood, like others in Cuba, people knew who lived among them. I was a stranger and many of them assumed I was something worse—a criminal.

  There was no back door to the house. The only way out was straight through the crowd. I was
unfamiliar with the neighborhood, which would lessen my chances to make a getaway. I walked out the front door, hoping to talk my way out of the situation. The crowd began mumbling among themselves, pushing and pointing at me.

  “There he is. Get him before he escapes,” shouted an old woman wearing pink plastic curlers and a flowered blue housedress. She was waving a crooked, arthritic finger in my direction. It was just the kind of gesture that could spark trouble.

  “He’s the one the boy described,” shouted a man.

  Before I could make a move, the crowd pulled back and the director of the coast guard station and one of his guards pushed their way toward me. The director was carrying a pistol. They both were toting machine guns.

  “What’s going on here?” thundered the guard.

  “That man’s a criminal,” bellowed a short young man with thick, horn-rimmed glasses. It struck me that he was trying to impress the young woman standing next to him with his machismo.

  “Stay where you are,” ordered the director. “Put your hands up. Make a move and I’ll shoot.”

  I wondered what I had gotten myself into. He was a beefy man, about forty-five, with a stubbly gray beard and several missing teeth. His face was pocked from acne and his black eyes blazed. Bushy eyebrows nearly covered his eyes. He was one of the fiercest men I had ever seen. I tried to maintain my composure while my mind raced to figure out what to tell him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was low and threatening.

  “What are you doing here?” I countered in a feeble attempt to buy some time. Adrenalin was coursing through my bloodstream, but I was still half asleep. I needed a moment to think.

  “I’ll ask you once more,” hissed the man. His body was close to mine. He was poking me in the chest with a thick, dirty finger.

  “I’m a friend of Macho’s,” I said. “We stayed out late drinking last night, and he asked me to sleep over.”

  The man stepped forward, his eyes blazing. I was wondering what I had said that made him so angry. “Liar!” he screamed. “Bastard!” He grabbed the front of my shirt. “Now are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or am I going to have to show you who’s boss?”

  I took a step backward. “I’m a friend of Macho’s,” I repeated. I had no desire to get into a fight with this guy—and certainly not under these circumstances. But I would do what I had to.

  “You are a lying son of a bitch,” he said in a menacing voice. “How do you know I’m not a friend of his?”

  I knew I could take this man if need be.

  “Because I know all of Macho’s friends, and you’re no friend of his.”

  “So you know all of Macho’s friends?” I was looking him over, measuring his body for where to aim a blow. “Exactly how is that?”

  “You stupid jerk,” he roared. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the house. I had no idea why. “Look, asshole, do you see that picture?”

  A portrait hung slightly askew on the wall above the living room couch. It showed a family of six. The man talking to me was in the middle of the picture. “That’s how I know his friends. I’m Gerardo, Macho’s brother. I know everyone he knows. So you better come up with another story—and fast.”

  I winced, knowing I’d have to change tactics. I broke the man’s grip, and the way I did it made him take notice. He glared at me sideways, regarding me with more respect. I looked him straight in the eye and said in quiet, controlled voice, “You know, you are absolutely right, Gerardo. Macho is not a friend of mine. I just met him last night. And we didn’t have drinks together. In fact, I paid your brother to take me out of Cuba, and it didn’t go well. So he brought me here. I haven’t murdered him, his wife, or his children. And, by the way, if you poke me in the chest one more time, I will kill you.”

  “What?” sputtered Gerardo. His voice rose an octave and then cracked. He suddenly looked confused.

  “You heard me,” I said. “And one more thing. What we did last night was illegal—and you know it. Me, I’m just a kid. The authorities will give me five years—max. But your brother? He’s an adult. They’ll shoot him on sight. And you being so close to your brother—knowing all his friends as well as you do—they’ll figure you were in on it, too. No doubt they’ll shoot you along with Macho. So if you want to take me in, do it. But I suggest you use your head. Just let me walk out of here nice and easy like. And you’ll never see or hear from me again. Understand?”

  The man’s body deflated like an old used tire. His shoulders collapsed and his face turned the color of putty. He hesitated for just a moment and then walked with me to the door. The throng was cheering, “Get him. Get the criminal.”

  Gerardo raised his hand, palm out, to quiet the crowd. “Hey, it’s not a problem,” he said. “It was all a mistake. This guy’s a friend of Macho’s. It’s just a big misunderstanding.”

  The crowd muttered and began to disperse. They seemed disappointed. I squeezed between Gerardo and the wall and started walking outside. I figured Macho’s brother wouldn’t have the nerve to shoot me in front of everyone—but I couldn’t be sure. I began walking down the street in my yellow Hawaiian shirt as if I had not a care in the world. A hundred eyes drilled my back.

  As I approached the bus stop a couple of blocks from Macho’s house, a car pulled up beside me. In it was Cuni.

  “I hear you had quite a night,” he said.

  “Not one I’d care to repeat.”

  “Where can I drop you?” He reached across to open the passenger door. I slipped into the front seat, practically embedding myself into the upholstery.

  “Just take me to Guanabacoa. I’ll figure it out from there.”

  When I got to Guanabacoa, I stopped at my parents’ house to change into my extra army uniform. My father was home. He was astonished to see me.

  “What are you doing home, and why are you wearing those clothes?”

  “I can’t explain, and I don’t have much time. I have to get back to base before they come looking for me.”

  My father regarded me carefully. He shook his head. “You tried to escape, didn’t you, Frankie?”

  I couldn’t lie to him. “Yes.”

  “And you failed?”

  “Obviously.”

  “So you were going to leave without telling me? Your own father?”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to. But if I did, I could’ve put you all in jeopardy.”

  My father sighed. I had heard that sigh before. It was his signature sound, an expression of his weariness in waging a war against the inevitable—something my father had done his entire life. I thought he would be angry with me, but I didn’t get the sense that he was.

  I felt an overwhelming understanding and tenderness for this man who had worked so long and hard in a very difficult job to raise me. He was a kind man and a good father. I was going to miss him.

  “It’s ironic,” he said. “I was going to urge you to leave Cuba anyway.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “You were?”

  “Yes, it’s not going to get any better. Your grandfather thinks the Americans will come and save us, but I think that time has passed. It’s just going to get worse from here on out.”

  “You think I should leave?”

  “I think you should do what you must to make a life for yourself. I was going to have a long talk with you about it. But now it’s not necessary.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Frankie. It’s just the way it is. But you should know I’m going to urge your brothers to leave also—when the time is right.”

  “The time is never right. But you have to keep trying.”

  My father’s eyes conveyed a new respect for me. “What can I do for you, my son?”

  “I could use something to get this grease off. After that, I’ll need a taxi to take me back to base. I’ve got some big problems to deal with there.”

  When I got back to base, a new recruit was on guard, someone I didn’t know.
It was early afternoon, and I was supposed to have reported back to base by eight o’clock the previous evening.

  The guard looked skeptical.

  “Do you have a pass?”

  “No,” I said. I was just about to ask him to call Lazo to let me in when Pino drove down the road in a jeep.

  “What’s this all about?” he demanded. The suspicion in his eyes was as bright as gilt.

  “This man just got back to base,” explained the guard. “He was due in last night, and he doesn’t have a pass.”

  “What’s going on, Mederos?” asked Pino.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a rough night.”

  “Rough night?”

  “Yeah, I went drinking with my friends, and we all fell asleep in the park. Then I had to go home on the bus and get changed and—”

  Pino’s eyes narrowed and he made a sniffing noise. “What’s that I smell on you?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, it’s not alcohol,” he said as if relishing this conclusion. Pino turned to the guard. “Take this man to a holding cell. I want him to appear before a military tribunal. I’ll be there shortly to question him.”

  The guard pushed me forward while I tried to think of a way to contact Manny and Lazo. They probably believed I was in the States by now—a depressing thought.

  I waited in the cold, dank cell for about an hour before Pino appeared. He looked very smug. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry that I was late or delighted to finally have me where he wanted. I stood at attention, and he moved very close to me, positioning his face against mine. It was a method he used to intimidate people. Knowing I was about to get the third degree, I stifled my impulse to turn away and steeled myself for the grilling.

  “What did you do last night?” he demanded.

  “I told you, I was out with my friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Friends from Guanabacoa.”

  “Anyone from here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What are their names?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just friends.”