Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  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.

  With luck, determination, and the help of friends, he had survived. He was alive, safe. But the possibility of never seeing his mother again, the woman who had changed his diapers, warmed his bottles, and nurtured him his entire life, skewered his heart.

  It was almost too much to bear. So Frank leaned his head against the pillow and turned his thoughts to Magda. She embodied all the qualities he wanted in a woman: an incisive wit, an elfin sense of humor, and a keen intelligence. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her breasts lent a soft curve to the drape of her blouses, that her waist turned into her hips like the stem of a champagne flute, that her arms were as soft and smooth as chocolate pudding.

  Wise beyond her years, Magda saw things in a thousand hues of gray, careful not to judge people whose backgrounds and experiences differed from hers. Her voice was sweet and lilting, and she had a softness to her that reminded Frank of a lullaby.

  But beneath that velvet exterior resided a will of steel. Magda was a risk taker and encouraged others to follow her lead, especially when it came to matters of right and wrong. Had it not been for her insistence, Frank might not have escaped Cuba, might not have conceived of it, might not have chanced it.

  But the couple faced a pivotal point in their personal lives and in their nation’s history. Frank was uncertain how much of Magda’s understanding of the future was her own thinking, and how much was influenced by her family. It was probably a combination of the two. But Magda was prescient, exhibiting wisdom as rare in a young woman as a fly in amber.

  While many Cubans hoped for, wished for, longed for, Fidel’s ouster, Magda’s family, the Hernándezes, knew it was not going to happen, at least not in an acceptable time frame. They believed Fidel was going to ruin Cuba. They knew he was strong and determined. He and his cronies had guns, prisons, and vile methods of torture. And they were using them on anyone who took the slightest issue with the regime.

  Worse yet, Fidel had instituted mandatory military service for young men, starting at age fifteen. Men had to complete three years of military training and then had to serve in the army reserves until the age of twenty-eight. While serving in the army, a man was forbidden to leave the country for any reason.

  The previous year, while sitting in Magda’s aunt and uncle’s living room, her family made their case to Frank. Magda’s father, Sergio, began the conversation. “The family has decided to immigrate to the States so young Sergio and Rigo won’t be drafted.” While Frank was surprised, he knew the last thing the family would want was for these cousins to advance Fidel’s treachery. They had to get out, to make a life for the family in a place where Fidel had no power.

  Silence enveloped the room. Magda shot Frank a pleading look while her father continued. A vein throbbed at his temples. “Magda says she loves you, and she won’t go anywhere without you. We can’t leave her here to fend for herself.”

  Frank was speechless. The air thickened. Family members stared into space for a moment before Magda
’s mother asked Frank the burning question: “Would you be willing to take a chance to escape Cuba to be with Magda?”

  Sergio turned to Frank with the full fabric of his dilemma etched in his eyes. Frank had never seen him look so serious. “You making it out of the country is vital not only to you, but to me, to Magda, to all of us.”

  The family’s arguments were persuasive. But defecting was no simple matter. Not for someone in the force. And it had been every bit as daunting as Frank had anticipated. But he had made it. He was free. No matter what the future might bring, he was on a far different path than he would have been in Cuba. And it was all due to Magda. She had challenged Frank to rebirth or death, and Fate had favored him with the former.

  Luckily, he had come to the States with assets. While he had no money, he had his sweetheart and her family, and he knew their love and support would help get him though the challenges to come. They had applied for visas, eventually got them, and left the country legally. What’s more, Magda was smart and had an excellent facility for math and language, far better than Frank’s. She ran circles around him in many things, and he admired and respected her abilities. At the same time, she let him be the hero of their story. A smile grazed Frank’s lips thinking about her.

  After a while he began to doze. He traded the memory of Magda for a dream that was as clear and vivid as if it were in Technicolor. His mind filled with images of flowers and rain, of sinister things growing and multiplying. He envisioned guns, branches, wires, tubes, dying things, things he had not yet encountered and was at a loss to understand.

  He woke with a start, knowing he was standing on the brink of a brand-new life. He was exiting the familiar, the known, and entering a land that would be a place of solace and refuge or a place as treacherous and uncertain as the one he had left.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the images’ shape and nature. But they shifted and dissolved like smoke in the wind before he could retrieve them. He only knew they had elicited feelings of foreboding. A word came to him: Nevermore!

  Frank gazed out the window, thinking. Did the images pertain to some hidden danger, some nameless threat, some calamity that would strike him unawares in the months or years ahead? Or did they point to events he had avoided by fleeing Cuba? Had he dreamed of pain averted or pain to come? Or, perhaps, he had dreamed merely of poetry. “Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’” Edgar Allan Poe.

  Dread rattled Frank’s nerves. He tried to ignore his trepidation, but his feelings were not to be vanquished. He shivered and climbed out of bed. Sweat sheathed his body.

  A gentle breeze carried fresh air through the window. A squirrel scampered across the windowsill, stared, and departed. A wren trilled a greeting in the distance.

  Frank yawned and stretched. A ray of sunshine performed a petit jeté on the wall above the bed frame, warming the room and filling him with hope.

  He had some issues to address before his reunion with Magda. Despite his dream, he was in high spirits. He was reenergized. He had made it to America, and he was ready for whatever life would bring.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lieutenant Pino stood before the five-man military tribunal at La Cabaña Fortress in Havana. Located next to the sixteenth-century El Morro Castle, the fortress had served as a military base and prison for more than two hundred years.

  During the Cuban Revolution, it was here that Che Guevara oversaw Revolutionary tribunals and executed suspected war criminals, traitors, informants, and former members of Batista’s secret police. None of this was lost on Pino.

  The delegation investigating his case had spent four days determining whether a conspiracy was involved in the escape of Frank Mederos. Members of the Special Forces were interviewed individually and in groups. They were grilled about Mederos’s behavior and comportment while he was part of the force, as well as the officers’ motives and actions.

  Since he arrived at the fortress, Pino had rehearsed what he would say during his trial. He spent hours before a mirror, practicing his gestures and responding to possible questions. He wasn’t about to be caught off guard. Still, he was riddled with anxiety.

  Standing erect before the tribunal, he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the corners of his eyes. He glanced at it, carefully refolded it, and returned it to his pocket. A gray-haired man named Captain Vasquez saluted Pino and ordered him to be seated. The captain’s face was stitched with resolve. He adjusted the 9-millimeter pistol at his side and glanced through his papers before looking at Pino. A perfunctory smile skimmed his lips.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “I assume you have reviewed and understand the charges against you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For the record, Lieutenant, you serve as political commissioner for the Santa Maria base?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “And on the thirteenth of April, 1967, Frank Mederos, a member of the Elite Counterattack Force and an Anti-tank Guided Missile (ATGM) operator, escaped Cuba, was picked up by a Guatemalan freighter, and was subsequently rescued by the US Coast Guard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you describe the circumstances surrounding his escape?”

  Pino narrowed his eyes. “Mederos was a traitor. He had no respect for authority. On more than one occasion he challenged communist doctrine.” He paused.

  “Continue,” said Vasquez.

  “His girlfriend came from a wealthy family. She and her parents were headed for the States. Evidently, Mederos was madly in love with her and was bound and determined to join her.”

  “Did you know of his relationship with this girl?”

  “He kept quiet about her. I didn’t know of his relationship before his escape, but later I learned that a couple members of the force had met her.”

  Vasquez scribbled a note.

  “How did Mederos escape?”

  Pino tilted his head upward and studied the ceiling. “I’m sorry, sir. Do you mean the last time he tried?”

  A hush fell over the room. Pino knew immediately that he had blundered. It was a slip of the tongue that would cost him dearly. His skin warmed as his neck reddened.

  Vasquez’s eyes grew wide. “The last time?” He leaned forward, confusion marking his face. He cleared his throat. “Are you telling me Mederos tried to escape more than once?”

  Pino swallowed his fear and lifted his chin. Vasquez glanced at his fellow interrogators, perplexed. He had not heard about this additional escape attempt during his fact-finding mission. When he hesitated, Captain Enchemendia, another officer on the tribunal, interrupted the questioning.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re telling us that a member of the force, a man under your jurisdiction, a man who had full knowledge of Cuba’s top military secrets, tried to escape not once, but more than once?”

  Pino lowered his chin. Sweat gathered at his armpits. A rivulet of perspiration dripped down his sides.

  “Yes, sir,” said Pino, the hoarseness in his voice revealing his distress.

  Enchemendia was a detail man, someone who never played loose with the facts. He pursed his lips and scribbled a note. When he finished, he peered at Pino over the top of his glasses.

  “How many times did Mederos try to escape, Lieutenant? Be precise.”

  “Twice that I know of, sir.”

  “Could it have been more than twice?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain’s lips trembled, and his eyes grew flinty. “Why wasn’t the worm stopped? Detained? Properly interrogated?”

  “I tried after the first time—”

  “You tried? Why didn’t you succeed?”

  Pino stiffened. He wasn’t about to take the fall for what had transpired.

  “Lieutenant Brown countermanded my orders, sir. He said we didn’t have solid proof of the worm’s intentions.”

  “Go on.”

  “Me
deros failed to return to base after his weekend leave. Instead of coming back Sunday night, he showed up Monday morning. He claimed he had gotten drunk with his buddies and had slept it off in the park. I didn’t believe a word of it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I smelled gasoline on his clothes and figured he had tried to escape by boat, and it hadn’t worked out.”

  “What did Mederos say?”

  “He claimed the smell was alcohol, and Lieutenant Brown bought his story.” Pino paused, licked his lips, and added, “Brown favored Mederos.”

  The captain drew his fist to his mouth with one hand and tapped his pencil eraser on the table with the other. He looked pensive.

  “Did you inform anyone regarding this, Lieutenant?”

  “Commander Martinez was well aware of the situation, sir.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, goddamnit! Did you inform anyone else—anyone at headquarters—on either occasion when Mederos tried to escape?” Enchemendia’s voice was gravelly, his stare incendiary.

  Pino blanched. “No, sir.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  The questioning was not going the way Pino had anticipated. While preparing his testimony he had ignored the fact that the tribunal might ask him about prior escape attempts. In the back of his mind he hoped the issue would not arise. Now that he had surfaced it himself, the fallacy of his thinking was painfully evident.

  Pino sat stiffly silent. He went cold somewhere deep inside. His breathing became labored, irregular. Every muscle in his body burned with fear. He looked down and began picking his well-manicured nails. He stretched his fingers and studied them. Then he folded his hands so as not to appear fidgety.

  Enchemendia cleared his throat. “I asked you a question, damn it.” His voice was thick with frustration. He glowered at Pino and slammed his fist on the table. A pitcher of water rattled in protest, prompting several birds to abandon their perch on a branch outside the window.

  Pino glared at his inquisitor, eyes defiant. A feeling of heaviness pervaded the room. Enchemendia stared back, unblinking. For a moment the two men remained locked in visual combat. Then the captain wrinkled his nose as if smelling something repugnant. He glanced at his papers.