Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Frank’s life had offered him little opportunity to learn about American geography—and even less about New Jersey’s. He knew it was in the north of the country, and it had cold winters, but that was about it. He tried to visualize the landscape. Magda had mentioned the Jersey shore, and he hoped it was as beautiful as Cuba’s.

  Two stewardesses wheeled a refreshment cart down the aisle, offering the passengers something to drink. The aroma of coffee filled the air. Some of the passengers sat up to accept food, while others slept, oblivious to what was happening.

  Luis and Frank watched as other people lowered their food trays, fascinated that they were built into the back of seats. They both ordered coffee. Luis stirred some sugar into his cup and extracted the spoon. He laid it carefully on a napkin with the name Eastern Airlines imprinted in a blue serif font. It created a dark-brown oval that expanded and seeped through the paper. Shortly thereafter, they were served a breakfast of bacon and eggs.

  “I wonder what Union City is like,” Frank said, taking a bite of buttered toast.

  “Who knows?” said Luis. He considered for a moment. “Maybe it’s full of bars and beautiful girls. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “I’ve got my own beautiful girl,” Frank said, smiling.

  “You and that girl,” laughed Luis, shaking his head. “You’d think she was a goddess or something.”

  Frank flashed him a mischievous smile.

  Luis looked at Frank as if he knew what he was thinking and grunted. He considered Frank an incurable romantic.

  The stewardesses collected the breakfast trays, and Frank took a halting walk down the aisle to use the smallest bathroom he’d ever seen. When he returned, he climbed across Luis, reinstalled himself in his seat, and looked out the window as the plane began a slow, sonorous descent. The captain’s voice filled the cabin, asking everyone to take their seats and fasten their seatbelts for landing. His words were like music to Frank’s ears.

  Frank looked out the window as a patchwork of silver-and-white cylinders came into view. They were entwined by a tangle of tubes and pipes that curled and crossed like snakes sprouting from Medusa’s head. Small waste fires leapt toward the sky.

  Frank had never conquered his fear of snakes. He shivered a little, thinking it might be a bad omen. A brace of doubts ran through his mind, and he chased them away like a housewife sweeping cats from her stoop. His breath caught in his throat as he watched white lights blink through fat puffs of black-and-gray smoke that smudged and grimed the reddening sky.

  He could tell that this was a gigantic industrial complex, perhaps an oil refinery, larger and more robust than anything he had ever seen. He feared noxious fumes would soon assault him, and he covered his nose with the palm of his hand. He turned and looked at a man sitting in the seat behind him. He had red hair and a long, white beard. He smiled and shrugged. “Newark,” he said as if saying the word explained everything. Frank nodded, confused.

  His mind returned to Cuba, to prisms of light bouncing off crystal waters, to swaying trees crowded with bananas and coconuts. He thought about plucking sun-warmed strawberries off the vine, about butterflies kissing the velvety faces of sunflowers. None of that was evident here. If this was New Jersey, it looked like a harsh and unwelcoming place. A chill crawled up Frank’s spine.

  The sun burned off a post-dawn fog as the plane descended. A few trees stood outlined against the morning light. Their branches were stark and bare, winding and twisting like Japanese brush strokes against the pink-marbled horizon. None boasted fringed leaves. They must have different trees here, Frank mused.

  The plane thumped down, briefly lurched, shivered, and then stopped with an earsplitting squeal. The lights flickered on. Those who’d been dozing awakened with long yawns. The cabin clicked with the removal of seatbelts as people began standing, stretching, and pulling their luggage from overhead bins. Frank slipped on his coat and ran a comb through his hair.

  He pushed Newark’s industrial images from his mind and focused his thoughts on Magda. He could hardly believe he was this close to seeing his sweetheart again. He glanced at his watch. The plane had landed fifteen minutes early. Frank’s excitement was so palpable he was afraid it would lift the lapels of his coat. He was smiling from ear to ear.

  Frank’s neck and face flushed with anticipation. He turned to his uncle, beaming his pleasure. He felt like sharing his happiness with the passengers on the plane. But he couldn’t articulate his feelings in English, and he knew few people would understand his Spanish.

  Luis and Frank deplaned to the tarmac with haste and enthusiasm and strode with purpose to the terminal. As Frank entered the waiting room, his eyes searched for Magda. This was the moment he had dreamt about, the moment for which he had risked his life, the beginning of their life together in America.

  The airport was much larger than he had anticipated with hundreds of people milling about: waiting for tickets, checking luggage, and looking for gates. A man announced something in English over a loudspeaker, but Frank couldn’t understand what he said.

  Frank stretched his neck and scanned the area. He looked back and forth, but saw no sign of Magda. She was always so punctual. He was sure she wouldn’t be late. Panic collected in his pores as a thousand dark thoughts raced through his mind. For a moment, his gaze winked out of focus.

  What if something happened to Magda and her family on the way to the airport? What if they were in a car accident? What if there was trouble with the authorities?

  Frank turned to Luis. “Do you see them?”

  Luis squinted. He was nearsighted and had lost his glasses at sea. He said that squinting improved his vision, a concept Frank didn’t understand. Luis shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

  Frank’s mouth went dry, and he began to perspire. He ran his forefinger around the inside of his collar to relieve a sense of pressure. When he withdrew it, his finger was wet.

  She has to be here. She has to be! I don’t think I could stand it if something happened to her. Frank stopped for a moment, removed his overcoat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He gulped a mouthful of air and tried to calm his racing pulse. He remembered the pledge he and Magda had made to each other a couple of years ago never to doubt each other’s love. He relived the scene in his mind, and it calmed him. He relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone who resembled Magda. She had the same straight line to her spine, the same tilt to her head, the same fall of ebony hair cascading down her shoulders. She was wearing a navy-blue coat with leather buttons and penny loafers. Frank saw her speaking to a man he didn’t recognize, nodding in response to something he was telling her.

  Frank’s heart began to gallop in his chest. He strained his eyes to see her. Just then a heavyset man walked in front of her, obscuring the view. When he passed, the young woman turned. She looked in his direction, lifted her hand to her mouth, and screamed a one-note cry: “Frank!”

  Magda ran toward Frank, graceful as a gazelle, the susurrus of her leather shoes on the linoleum sounding like the sweet wash of waves.

  “Magda, Magda, Magda,” Frank said, trying to convince himself that this person running toward him was real. They held their arms out to each other, awaiting the moment of union as if they were playing out the scene in slow motion, every second magnified, every inch of air between them an obstacle to overcome. When they touched, it was like they had returned to the womb. For a moment, Frank felt deliciously whole. Safe.

  He embraced Magda and showered her face with kisses. Her family hurried to join them, exuberant, beaming. Magda kissed him back, and they held onto each other for dear life. Frank saw Magda, smelled her, felt her. His senses, which had hungered for her for many long months, were finally satiated.

  Frank grabbed Magda by the waist and lifted her high into the air, delirious with joy. When he lowered her to her feet, she looked him up and down and squealed, “I can’t believe it’s you! It’s r
eally you.” She looked like a toddler at Christmastime, smile wide, eyes bright, just as Frank remembered her.

  Laughing, Frank pointed at himself. “I can’t believe it’s me either,” he joked. He wrapped his arms around Magda, not wanting to let her go. He lifted her face with his forefinger and cupped her cheek tenderly with the palm of his hand. He searched her eyes, noted the flush pinking her cheeks, and traced her lips with his thumb. They were dressed in a rose-colored gloss that made them look fuller. It was the first time Frank had seen Magda in lipstick. She looks like a woman now. Just like her mother. When his lips found hers, they were as soft as suede. He nibbled them hungrily, wanting the kiss to last forever.

  When their lips finally parted, Magda nestled her head against Frank’s chest as he locked his arms around her back and gently stroked her long, thick hair. Her heart thumped against Frank’s chest, and his heartbeat soon fell in rhythm with hers. They stood like that for a few minutes before Magda’s father, Sergio, reached out to shake Frank’s hand.

  “We were afraid you might not make it,” Sergio said amiably. He patted Frank on the back.

  “There were times when I thought I might not make it either,” said Frank.

  “That’s an understatement,” added Luis.

  “Well, we’ll have to hear all about it,” said Sergio. He grabbed Frank’s bag from the floor and swung it over his shoulder. Frank greeted Magda’s mother, Estel, and her brother with enthusiastic hugs and kisses before he embraced Magda’s Aunt Sophia and Uncle Rigo.

  Sophia and Rigo held a special place in Frank’s heart. They had been among the many people who had risked their lives to ensure his escape. If it weren’t for them, Frank might not even be alive. Their son, Rigo Jr., stood behind them, smiling broadly. He had just turned fifteen, and his parents’ emigration to America had enabled him to avoid being drafted into the Cuban army.

  “Happy birthday, Rigo,” said Frank.

  Rigo laughed. “After all you’ve been through, I can’t believe you remembered.”

  The group walked toward the doors wreathed in smiles while Frank held Magda’s hand. They were so excited to see each other that everyone was laughing and talking at once. Their enthusiasm had reached the point that people in the airport were looking and nodding to them. A young man with sideburns and a mustache gestured to Frank, and said in Spanish, “Just married?”

  “Not yet,” Frank replied.

  “Well, don’t let her get away.”

  “Not on your life! You have no idea what I went through to be with her.”

  Magda looked up at Frank, radiant. The man nodded and waved.

  Magda’s father had borrowed a second car for Rigo to help transport everyone home, and the group split up. The cars followed each other. Feeling on top of the world, they made their way to Sophia and Rigo’s small apartment.

  Frank was so intent on looking at Magda and holding her that he didn’t bother to look out the windows. There would be plenty of time to take in the sights later.

  When the group arrived at their destination, they scrambled up the two flights of stairs, trying to modulate their voices so they wouldn’t wake the neighbors. They were a battalion of giggles and good cheer. Sophia drew the key from her purse and matched it to the lock. It yielded with a click and the door opened wide.

  The living room, while small, was warm and welcoming. Luis and Frank collapsed on the sofa while Sophia went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Magda and Estel helped, and the rattle of dishes and silverware filled the air. The familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee was enough to make Frank weep.

  The women served a breakfast of fruit, eggs, cereal, and bread. A pitcher of orange juice sat atop a white tablecloth. Food never tasted so good.

  Magda laughed and hugged Frank, the love and adoration in her eyes making Frank feel like everything he’d been through had been worth it. The group spent the rest of the morning talking. Frank touched on his dealings with Lieutenants Pino and Brown. He explained how different they were and what roles they had played in his escape.

  He told them about the need to commandeer a boat because the one they were in was too overloaded to make the journey. Luis described the terror as they slipped into international waters, and Frank told them a little about their long night on the open sea.

  Frank and his uncle took turns recounting their experience with the Guatemalan freighter that picked them up, relating how they feared it might be a Russian ship that would return them to Cuba for execution. They described their relief when the American Coast Guard arrived to bring them to Key West. Their audience listened somberly and attentively, amazed that the two men had managed to escape.

  Frank draped his arm around Magda as she snuggled against him on the couch. Feeling her body next to his and smelling her lightly perfumed skin stimulated urgent feelings in Frank. He tried to suppress them by listening to stories about Magda’s school and hearing about life in Union City, the place she now called home. Talk turned to housing, jobs, and the cost of living in New Jersey.

  After a while, Frank’s adrenaline rush subsided, and his body informed him that he needed sleep. His eyes began to droop, but he didn’t want to let go of Magda.

  Magda looked at him. A mix of love and sympathy filled her eyes. “Here,” she said pointing to the sofa. Frank stretched perpendicular to Magda on the couch, and she took his head in her lap. She stroked Frank’s forehead as he nestled his body close to hers. The sun rose and spilled across his face, warming his cheeks.

  Estel adjusted the window blinds to shade Frank’s eyes. Frank held Magda’s hand, rubbing his thumb over her polished nails. She ran her forefinger along Frank’s eyebrows, coaxing stray hairs into place. He smiled, content.

  Frank thought about Magda and their future together. Years of Friday nights spent playing pinochle and dominoes after a long week of work. Years of Saturday nights spent laughing and joking with friends. Years of Sunday mornings spent trading newspaper sections and drinking coffee as black as Texas oil.

  He pictured Magda looking beautiful on their wedding day and even more beautiful on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He imagined waking up to her when he was old enough to have deep wrinkles around his eyes, and she was wise enough not to notice.

  He thought about the children they would have, two boys and two girls. He imagined pushing them high on a swing on summer nights before telling them bedtime stories about Cuba.

  He believed that someday their children would meet his parents, their grandparents. He hoped Abuelo would live long enough for their children to get to know him, their great-grandfather, Frank’s fishing partner, the man who had made his journey to America possible by teaching him what he knew.

  Frank thought Fidel would be overthrown, and he and Magda might return with their family to Cuba. They would walk along the Malecón as the sea spray needled their calves. They would show their children their childhood homes and the school where they met. They would drive to the rugged hills of the Sierra Maestra, narrating stories about Fidel and his rebels and showing them the place where all the trouble began.

  Or. Or, perhaps, Cuba would never recover from its economic devastation. Instead, Frank’s family could come to America to enjoy its bounty. Perhaps they would also live in Union City. For a moment, he pictured his jubilant relatives waving as they stepped off the airplane.

  It had only been a matter of months since Frank had seen his family, but he missed them terribly. It was awful to leave them behind—not to hear their voices, not to enjoy their company, not to know whether he’d ever see them again. It created an ache in him that nothing but the love of a wonderful woman could begin to ease.

  But he had that. His sweet Magda was sitting next to him, her hands smoothing the tension from his forehead, her body warming his. He nodded silently, soothing himself with the idea that their life together would go on forever. It was a comforting thought.

  But it was not to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

&
nbsp; Political investigator First Lieutenant Torres completed his interview with Foreman Castillo at the sugar plantation where Pino was doing hard labor. Not liking what he had heard, he decided to talk with the former lieutenant.

  Torres asked Castillo to relinquish his office so he could speak with Pino in private. The foreman agreed, walked out to the hallway, and began hollering orders to the cane cutters out the window.

  Pino soon arrived at Castillo’s office looking tired and disheveled. Gone was his starched, polished look. Gone was his fine haircut. Gone was his neat manicure.

  He strode into the room clad in muddy shoes and dirty clothes. His face sprouted a wiry beard. His limbs were covered in blisters as red and angry as boiling lava, even after several weeks of burn treatment at the clinic.

  Pino saluted Torres and stood at attention until Torres asked him to be seated. The foreman’s desk consisted of an old door thrown atop two construction horses. A coat of brown dust covered his papers. The room was airless and stifling hot. A small electric fan circled lazily in the corner, humming, but providing little relief from the heat.

  Torres completed writing a few notes before looking up at Pino. He dropped his pen and sat back in his chair, shaking his head in consternation.

  “What are we going to do with you, Pino?”

  The former lieutenant jerked his head at the remark. It sounded like something his father would say as a prelude to a beating. He took a step backward. He was unsure whether this statement required a response, so he remained silent. He had long since concluded that in instances like this, the less said the better.

  Torres shook his head in dismay. “I’m told you started a fight.”

  Pino began to speak, but Torres raised a hand to stop him. “I’ve heard what Foreman Castillo has had to say. Now I’d like to hear your side.”

  Pino looked at him, eyes defiant. He waved his arm in a circle to indicate the scope of the plantation. “This place is a pigsty. There’s no order around here, no control. What’s worse, nobody cares about the work. The men are a bunch of bums.”