by Patti Sheehy
“Bums?”
“Yes, bums.”
“So you got into a fight because the men are bums?”
“No, sir. I got into a fight because I was trying to bring some discipline to this operation.”
“And—?”
“And the men resented it and started a fight.”
“That’s not what I hear,” said Torres. Pino stared at him, knowing enough to allow him to finish his thought. “I hear you started the fight by ordering people around.”
Pino shook his head from side to side. “They needed to be told what to do. They were wandering around like dazed cattle. The cane wasn’t being harvested properly.”
“So you took it upon yourself to tell the ‘bums’ how to do it?”
“It had to be done. Time was being wasted—”
Infuriated, Torres slammed his fist on the table. “When are you ever going to learn your lesson, Pino?”
Pino’s face drained of blood and his skin prickled with fear. He grimaced and issued a small sound. “What lesson?” he said, a little too sharply.
“The lesson that you are part of a team—that you are not in control of everything—that there exists a chain of command—that you can’t take matters into your own hands.”
Pino lowered his head. It’s the same old shit. They don’t give a damn about my years of training, about my intellect, about my leadership skills. They just want me to follow some half-assed rules like a brainless nitwit. Well, if that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get. I’ll play whatever game they want to get out of this stinking hellhole.
Torres continued, “How long will it take before you comprehend that it was this same kind of arrogance that got you into this fix in the first place?”
Pino straightened up and stared at Torres. I’m smarter than this guy. I’ll outwit him. He thinks he’s in charge, but I control my own destiny. I’ll say whatever he wants to hear. A moment of silence elapsed before Pino said, “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“I hope you do understand, Pino. This is not the only place where you can do hard labor. If you don’t straighten up—and straighten up fast—you’ll look back at this time as a fond memory.”
Pino blanched and nodded while Torres gathered his papers. “I’ll be checking with Castillo and with your comrades every two weeks regarding your behavior. I don’t want to get a report like this ever again. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Torres started to walk out the door and then stopped, turned, and looked at Pino. “One more thing,” he said.
Pino glanced up, startled. “Yes, sir?”
Torres looked Pino up and down before his gaze settled on his jaw. As he did, Pino fingered his wound. He knew it detracted from his looks, and he was not happy about it. He had always prided himself on his appearance.
Torres hesitated a moment and said, “Take care of those damn blisters, for chrissake. You look like hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
Torres smiled slightly, saluted, and left Pino staring at the wall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Frank woke up eager to explore Union City. After seeing Magda off to school, he donned his coat and strolled down Bergenline Avenue. The air was raw and chilly, and a watery sunlight glinted off aluminum grates that webbed storefronts. Factories belched black smoke, casting a mantle of smog over the city.
Frank thought he might look out of place in his new hometown, but that wasn’t the case. Throngs of people crowded the sidewalk. They walked in unison as if attached to each other and attended their business lost in thought. He passed sari-clad women with red bindis and pink lipstick, blue-eyed mothers with towheaded children, and black men with dazzling teeth and dreadlocks capped with rough plastic beads.
The crowd pushed him along, speaking a cacophony of languages—English, Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese. As he buttoned his coat against the cold, he accidentally elbowed a long-haired man about his age. The man’s eyes were glazed and dark as ink. His beard fell like rain over his tie-dyed shirt. Grumbling, he fanned his fingers into a peace sign. Enough dirt resided under the man’s fingernails to grow turnips. Not knowing how to respond, Frank lowered his eyes and kept walking.
Frank’s feelings vacillated between joy and sadness. Although he was thrilled to be in America, a longing welled up inside of him, a homesickness that he feared might haunt him forever. As his feet traveled the cement sidewalks, he longed for the smell of Cuba’s rich earth, the call of seagulls, and the throb of bongos that livened the streets of Havana. The only music to be heard here blasted from radios of Pontiac GTOs and Mustang convertibles.
Union City offered nothing as nature intended. Signs were everywhere—metal signs, wooden signs, neon signs—jockeying for position, plastered on buildings, and hanging like slaughtered cattle from poles and pipes. They proclaimed the merits of Chinese restaurants, coin-operated Laundromats, and check cashing stores. Most were written in English, their messages a mystery to Frank. He was frustrated to not be able to read them. The architecture was intriguing—not what he had expected. He thought Union City would resemble Cuba the way Miami did. He believed American cities would look pretty much alike, but they didn’t. There were no pastel-colored houses, no orange-tiled roofs, no wide verandas to corral the breeze.
The city was crowded and confusing. Frank was disoriented by the lack of elbow room. Not that his home in Guanabacoa was big. It wasn’t. But at least he had space to breathe. Here everything was bunched together, like plants competing for sunlight on the forest floor.
Buildings leaked into each other, one row house indistinguishable from the next. Images from television screens bounced off window panes, allowing him a furtive glimpse into private lives, private spaces. But doors were locked, hospitality in retreat.
Frank saw eyes that bespoke fear as they watched passersby behind lace curtains or through slatted venetian blinds. It was so different from his uncle’s house where he had to hide under the bed from his pursuers because the door remained open all day so friends and neighbors could come and go at will.
Although it was April, an apron of broken snow, remnants of a long-forgotten blizzard, lay in cindery mounds on the sidewalks. Ice piles shed water from their bottoms into gutters clotted with trash. The ice lay a half an inch off the sidewalk as if suspended by an unknown force. He had seen pictures of snow sitting light as bubbles on trees, filigreeing branches in sparkling white. He never imagined snow as hard as shells, languishing like a rotting corpse, oozing its essence into the ether.
Overhead, a tangle of wires cross-hatched a dull gray sky, and he realized how much he had taken for granted in Cuba—the scent of wild lime and vanilla, arcades of coral stone archways, lizards changing color with the light, macaws grooming neon-green feathers. A crow screamed its rage, devoid of color. Even the birds are black here, he thought.
Frank walked up the street until he found a bookstore. To his surprise, it served Spanish-speaking people. He strolled down the aisles, admiring lavishly illustrated dust jackets. He was amazed at the number and variety of goods freely available to anyone willing to pay the price.
The store carried books, records, and greeting cards with ornate typefaces. They were designed to celebrate various occasions—birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, and graduations. No one hassled him or monitored his ration. No one forced him to wait in line. No one humiliated him for the sake of “the cause.” Frank’s heart quickened like the click of castanets. He felt free. He felt liberated. He felt good.
An attractive woman in a twin sweater set approached Frank, asking if he needed help. She spoke Spanish. For the first time that day he felt at home.
“Do you have any American history books written in Spanish?” Frank asked. The woman looked at him as if this were a common question.
“Where are you from?”
“Cuba.”
“Have you been in the States long?”
“I just arrived.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Frank. “Where are you from?”
“El Salvador. I’m Maria. Maria Reed,” she said, extending her hand.
Frank shook it. “Reed?”
“It’s my married name.”
He nodded, looked at his chapped hands, and plunged them into his pockets.
“Follow me and I’ll show you the books,” she offered.
They walked past several cardboard boxes, half open and brimming with merchandise, before they stopped at a table stacked with history books. One had a picture of George Washington on the cover. Another was about the US Constitution.
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
She handed him a book about Thomas Jefferson. A picture of a brick-domed building adorned its cover. She glanced at it. “That’s Monticello, Jefferson’s house.”
“Nice.”
“He designed it along with a whole lot of other things. He was a genius—like Benjamin Franklin.”
“It looks interesting. But I need something more general.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. She pulled a hefty book from the shelf. “This is a good one. It covers American history from the time of the Pilgrims to the end of the Korean War.”
“Who were the Pilgrims?”
She grinned. “You’ll hear more about them at Thanksgiving.”
Maria’s answer failed to enlighten Frank, but he was hesitant to ask her about Thanksgiving. He leafed through the book. It contained several images of American presidents along with pictures of the two World Wars.
“This is perfect. How much?”
“Twelve ninety-nine, plus tax.”
Frank paused, having no idea whether that was a good price. “Is that a lot?”
“It’s about right for a hardback. Shall I wrap it for you?”
Frank’s face grew hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any money right now. I have to find a job. I’ll come back later.”
The woman’s eyes sparkled, and Frank’s spirits lifted.
“Okay,” she said. “Good luck!”
Frank walked out into the afternoon air, and the crowds seemed less intimidating. At least he knew where he could buy books. A smile danced on his lips. He had the feeling that life in America would be different, but doable. If there were Cubans in Union City, he knew he could make his way.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day Magda’s father told Frank about an apartment house that had rooms available.
“It’s not very big, but it’s a start,” he said.
“How much?”
“Sixteen dollars a month.”
“How far is it from here?”
“Only a couple of blocks. Close enough for you to see Magda without having to walk too far.”
That was all Frank cared about. He turned to his uncle. “We’ve got ten dollars between us. With the housing voucher they gave us at Freedom House, it’s enough for the first month’s rent.”
Luis grunted. “Let’s take a look. But we’ll have to get jobs—and fast—or we won’t be able to pay the bill for next month.”
They walked down Bergenline Avenue to inspect the room, wending their way up a narrow staircase to the third floor of an old building. The walls hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years. Two creaky beds were shoved against the wall with a narrow space separating them.
An old dresser stood beneath dusty fiberglass curtains that hung askew and appeared to house a family of spiders. Green linoleum squares curled upward to reveal dried black adhesive. Frank sat on the bed. The room was musty and airless, and the one small window was painted shut. Frank looked at it and figured he could loosen the paint with a screwdriver. Still, he felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t imagine living in this room for any length of time. But the price and location were right. So he and Luis signed a month-to-month lease.
It was time to look for work. Luis quickly found a job as a dishwasher in a small Cuban restaurant. As luck would have it, Magda’s father, Sergio, had a brother who worked in a factory in Clifton, New Jersey—not far from Union City—and he put in a good word for Frank. The factory laminated fabric, and Frank was hired to work the second shift—seven p.m. to seven a.m. He carried eighty-pound rolls of cloth on his back before placing them on a compressor to be stretched, steamed, and laminated. The plant was old, airless, and dusty. But it was a job.
Dazzled by American consumer goods and hungry to obtain them, Luis focused on making money. He made friends quickly, and in little over a month he obtained a more lucrative job. Frank asked him about what he did on several occasions, but Luis failed to enlighten him. Frank had too much going on in his own life to give much thought to Luis’s evasive answers. One day Luis asked Frank how much money he made.
“A dollar sixty-seven an hour,” Frank told him.
“What’s that come to a week?”
“Around sixty bucks, depending on overtime.”
“That’s bullshit. Why would you work for chump change like that? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
Frank dismissed his uncle’s statement as bravado. He figured Luis was working at a job that paid little more than his own—he couldn’t imagine otherwise. But he was wrong. Luis was buying things that Frank could only dream of affording.
Luis filled the room’s small closet with expensive clothes, expensive shoes. A gold watch encircled his wrist. He smoked pack upon pack of cigarettes, puffed on cigars, and purchased beer and liquor by the case. He didn’t speak fluent English, and he didn’t have any particular skills. Where was he getting his money?
While Luis’s job obviously paid well, it appeared to involve people of questionable character. Luis began partying late into the night. He’d return to the room singing in Spanish and staggering from drink. Sometimes his friends accompanied him. Frank feared he and Luis would be evicted.
Meanwhile, Frank’s life developed into a predictable routine. He hitched a ride to work with a Cuban who lived in the city, paying him five dollars a week for transportation. He volunteered for the least desirable jobs in the factory, and he worked all the overtime he could get.
Luckily, he befriended a factory supervisor who spoke Spanish, Italian, and English. He was young—about twenty-eight. Bruno took Frank aside for a talk one day.
“You seem ambitious, Frank. And I like you. So I’m going to give you a piece of advice. It’s good to speak Italian, and it’s good to speak Spanish. But if you don’t speak English in this country, you’re screwed.”
Frank knew Bruno made sense. “What’s the best way for me to learn English?”
Bruno looked at Frank and said, “Find yourself a tutor.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Frank spent almost a week thinking about how to find a tutor before it hit him—the woman who worked at the bookstore might be able to help. She was friendly enough, and he figured she probably knew a lot of people in the area. It was worth a try.
Around ten o’clock the next Saturday morning, Frank returned to the bookstore, hoping Maria was working. He spotted her at the back of the store. She was leaning down, unloading boxes, her long black hair hanging toward her feet.
Frank walked up behind her. “Hi,” he said. She looked up expectantly.
“Oh, it’s you!” She smiled and straightened up. “I thought it was someone else.”
“No, just me.”
“What brings you here?”
“I have a favor to ask. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Shoot,” she said.
“I’m looking for someone who teaches English.”
“For yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s easy. There’s a guy right around the corner—a friend of my brother’s. They served in Vietnam together.” She thought for a moment. “In fact, I think he’s Cuban.”
“Cuban?”
“Yeah, he got wounded in the war and then had a terrible accident on top of that. He’s in a wheelchair.”
“What kind of accident?”
“He backed his wheelchair into an elevator that was being repaired. Unfortunately, nobody put a sign up to that effect. The elevator doors opened, and he fell down the shaft.”
“Jesus!” said Frank. “What’s his name?”
“Marcos Rodriquez.”
“Is he any good?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“How can I find him?”
Maria pointed out the window. “Make a right at the light. Red door, first-floor apartment. Number one ten—it’s on the mailbox. Just knock on the door. He’s always there. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Frank walked out of the store, beaming. What a stroke of luck. A Cuban English teacher!
Frank walked around the corner, easily finding the apartment building. He knocked on the door and heard the muffled sounds of children playing. “Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice. For a moment he thought he might have the wrong apartment. Then the deadbolt slid and the door opened. Frank looked at a freckle-faced girl with tightly coiled ringlets the color of sunrise. Her eyes were warm and green behind horn-rimmed glasses.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Frank sighed, knowing he’d have to make himself understood in English. “My name is Mederos. Frank Mederos. English lessons?”
The young woman smiled broadly. “Yes, yes. I’m Lauren. Come right in.” She removed a coloring book and a can of Play-Doh from the couch and gestured for Frank to take a seat. “He’ll be with you in a minute,” she said, nodding in the direction of her husband.
Marcos sat with his back toward Frank, talking on the telephone. When he wheeled himself around, Frank realized he was missing both legs. Marcos finished his conversation and hung up.
“What can I do for you?” he said in Spanish. His hair curled over his collar. A red bandana hung at an odd angle around his neck. Frank tensed.
