by Patti Sheehy
“I’m a friend of Maria’s—from the bookstore. She said you give English lessons.”
Marcos gave Frank the once-over. “It depends.”
“On what?”
The tutor lifted his chin, almost defiantly. “On whether I like you or not.”
“Okay,” said Frank tentatively. He shifted his body on the couch.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Marcos.
“I’m Cuban.”
“Obviously.” Marcos responded without a trace of a smile.
“What do you want to know?” asked Frank.
“Why did you leave Cuba?”
“To be with my girlfriend, Magda.”
“Any other reason?”
Frank hesitated, wondering what to say.
“Were you in the army?” asked Marcos.
“Yes,” said Frank. Marcos seemed to sense Frank’s apprehension.
“What did you do?”
“Special Forces.”
The muscles in Marcos’s face tightened. “You were a communist?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Then why the force?”
“It happened. I was selected. I had to serve.”
For a moment a shadow passed over Marcos’s eyes. “No, you didn’t have to serve.” His voice was low and leathery. “You had a choice. We all have choices. You could’ve escaped.”
Frank felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked at Marcos, trying to fathom his thinking. From what Maria had said, Marcos had served in Vietnam. He had been in war. He knew what it meant to follow orders.
Frank looked past him to the maple tree whose branches were shyly greening outside the window. A robin landed on the windowsill and pecked the peeling paint, looking for sustenance. A few moments passed before he responded.
Frank looked at Marcos’s eyes. They were as brown and big as olives. “I did escape,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper. Unspoken negotiations were contained in these three words. Marcos exhaled.
“Plane?” he said.
“Boat.”
Marcos gave Frank a long, hard look and then briefly closed his eyes. Something profound passed between the two men and remained suspended like dust motes. They sat in silence, their thoughts taking them both to a different place, a different time.
Finally, Marcos turned to Frank, and murmured, “I believe you.”
The men remained silent for a few more minutes, listening to the children’s voices rise and fall in play. The sizzle of grilled cheese sandwiches emanated from the kitchen.
Then Marcos cleared his throat. “Did you graduate from high school?”
“No, I—”
“No matter,” he said, waving his hand. “You’ll need to get your GED.”
Frank nodded, not knowing what he was talking about, but hesitant to ask. “All right.”
“Do you work?”
Frank nodded.
“My only available time is from nine to ten in the morning.”
“I work nights. I’m finished by seven and home by seven thirty. Nine is fine.”
“How often do you want to meet?”
“Often. I want to learn as quickly possible.”
“Five days a week?”
Frank hesitated, wondering whether he could afford to come that often.
“How much do you charge?”
“Five dollars an hour.”
Frank did a quick calculation. Tutoring would make things tight financially. On the surface, it appeared he couldn’t afford it. On the other hand, he figured Marcos was making what he was making because he could speak English, and he was making what he was making because he couldn’t. He’d have to work it out.
“Five days a week,” said Frank.
“Two other students will work with us,” said Marcos. “It’s not a private lesson. We only speak English—no Spanish. Just so you know.”
“Okay.”
Marcos nodded and extended his hand for Frank to shake. Lauren emerged from the kitchen, pushed her glasses up her nose, and wished Frank a warm good-bye.
When he reached the door, Frank turned to Marcos and said, “One question: what’s a GED?”
“Sorry. It’s your high school equivalency degree. You’ll need it to do just about anything.”
“Is it hard to get?”
Marcos looked Frank up and down. “It will take work. But we’ll get the job done. I’ve done harder things.”
Frank nodded and replied, “So have I.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At nine o’clock sharp Frank arrived at Marcos’s apartment, ready for his first English lesson. He knew a few English words and phrases, things Magda and his Cuban teachers had taught him, jingles he had heard on television, curse words he had learned at work. But he had no grasp of grammar or syntax, and his vocabulary was weak. He had much to learn.
Marcos wheeled himself to his kitchen table and introduced Frank to two other men who were taking lessons. The students nodded to each other. Marcos began speaking to them in English as Lauren busied herself folding laundry.
The lesson reminded Frank of his time in Cuba’s Literacy Brigade, the nights he spent teaching a peasant family to read and write in the hills of the Sierra Maestra. Little did he know at the time that he would be a language student himself one day.
Marcos taught “conversational English,” and Frank had no idea what was going on. He sat bewildered, understanding little of what Marcos said. Marcos would point to objects and name them: lamp, table, rug. Frank repeated the words, but they vacated his mind the minute they left his tongue. Bone-tired from work, he tried to focus.
Having studied with Marcos for some time, the other men had a firmer grasp on the language, easily answering questions Marcos posed in English. Their progress gave Frank hope that he would eventually succeed.
When the lesson was over, Frank thanked Marcos and walked back to his room. The sun was shining, and he was looking forward to some sleep. He trudged up the stairs and reached into his pocket for his key. When he opened the door, he found Luis drinking with his friends. Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor and ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts. Frank kicked a beer can out of his way.
Luis stood to greet Frank, swayed, and plopped on the bed. His buddies lounged about as if they owned the place. It appeared as if they’d been there all night. Frank tried to corral his anger. He scowled and announced that he needed some sleep. He hoped the men would up and leave, but no one made a move.
Out on the street a car door opened, closed. Frank looked out the window and saw four men dressed in dark clothes. They appeared dirty, rough. They were all stocky, with thick necks and determined gaits. Looking both ways, they approached the building with caution. Frank heard footfalls on the stairs before a set of knuckles pounded on the door. The rapping came with the insistence of a staff sergeant.
Luis jumped off the bed like a squirrel avoiding an oncoming car, spilling his can of beer in the process. He licked his fingers and wiped his hand on his pants. Everyone in the room grew silent.
Luis stepped into the hallway, leaving the door half open. He spoke to his visitors in a hushed tone. As he did, his drinking buddies got up, looked at each other in alarm, and made their way past the thugs. Eager to leave, they wasted no time going down the steps. Frank strained to hear what was being said, but he could only make out snippets of conversation.
After a few minutes, the thugs departed. Frank watched them climb into their car. Their tires squealed as they sped away.
Luis reentered the room and sat on the bed. He looked at once sheepish and belligerent. The room became so quiet you could hear a handkerchief land on sand. Luis lay down on the bed and turned his body to face the wall, without removing his clothes.
“What was that about?” Frank asked. Luis rearranged his pillow, but didn’t turn around. “Who were those people and what did they want?” Silence.
Frank sighed and sat down on his bed. He rested his f
orehead on the palm of his hand before looking up. “Look, Luis, I have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, but it doesn’t look good to me. You need to lose these friends of yours, and you need to figure out how to bring Rosa and your girls to the States. I don’t like where your life is going without them.”
“Lay off me, will you?”
“I’m not laying off. I live here too, and I deserve some answers.”
A moment passed before Luis turned to face Frank. He grunted. “Rosa’s not coming.”
Frank looked at his uncle, astonished. “What are you talking about? She’s your wife. That was your plan.”
Luis held Frank’s gaze for a moment. He looked chagrined. “I said she’s not coming. That’s that.”
“Is she sick?”
“No.”
“Are the kids sick?”
“No.”
“Then figure out how to get her here, damnit. There’s gotta be a way. You can’t give up.”
“I’m not giving up. I don’t want her.”
Frank sat back, alarmed. “Because you feel like you can’t support her?”
“It’s not that—”
“Then why?”
“I don’t want her here, that’s all. I don’t need to explain myself to you—case closed.”
Frank waited a moment, digesting this news. A vision of Aunt Rosa, her hair bundled atop her head, danced before his eyes. She was high-strung and nervous, but she’d do anything for anyone—she had a heart of gold. Luis was lucky to have her, and Frank couldn’t imagine him living without her. If she didn’t come to the States, Frank might never see her or his cousins again. He wondered how they would manage without Luis. It saddened him to think about it.
“Don’t you love her?”
“She’s always riding my ass. Besides, she wouldn’t understand my life here.”
“You mean she wouldn’t approve of your friends,” Frank said with a touch of sarcasm.
“That, and other things.”
“What other things?”
“None of your business, Frankie. Back off, will you?”
“All right. But you’re making a big mistake. You can’t treat your family like table scraps.”
“It’s my life. Besides, who are you to tell me what to do? I’m older than you. I’m a grown man. I know what I’m doing.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
Frank undressed and climbed into bed, wondering what in the world had gotten into his uncle.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When Pino entered Foreman Castillo’s office for his semimonthly meeting with Torres, he found the first lieutenant sitting in the foreman’s chair with a folded copy of Granma in his lap.
The trees rustled against the window. A thunderstorm had just passed. In a few minutes the cool air would be vanquished by humidity.
Pino’s skin was still scabbed, but his blisters were healing. He watched Torres sip coffee from an old, tin mug, wondering how their meeting would unwind.
The former lieutenant had been exceptionally well behaved during the past two weeks, and he figured the report on him would reflect improvement in his attitude and behavior. Pino watched Torres stand and smile. He accepted an offer of coffee and sat when the lieutenant gestured to a chair. Pino occupied the edge of his seat, feet flat, back straight. He waited for Torres to begin the conversation.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” replied Pino.
“You seem to be healing well.”
“I am.”
“Good. Have you been getting along with the other men?” Pino gritted his teeth and raised his chin to expose a column of throat. A gallery of sores dotted his neck. He crossed his arms in front of his chest like a brick wall. But he kept his expression neutral.
Why should I have to worry about getting along with anyone? If things were the way they should be, people would be worried about getting along with me.
Pino looked out the window. A breeze dislodged water droplets from the trees, creating a crystal shower that puddled on the walkway. A heat haze shimmered over the cane fields, but dark clouds still loomed in the distance. The rain could resume at any time. Watching the sweat drip off the faces of the macheteros, Pino renewed his vow to play the role required of him.
“Yes. I’m getting along well with the men.”
Torres nodded his approval. “What do you attribute that to?”
Pino took a hard swallow, weighing his words. “I’m minding my business, following orders, and not taking charge.” He lifted his chin in a gesture of defiance. “I believe that’s what’s required of me.”
Torres nodded. “Good. So you’re learning to follow the rules?”
Pino looked at Torres, determined not to be his own worst enemy. He knew it was necessary for him to modify his behavior to save his skin. But it wasn’t easy.
“Yes, I’m following the rules.”
“Have you given more thought to the Mederos business?”
Pino pushed his teeth together and clenched his jaw. “Yes, and I admit to being hardheaded.”
“Explain.”
Pino hesitated, formulating an answer that would please the lieutenant. “My zeal in getting Mederos clouded my thinking. I should have pursued him using other methods.”
“So you admit your mistake?”
Pino closed his eyes. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. He knew he had made the right decision to go after Mederos the way he did. Even if he had informed the CDRs, the militia, and the police of Mederos’s escape, they wouldn’t have been able to catch him. He had done the right thing, despite its outcome. Now, he was forced to play this juvenile game that mocked his efforts.
An image of his mother crossed Pino’s mind. She was standing in the kitchen wearing a striped yellow apron. She tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a colander and a pot of black beans that had been soaking in water.
“What do you want to me to do with them?” he had asked.
“Strain and contain them,” she replied.
That’s what I need to do now, thought Pino. Strain and contain my emotions. Get control.
“I made a mistake, a big mistake,” said Pino convincingly. “I put my own ego ahead of the Party, ahead of the cause. I was arrogant, and I am truly sorry.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Torres. “Admitting your mistakes is the first step toward rehabilitation.”
“I understand, sir. I have every intention of making amends for my mistakes.”
A hint of a smile lifted the corners of Torres’s mouth.
“I’m pleased to know you feel that way. I will see you again in two weeks. Keep up the good work.”
“I will, sir.”
Pino saluted Torres and left the office.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On a Friday night at the end of April, Magda and her mother visited Frank in his room for the first time. He had made his bed and tidied things up for their arrival, aligning his shoes and banishing his clothes to a drawer. He had no concept of housework. In his eyes, the room looked fine. But he was still nervous, hoping to make a good impression on his future wife and mother-in-law. When the two women arrived, their smiles disappeared. They looked horrified.
“This is awful, Frank,” said Magda. “How can you live this way? This bedding is all tattered and torn. It looks like a bunch of rags.”
“It’s what was here,” Frank offered by way of defense.
Magda rolled her eyes. “You need new linens. Let me pick some up for you.”
Frank smiled. If this was a preview of what it would be like to be married to Magda, he liked it.
Frank glanced at his watch. “I’d go with you, but I have to work.”
Magda shrugged. “Mother will come with me. By the time you get home, we’ll have you all fixed up.”
By the following morning Frank had forgotten their conversation. When he walked into his room, he marveled at the transformation. The floor was mopped. The lampshade had sh
ed a layer of dust. A plaid curtain hung at the window, and a new spread covered the bed. Magda had even nailed a crucifix above the headboard. A jingle Magda sung sprung to Frank’s mind: “It’s so easy when you use Lestoil.”
Frank switched on the fan. He lay back on the bed, propping his head on his folded arms. He closed his eyes and had just begun to drop off to sleep when Magda and her brother, Sergio Junior, knocked on the door. Magda walked in, smiling. She looked proud.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It’s great! Thanks.”
“I got you sheets. Here, help me make the bed.” Magda ripped the sheets from the plastic bag and nodded for Frank to take the other side. She removed the spread, fluffed the sheets, and tucked them in using hospital corners. Frank wondered where she had learned that trick.
Once they made Frank’s bed, the three of them decided to take a walk. It was a beautiful spring day, perfect for a stroll. They set out in good spirits. A couple of blocks from Frank’s rooming house, a Cuban man approached them. He began speaking to them in Spanish. His name was Pedro.
He was tall for a Cuban and rail thin. Gray threaded his hair and his straggly beard. Rimless glasses sat on his nose, and a faded flannel shirt with missing buttons hung open over a ribbed undershirt. A large cross announced his Catholicism from a black cord around his neck.
Pedro wanted to know where they were from, how long they’d been in Union City, and how they liked America so far. He seemed friendly enough, not a bad sort, although Frank suspected he was high on something. Once they told him a little about themselves, he turned to Frank and said, “Man, did you hear about the refrigerator?”
Frank wrinkled his brow. “What refrigerator?”
“The one on Palisades Avenue.”
“Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Pedro ignored Frank’s statement. “Do you need a refrigerator?”
Frank thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I could use one. I live in a room with my uncle. There’s no place to store food.”
“Then let’s go get it.”
“What do you mean?”
Pedro looked at Frank like he was a simpleton.
