Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Frank directed Luis’s gaze to a burnt-out shell of an overturned car that littered the street like a discarded snakeskin. With its underbelly exposed, its wheels spun aimlessly at a smoke-filled sky.

  A sharp crack rang out as if something were being ripped from its hinges. Startled, Frank looked up to see a flaming beam fall from a burning building. It was headed right for him. He covered his head with his arms and leapt out of the way. The beam crashed to the street only feet from where Frank stood. Sparks jumped into the air, singeing his legs like splattered grease. He brushed them off with the palms of his hands.

  Frank walked a few feet and tripped over something solid, unyielding. He looked down in grim amazement to see a leg sitting in a pile of rubble at a right angle to the sidewalk. It was a woman’s limb with a nicely shaped calf and a high heel shoe hanging off a pretty foot. It was charred and half buried in debris. The violence had eaten its color. A chill tingled his spine just looking at it. His stomach clenched and his pulse thundered at his temples. He sucked in his breath and jumped back.

  The scene felt surreal, like a painting he’d seen in a book his grandfather owned. Time stretched, elongated. His face felt hot, flushed. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he leaned against a building to get his bearings.

  Frank raised his hand to his mouth, afraid he was going to vomit. His forehead felt clammy. He bent over and tried to quell the roiling acid in his stomach. It took him a minute to catch his breath. When he looked again, he realized the leg was part of a dismembered mannequin. He heaved a sigh of relief.

  When Luis saw Frank’s reaction, he began to laugh. It was a cruel, pitiless sound, a caterwauling commensurate with the night’s events.

  “What? Did you think it was real?” he asked.

  Frank looked away, embarrassed at his own reaction, and disgusted with his uncle’s. He felt a sense of dislocation. He wanted out.

  Frank turned to Luis and said, “I’ve had enough! Do what you want, but I’m going home.”

  Luis stopped laughing. The alarm that rose in his eyes was too obvious to miss. “You can’t leave. Not now!”

  “The hell I can’t,” Frank shouted. He turned on his heel and started jogging toward the car.

  Luis hesitated a moment and then began running beside him.

  “Wait! We have to talk. Don’t go. I need you!”

  “You don’t need me,” said Frank. “You need your head examined. And so do I for being here.”

  “I need my head examined? What about you? Working all night in that filthy factory for minimum wage when you can make real money working for me. When are you gonna wise up?”

  “That’s a discussion for another day,” said Frank. He quickened his pace.

  “But you owe me!”

  “I owe you. But I didn’t go through hell to get out of Cuba to die in a place like this. I have no dog in this fight.”

  “So you’re backing down on your word? You promised to help me.”

  Frank stopped and glared at Luis. “Let me make myself clear. What you do is your business. I have no say in it. But this is madness, and I’m going home.”

  Frank turned and started running.

  “Stop!” screamed Luis. His voice sounded shrill and desperate. “We’re so close. Just give me a little time. You can stay here if you want. Wait in the car. I won’t take long.”

  Frank slowed his pace as his uncle caught up to him. “I don’t think you heard me. I’m leaving. Now!”

  “You’re abandoning me? Just like that?”

  “No, I’m going back to our room. Call it what you will. You can come—or not. It’s up to you.”

  Luis looked around frantically, his dark features signaling disbelief. He jumped around like a boxer before an opening match. His eyes darted back and forth. He resembled a wild dog trying to get its bearings.

  He made a small sound, raised his fingers to his mouth, and chewed his thumbnail. A moment of silence elapsed as Frank and Luis glared at each other. Then Frank turned and walked toward the car. “Hey!” hollered Luis.

  Frank shook his head and continued walking. His uncle followed. Reaching the car, he opened the door, and settled himself into the driver’s seat. He was grateful to still have the keys and relieved to be in the safety of the vehicle.

  Luis stood next to the Mustang, looking like he was going to kick the tires. Frank wasn’t sure whether he’d get in or not. He didn’t care. He turned on the ignition and put the car into gear just as Luis opened the passenger door. He hopped into the car, stretched his legs, and slumped into the seat. He untied his sneakers, loosened his shoe tongues, and propped his feet on the dashboard. The smell of sweat filled the air.

  A moment elapsed as Luis stared into space. Then he turned to Frank, and said hoarsely, “This is probably for the best. I bet the old lady wasn’t there anyway.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Frank. “Probably not.”

  Frank started driving down the road as Luis plucked a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. He threw the match out the window, inhaled deeply, and switched on the radio to the sound of The Supremes. Then he turned to Frank and said, “You still owe me.”

  Frank glued his eyes to the road. He didn’t respond.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  At eight-thirty in the morning on August 12, 1967, Magda stood before the full-length mirror in her mother’s bedroom, adjusting her lace wedding veil. Her hair lay in thick curls around her shoulders. A white organza dress embroidered with seed pearls grazed her high heel pumps.

  Frank couldn’t sleep the night before, thinking about how Magda would look in her gown, and how he would feel walking back down the aisle arm in arm with his bride. His eyes misted just thinking about it. It truly was a dream come true.

  He had arranged for Bruno, his supervisor from work, to wait outside Magda’s parents’ apartment in his blue Buick Riviera. His job was to chauffeur her to St. Augustine Roman Catholic Church in Union City.

  Located on New York Avenue, the church was a modern, triangular-shaped building with rectangles of stained glass that rose to a peak in the front. A large cross adorned the building’s brick façade.

  Twenty people filled the pews to witness the ceremony, including all of Magda’s relatives living in the States and some friends Magda and Frank had made since they had arrived in America.

  Frank stood at the altar with Magda’s brother, who served as best man. The gold wedding bands, which Frank had purchased the week before, rested securely in his pocket.

  The organist began playing the soft strands of music, and Frank’s heart skipped a beat. A few more guests wandered in and sat in the pews.

  Frank adjusted his tie and stood a little straighter. Magda’s mother, Aunt Sophia, and Uncle Rigo walked down the aisle and occupied the front pew. Tears dewed their cheeks.

  A moment of silence, almost sacred, transpired before the organist began playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” All eyes turned toward the back of the church. Carrying a bouquet of white roses and carnations and holding her father’s arm, Magda slowly proceeded down the aisle, beaming all the way. She nodded to her guests, and then turned to Frank and smiled. She never looked more radiant.

  Sergio stood for a moment at the altar and kissed his daughter on the cheek before giving her hand to Frank. He then joined Magda’s mother in the front pew. The opposite pew—the one that would have held Frank’s parents, siblings, and grandparents—sat as empty as a mask after Mardi Gras.

  Frank had written to his family to tell them about his upcoming marriage. He hoped they had received his letter and were thinking of them. For a brief moment, he felt the presence of Abuelo. Wherever he was, Frank knew he was happy for them.

  Magda and Frank turned toward the priest, who made the sign of the cross, kissing the gold crucifix that circled his neck before letting it drop to his waist. He nodded to the altar boys and ascended the stairs to begin the service, while Magda and Frank knelt before him on red-carpeted stairs. Two floor fans
cooled the air as the priest began to speak in Latin. Frank could hardly focus on the Mass.

  Young Sergio gave a reading from scripture in Spanish, and the priest urged Frank and Magda to remain faithful to the Church and to each other. He spoke of love and children. Frank was so eager to get married, he thought they’d never get to recite their wedding vows.

  Just when he could stand it no longer, the priest came down the steps and stood before the couple. His eyes twinkled. He delivered a blessing and a short sermon about the sanctity of marriage.

  Then he turned to Frank, and said, “Repeat after me: I, Frank Mederos, take thee, Magda Hernández, for my lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He said the words with tears streaming down his cheeks. A hush fell over the congregation.

  The priest turned to Magda. She reached over and wiped a tear from Frank’s face with her thumb. Frank took her hand in his and kissed it. She enunciated her marriage vows to Frank in a strong, clear voice. He nodded, savoring every word.

  “The rings, please,” said the priest. The best man extracted the rings from his pocket and handed them to the priest. Frank took Magda’s hand and slipped the wedding ring on the third finger of her left hand next to the trinket ring he had given her in Cuba. The night before the couple had discussed whether Magda would continue to wear that ring, and she insisted, saying it was an emblem of their love that she would wear until the day she died. Frank was secretly pleased.

  The priest waited as they placed the rings on each other’s fingers. Then, raising his hand in the sign of the cross, the priest said the sweetest words Frank had ever heard: “Frank and Magda, I join you together in holy matrimony, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” The priest turned toward Frank and said, “You may now kiss the bride.” Frank pushed Magda’s veil aside and kissed her on the lips. When he finished, she kissed him again. And again. Everybody laughed.

  The recessional music began, and they exited the church in a flurry of excitement and confetti. They stood for a few minutes outside the church to take photographs before going to Sophia and Rigo’s apartment for a small reception. Sophia had decorated the table with white flowers, candles, and tulle. She served a generous buffet accompanied by Cuban coffee and several homemade desserts.

  Around four o’clock, Bruno drove Frank and Magda to the Port Authority in New York City so they could catch a bus for a long weekend in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. At a friend’s suggestion, they stayed at a place called Cove Haven Resort on Lake Wallenpaupack. The honeymoon suite had a heart-shaped bed and bathtub. Mirrors reflected the light. The bedspread was fluffy and red. Candles and a jar of pink bubble bath sat on the bathtub’s ledge, waiting to be opened. Seeing them, Magda blushed, and then laughed merrily.

  “Well, we paid for it, we might as well enjoy it.”

  Frank took Magda in his arms, more excited than he’d ever been in his life. He had recently turned twenty. Magda was almost eighteen, smart and beautiful. It didn’t get better than this. They tumbled into bed together, and Frank kissed her passionately, removing her clothes as he went. He couldn’t believe he was actually touching her, holding her, kissing her in places he had only dreamed about. They couldn’t get enough of each other.

  At one point, Magda pulled away from Frank and laughed. “What about the bubble bath?”

  “The hell with the bubble bath,” said Frank. “We’ll use it in the morning.”

  They made love over and over, gently, passionately, until Magda finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted. Frank couldn’t imagine life could be this good. He turned on his back and smiled. His bride was everything he had hoped for and more. She boosted his confidence. She gave him hope. She made him laugh. She was his partner, his lover, someone with whom he could navigate this strange new world. He thanked God for the gift of her.

  The events of the past year flashed before his eyes. He was proud of himself. He had achieved his goal to get to America and to marry Magda. He had struggled against the devil and won—at least for now.

  His thoughts turned to his family and how much they would have enjoyed seeing him get married. Their wedding would have been much different in Cuba, attended by scores of people—siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, and friends. His mother would have worn a lace dress and a hat decorated with feathers. Abuelo and his father would have roasted a pig—if they could get one on the black market. Music would have brightened the air, and dancing would have greeted the dawn. But they would not have been free.

  Suddenly, Frank heard a noise outside and froze, listening. His adrenaline spiked. He recognized the hoot of an owl and the rustle of what was probably a raccoon. Moonlight spilled through the curtains and a breeze warmed the room. Still, a chill enveloped his body.

  He shook his head, thinking that once you’ve been a fugitive, fear stalks you like a lion. Long after your escape, long after your acquaintance with freedom, it appears out of nowhere. For Frank, it manifested itself in startled responses to quick gestures, to sudden noises, to unexpected events. The smallest thing could trigger fear in him.

  Evil forces inhabited dark, sullen dreams, leaving his skin crawling and his sheets wet with perspiration. Terror could ambush him at the sound of a voice or in simple gestures—the nod of the head, the set of a jaw—anything that bore the slightest resemblance to his hunters.

  His brain thirsted for the familiar, hungered for patterns, and sought links to what had already transpired. His response to the unknown was a survival mechanism, a shortcut to knowledge, and a recipe for torture.

  He silently chided himself on how often he imagined things these days, how often he second-guessed what was happening. He reassured himself that he was in a safe place, a place of romance and love, a mountain refuge where no one could hurt him or his wife. There was no need for apprehension or alarm.

  Exhaling, Frank turned on his side. Magda shifted her position and reached for him. He felt her slender arm encircle his waist and her firm breasts brush the hair on his back.

  He listened as her breathing became softer, more rhythmic, grateful for her presence as she entered the world of dreams, and he remained still, his eyes open, his heart pounding, his imagination conjuring phantom shapes in the dark.

  After a hearty breakfast, Frank and Magda went swimming and then tried their luck at horseback riding. Magda’s horse was old and stubborn and spent most of the time eating grass by the side of the road. Frank tried to move him along, but the horse just neighed and shook his head, which made Magda laugh.

  At lunch they met a group of four couples, friendly young people who told them things about the States they couldn’t even begin to imagine. Frank’s English was not good enough to understand most of what was said, but Magda got the gist of it. Her years of study at a private school in Cuba were paying off.

  They heard stories about vacationing in the Grand Canyon, a hole so large and deep it took hours to ride to the bottom on a mule. They heard about a horseshoe-shaped waterfall in New York that dropped a hundred and fifty thousand gallons of water a second. They learned about a national park in the West with geysers, salt flats, and bubbling mud.

  The men discussed investments and real estate and told them that you could get a mortgage or a car loan with a small down payment. They talked about careers in banking, insurance, and medicine. Magda’s ears perked up when she learned you could make a good living by using math.

  These stories opened a whole new world to the newlyweds, and they realized there was more to America than living in Union City or working in a laminate factory in Clifton.

  When Frank and Magda got home, they rented an apartment on Kennedy Boulevard, and Luis helped Frank move the legendary refrigerator into the kitchen. The couple bought a bed, a table and chairs, and a damask tablecloth for entertaining.

  They painted the walls eggshel
l white and the woodwork Williamsburg blue. Magda hung ball-fringed curtains at the windows, which helped cozy up the place. They found some Peter Max posters at a yard sale and nailed them to the living room wall. Sophia gave them dishes, flatware, and kitchen utensils. Their oven mitts were thick and plaid.

  Frank was thinking about blueberry pie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lazo and his fellow ATGM operator, Manny, had helped Frank in many ways during his efforts to escape. They had covered for him on guard duty and lied to the authorities regarding Frank’s whereabouts. They had full knowledge of their friend’s intentions and his plans to defect, which could be construed as treason.

  Lazo and Manny were interrogated after Frank’s escape. They claimed no knowledge of the event and were delighted when the focus shifted to those in charge, especially to Lieutenant Pino. Frank’s escape was considered so serious that the top brass at the Santa Maria base were relieved of their duties and replaced by new officers.

  Many soldiers knew that Pino’s case had gone to trial, and there was much speculation among the privates as to what happened to him thereafter. But an official account was never provided. The officers seldom mentioned his name. It was as if Pino had dropped into a black hole in space. Which was just fine with Lazo.

  Every night for months, Lazo awoke in a cold sweat over what he had done. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t do it all over again. He would. Recently, Lazo’s fear had retreated to the suburbs of his mind. It had morphed from a cause of panic to a nagging concern.

  A couple of days before the ceremony for the graduates of the Special Forces, Commander Lucas summoned Lazo to his office. He was sitting at his desk when Lazo entered. He stood and extended a hand for the soldier to take a seat. For some reason, the commander insisted on calling Lazo by his first name, a highly unusual practice.

  The commander’s desk overflowed with binders and papers scattered at various angles. A map of Cuba and a photo of Fidel hung on the wall behind his desk, and a framed photograph of his wife graced a bookshelf. Lucas glanced at a paper and then turned his attention to Lazo.