90 Miles to Havana (16 page)

“I don't have to go anywhere I don't want to!” I say as loud as I can, not caring who hears me. The instant those words came out of my mouth I felt a little better. “Didn't Marta tell us that when she got here, there was a kid who took off every time the car came to take him to the airport?”

“I remember,” Angelita says, “and when the car left, he came back. He did that a few times, but they did finally send him away!”

A plan begins spinning in my head. It's amazing how clear things look when you have no choice, when there's no question that you have to jump, do something.

“Tomorrow is Saturday; the station wagon's coming in the morning to take Caballo's friends to Miami. Then it will come back for me and the two other kids in the afternoon, right?”

“So?” Angelita asks.

“So we have to disappear before the station wagon comes back in the afternoon.”

“Just how are you going to make yourself disappear?”

“We'll get on the morning trip to Miami, that's all,” I say as if I know exactly what I'm going to do. I don't know why but I feel strangely confident. I might not be as brave and tough as Gordo or smart and strong like Alquilino but I can invent—make things up as I go along—better than both of them put together. Bebo said so.

Angelita is looking at me like I've lost my mind. “Julian, Caballo is in charge of making up that list—you're not
going to be on it. Where would you go anyway? You can't just wander around the streets!”

“Don't worry, I have a plan for getting on the list. And we can go to Tomás boat. He wants us to come; he said he could use my help with his boat engine. You still have the map, right?”

“What do you mean,
we
?” Angelita asks.

“I thought, since Pepe is gone, you could come with me.”

“I can't just run away!”

“Why not?”

“I told you already, Julian. The family that took Pepe said they might take me, too.”

“What if they don't? What if they send you away first? Besides, we can always come back!” Then, before she could complain, I started on the list of things that we'll need. “And don't forget the map to Tomás's boat.

“Julian, this is crazy. I don't think you can do it.”

“Angelita, I have to do it!”

This morning questions and doubts are buzzing around my head like hungry mosquitoes. What will Caballo do to me if he catches me? What if Angelita doesn't come with me? I feel lonely and scared just thinking about leaving. What if I get lost? Maybe this is a crazy idea. But then one little thought lights up the dark edges of the others: this might be a crazy idea, but it's my idea. My brothers are not here to tell me I can't do it or that I should do it some other way.

The alarm clock goes off. It's time to go. I land soft as a feather and then reach under the bottom bunk. The bag Angelita packed for me is right where it should be. Inside I find the two short lengths of chain, two combination
locks, and the screwdriver. I can still back out if I have to but Angelita is probably up already. I push the screen open, and then shove my suitcase out the window.

I sneak up to Caballo, snoring in his bottom bunk. His feet are poking through the metal brackets at the end of his bed and he looks even bigger lying down. I put the bag under his bed and check my watch again: thirty seconds to go. My hands are shaking as I take out the screwdriver. Leaning over Caballo, I carefully open up eight more of the rings that hold up the top bunk. Now there are only four thin loops of metal left, one in the middle of each side—surely not enough to hold up the hefty Ernesto mumbling in his sleep above Caballo.

There's still time to crawl back into bed—forget the whole thing. No one has seen me yet and the metal rings are still holding.

When Ernesto's alarm goes off, it startles me and I drop my screwdriver. I dive and catch it before it hits the ground. Then I roll under Caballo's bunk as the lump above me starts to move.

Caballo yells, “Ernesto, time to get up!”

Ernesto's not moving; he must be deep in a dream. The metal frame shakes when Caballo kicks the underside of his bunk. Ernesto whimpers.

Caballo kicks him harder.

Then I hear the screech of metal grating on metal followed by a titanic thump as Ernesto and his bed crash down on top of Caballo.

Caballo screams, “Ma—Ma,” and I'm almost crushed by the falling mattress.

My arms are pinned to my side and I can't reach the chains. I didn't think of this, but I can't give up now. I squirm and manage to free my hands.

I wrap the chain around the frames of Ernesto and Caballo's bunk and pull it to the other side and padlock it. Then I have to squeeze and twist myself around to reach the bottom of the frame to padlock that end. When I finish Caballo is trapped in a metal cage made of the frames chained together. I can feel him struggling above me and yelling for Ernesto to get off.

A laughing, jeering crowd is gathering around him as I crawl out from under his bunk and start to walk away. I know I should just slip away but I can't resist. I walk back, lean over Caballo, and look him in the eyes.

“Now we're even!”

Caballo stops thrashing around. He's lying perfectly still as I run to the door. “Stop him!” he bellows.

Before I step outside, I grab the hanging clipboard with his list.

The driver is trying to see what's going on inside the dormitory, so he doesn't see me adding my name to the list. As Angelita walks by with my suitcase, I add her name to the list as well. Then I run to the doorway to hurry the other kids into the car.

“Caballo is kind of tied up right now,” I say to the driver, waving the clipboard at him.

“What's all the fuss about?” he asks.

“Someone fell out of their bunk, that's all,” I say and then push the clipboard in front of his face. “Here's the list; we're all here.”

The driver is slowly pronouncing each syllable as he reads the first name on the list. I have to do something or we're not going to make it. I stand on my tiptoes and read the rest of the names out as Angelita pushes the kids into the car.

“Looks like we have a full load today,” I say.

The driver looks a little annoyed, so I smile up at him. “Just trying to be helpful. Don't you have another run to the airport right after this one? That's a lot of driving to do!”

The driver checks his watch. “
Sí,
we better get going.”

“So those big
Americanos
stuck him in a dryer.” The driver chuckles. “They kept pumping in dimes, just to watch him tumble around.” All the way into the city he's been telling stories about the children who were not careful on their visit to Miami.

As he parks the car the driver raises one bushy eyebrow. “Remember stay together . . . and stay away from the Laundromats. Some gringos have a strange sense of humor.” He laughs.

Angelita and I are standing at the back of the group in front of a Cuban coffee shop the size of a walk-in closet. The smell of the coffee is making me homesick.

“I want everybody back by four,
me entienden?”
the driver yells, and then downs a thimble-sized paper cup of black coffee.

As the group starts to drift away, I snatch my suitcase out of the back and we hurry off in the opposite direction.

“I think he was trying to scare us, don't you?” I ask Angelita.

“I believe him,” she answers and takes a piece of paper out of her back pocket.

“What's that?” I ask, as she carefully unfolds the paper.

“The map,” she says and runs her finger over the blue line that ends in an
X
on a river next to a highway. She looks around and then without hesitation points down the street. “This way,” she says and then folds up the map.

As we walk, Angelita repeats the name of each street over and over.

“Angelita, what are you doing?”

“Memorizing the names so we don't get lost.”

We walk into a busy street crowded with men in suits rushing from one building to the other. In a department-store window a family of naked mannequins waits for someone to come and dress them. Tourists in flowered shirts sift through a parade of colorful bicycles spilling out of a shop onto the sidewalk. We linger for a moment, savoring the smell of new paint and running our fingers through the soft foxtails hanging from the handlebars.

Construction workers in yellow helmets swarm in and
out of a building wheezing clouds of white dust. A crane dances a metal beam to three men, high up in the rising steel frame. They grab the swinging beam, nudge it into place, and then bolt it onto the Tinkertoy frame. If I listen and look just right, the growl of engines, beeping of the horns, and the tack-tack of a jackhammer turn into music, then the men in their yellow hats almost look like they're dancing to the beat of the song. But the music here is louder, harsher than the music of Havana. There you could hear conversations breathing out of cool entryways, caged birds singing on a balcony, and the muffled
clack-clack
of someone mopping the floor inside. Here there are no voices or songbirds, just the crunch and grind of machines.

We've been walking for hours, and Angelita is still reading the street signs. Every block, every name she calls out, takes me farther away from the camp. Not just the kids, the bunk beds, and the metal buildings, but everything that was connected to it, like my brothers, parents, and my home. Every other block I think about what would happen if I went back, but then I remember Caballo's face pressed between the bedsprings, his angry eyes. I'm scared and excited at the same time.

Angelita checks her map and then announces, “Pirate Angel's!” She points at the sign blinking red in broad daylight. “This must be where Tomás gets his free sugar,” she says.

“The pirate girl on the sign looks just like you,” I say earnestly.

Angelita punches me on the arm. “Does not! She's a lot older.” We walk in and climb up on two red stools. Angelita takes off her cap. “That feels much better,” she says, and shakes out her shiny black hair.

A waitress in a red headscarf and white pirate's blouse puts a place mat down in front of us and pulls a pencil and pad from her belt where her pirate's sword would be. “What'll you have?” We order two Pirate Pepsis and study the place mat decorated with a map of Miami. The red pirate's script reads, Pirate Angel's Miami. Angelita points at a spot on a ribbon of blue running through the city.

“Tomás lives around here,” she says and then takes out her own map. It's the same place mat but this one has notes scribbled all over it.

“Here you go, tall and cool,” the waitress says and places our drinks in front of us. “What do you have there, a treasure map?” She leans in close. “Hey that looks like Tomás's handwriting. I'd recognize it anywhere.”

“Tomás?” Angelita asks.

“Tomás?
Sí
.” The waitress turns toward the kitchen. “Doctor, come on out here,” she yells. “We got two patients for you!”

A silver-haired man in a dirty white uniform gently shoulders the door open. He wipes his hand and then extends it toward Angelita.

“Alejandro De La Vega, at your service.”

“I'm Angelita, and this is Julian.”

“Where are you from?”

“Havana.”

“I'm from Havana, too.” The gentleman glances back toward the kitchen. “A surgeon there, dishwasher here.” The doctor looks down at his pruny hands. “It seems like a million years ago. . . . I am sorry, did I hear you say that you are looking for Tomás?”

“He gave me this map,” Angelita says. “He said we could visit him anytime.”

“You're coming from the camp?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Tomás has told me a great deal about that camp. He used to go there in the beginning to help get it ready for the Pedro Pan kids. He's always talking about the cook, Doris?”

“Dolores.” Angelita laughs.

“Yes, Dolores, excuse me. Tomás says that the camp is full of kids that came here all alone. Did you come without your parents?”

We both nod.

“It must be hard for you,” the doctor says shaking his head slowly, “and a nightmare for your parents.”

“Doctor!” A booming voice from the kitchen rattles the silverware. “I'm not paying you to talk to the customers. Remember, dishwashers are a dime a dozen.”

The doctor waves at the kitchen door. “He won't fire me, doctors who wash dishes are not a dime a dozen.”

Why are you washing dishes?” I ask.

“Because I have three children, and they need a place to live and food to eat.”

“You came with your children?” I ask.

“We left earlier when it was easier to get out.”

“Can't you find a job as a doctor?” Angelita asks.

“To be a doctor here you have to pass the tests. The Cuban license is no good here.”

“You mean you have to go back to school?”

“Yes, I go at night and wash dishes all day, but you know, I'm happy to be here and lucky to have a job and my children. All the trouble and hardships we've had to face here are nothing compared to the heartbreak of parents sending their children away.” The doctor stands up, winks at the waitress, and puts two egg salad sandwiches and a handful of sugar packets in a brown paper bag. “Tomás lives down this road a bit, after the little cement bridge. Look for the trail down to the river.” The doctor slips the bag to Angelita, then looks at his watch. “The last bus back downtown is at three-thirty.”

“Then we better hurry,” Angelita says and swings off the stool. As we head out the door the doctor waves. “Say hello to Señor Tomás!”

Angelita and I walk down a treeless avenue. There are sandy open spaces on either side waiting for new buildings, and then an occasional used car lot with rows of like-new cars waiting to be sold.