90 Miles to Havana (20 page)

Tomás looks away. “Julian this is a big decision for you to make for them, and us. If I let you in, I have to trust that you won't make a mistake and give it all away.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“You don't even know the plan.” Tomás throws his pencil down on top of the charts. “It's stuffy in here and I can't think. Let's go down to the river.”

There's a full, silvery moon glowing behind us in a cloudless sky. At the river's edge Tomás bends over to inspect a piece of rope sticking out of the mud. “It's all in the timing,” he says as he pulls on the muddy rope. “We get to Havana as the sun is setting, when their fishing boats are returning, sneak into the harbor with them, and then tie up on the
Reglas
side. Then at sunrise we follow the first ferry across to the Havana dock.”

“I know that ferry!” I say as if he had just mentioned the name of a friend. “My father keeps his fishing boat just on the other side of that dock!”

Tomás nods and continues. “He picks up his people, and then I pick up my people—the fourteen that just happen to
miss the first ferry. If they ask them why they're not taking that ferry they'll say that they're waiting for someone and that they'll take the next one. Then we sneak out with the other fishing boats and make a run for it!”

“That's a pretty good plan!” I say.

“That's the only way I could think of to get all those people together with their bags and things on a dock without the police getting suspicious.”

“It sounds perfect to me.”

“Every plan sounds foolproof, Julian, until you start. Then the thousand and one things you didn't think about go wrong—all at the same time.”

“What do you do then?” I ask.

“Well then you have to improvise—invent.”

“What if the floodwaters don't lift the boat?” I ask Tomás, as he cleans his knife in the water.

“I have fourteen people counting on me. If I have to, I'll lift the boat myself.” He cuts the rope. “So do you think your parents would do it? Are they up for an adventure?”

I look back across the gray muck at the peeling wooden hull of the boat. Now the boat doesn't look as big or as seaworthy as it did before. “I think so,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I am. “My brother Alquilino said if my mother really knew what was happening to us here, she would swim here if she had to.”

When Tomás finishes coiling up the rope he seems to have made up his mind. “OK, they can come, but you have to listen closely to my instructions. First you have to be
very careful about what you say when you call them because the government listens in on calls from the United States.”

Tomás explains in great detail where they have to go and when they have to be there, and the password they have to use. This is a lot more complicated than I thought, but I just nod and try not to look too worried. It was so much easier when my brothers made all the decisions and I just followed them around. Now I start wondering if I'm doing the right thing for my parents. What if they get caught or the boat sinks? Am I doing this because I miss them, or do I just want to be the hero, the one who helped them to escape?

Tomás wouldn't do it to be a hero. He's doing it to keep his word—to do the right thing.

I bend over next to Tomás, cup my hands, and scoop up the water just like he does. A glowing reflection of the moon, the size of a Ping-Pong ball, floats in the palm of each hand. I lay the little moons back into the water, watching as they swim toward each other, in a hurry to be together again. I want my family to be together again. That's the only thing that I'm sure of.

Tomás is still thumping around the cabin when I wake up the next morning. I watch him stack his charts and clear the counters. He's organizing, thinking. “
Buenos días
, Tomás.”

“
Hola
, Julian.” He takes out a beautiful brass compass from the cabinet, and gently places it on the counter. “Isn't this a beauty?” he says proudly and then wipes the domed top with his sleeve. “This is the only new piece of equipment I've bought for this boat. My father always said that you should never scrimp on the compass.”

I get up to take a closer look. “Where did you get it?” I ask.

“Pops, the guy at the pumps, gave me a good deal on it.
He has a marine goods store right on the dock; someone ordered it and never picked it up,” he says, then picks up four brass nuts and a shiny metal wrench from a bowl and starts up the stairs. “Come up with me. I'm going to put it in today.”

Tomás clears off a place behind the wheel, then carefully lines up the four holes on the bottom of the compass with the bolts sticking out of the dash.

“Are you going to help Armando with the umbrellas today?” he asks as he slides a washer onto the bolt and then threads a nut.

“Armando doesn't need me in the morning; he just wants me to take them down in the afternoon.”

“You have the morning free then?”

“Yeah, I can go with you to the tomato fields and help with the Toma-Tron. I can tune it up for you again.”

“You could come with me but I've got something better for you to do!” He puts down his silver wrench and then walks down into the cabin and comes back out with two large beach bags. “If you go get the oranges, we can make Tomás-ade tonight. Then tomorrow morning you can go sell it on the street. You'll make more money there in one morning than a whole day of picking tomatoes. If it's ok with you, that money can be your contribution to the trip. Whatever you earn will go to help get your parents out.”

“Of course it's OK,” I answer.

“Good, this won't take long. After you finish you can
help Armando in the afternoon. I'll show you where to go to get the oranges.” He sketches out the directions on a piece of a brown paper bag.

After Tomás leaves, I follow his penciled arrows, matching the names on the street signs to the ones he wrote on the paper in his clear engineer's hand. When I get to the red
X
I'm standing at the entrance ramp of a highway. There's no
X
and not one orange tree in sight but I know this has to be it. Tomás drew the map.

At the traffic light cars are jostling for position like it's the beginning of a race. An eighteen-wheeler jumps for the green light and then hurtles toward me, twin plumes of black smoke rising from the exhaust stacks. The driver pulls on his air horn, the truck tips slightly as it turns into the ramp and bushels of fresh plump oranges hiccup out of the open top. The oranges bounce on the pavement and then roll into the gutter. The driver gives me another blast from the horn and speeds up the ramp. I can see his red face in the rearview mirror. He's smiling as I run over and begin filling my bag.

One more truck goes by and my two bags are brimming with oranges.

After I drop off the oranges at the boat, I hurry back up the hill to catch the bus to the beach. On the way into the city I try to figure out how I'm going to break the news to my parents. How am I going to tell them where and when to go without giving the plan away? There might be someone listening in on the call.

By the time I've collected and stacked all the umbrellas, I think I know what to say to get them to the dock.

I'm still rehearsing my code words as I run into the tent to get my money. I'm jumpy, in a hurry to make my first phone call, but Armando wants me to listen to him read out loud in English. I try to pay attention, but after thirty seconds of his heavy accent and the mangled words, I have no idea what he's reading about.

When he finishes he asks me what I thought of his reading.

I shrug. “I don't . . .” but Armando is not really interested in what I think. It would make no difference to him if he were reading to a chair.

“Maybe could be better, but I think it was very good,” he says with his heavy accent. He finally reaches for the money can, pours out the change into my hand and then adds two bills.

“
Gracias
, Armando,” I say and then disappear through the flap.

The monkey man is talking to one of the maids over by the front desk as I sneak into the lobby. I scoot from column to column until I get to the phone booths. Making sure not to close the door so the light stays off, I sit down and then dial the number for the international operator. When she comes on I pump my quarters into the slot, and then wait in the dark. Finally the operator announces that she's made the connection and I hear the faint but familiar ringing tones. One, Two, Three, then . . .

“¡Hola!”
The woman's voice sounds like it's nine hundred miles away from my ear, not the ninety miles that separates me from my house.

“This is Julian. I want to talk to my mother or my father.” I feel a knot starting to form in my throat. This is the first time I have spoken those words in a long time.

“Julian. I don't know any Julian. You must have the wrong number,” the woman says.

“No, no! Don't hang up please. I'm calling from the United States. I don't have any more money and I have to talk to my parents.”

“Your parents? Oh! You mean the
gusanos
that used to live here?”

“
Gusanos
?” Now I recognize the voice at the other end.

It seems like a hundred years ago but I can picture her face, remember her pointing the pork chop at us like it was yesterday.

“What did you do with my parents?” I yell into the receiver.

“
Mira, niño,
I don't know what those Yankees are stuffing into your head. We have not done anything to your parents. This house is too big for just two people. They don't live here anymore.” Then she barks, “
Stupido,
I told you, dig to the left!”

“Do you know where they are? Did they leave a telephone number?”

“No!
Sí
! Right there by the kitchen door.”

I can barely make out what she's saying because someone is hammering away in the background.

“Do you have their number?” I yell into the receiver. I don't think she can hear me. “What's that noise? It sounds like you're digging up our floor!”

“We're digging . . .” The woman stops, but the hammering continues.

“Caramba
, why didn't I think of it before?” she yells. “You lived in this castle! You can tell me where they buried the money, their jewels—you know—the things they should have handed over to the government when they left.”

I'm almost sure they didn't bury anything. I would have known about it if they did, but maybe if I play along she'll help me find my parents.

“The money?” I ask.

“Si,
querido
. I'll tell you where your parents are, if you tell me where the money is.” Even over the pounding noise, her fake sweet voice is making me sick.

I swallow hard. “OK, but you go first.”

“Look my little
gusano
, this house is going to look like a piece of Swiss cheese when I get through with it, but I'll find their loot eventually whether you tell me or not. On the other hand you might never see your parents again, and that would be so sad!”

“It's under the . . .”

“Where?”

“Under the kitchen sink,” I blurt out. “They lifted up a tile, and then dug a really deep hole.”

“How deep?” she asks but then I hear her yell, “
En la cocina
. Dig under the sink.”

“Can you tell me where my parents are now, please?”

“I'm so sorry,
gusanito
, but I have no idea where they are. They could be living out on the street just like we did before the revolution.” Then she yells, “
En la cocina!
” There's a loud
click
, then a hum, and I'm left sitting in the dark, listening to the dial tone, wondering where my parents could be.

I walk out of the cool lobby and sit down in the blazing sun. I hug my knees and stare out at the sea. This sea is much darker and wilder than my sea. This sun is different, too. It stings my skin, and its light is too sharp and clear for daydreamers. But I guess that's good because it helps me see things clearly.

I take out my little notebook and look through the list of relatives and friends that my mother made for me. I'll call every number until I find them. It's not going to be easy but just like Tomás, I won't give up—no matter what!

That night after dinner, we cut and squeeze the oranges, lemons, and limes for the Tomás-ade.

Tomás puts the squeezed-out skins into a shopping bag.

“Thanks, Tomás,” I say and then grab the bag. “Here, I'll get rid of these.” I am afraid he will ask me if I got through to my parents so I run out of the cabin as fast as I can. I don't want to tell him yet that they aren't living at home anymore. What if he gives their place in the boat to someone else?

In my dream my brothers let me go with them to the beach. We sit in the warm sand as the big land crabs crawl out of their holes to dance in the moonlight. A man and a woman are walking at the water's edge toward us. They look familiar but it isn't until they are right in front of us that I recognize them.

“Mami! Papi!” I shout as Tomás shakes me awake.

“Buenos dias, amigo.”

“I was dreaming about my parents,” I say and look away.

“You were calling them in your sleep,” Tomás says.

“I guess they snuck up on me when I was asleep.”

“It's not fair that you can't control your dreams,” he says, and winks at me.

“When I'm awake I can concentrate real hard on what I'm doing, then I don't think about them,” I say.

Tomás rubs his chin. “I know what you mean; that's why I try to stay busy all the time.”

After breakfast we tie a small folding table and a cooler to a set of wheels that once belonged on a folding shopping cart. He uses the extra rope to make a handle on one of the sides of the table. “Now you got something to hang on to.”