90 Miles to Havana (23 page)

In the morning, I step out into the rain and watch the brown waters climbing up the bank. If it keeps raining, the boat will soon float, just as Tomás predicted.

Tomás is on the bank hauling his treasures out from under a tarp, making a pile of the things he will need up on deck: ropes, spare parts, cans, and hoses.

“Let's get out of the rain,” he says, and then guides me down into the cabin.

“You haven't said anything about your parents. I guess that means that you couldn't find them.”

“Well, maybe they might—”

Tomás cuts me off. “Save it. I don't have time for maybes. Julian, you should have said something a long time ago.”

“I'm waiting to hear from them . . .”

“I don't have time for excuses; I've got too many other things to worry about. If your parents are at the dock on time they can come.” Then Tomás takes some bills out of the money can and grabs his raincoat. “Right now I have to go buy enough gas to get the boat to the pumps and I'll use the rest to buy some spare parts and fill up the tanks. You stay here while I'm gone. I don't want you getting picked up by that Ramirez guy.”

“But I have one more call to make! And even if he did pick me up, I would never tell him about the boat.”

“I can't take any more chances,” he says as he climbs down the ladder. “And, Julian, when this boat leaves, you have to go back to the camp.”

“But Caballo . . .”

“I don't want to hear it. The camp is where you belong.” Then Tomás starts up the slippery bank. Halfway up he stops and turns around. “By the way, Dog is coming later in the afternoon. If I'm not back by then tell him to wait, because we're leaving today—no matter what.” I watch Tomás pull himself up the muddy bank and then disappear into the bushes that line the road.

I can't be mad at Tomás; he's got a job to do—fourteen people are depending on him. He's like Bebo; when he's in a bind, he only thinks about what's in front of him, what he has to do. He doesn't worry about the things, good or bad, that put him in that spot.

I have a job to do, too. I'll make my call and come right back. Tomás has nothing to worry about.

It's too early to make my call, so I go below, open up my suitcase, and start folding my damp clothes. When I finish packing I run my hand along the side where the golden swallow is still sleeping. Just as I close my suitcase I hear the drone of an outboard motor coming up the river.

Dog is maneuvering past the submerged dock to tie his skiff to a log on the bank. I can hear him cursing the slippery mud as he makes his way to the ladder.

As I walk out of the cabin, Dog is leaning over the compass and facing away from me.

“Hi, Dog,” I say, loud enough to startle him.

Dog jumps back and turns around to glare at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks as he jams something long and metallic into his pocket.

“You're here early, aren't you?” I ask.

“I'm just helping my buddy Tomás out. You know—a thousand things to do to get ready.” Dog smiles and then starts fumbling with the wires.

“Tomás wanted me to tell you that he's leaving today, no matter what. He wants you to wait for him.”

“I'm all ready to go,” Dog says, then grabs a roll of electrical tape. “I better get started wrapping these. We don't want them to unravel in the middle of the ocean.”

Standing behind him, I watch him tape up the wires. Maybe I was wrong to assume that he's up to no good.
Maybe he is just a guy trying to earn some money to fix his boat like Tomás said.

Suddenly, Dog turns around. “Don't you have anything better to do?”

“Sorry,” I say, and then pick up the broom and start sweeping the deck. After I finish the deck, I go down to the cabin to sweep and reorganize the food in the galley. When it's time to go Dog is still taping up the loose wires.

“I've got to go up and make a phone call. I'll be back soon,” I say as I walk past him.

Dog looks up and smiles. “You take your time. I'll stand watch.” I stop when I see his big yellow canines.

“I think I forgot something,” I blurt out as I dive back into the cabin. I reach under the counter, grab the money can, take all the bills out, and jam them in my pocket. As I walk out on deck again, Dog's still smiling.

“It's the teeth,” I say to myself as I climb up the hill.

The rain and the tide have raised the river to the third rung on the ladder and waist deep. I wade to shore then climb up the muddy, slippery bank to the road. Before I step across the bridge I look up and down the wet road for Ramirez. The coast is clear so I run all the way to the closest phone, right outside Pirate Angel's. I look around again one more time and then start dialing.

When a woman answers, I ask for Bebo. “He's out fixing a car,” she says.

“This is Julian. Did he say when he will be back?”

“
Sí
,
hola,
Julian. He had an emergency repair out on the highway but he left a message for you just in case he didn't get back in time.” I hear the clunk of the receiver being set
down, then the shushing of her sandals on the tiles. “Here it is. He wrote it down.” I can hear her mumbling, mouthing the words before she reads them. “ ‘They were there, but now they are not.' ” She reads each syllable slowly. “ ‘Sorry, Bebo.' ”

“Where is he going to check? There has to be more!” I say.

“That's all he wrote,” she says.

“I have nothing left,” I say and then hang up. What's the use?

The rain is coming down in sheets when I step outside. The soaking rain is pushing me down and my shirt feels like it's made out of lead. I feel like I have nothing left to push back with. I must have been crazy to believe that it would work, that someone like me could make something this big and important happen.

I'm standing ankle deep in a puddle that looks as big as a sea. The reflection of the red Pirate Angel sign is flashing in the shallow water. Even upside down the lady pirate's face reminds me of Angelita. I can almost feel her hand reaching out to me.

Suddenly the red reflection shatters into a thousand little rubies as a car skids to a stop right in front of me. A man jumps out of the dark sedan but I can't run—my legs have turned to wood. He grabs my arm and pulls me to the car but he's having a hard time folding my wooden body into the backseat.

The driver is getting annoyed. “Ramirez, do I have to do everything myself?”

“It's not my fault, boss. He won't bend!” Ramirez answers and then he says to me, “
Mira, chico
, a little cooperation—we're here to help you! The camp called us when you ran away. Your mother is here. She's worried sick about you. We're here to take you back.”

“¿Mi madre?”
He must be talking about someone else's mother. My mother disappeared. She's never at the other end of the line when I call.

“
Vamo
s,
niño
, your mother is waiting for you,” Ramirez croons as he pulls me gently into the backseat.

How do I know he's not saying that just to get me into the car? As I slide into the backseat his partner turns around. He's holding a piece of paper with what looks like my passport picture on it. “That's him all right,” he says and hands the paper to Ramirez.

Ramirez glances at it and then slams the door. “Julian, we're taking you back to where you belong.”

“Where I belong?” I mumble as a swirling fog creeps over me, leaving me numb and too tired to lift my arms.

Ramirez is leaning over me.
“¿Que dices?”

When I look at him I feel like I'm seeing things through a rolled-up newspaper. Little details pop up like the black hairs bristling out of Ramirez's nose. Then I notice the little birds—I think they're swallows—flying on his red tie.

“The swallow, red rubies,” I say as if I'm in a trance and Ramirez shakes his head at me.

I jerk my head back as if someone has just slapped me awake. “My suitcase!” I yell, and Ramirez jumps back.

“Suitcase?” Ramirez asks. “Tell us where it is, we'll take you there.”

“Take me there?” I can't take him to the boat; he'll arrest Tomás and then fourteen people will . . . and then it hits me. I have the gasoline money! All those people waiting on the dock for Tomás, my mother counting on me to protect the bird so we'll have some money to start a new life. I've let everyone down!

The seat is trying to suck me in. “I can't let everybody down!” I say out loud.

Ramirez gives me a strange look. “I think we better get him back,
pronto
,” he calls out to the driver and then slams the door.

There's a man fishing off the bridge. As we drive by, he turns around. The shape of his head silhouetted against the silver clouds reminds me of Bebo. He would want me to try; he wouldn't just sit back and let things happen!

Suddenly, I feel the fog is lifting and I know exactly what I have to do.

“Stop the car!” I yell as loud as I can. “I'm going to be sick, really sick!”

Ramirez looks at me as if I'm possessed, then slides all the way to the other end of the seat. The driver looks back
and then slows down. I push the door open and tumble out of the car. Ramirez is still holding on to my hand. I hit the ground running but I fall and scrape my knees. Ramirez sees that I'm getting dragged, so he lets go. Ramirez is running after me but I reach the bridge first.

Climbing up on the railing, I look out over the buzzing highway, the rooftops and then out to sea. This time I'm not going to look down. It's only ninety miles to Havana from here, but a very long drop to the muddy water below.

When I jump, Ramirez grabs my foot.
“Tu madre,”
he yells. “She's waiting.” For a second gravity slips and the blue sky holds me. I'm floating above the river, his words snapping all around me like little banners, then the water rushes up too soon and I smack into the river face-first.

As I swim downstream on my back, I see Ramirez leaning over the railing waving my left shoe at me. “She's waiting!” he yells again.

If the current wasn't pulling on me so hard, I might have turned around and swum back to the bridge and let Ramirez take me to my mother. But I know that it's just a mean trick that he uses to catch runaways. I can't go back
yet. Right now I have to get the gas money and my bird to Tomás and I have to do it quick. I'm sure Ramirez will be looking for me along the river, and then he'll probably find the boat.

The boat is still sitting on top of the refrigerator, but now there is a stream of fast water between the hull and the bank. As I climb up on deck I see two red gas cans that weren't there when I left.

“Tomás, come out. Hurry,” I call into the cabin and then look up the bank toward the highway.

Tomás walks out of the cabin holding the empty money can. “It's over, Julian, the gas money is gone.” Tomás drops the can and then sits down on the deck. “You were right; I shouldn't have trusted him. I shouldn't have trusted anyone.” Then he lies down.

I dig his roll of bills out of my left pocket. “Tomás, he's not a crook; I took the money just in case,” I say and then I hand it to him.

Tomás sits up and points back at the wheel. “You didn't notice.”

The shiny brass compass is not behind the wheel, only the four bolts are left.

“It's gone!”

“You were right. He is a crook.”

“Why did he take it? He told me he has a compass just like it.”

“He probably traded it for a tank of gas,” Tomás says and then lies back down. “It's all over.”

“Tomás, you can't give up. We've got to get it back!”

“We'd have to buy it back, Julian, and we barely have enough money for the gas we'll need for the trip.”

I'm about to sit down next to him when I feel the deck slide and then tip slightly.

“Did you feel that?” I ask.

Tomás wipes the rain out of his eyes. “Feel what?”

The deck leans and then rises like a ride at the amusement park.

“Hey, she's floating!” I yell and run to look over the side. “Tomás, the water is halfway up the hull; you were right! We've still got a chance!”

Tomás joins me at the rail. “I guess I figured one thing right, but it doesn't really matter. If it was just me, alone, I would try it, but I can't risk fourteen lives. It's my fault. My father wanted to teach me to navigate by the stars, but I thought, why do I need the stars when I've got a compass?”

“Tomás, I can't believe you're giving up!” I yell and pull on his arm. “You said that you would lift the boat up yourself if you had to!”

“It's over, Julian. Now the only thing I can do is to try to get in touch with them so they won't show up at the dock,” Tomás says and then nods toward the cabin. “You better go and pick up your clothes; you left them all over the cabin. Go and pack. I'll walk you to the bus stop.”

“Pick up my clothes?” I rush into the cabin. My suitcase is open, my jumbled clothes dripping over the sides. “Dog!” I hope he was just looking for the gas money. I hold my
breath as my fingers run along the side of the suitcase and then slow down near the corner. There's the edge; the blue lining is not cut. The bird is safe still sleeping in its little compartment.

“What are you looking for?” Tomás asks as I check the lining again.

“My mother's golden swallow, she had it sewn in there before we left. I'm supposed to guard it until my parents get here. Didn't you tell the doctor that you could buy his ring back from the guy at the pump when you got back? You could trade the bird in for your compass. You could get more gas and all the spare parts you'll need.”

“I don't know, Julian. I'm sure your parents are counting on that bird for when they get here. They'll need the money to start over.