90 Miles to Havana (9 page)

“You know how she is,” Alquilino says. “If you tell her how bad it is, she might do something crazy, like try to sneak out in our boat.”

“You think she would do that?” I ask.

“If she thought we really needed her she might,” Alquilino says, and I believe him. If she knew they might separate us—send us to an orphanage or a home for young criminals—one way or the other she'd get here, even if she had to swim!

“But what can I say?” I ask and start a doodle on the right-hand corner.

“Tell her that Angelita and Pepe are here, tell her you're learning how to cook, and that they have a great swimming pool—I don't know, just make something up.”

“I guess I can tell her about cooking with Dolores.”

“As long as you tell her she's nice.”

“I
do
think she's nice,” I say.

“You would,” Gordo says sarcastically.

I write about Pepe and Angelita, then about cooking with Dolores, but that's all. I'm not going to make anything up. In the blank space below I draw Dolores. lf I leave out the hairnet that creases her forehead and makes her look angry, she actually looks nice.

Caballo is the first one in the bathroom every morning. He makes sure that he flushes every toilet, and hums really loud and out of key when he's at the sink. I don't tell my brothers that he splashes water all over me when he washes his face or that he steps on my drawing book that I lay on the floor next to my head. If I say anything, I'm afraid Gordo will lose his temper and do something crazy, making things worse for us. Alquilino knows what's going on, he gets up early, too, and as usual he has come up with a simple solution.

Today we got up and were out of the bathroom before Caballo came in. As we walked past his bunk Alquilino
slipped in and turned off Caballo's alarm, while Gordo lowered the shade and whispered, “Sleep tight little Romeo.”

“Sí, Mami,”
Caballo said in a pouty-baby voice as he rolled over.

When we get to the kitchen the neon lights are still blinking and Dolores is putting on her apron.

“Well, well, look what the dew dropped in!” she yells way too loud for our still sleeping ears. “Today you can eat first and then you'll work harder!” she says as she lays out three bowls of cereal and pours out glasses of orange juice for us.

After breakfast we work harder, and she notices. When we finish she hangs up her apron and says, “I'm going to talk to that director—tell him how hard you work for me—see if he'll give you all regular beds.”

When Dolores came back she looked tired. She put on her apron and said, “Boys, the director wants to talk to you right now.”

When Alquilino asked if he was going to give us our own bunks, she looked away and grumbled, “I'm sure he'll tell ya when you get there.”

Caballo is standing outside the director's office. He smiles at us as we walk in.

“Sit down boys,” the director says and swivels his squeaky chair in our direction. A colorful map of the United States behind his head swells and then flattens in the breeze from the fan. I study the unfamiliar breathing
shape, but I can't find an animal or a thing that it resembles. I'm lost until my eyes reach the lower right-hand corner of the map and find the arched back of the green crocodile of Cuba. I find Key West and then hook north, and there is Florida and Miami. Now I feel a little better because I think I know where I am.

“I have good news. I found homes for you boys,” he says, just a little too cheerfully. He stands up and pokes at a red dot on the upper-left corner of the large map of the United States.

“There's room for two here in Denver. That's in Colorado.” His finger hovers in the middle of the map, then he squints over his reading glasses. “I think this is it. What's it say?”

Alquilino looks up at the map and reads,
“Shi-ca-go.”

The director pulls a piece of paper out of the folder. I recognize the handwriting right away. That's the letter my mother wrote for us to give to the director.

“You're Alquilino, the oldest, right?” the director asks as he scans the letter.

“You, and your brother Gordo?” he says peering over his glasses, “will go to the orphanage in Denver. Now, the little one . . .” He searches the letter. “Let's see, you are Julian?” he pronounces my name wrong.

“Who-li-an,”
I say, trying to correct him but I don't think he's listening.

“My name is
Who-li-an
!” I say again.

“Yes, of course,” he says, sounding a little annoyed. “You will go to our orphan—” he starts and then looks at me for a second. “Julian goes to Chicago. It's a nice place. They have room for you there.”

We're all drawing imaginary straight lines between Denver, Chicago, and Havana. They make sharp, jagged triangles, like the pieces of the broken plate.

Then Alquilino straightens his glasses and stands up. “We go together!”

The director shakes his head. “I'm sorry, but you can't. He's too young for the place in Denver, and you are too old for the one in Chicago. Do you understand?”

Alquilino turns my head to face the director. “
No, el es muy pequeño
. He's little,
muy
little. No go.”

The director drops the letter on top of a tall stack of folders. “You have to go,” he says and lifts the stack. “I've got kids coming in. Kids have to go out. Believe me I don't like this part of my job.” He slaps the folders down and then tugs on the map. When he lets go, North America rolls itself up into a tidy metal tube. “
Señores
, unless you have someone who will sponsor you—take responsibility for you—that's the best I can do,” he says and rubs his hands together as if he's washing them.

“Spon-sor?”
Alquilino asks the director.

“Someone who will be responsible for you.”

Suddenly Alquilino stands up and announces, “
Mi tío
. Uncle? He can sponsor!”

“
Tío?
Very good, then this problem is solved.” The
director picks up his pen. “Now where does your
tío
live?”

“
En Cuba,
” Alquilino answers.

The director puts down his pen and closes the folder. “He cannot sponsor you from Cuba.”

“
Pero
, he's coming, soon.”

“When?”

“Now!” Alquilino answers with confidence.

The director gives him a skeptical look and writes something on the cover of our folder. “I will give you time to call, but I must hear from him soon and I prefer a letter. Understand?”

Alquilino thanks the director and then pushes Gordo and me out of the office before we can ask any questions. Angelita and Pepe are waiting for us outside. They follow us across the dusty driveway to the pool and then we sit down and stare into the murky water.

Angelita is the first to speak. “So, where are they sending you?”

“How did you know?” Gordo asks.

“He called you into his office,” she says. “That means you're on your way out.”

Alquilino looks out over the swimmers. “He wanted to send Gordo and me to Colorado, and Julian to Chicago.”

Angelita shakes her head. “That's not good, the orphanage in Colorado is a cold, sad place run by mean nuns. One of the boys I met here got sent there and he writes sometimes. You don't want to go there.”

“How about Chicago?” I ask. Angelita looks at me but doesn't answer.

“I guess we're lucky then,” I say. “Alquilino told him our
tío
is coming and then he closed the folder.”

“Is he really coming?” Angelita asks hopefully.

Alquilino sinks his head between his knees. “I don't know.”

I don't like the sound of that. “What do you mean you don't know? You just told the director guy that he's coming!”

“I'm not sure; a long time ago I heard Mami say that her sister and family might be leaving.” Alquilino doesn't sound too sure, and I worry because I count on him to know what's going on.

“They're not really leaving?” I ask.

“Relax, Julian. He bought you some time. That was fast thinking.” She flashes him an admiring smile. “But, unfortunately, around here that's the oldest trick there is. It might buy you a week or two but then off you go.”

Alquilino nods. “He told us we needed a letter from our uncle.”

“What if he actually gets a letter?” Gordo says with a devilish smile on his face.

“That's the second oldest trick—the handwriting usually gives it away. He's too busy to check every letter but, if it looks suspicious, he'll send someone to check the address.”

Alquilino stands up. “Then we need a typewriter. That'll throw him off!”

“I think it's been done before, but still, if you're lucky it might buy you another week!” Angelita smiles. “And, it'll cost you.”

After dinner we meet on the shed roof to plan. Angelita is pacing along the edge of the tar roof, her hands teasing the leaves.

“I know the kid who helps out in the office,” she says. “You've probably seen him in the cafeteria collecting the little cereal boxes; his name is Paco and he loves Rice Krispies. He'll buy, trade, and even threaten to beat up the smaller kids just to get them. He's hooked and he can be bribed!” she states confidently. “We're probably going to need around six boxes. Alquilino, you and I are going to write the letter. Gordo, you can make the deal with Paco; you're good at that. Then we'll have to figure out how to get the cereal. Any ideas?”

“We can each save the box that we get for breakfast and then when we have enough . . .” Pepe suggests.

Angelita cuts him off. “No good. That would take too long. We need to start this now.”

“What if we ask Dolores for them?” I say.

“No good, either. One per day, per person. That's all she'll give out.”

“You can't ask for them, Julian,” Gordo says. “You have to take them!”

“You mean steal them?” Pepe asks.

“If that's what it takes,” Gordo answers coolly.

“But she guards them like gold!” I say.

“And that's why you and Pepe have to do it. She would be suspicious of me; she knows I would never go in there unless I have to. You have to distract her and then grab the Krispies.” Gordo makes it sound so easy.

“It's all set then,” Angelita announces. “Alquilino, let's go get some paper.” She looks at Pepe and me. “You should go now; she'll be busy starting dinner. We're counting on you guys.”

Pepe and I make our way to the back of the kitchen and peer in through the greasy screen door. Inside Dolores is mixing something in a big tin bucket.

“You ready, Pepe?” I ask.

“
Claro,
why wouldn't I be ready?” he says confidently.

Pepe is standing next to the door wearing a dirty T-shirt and the same shorts he had on the first day we saw him, but he looks much happier here than he did in Havana. Now that his mother is not here to talk for him, no one can shut him up. It's like he's making up for lost time.

He pushes the screen door open, and Dolores looks up.

“Pepe, Julian! What are you doing here? You're not working today, are you?” Dolores asks and then checks her work schedule taped to the wall behind her. “Oh, I get it. You came to keep old Dolores company—come on in here.”

I can tell Dolores likes us. She told me the other day that I remind her of her son when he was my age, but when I asked her about him she didn't answer me.

Pepe and I sit down on either side of Dolores and then look inside the tin bucket.

“
Que es
this?” Pepe asks and smiles at Dolores.

“This here is meat loaf a la Dolores,” she announces proudly.

I look inside at a big pile of pink ground meat that kind of looks like worms. The shiny green rectangles must be the peppers.

“They love it out there,” she crows. “They call it, ‘
la carne de los Dolores'!
”

“
Carne de los Dolores
?” Pepe laughs then looks at me, but I shake my head at him. Pepe just might tell her that in Spanish
la carne de los Dolores
means “the meat of the pains.” I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.

I lean over the unappetizing glob. “Is good?”

“Good!” she exclaims. “Why, John F. Kennedy, the president of the United States, ate my meat loaf and said it was the best he ever had. He did!” Dolores gets up. “I got his picture right here to prove it,” she says and walks back to her desk. As she turns her back to carefully take the picture off the wall, Pepe winks at me, I slide under the table, and then crawl to a large cardboard box by the wall.

I open the box, pull out six little cartons of Rice Krispies, and stuff them into the back of my T-shirt. I take out six more and tuck them into the front of my shirt and pants, and crawl back. When she comes back to show us
the picture I'm standing behind Pepe so she can't see my lumps.

She wipes the dust off the glass with her apron as I peer over Pepe's shoulder. “This here is J.F.K. himself,” she says and points at a man in a suit that looks almost too young to be a president, “and that's me, right next to him, he's got his arm around me, see? I was cooking at a fancy hotel in Miami where he came to give a speech. Someone said he liked meat loaf so I made him my deluxe version that night. They let us open the kitchen door so we could hear his speech. He was talking about how they were going to build a rocket and shoot a man out into space right from Florida. After dinner he walked into the kitchen and talked to the cooks and the dishwashers just like a regular person. Then he asked who made the meat loaf. When I raised my hand he came over and put his arm around me. He said that my meat loaf was the best he ever tasted and he promised that the first American astronaut—the first man in space—was going to have one of my meat loaf sandwiches in his lunch box. They took this picture right when he was promising that he would call me. He said he would not forget; that's why I'm smiling like that. It's not every day a handsome president puts his arm around you and promises he's going to call you!”