by Paul Volponi
When we walked back into the big room, some of the refugees who were gathered around a TV in the corner began pointing to us. A Spanish news station was showing a video of our Buick on the water from this morning. Then on a split screen, side by side, they showed photos of Papi and me—him in his Marlins uniform and me on the beach.
“Less than a day in the States and you’re on TV,” said Luis. “Maybe we could get our own reality show together. It’d be perfect—two hot young Cuban guys, their first year here. Your papi could pull some strings.”
I shook my head at Luis like he was insane.
“Your cousin doesn’t need that kind of publicity,” Uncle Ramon said. “His ability to hit a baseball will get him everything he needs in life.”
The idea that I couldn’t miss as a big-time baseball player sounded just as crazy to me.
The hours crept past and we were all exhausted. But none of us wanted to sleep.
It was a few minutes after midnight when Uncle Ramon said, “The first time I wake up in America, I don’t want it to be here, guarded by agents. I want it to be in a place where I can walk out the door whenever I like and really be free.”
“I want to wake up in a king-size bed in my uncle’s house,” said Luis, leaning back on a cot with a rolled-up blanket beneath his head as a second pillow. “No more foldout couches for Julio. Right, Cuz?”
“I’d sleep on the floor if I had to,” I said, glancing over at that family we’d met from Havana. “If it was worth it to me.”
The three of them were asleep on two cots pushed together—the man and woman on either side of the small girl tucked safely in between them.
“We all make our own beds,” said Gabriel.
“Is that right?” I questioned. “It never happens that someone else makes it for us?”
“You said it yourself, Julio,” he quickly countered. “You can always get up and go sleep on the floor.”
“Gabriel, how about you? Where are you going from here?” asked Uncle Ramon.
“I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” he answered. “My job of safely delivering the three of you isn’t completely over. Not yet, at least. Until it is, I don’t have to think about what’s next for me.”
Then Luis said, “I thought that lawyer, Oliva, was taking over now.”
“Not in my mind,” replied Gabriel. “He might walk us out the front door. That’s one thing. I promised to bring Julio to his father.”
“Seems like Game Six and Game Seven are standing in the way,” I scoffed.
“I believe it’s more than that, at least from your side,” Gabriel said, without sounding like he was judging anyone. “Six years can bring a lot of baggage with it.”
I didn’t respond to that.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when the agent who’d been processing our paperwork appeared. He handed Uncle Ramon a cell and said, “Congratulations. You can make that phone call now.”
Ten minutes later, a black limo pulled up outside the INS building.
Mr. Oliva wasn’t anywhere to be seen. And as we walked out to the car, a driver in a small round cap came around and opened the door for us.
Out of nowhere, a woman holding a tape recorder called my name. She had red hair and her Spanish wasn’t great. But I understood her well enough.
“Julio, I’m Cadence Myers, ESPN. How does it feel to be in America? To be free?”
I looked at Uncle Ramon, to see if he thought I should speak. But he seemed as interested in my answer as she was.
“I hope it will be worth everything, leaving behind my family,” I said, talking into the machine.
“And your father? How will it be? Sharing love with him again?”
My eyes became fixed on the two tiny wheels slowly turning inside that recorder as I answered, “It will probably change my life. Maybe both our lives.”
“Mucho gusto,” she said, an instant before those wheels came to a stop.
Then we climbed into the car with no idea where we were headed.
I’d counted seventeen traffic lights when Marlins Park first came into view.
“There it is. That’s the baseball stadium,” Luis said excitedly.
It was so big I couldn’t believe my eyes. It looked like a giant flying saucer. And even though there’d been no game that night and it was mostly dark, it still shone with plenty of turquoise and white lights.
“I think those red flashers on top are so anything flying low to the ground doesn’t hit it,” said Gabriel.
“It’s beautiful,” said Uncle Ramon. “Julio, that’s where your papi pitches. That’s something special. Maybe one day, you’ll play there, too.”
“If Uncle pitches long enough, it’s possible you’ll both play on the same team,” said Luis. “Like Ken Griffey Jr. and his pops once did.”
But right then, that idea sounded crazier than any reality TV show Luis could have concocted.
23
THE LIMO PULLED up to the gates of a two-story apartment complex. There was a uniformed guard stationed out front in a little booth, and our driver needed to get a parking pass from him to enter.
“See that guard? It’s his job to keep the wrong people out,” said Uncle Ramon.
Even when Papi was the most famous baseball player in Cuba, anybody could walk up to our door and knock.
“The wrong people?” I asked. “You mean, like busboys and factory workers?”
“No, I mean autograph hounds and favor seekers,” he emphasized. “The salary ballplayers get paid in the States makes it so they won’t leave you alone.”
Inside the complex, there were six buildings laid out in a circle, with manicured lawns, shrubs, and palm trees in between.
“Look in the middle—there’s a huge swimming pool with a twisting slide,” said Luis. “And all of those lounge chairs. That must be where the honeys go sunbathing in bikinis. Maybe even topless.”
We slowly rolled up to building number four. I could see Mr. Oliva standing in the glow of our headlights, his red tie still knotted tight.
Getting out of the limo, Luis asked him, “Is this the apartment where El Fuego lives?”
Mr. Oliva put a finger to his lips and murmured, “Please, keep your voices low. It’s close to four in the morning. The people on the ground floor are probably sleeping. We’re upstairs. Follow me.”
So we did. The keys in Mr. Oliva’s hand looked shiny and new as he opened a trio of locks on the heavy wooden door.
We walked into the living room, which was connected to a large open kitchen on one end and an outdoor balcony overlooking the lighted pool on the other. The apartment was spotless and the air was a little musty, as if no one had been living there for a while.
“Are we staying here for a few days?” asked Uncle Ramon.
“No, this is your new home,” answered Mr. Oliva, handing him the one set of keys. “It was rented once the plan to defect became a reality. That’s how much faith Mr. Ramirez had that you’d make it.”
“How big is this place?” asked Luis, beginning to explore.
“There are three bedrooms—for Ramon, Luis, and Julio,” Mr. Oliva continued. “Gabriel, of course you’re welcome to stay until your business with Mr. Ramirez is complete.”
Uncle Ramon and I exchanged glances. We didn’t need any words. We both quickly understood that Papi didn’t want me in his house.
“So where does my uncle live?” asked Luis.
“Mr. Ramirez owns a modest home in South Beach,” answered Mr. Oliva.
“Modest, in South Beach?” questioned Luis. “I heard that place is packed with mansions.”
But Mr. Oliva started toward the front door and said, “I’ll call tomorrow to see if you need anything. There are boxes of new clothes in the bedrooms. I hope they fit. There’s lots of Marlins gear, too.”
Standing just on the other side of the door, Mr. Oliva turned around. He finally loosened his collar and tie, and then said, “I know this hasn’t exactly been a family reunion so far, especially for young Julio. I’m sure that in the coming days, you’ll find the connection you’re looking for. For heaven’s sake, the World Series is on the line.”
Maybe that was as personal as somebody’s lawyer could get. After all, we weren’t his family. He was just paid by Papi to do a job. But his speech didn’t change the way I was feeling.
Then Mr. Oliva left, along with the limo outside.
I turned to Gabriel and said, “Why don’t you take one of the bedrooms? I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m used to it.”
“No, that’s not my place here,” he said.
I opened the sliding glass door to let in some fresh air. Then I walked out onto the balcony overlooking the pool. I rested both hands on the iron railing, staring at the little cuts and ripples on the surface of the light-blue water.
“Quite a change from twenty-four hours ago,” said Uncle Ramon, walking out behind me.
“There are waves out there,” I said, trying to see through to the bottom of the pool. “How’s that possible? There are no currents or winds. No kids splashing.”
“Maybe it’s the pull of the moon, or the way it just has to be,” he answered. “Listen, Julio, my brother is a man of family, ever since we were young. I know the last six years have been hard on you. But remember, he’s the reason we’re standing here.”
“The reason I’m standing here is freedom,” I said.
“That’s only partly true,” said my uncle. “Now you have to deal with the rest of it. And there’s going to be no easy road.”
Luis walked out onto the balcony. He was wearing a Marlins home jersey with the tags still hanging from it, along with a huge smile. I figured we were about to hear all his plans for tomorrow—for turning Miami into his personal playground, before anyone got the bright idea of sending us back to school.
I was surprised when he called Gabriel to join us, and then said, “Before we left Cuba, we prayed on the beach to make it here alive. Now that those prayers have been answered, I think we should give thanks.”
We all bowed our heads in silence. But what jumped into my mind was the thought of my half brother. I didn’t know him or his name. But I was positive he followed Papi around the way I used to—like he was some kind of superhero. So after giving thanks, I prayed the kid would never lose faith in Papi the way I had, even if I was going to be jealous of that.
After everyone else was gone, I stood on the balcony a while longer, watching those little waves in the pool. I decided that I really didn’t care how they got there. That if I wanted things smooth I would have sat in my bathtub back in Cuba, instead of crossing the ocean in a ’59 Buick.
By the time I went back inside, Luis and Uncle Ramon had claimed their bedrooms. Walking into the remaining one, I saw the huge bed, dresser, boxes of clothes, and private bathroom. Right away, I thought how Lola would die for a bedroom like this. And if we were still living in the same house, how I’d do anything for Lola to have a bathroom of her own. That way I could actually get some time on the toilet.
But deep down, I knew it was more than that. The truth was that I was going to miss being her big brother every day. Because even when she was a royal pain in my behind, she was still my sister—someone I’d shared losing Papi with.
I got into the bed, but I just couldn’t get comfortable. Despite being bone tired, I kept tossing and turning. Then I remembered what I’d said to Gabriel about someone else making your bed. So I got up and pulled the blankets down to the hardwood floor. And that’s where I slept.
24
WHEN I OPENED my eyes it was a few minutes before noon. I picked myself up off the floor and walked straight into the shower. I turned the water on full force, paying no attention to the HOT or COLD. I dealt with whatever came—the freezing and scalding ribbons of water.
It was the strongest shower I’d ever felt in my life. Without moving a muscle, I let the powerful stream pour over my head. It ran across my eyelids and down the corners of my mouth. I stood there for a long time, letting it soak into every part of me. All at once, I felt clean enough to move on, to face anything.
I found a shirt and pants that fit from the boxes of clothing Papi had sent. I wouldn’t even waste my time at a mirror. Then I went out into the living room. Neither Gabriel nor Luis was anywhere to be seen. Uncle Ramon was seated in the kitchen. He was on the cell phone that Papi’s lawyer had left him. At first, I figured that’s who he was talking to. But just before he ended the call, Uncle Ramon said, “I can’t wait to see you again either.”
My uncle put the cell down on a granite countertop as his eyes met mine.
“Was that Papi?” I asked.
Uncle Ramon nodded in response. Then there was a long silence, and I could sense the weight he was suddenly carrying—much heavier than not putting me on the phone with my father. And there was a look in his eyes, one that seemed to say, I was wrong about a lot of things.
That’s when I understood that Uncle Ramon knew.
“What’s his son’s name?” I asked, in a tone that probably sounded like an accusation. “And don’t tell me it’s Julio.”
My uncle appeared absolutely stunned.
“You knew?” he asked, from the opposite side of the counter. “How?”
“The transistor.”
After a moment, Uncle Ramon said, “Milo. He’s named for your grandfather.”
“And that’s the reason we’re here in this apartment? So we don’t intrude on his new life?” I said.
“I can’t say that for sure,” said Uncle Ramon. “It sounds too harsh.”
“Does it? Why didn’t he talk to me? Were you supposed to break the news about this instead of him?”
“No. My brother said he wanted to tell you himself, in person.”
“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”
“Your papi says he’ll be here as soon as the Series is finished.”
“And maybe I won’t be,” I said, before walking out the apartment door.
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have money, food, or a phone. I decided to stay clear of that guard in the little booth out front. So I started wandering between the buildings of the complex for a while. I walked off a lot of frustration in the midday heat, before finally settling in the shade of a palm tree behind some shrubs. I was about forty yards from the pool, where it looked like Gabriel was giving Luis a swimming lesson.
At my feet, I saw a small green lizard with a long tail. As it moved from the leaves of the shrub to the trunk of the palm, its bright color began to fade. Given enough time, I suppose the lizard’s scaly skin might have turned brown to match. But before it ever did, I kicked at the surrounding dirt, sending that lizard scurrying in another direction.
I didn’t remember much about my grandfather. I was only five or six when he died. If Uncle Ramon hadn’t told me his first name, I probably would have been hard-pressed to recall it. I knew that he loved baseball, too, yelling words at umpires that Mama would never let me repeat. And he was always trying to feed me hot peppers, to see how much I could take before I screamed for a glass of water.
Off to the side of me, there was a big patch of grass. A mother walked past with her two little boys. She was headed toward the pool in a terry cloth robe. But her kids had on baseball caps and were carrying a yellow plastic bat and a white Wiffle ball. The two of them started running around that open space, chasing each other in circles. Then the one with the ball began pitching. The other kid knew how to swing all right. Only his hands were too far apart on the bat, and he was nearly corkscrewing himself into the ground. So I walked over to where they were playing. Th
ey saw me coming and froze up a little bit.
In English, I asked them, “Brothers?”
They smiled wide and said, “Yes.”
I reached out for the yellow bat and the kid gave it to me.
Pushing my hands close together on its narrow neck, I said, “This way.”
I took a swing. The bat sliced through the air with a whoosh, and both kids seemed really impressed. Then I handed the bat back. On the next pitch, the kid swung with his hands in the right position. He blasted one over his brother’s head and started running a diamond shape around imaginary bases.
Their mother noticed me. It looked like she was about to walk over, probably to find out who I was. Only Gabriel, who was out of the pool now, said something to her first. After that, she sent a little wave in my direction instead. Then she settled back into her lounge chair.
Those kids seemed to be having the time of their lives. It wasn’t even real baseball. But that didn’t matter. They were laughing and smiling at everything they did. That’s how I used to feel about baseball—before Papi defected, before Moyano tried to run my life, and before the World Series became more important to Papi than me. And suddenly, I was jealous of those two kids just learning to play.
I looked up and Luis and Gabriel were almost right on top of me.
“One more lesson and I should be swimming like a fish,” said Luis, standing barefoot on the grass in his trunks, drying himself with a towel. “I want to look good on the beach. No more being bait, with a rope tied around my waist.”
“I didn’t know you were a teacher, too,” I told Gabriel.
“Not me,” he said, leading us back toward the apartment. “I’m a student, always learning.”
“I’d like to be a teacher one day,” said Luis, already grinning at some joke that was coming.
“Why’s that?” I asked, as if I was grooving him a pitch at batting practice.