Stalked: The Boy Who Said No Read Online Free Page B

its blue-green marbling and brought it to his nostrils. He inhaled the aroma of Zest, thinking it was the most refreshing scent he had ever encountered. He scrubbed his body vigorously and shampooed his hair, once, twice, thrice. He rinsed. When he ran his fingers through his hair, it squeaked like hinges hungry for oil. He smiled, listening to the sighs of other men as they performed similar rituals.
    Once everyone freshened up, they gathered in the dining hall for cheeseburgers, French fries, and a salad moistened with Wishbone dressing. The rolls were soft, the beef well done. The refugees spanked bottles of Heinz ketchup with their fists to release the stubborn condiment. They passed a plate of crisp pickles and a basket filled with potato chips. Frank ate ravenously, consuming three burgers, which he chased down with two glasses of iced tea.
    The group sat for a while after the meal was finished, talking about where their respective journeys might take them, while listening to the rattle of dishes and silverware. Women in white uniforms stripped paper tablecloths from wooden tables. They scrubbed counters and tabletops with squirt bottles and sponges. Disinfectant fumes scented the air. Ceiling fans twirled, and a vacuum cleaner hummed in the corner.
    The refugees lined up to complete various forms and to go over the sundry details regarding their admittance into the country. Due to their number, the authorities requested that they limit their phone conversations to ten minutes a day.
    Not knowing Magda’s number, Frank called Magda’s uncle who lived in Miami to see if he could obtain it. Her uncle had been involved in the Bay of Pigs invasion and was thrilled to learn of Frank’s escape. They laughed and exchanged family news. He assured Frank that he would do well in the States and promised to call him the following day with Magda’s number. Comforted, Frank smiled at the thought of soon seeing his sweetheart.
    By nine p.m., exhaustion blanketed Frank like snow. He wasescorted to his sleeping quarters and assigned a bed. Despite his fatigue, he lowered his body to the floor and did a hundred push-ups—a habit he was reluctant to break.
    He folded his clothes into a neat pile and placed them at the foot of the bed. He climbed into bed in relief, grateful to have a safe place to sleep. The sheets smelled of detergent, sunshine, and bleach. They felt fresh and clean beneath his skin. He rubbed the bottoms of his feet against the smooth fabric for the sheer pleasure of it.
    The smell of the sheets reminded Frank of his mother. His mind wandered to the last time he saw her. It had been a brief encounter, a scant fifteen minutes, a surreptitious meeting to exchange final farewells. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her face was stricken with the thought of losing her son to jail—or worse.
    Neither of them knew whether Frank would survive his escape. He could have been shot. He could have drowned, or been eaten by sharks, a fate that had befallen thousands of Cubans who had braved such a journey. His odds of survival were slim.
    His mother looked at Frank with such tenderness he feared his heart would shatter. The stress of knowing her firstborn child faced such an uncertain destiny had etched deep lines in her face. Frank tried to reassure her that all would be well, but they both knew he was spouting platitudes. He could offer little balm for her suffering. She wished him farewell with a voice hoarse with sorrow. Her eyes were dry, but her words were wet with tears.
    Yet she did not cling to him for solace, she did not try to stop him, she did not warn him of danger. Instead, she pulled Frank to her bosom and told him she would hold him in her heart forever. Hers was quiet, intense grief, a nod to the inevitable, a mother’s greatest gift: a willingness to let go.
    Frank recoiled at the thought of having put his mother, his father, his grandfather—his entire family—through such pain. They deserved