Читать книгу Outnumbered - Mandi Eizenbaum - Страница 14

9

Nobody warned me that flying would be so stressful. The crammed space and the stifling air on the plane was much worse than I ever imagined it would be. From the minute I stepped foot into the airport terminal, I felt suffocated and vulnerable with each tortuous breath I took. The plane cabin closed in on me, and I could just feel the germs settling in my lungs as the other melancholy, sniffling passengers—more soon-to-be exiles—shuffled by my seat.

Ten minutes into my four-hour trip from Havana to New York, the airline attendant took one look at me and crunched up her eyebrows with a show of concern.

“Are you feeling okay, mi hijo?” A motherly smile stretched across her smooth face as she leaned over me and touched my shoulder. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-three or twenty-four, but she spoke to me as if she were a much older, much wiser, protective mother.

“How long until we get to New York City?” I asked, trying to keep the pooling bile in my stomach from gurgling up past my throat.

“It’s about three and a half hours, hijo. And then you will be in America. You must be very excited.” She was doing her best to calm me down.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the attendant named Juana asked me again.

“Oy vey,” I mumbled to myself. I wondered how I was going to make it.

“Here. Take this. Hold on to it if you should need it during the flight.” Juana was holding out a small white paper bag and waving it in front of my face.

Embarrassed, I reluctantly accepted the barf-bag from Juana. I held it up in front of my mouth and nose for the next three hours.

Finally, the wheels of the plane touched down, and we were now back on solid ground. The only belongings I brought with me to my new world were an old leather travel trunk and my conga drum. The trunk contained exactly two pairs of new leather shoes, three guayabera shirts, two pairs of cotton pants, my prayer shawl (which Abuelo stuffed in the trunk when he thought I wasn’t paying attention), a new tube of Brylcreem, and my favorite record of Perez Prado’s “Cerezo Rosa.” The old, faded photo of my father on his tricycle and my lucky bolita ticket remained in the breast pocket of my shirt. The one hundred pesos that Abuelo gave me at our last supper was taped securely inside my drum with the rest of my secret savings. A suitcase, a drum, and a couple hundred worthless Cuban pesos were all I had to my name.

The claustrophobic panic of the plane ride took a while to melt away while I waited at the luggage carousel. New York City made Havana look like a backward village in comparison. The bustling movement and confusion, the noise, the smoke and congestion from the traffic, the crowds of people rushing in all different directions, and no sign of the ocean anywhere made me nervous and disoriented. The first impressions of my future were quickly filled with panic and despair. El Jefe was slowly morphing into El Infantil, the baby.

My stomach was in knots, and my nerves were shot to hell. It was all too much for a young boy to take in at once. I was overtaken by shock at the contrast between my former life and my new one, and the romantic thrill of New York City was making me even more anxious than I had anticipated. But still I couldn’t believe I was really in New York…America! I was resolved to not let this move intimidate me. I had made it through a lot worse—the plane ride not withstanding—and I was too worked up to think of anything else but the adventure of it all. I was determined to be brave and embrace this change. After all, I was starting a new life, and I didn’t have the time or patience to feel pity for myself. Not in America. Anyway, I had a gut feeling the numbers would eventually stack up in my favor.

With a heavy sigh, I breathed in all the unfamiliar, mystifying scents of my new home. For the moment, however, it was more fatigue and hunger than anything else that began to overcome me and eat at my frayed nerves.

My uncle Daniel was Mamá’s older brother. I didn’t know much about him. No one ever wanted to talk about him, and when his name was mentioned, everyone quickly and curiously changed the subject. All I could ever discover was that he had some kind of issue that caused a falling out with the family and, apparently, with our whole community. Daniel had simply disappeared, breaking all communication with everyone. He did, though, receive me in his home with open arms, like I was an important VIP visiting from another country. For all intent and purpose, it was impossible to unravel the mystery of why Tío Daniel had moved to New York from Cuba nearly seventeen years earlier all by himself, leaving his entire life behind.

Why?

At least now he seemed to have a comfortable job that he loved, a new American wife, and a beautiful home that sat on two acres of lush land that carpeted the hills surrounding the house on all sides.

How lucky he turned out!

I had no idea how big and diverse New York was until we began driving north toward my uncle’s home. The ride from the airport all the way out to his house in Poughkeepsie seemed to stretch on and on; it took what seemed like forever to get there. The whole island of Cuba could have fit in that stretch of drive from the airport. And the silence—the unnerving, familiar silence—that sat between my estranged uncle and me stifled us the whole way home. Home?

Once outside the city’s borders I watched the unfamiliar scenery of beautiful green rolling hills float by quietly and calmly as I stared out the car’s windshield. My uncle drove, shrouded in his awkward silence, slowly and nervously out of the web of commotion that was Manhattan. His large hands gripped tightly to the leather steering wheel as he drove; I thought his bony knuckles would rip right through his skin. My uncle was clearly not comfortable behind the wheel of the car. In contrast, I couldn’t wait until I could drive—to feel the forward rush of freedom. When we finally pulled into the driveway of his home, Tío Daniel let out an audible gulp of relief.

In this unexpected world into which I was now plunged, the air was markedly different; there was none of the salty sea air or constricting tropical clamminess that I had grown accustomed to in Havana; just a rich, earthy feeling that filtered easily through my lungs. The clean air outside the city washed through my veins and my spirit. I was especially glad to have the claustrophobic, foul plane ride behind me.

Poughkeepsie was beautiful. An enormous, welcoming world captured in tranquility. It would be a fresh, new start for me, and the reassuring scents of honeyed blossoms and perfumed pines filled my weak lungs and my fiery soul. I would embrace that memory of newness forever.

“I bet my father would have loved it here,” I muttered to myself on the driveway, looking up at my uncle’s house.

Tío Daniel unloaded my case and drum from the trunk of the car, and I could hear my uncle mumbling, “Yes, he probably would have.” Then he fell strangely silent again.

All the stress and commotion from traveling seemed to settle down once we got to my uncle’s place. There was an endless expansiveness, not just in time and space but in opportunity and success. I couldn’t believe I had been taken in with such good fortune, my past threatening to fade into pale memories behind the hope of the future.

Tío Daniel’s home was a large two-story ranch-style structure painted a pale blue that matched the serenity of the clear blue sky that stretched over its hilly surroundings. A small front porch scattered with potted plants led up to the front door. The number “6300” marked the address above the double garage door in black metallic lettering.

Sixty-three was the number for assassin, I noted quickly, but I tried to dismiss the thought with the shake of my head.

What an odd calculation in the middle of all that calm and beauty!

I refocused my attentions on the oak trees that were bigger and fuller than any palm tree in Cuba and the green lawns that filled the wide-open spaces between each house. Daffodils, endless rows of lilacs, and flickering lightning bugs all painted the sweet scenery with rich color and life. By the time my uncle showed me to my room in the basement, I was completely overtaken by the growing exhaustion that would not let go of me. That first night in my new home, I actually found sleep quickly and peacefully.