90 Miles to Havana by Enrique Flores-Galbis Page B

it’s Caballo turn to fly into the crowd.
    â€œBoys! Boys!” A booming voice parts the forest of legs. “Is this any way to welcome your fellow countrymen?”
    Gordo is struggling against Alquilino’s grip. I hop over and try to open the knot of Gordo’s fist. “Gordo, Gordo, stop. He’s not going to hurt us!”
    Gordo’s temper has a low tipping point; pass that point and he’s capable of almost anything.
    â€œAmigos . . . boys,” the tall young priest says as he inspects the new arrivals.
    My brothers and I huddle together, barefoot and dirty. Alquilino’s glasses have been knocked halfway up his forehead, red-faced Gordo looks like he’s about to pop, and I discover that I put my pants on backward.
    â€œI see you boys have been baptized,” the American priest says in perfect Spanish. Then he laughs. “We are a little overcrowded here and we do not have enough adults to supervise, so I rely on certain older boys to keep order.” The priest steps over to Caballo and puts his hand on hisshoulder. “I see you have met my friend Romeo.” Caballo struggles out a thin pleading smile at the priest. “Yes, of course. I mean Caballo, my trusted helper,” the priest corrects himself.
    Then someone calls out in a singsong falsetto, “Oh Romeo, oh Romeo!” The buzzing hive of kids starts to giggle. Caballo nods at his helpers, two big kids dive into the crowd and the laughter stops.
    The young priest continues, “This young man has been a great help. I don’t know what I would do without him! He will find you a place to sleep and assign you a chore—everyone has one. If you behave, do your chores, and get along, you will get two dollars on Fridays and be allowed to go into Miami on Saturdays.” Then he looks at his watch. “I have to go speak to the director.” Then his face softens into a smile. “Welcome, and please try to get along.”

PRIVATE SUITE
    We’re waiting outside a storeroom when three rolled up camp mattresses come flying out at us.
    â€œPick them up!” Caballo barks from inside the musty smelling room.
    Then, as I’m trying to figure out how to carry the heavy mattress and my suitcase, Caballo tosses three pillows at us. Alquilino and Gordo tuck their mattresses under one arm, but my arm is too short to go around the mattress.
    â€œFollow me,” Caballo orders, and they start walking away.
    They’re halfway down the hall when I finally figure it out. I balance the mattress on top of my head, wedge the pillow under the other arm, and pick up my suitcase withmy free hand just as my brothers did. The mattress tips and unrolls as I hurry down the hall, but I finally catch up at the entrance to a long green room. “This is the dormitory where most of us sleep,” Caballo says. The two older guys walking behind us laugh, but I don’t get the joke.
    This place is nothing like my mother said it would be. It looks and smells like the hospital where I had my tonsils taken out. I was scared when I walked into that hospital and I’m scared now. I want to drop everything and run away but I can’t do that. So I start counting the metal bunk beds.
    Bebo taught me this trick. He said that if you concentrate real hard on what’s gong on outside of you—where you are—you won’t think about the scared feelings inside.
    Thirty bunks on the left side, thirty on the right, sixty times two—one hundred and twenty kids sleeping in the same room. There’s a window and a tall green locker in between each set of bunks. All the beds are made up the same: green blankets, a white sheet neatly folded back.
    When we get to the end of the room, Caballo kicks open a green door. “And this is where you’ll sleep,” he says. “Your own private suite!”
    I throw the heavy mattress down and look around. “This is a bathroom!” I say,