Read Online Leaving Glorytown by Eduardo F. Calcines - Free Book Online Page A

glad.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œBut I’m scared.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    I thought I knew why Mama was scared. I was scared, too, and as I lay in bed I had to fight to keep the panic from rising in my chest. People who applied for exit visas were subject to a kind of public ridicule that could, and did, break even the strongest wills. I had seen it on the playground. The children of those who had declared their discontent were called
gusanos
—worms—and were beaten and tormented constantly by the other kids. I never participated in this bullying. It was mostly the children of the Communists who did. Rolando and Tito stayed out of it as well. They said it gave them a bad taste in their mouths to see the way those kids were treated.
    But the worst of it was that even the teachers got in on the act. The previous spring, I’d witnessed a terrible thing. A boy whose parentshad recently applied for an exit visa was getting beaten up on the playground by three or four bigger kids. A teacher, a young man I didn’t know, walked over to where the beating was taking place. Those of us who were watching expected him to stop it and punish the bullies. But instead, to my astonishment, he said, “That’s right, boys! That’s what happens to those who doubt the power of the Revolution! If you don’t like this treatment, you little worm, then maybe you should go home and tell your father to reconsider!” And with that, he walked away.
    If Papa appied for a visa, this was going to be my fate when school started. I knew that their decision was not easy for Mama and Papa, especially because the consequences of it would be felt by all of us.
    Well, almost all of us. Lying in the darkness, I gritted my teeth and made a silent vow: anyone who laid a hand on my sister was going to get the living daylights knocked out of him, whether teacher or student. No one was going to hurt Esther as long as I was alive.
    The next day, true to his word, Papa went to see an immigration representative and told him the Calcines family of San Carlos Street wanted to leave the country. When he came back, he was a changed man.
    â€œDid you do it?” Mama asked, anxious.
    â€œYes, I did it,” he said. He showed us a piece of paper with a number on it: 149901.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s our visa number,” said Papa.
    â€œWhat do we do with it?”
    â€œThe immigration people take all the numbers and put them in a big bowl,” Papa explained. “Then, every day, they draw a few numbers, and they send those people a telegram.”
    â€œWhat will the telegram say?” “It will say that we have been granted permission to leave the country, and we have one week to get our affairs in order. Then we have to be at the airport at such and such a time, and we’ll . . . we’ll get on an airplane, and we’ll . . .” Papa’s voice began to falter as the import of what he was saying sank in. The significance was so huge, it was diffi-cult to utter. “We’ll fly to Florida,” he said. “It takes no time at all. We’ll be there in forty-five minutes. And then we’ll be free.”
    â€œWell, how long until they draw our number?” I demanded.
    â€œEduar, we don’t know, and there’s no point in asking,” Mama said. “Don’t pester us about this. They call it when they call it. It’s up to them.”
    â€œBut will it be next week?”
    â€œIt might be next week or next year. Or two years.”
    â€œOh, there’s no way it will take that long,” Papa said with confidence. “A year, at most.”
    â€œStill, it’s better just to forget about it and go on with business as usual. That way, when it happens, it will come as a surprise.” She glanced at Papa and gave him an uncertain smile. “It will be like the best birthday present you’ve