He stepped down from the platform on which he’d been standing while addressing us. The orientation session—if that’s what it was—was at an end. Now Cuban soldiers in Uniform -- male and female-—were moving through the crowd. The men were being separated from the women so that each group might be herded to its separate quarters.
“Before you’re taking him away,” Mama protested to the youthful soldier tugging at my arm, “we could maybe be alone for a little, there’s something has to be attended to?”
“I am sorry, Señora, but it is forbidden.” Gently he pushed me along. “The older ones, they really appreciate it when you take care of them, hey?” he asked me with a wink.
I looked at him blankly.
“She is good to you? She buys you many presents?” He was curious.
“Never forgets my birthday,” I admitted.
“And she is good in the bed, no? With many years also comes much experience.” He grinned slyly and nudged me.
“You don’t understand. She’s my mother!”
“Si?” He thought that over a minute. Then he nodded to himself as if he’d come to a decision. The next thing I knew, he guided me over to where Melvin was lining up with the other men. “Little boy,” the soldier said, “you will share a room with this gentleman. He will have many interesting answers for the questions you are asking before about incest.” The soldier patted me on the shoulder, beamed at the two of us with a Bless-you-my-children air, and walked away.
“Do you sleep with your mother?” Melvin wasted no time in getting down to the nitty-gritty.
“No.” I threw in the towel altogether. “Only with my father.”
“Somehow I was under the impression that he was dead,” Melvin mused.
“He is. It’s more satisfying that way.”
“This is going to be very informative,” Melvin decided. “I’ve never had a chance to interview an incestuous homosexual necrophiliac before.”
“It takes all kinds,” I told him.
The conversation was dropped as we were marched out of the shed and across the airfield to a large motel stand- ing at the edge of it. The women were ushered to the place separately and taken to a different entrance on the far side of the complex of two-story buildings. Melvin and I were shown to the room we would share. Here we dropped off
our things, washed up, and then proceeded down to a large dining hall where all the men were being fed cafeteria-style. The food was ample, but starchy and not exactly of the gourmet variety.
After dinner we were escorted back to our rooms. It was never made quite clear whether our status was that of guests or prisoners. However, it seemed likely that if we attempted to leave the motel we would be stopped.
During the evening we were lined up again—with our baggage this time—-and there was a customs inspection. The Cuban customs officials were thorough. Not only was all the luggage emptied out, but the linings of the suitcases were searched to make sure there were no false bottoms, et cetera. Afterwards, we were once again escorted back to our rooms.
Resigned to the situation, I was all for getting a night’s sleep. Melvin, however, seemed to be one of those hyper-thyroid kids who require no sleep. I dozed off muttering answers to his piercing questions.
“In the pursuit of your particular sexual idiosyncrasy, is rigor mortis an attraction, or a deterrent?”
“A stiff is a stiff is a stiff.” Dropping off, I Gertrude Steined an answer from my subconscious.
“Would you say you had a seductive father as a child?"
“He was more than a daddy to me,” I hummed, more than half asleep.
“Have you ever considered how all this relates to your own death wish?”
“Better dead than Dad. Or,” I reconsidered, “is it better bed than dead?”
I missed Melvin’s next query. I’d fallen into a deep sleep.
It was morning when I awoke. Melvin was still sitting there at the desk, making notes. As soon as he saw my eyes were open, he was ready with another question. “Do you have erotic, necrophiliac dreams?” he inquired.
“And how!” I told him. I’d had enough. I went on the offensive. “And what’s more, they were all about you.” I stared at him, licking my lips, my eyes gleaming.
“Uh, how do you mean?” He was taken aback, getting nervous, but still in there punching.
“Well, first of all”-- I got to my feet and stood over him, rubbing my hands together, my eyes raking him--“I strangled you. Slowly, you understand. Then with your body still warm, I took off all your clothes, and -”
“Stay away from me!” Melvin backed off.
“Oh, it was lovely!” I twisted my hands together and managed a little froth at the mouth.
“Leave me alone!” He was flat against the door now.
“So young! So dead! So succulent!” I poised as if to pounce a la Bela Lugosi.
“Mama!” Melvin flung open the door and fled down the hall screaming. “Mama! Mama!”
Laughing, I watched him go. That would teach the little so-and-so to badger his elders. I suppose I must have looked pretty fiendish standing there laughing. I was still chortling when I felt the hand tapping me on the shoulder. I turned around and slammed bravely into the cab driver’s salami fist with my nose. “I told you to stay away from that kid, you pervert!” He stood over me with his fist raised to strike again if I should get to my feet.
I stayed put. “My nose is bleeding,” I informed him.
“Why tell me, you degenerate? I ain’t the Red Cross Blood Bank!”
“You there!” A Cuban guard approached. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“That’s where I landed when I fell down,” I explained.
“Your nose is bleeding,” he observed. “Did he strike you?” The Cuban jerked a thumb at the cab driver.
“Of course not.” Well, hell, we Americans had to stick together, didn’t we? “I’m a bleeder. It runs in my family.”
“I do not wish to be inhospitable,” the Cuban said politely, “but you’re bleeding all over our clean floor.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be inconsiderate.” Keeping a wary eye on the cab driver, I got to my feet. I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket and held it to my nose to stem the flow of blood.
“You will please get your things together now and assemble in this hallway,” the guard instructed. “Your plane has arrived from Miami, and you will be allowed to board it in about half an hour.”
I waited until the cab driver, still glaring at me, moved off to his own doorway before I reentered my room. A moment later there was a knock at my door. It was Melvin’s father, come to fetch his son’s things. He didn’t say much. But there was something in his attitude that said he was more sympathetic than condemning toward me. It was only as he was leaving that he finally asked me a question.
“What did you say to Melvin?” he asked. “It’s the first time in his life I’ve ever seen him frightened.”
“Nothing really,” I muttered, ashamed of myself now.
“All right.” He didn’t press the matter. “It’s just that I thought it might come in handy for me in dealing with him in the future.” He waited for further comment, but when none was forthcoming, he sighed and left.
I saw him again as we were boarding the plane. His nod was friendly. The look his wife shot me, however, was murderous. Melvin himself merely cringed.
“Your nose is bleeding,” Mama told me as I took the seat beside her.
“I’ve always said it, Mama. You’re one of the most observant people I know.”
“So be sarcastic. From a son like you all these years I’ve got a thick skin, you couldn’t hurt my feelings. But what I’d like to know is, why is your nose bleeding?”
“If I told you that man hit me”-—I pointed at the cab driver—“would you believe me?”