Angel's Share
Angel’s Share: the aroma from the whisky evaporation that fills the bourbon barn, shared with the angels. Here it means ‘eveything else’ I want to share with you…
All rights reserved.
Angel’s Share: the aroma from the whisky evaporation that fills the bourbon barn, shared with the angels. Here it means ‘eveything else’ I want to share with you…
All rights reserved.
Chapter ElevenGuantanamera
Guajira Guantanamera
Guantanamera
Guajira Guantanamera
It was the screeching yank on the parking brake that got their attention. Rick lifted his head up to see Carolyn Rose slide down from the front seat of the pick-up truck and offer him a sheepish shrug. Rick replied by putting his hands on his hips and staring at her with his best, most reprimanding ‘what are you doing in the hallway?’ school-teacher stare. She offered a dainty curtsey. Was he feeling anger? Delight? Annoyance? Pride? It wasn’t surprise. If pressed, he would have guessed she wouldn’t have taken off with the rest of them. He massaged his forehead. While Rafael flicked off the windshield wipers and switched off the engine, they walked toward each other, slowly mirroring each others pace. Five feet away they stopped and circled around. She again smiled her coy smile, accented by another shrug. Fat raindrops fell on his hat, plunking, thudding, increasing.
“What was a girl to do?” she finally said with a blush.
“Hmmmm…just can’t get rid of you, can I?”
“Sorry, bub. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night. Nor hurricanes either. Besides, mister, it was you who tried to pull a fast one. You are difficult to track down.”
“Obviously not as effectively as I had hoped.” Rick pulled his hat off, swung it to fling away the drops of water, and swept back his sweaty hair with his left hand. “There were some debts I had to pay off. You do know it’s not going to be easy.”
“Look who’s talking. If you haven’t forgotten, you’re still the rookie here. That makes me in charge.”
“Actually, he’s in charge,” countered Rick, hitchhiking his thumb at Mario, who, noticing his name mentioned, grinned back at them both.
“Well, tell the boss we’ve brought a bunch of cots for him.”
Rick stretched out his arm and opened his palm toward her. She reciprocated by reaching out also and pressing the palm of her right hand against his. Their fingers intertwined.
“Did they get off?” he eventually asked.
“Into the grey sky. They should be arriving in Miami in about an hour,” she said. “I’m guessing Sam is royally mad at both of us right now, mostly because he would have wanted to stay too.”
Rick pulled her toward him and embraced her. He whispered into her hair, “I do wish you had left though. I have no idea what’s going to happen. Who knows, we might just end up hanging out here?”
She pressed her face into his chest. A trickle of water dribbled from the brim of his hat onto her back. “You scared me, Richard Ansley. I understand being grateful. These are my friends too. They’ve been good to me, more than I deserve. But you scared me by what you wrote in your note. Unfinished business, Sam told me. A mess you’ve made. If it hadn’t been terribly real these days, I’d think you were being dreadfully melodramatic.”
“Nothing to worry about, sweetheart. I hardly think I have time to go looking for trouble.” Suddenly he laughed. It sounded more like a cackle than a hearty laugh. “Don’t have to. It sure as hell seems to find me.” He pulled himself away to look into her face. “How about you? Are you hungry? Why don’t you go grab a bite. Sorry, though -- we used up the last drop of the hot sauce. Armando probably would appreciate the company. Besides, I can’t understand him at all. He talks way too fast for me. How about you find out what more he might need? Would you?” He nodded toward Mario who was waiting by the concrete steps, bothered by how the edges of the tarp were fluttering. “Okay, we’ll unload your cots. Then we’ve got a bunch more mattresses to move into the large bunkhouse. As near as my bad Spanish can figure out, I believe Mario is expecting a few guests over the next days.” Cackling again, he leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. “It has been a funny two weeks,” he muttered as he kissed her again. “Not what I expected when I flew down here.” A gust swirled, nearly blowing his hat off his head. Rick pulled it snug and three times breathed deeply through his nostrils, filling his lungs, expanding his chest. The inhaled air smelled strange, heavy, almost syrupy. The pine tree branches dervished in the wind. He removed his hat, ran his hand through his hair again, turned toward the gusts, lifted his chin, and let the fresh wind blow on his face.
The cooler wind signaled a change in the rain’s velocity. The fat raindrops began to thin and fell more rapidly. Urgency burrowed across Mario’s face as he looked up into the whirls of dirty grey and scuddy white and let the rain wash his own firm face. The three looked at each other silently, then nodded simultaneously, appreciating the compact they shared. Mario gestured toward the truck and the two of them went over to the pick-up to help Rafael who was busy unloading the cots. Rafael was eager to get back to his family. Carolyn Rose headed down the steps toward the dining hall.
***
The two were sprawled out on the shabby plaid couch in Monte Carmelo’s office, Carolyn Rose asleep in Rick’s arms. A mug of cold coffee sat on the end table. With Mario snoring away in the adjoining room, they had collapsed on the couch listening to the rising wind and the intensifying rainfall. Rick had covered her with a coarse blanket taken from the pile that had been stacked nearby. He had placed his knapsack on the floor at the end of the couch. He fell asleep before she had. He drifted off listening as the whistling wind heightened to a frenetic howl. The rain didn’t so much fall as plunge toward the ground in sweeping curtains.
A loud crack awakened Rick from a disturbing dream. He blinked his eyes open. Must have been a tree limb. Maybe a whole tree. His arm felt numb. His hip was also sore from being poked by the top of his buck knife which was still attached to his belt. Might they get trapped here, he wondered? He doubted ACC kept a chain saw in the shed. It would be tedious work sawing away by hand any trees that might fall across the lane. It was, after all, the only road in or out of here. The Land Cruiser could drag a tree trunk, he supposed. Trust to inventiveness. Mario could handle just about everything. That man has courage. They sure can improvise. He shifted his arm, nestled into her, smelled her hair, kissed the top of her head. She stirred slightly. Raindrops the size of BB’s pelted the window pane, obscuring what he little could see outside. It was too black outside anyway. A swirl of water and night. The dissonance of the wind’s rage. Kettle drums joined the whistling flute of the gusts. No melodic French horns or oboes joined in however. The wind’s violins screeched like angry cats. Trumpets blared high pitched. More cracking was heard, branches breaking. When would it be dawn, he wondered? Would it be dawn soon? Would they even be able to tell when it was dawn? He looked around for a clock but there was nothing but shadows to see. No illuminated clock-face. Electricity was probably off. How about the phone? Can’t imagine the phone lines surviving this. The white candle on the desk had melted itself into the small ceramic plate beneath it.
Miraculously the phone wires had survived the night, at least long enough for Maria Augustina to place her desperate call. The harsh ringing of the metallic phone awakened Carolyn Rose, who jumped from the couch to pick up the receiver. She balanced herself on the edge of the desk and spoke quickly. She shouted for Mario who stumbled into the office rubbing his eyes. He took the receiver and listened as Maria cried on the other end. Mario said a few terse words in reply before he placed the receiver back onto its cradle, his voice calm, steady, resolute. Rick did not need a translation for what Mario said next. There would be no time for coffee. Rick slipped on his boots and tightened the shoelaces with a double knot.
Within ten minutes they had gathered up their knapsacks and threw them into the Land Cruiser. Rick tried to persuade Carolyn Rose to remain behind with Armando but once again her thorny stubbornness won the debate. Mario and Rick, after a hasty conference with Armando, tossed a few tools into the back of the Cruiser: a shovel, some rope, a saw, two tarps of blue plastic which they usually used to cover the luggage carried in the back of the pick-ups. Their clothes were drenched.
“How’s the gas supply?” Carolyn Rose asked.
“Filled up before Mario and I got here. This thing has the tank of the Queen Mary.”
They drove off. Six times Rick had to jump out of the Cruiser to haul branches out of the lane. Once he needed Mario’s strength to maneuver a larger branch out of the way. The other times Mario simply drove over the obstacles. The wipers were useless. Several times Mario used his cap to wipe the condensation away from the inside of the windshield. It was a foolish trip but they had little choice. Maria Augustina had called.
Mario white-knuckled the steering wheel. When he shifted, there was a violence to the movement. Mario focused ahead. Few cars traveled the roadway. Even the police check-point was abandoned. When they rounded the first big turn and headed downhill into the city, they skidded and fishtailed. “Watch out,” Rick yelled needlessly, as they nearly hit a young man dressed in a T-shirt and jeans who, bent over and head down, was pedaling his bicycle uphill in the middle of the oncoming lane. The buffeting wind kept trying to push him over but miraculously he held his balance. Muddy waterfalls cascaded from the hillside on their right, flowing into an even muddier garbage filled stream down alongside the pavement. Water sheeted the road. The Cruiser’s rear wheels splashed rooster tails.
“How far is Mario’s Colonia?” asked Rick, turning around to talk to Carolyn Rose.
“At rush hour?” she joked lamely. “Should take no more than thirty minutes.” In a more serious tone she added, “Depends on a lot of things. I’ve never seen it like this. Depends on damage, accidents, debris on the road. My biggest worries are the low parts.” Carolyn Rose bit her lip. “I dread to think what the river is doing.” They approached the overlook turn on the immediate outskirts of town where at night time you can look down into the valley and see the million tiny lights of Tegucigalpa. She lowered her window hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead of them. The rain soaked her face. “Dear Lord,” she cried. “Look at that!”
A huge section of the roadway was gone. A chunk of the road’s curved outer edge had given way, dragging the macadam, the concrete guardrails, and a hefty portion of two buildings into the steep ravine below. One of the buildings must have been a home, the other a small restaurant. What little was left of the two structures was collapsed and ruined, a pile of torn plywood, cracked concrete blocks, and twisted tin. It looked as if a gigantic monster had taken a huge bite out of the buildings and road.
Mario drifted a little to the right and drove on. Maria Augustina had called.
“I hope whoever comes uphill sees it,” she said anxiously, looking back through the rear window as the Land Cruiser down-shifted through the next bend of the ‘S’ curve.
Rick peered out his window and noticed a handful of persons huddled together under the slapping awning of a small tire repair shop. “Gee, maybe somebody will put out cones or flares to warn them,” Rick observed sarcastically. Gamely he added: “But at least they won’t be going fast. Can’t see a bloody thing. Only an idiot would be going fast. With this turn, nobody’s going to see what’s ahead.” Rick untied and slid his red bandana from his neck, bunched it up in his hand, and reached over to wipe the windshield in front of Mario. A hundred yards ahead Rick saw a dozen more people gathered at the padlocked gate of a lumber yard. They each held bulky black plastic bags in their hand. The men pressed down on their cowboy hats to keep them from blowing away. They clustered together in a small circle as if the closer they could get to each other the dryer they’d be. They appeared to be waiting. Standing and waiting. Waiting for what? The bus? Behind them, brown rivulets gushed down the gutted slope of the hillside, cascading around shack, rock, and shanty, forming knife-like streams.
It took them a tense hour more before they reached Mario’s Colonia. The low areas forced Mario to plough through flooded sections, some with the flood-water higher than the bumper. Water seeped through the door jams. Mario pressed his lips confidently and pointed at the snorkel. The rainy season never stopped him before. He was experienced at fording streams with the Cruiser out in the countryside. This Cruiser was his baby.
Finally reaching the high areas, Mario sped through side streets, most of them narrower than most driveways back in the states. Twice the passenger’s side rear view mirror nearly smacked in the back of the head young men as they trudged hunched over up the steep incline of the sidewalk. The rain sheeted across the roads. The Land Cruiser’s tires slipped and spun before gaining traction to climb the abrupt grade that led to Mario’s barrio, his neighborhood. The homes were tiered in rows, with small paths crisscrossing like capillaries among the small shacks and around fences that sectioned off each home. It was the kind of district where kids learn quickly to mimic mountain goats simply to get around. Nothing flat here. Nothing easy. If Tegucigalpa were a bowl, they had reached the level beneath the rim. Rick had assumed that the higher they drove, the less threat they’d be from the hurricane. Rick was mistaken. The rain sought out the vulnerable parts of the dirt road, long hardened by the pressure of countless years of countless traffic and innumerable feet. The rain dug around the rocks. The rain gouged out the weak turf in the hillsides. The ground was being reshaped. And homes were in the way of the sculptor’s cruel and capricious design.
Mario parked in the middle of the roadway to avoid being trapped, turning the wheels and pulling hard on the handbrake. With a frantic wave he signaled for them to follow him as he threaded his way along a thin slippery path between two banana trees. Two houses beyond, they arrived at his home, entered the gate made of tree branches, and pulled open the door. Maria Augustina wiped her eyes and blushed demurely upon seeing Carolyn Rose and Rick enter her home. She was ashamed that these guests would see her home in this condition. The dirt floor already had been culled into soft mud. She spoke softly under her breath to her husband and gestured with the towel in her hand toward the back room. Their children were draining small plastic bowls into a large bucket. The bowls had been set upon around the room to catch the water leaking through the sieve of a tin roof. Everything was damp. A kerosene lantern placed on the red Formica table in the kitchen was the only source of dim light. Its glass chimney was blackened, the lantern smoked thick curls of black smoke. Mario went over to the lantern, dialed the knob, lowered the wick, and the black smoke was reduced and replaced by a brighter glow. The sky outside swirled with convulsing, brutal clouds. It was dark, so dark it never stopped.
Rick had thought it would be safer this higher up. He was mistaken. The incessant rain poured down, punched down, far heavier and thicker than anyone could remember. It seemed as if Hurricane Anita stalled with deliberate malice to inundate this already punished land. The rain began eroding foundations of the homes, several homes nearby already had cracked apart and tumbled down the cliffs. The slurry of mud began sliding down the hillsides, filling homes, undermining the walls. The walls made from adobe had begun to crumble. The pelting rain first scraped tiny breaches, filling the breaches with more water, soon sections slid way, the water eroding away the dirt from the stick lath inside. Their homes were dissolving.
Maria explained to Mario, who in turn explained to Carolyn Rose, who then told Rick, that their pastor, Ephraim Amador, had opened up their church, Iglesia El Cordero de Dios, as a refugee center for the district. Its walls were made of concrete block. It was built on a flat portion away from the cliffs. He was organizing the church members to help those neighbors whose homes were being destroyed; at least he was trying to organize those who could help. Bring them in. Let them bring in what they can carry. Bring in what they can save. Bring who they can. They had so little to begin with. The pastor’s heart was too filled with rage to break. Save what they can, who they can. Two children, Maria said quietly, fretfully, fearfully for her own, already had disappeared downhill, swept by the current of the flooding waters. Mario patted her hand and whispered to her. Carolyn Rose remained behind with Maria while Rick followed Mario toward a side street. Rick, fed up with his glasses obscured by the rain, removed them and stuck them in his pocket. They merged into the exodus of his neighbors who were carrying what they could. A little girl was dragging her mattress. Rick grabbed the end and together they followed the crowd toward the church.
Pastor Amador greeted Mario with a firm and grateful hug. One of his trusty captains had arrived. Quickly assuming the role of an Army General, Ephraim Amador described the situation to Mario, giving Mario special orders. Mario introduced Rick, and together they left the church to begin scouting among the houses for the most desperate, telling them to move, forcing some to move to the church. They carried old men on their beds. Walls toppled in front of them. They carried mattresses on their backs through the rain, carting them to the church. The sky grew even darker, the rain harder. A mother, disheveled and wild, her dress and face smeared with mud, pulled on Rick’s arm. Rick turned. In her arms she carried her infant. The mother shrieked at him. Mario intervened. He pulled the corner of the wet blanket from the pallid, wrinkled face of the infant. Blue lips. Blue little fingertips. Cold and flaccid. Rick also looked at the child and he knew too. Mario tried blowing air into the baby’s mouth anyway, more so for the mother’s sake. How the infant had drowned he could not imagine. Mario shook his head, then firmly instructed her to take her baby to Pastor Amador.
There was an odd suspension of reality. In a flash, Rick remembered how last summer there was a news report about a tragedy at a Boy Scout camp. Death was much on his mind that summer. A tornado struck the Scout camp. Four Boy Scouts were killed, dozens injured. A governmental official expressed his deep sorrow at the tragedy. What troubled Rick was how this official went on to say how it was especially unfortunate when boys like this die, when our finest young men die. Perhaps it was merely a poor choice of words, Rick brooded, but why should their death be any more unfortunate than any one else? Culture hangs by a thin string. What virtues we live for are as tensile as each child we raise.
A young boy, barefoot, no more than five years old, scrambled through the thick curtains of unremitting rain up the path toward Mario and Rick. He tugged on Mario’s pants leg. Mario picked him up to hear him. After he set the boy down he signaled urgently for Rick to follow. They slid back down toward Mario’s house. When they got there, Olvin, Mario’s elder boy, was slopping mud with a tin spade in an attempt to dig a moat a few feet from the back wall. Rick raced for the shovel from the Land Cruiser, grabbing it along with the blue tarps and rope. For half an hour they fought to dig a ditch and dike. The effort proved futile. The water flowed down the hillside in a volume and velocity they could never manage. It flowed over the small ditch toward the wall. Hitting the wall, it began clawing at the adobe. Mario watched helplessly as the water exposed the lath inside the mud wall, the wall he and his brothers had rebuilt after the fire.
The front room of his house and the kitchen, was made of wood. Mario did what he could, what he had to. They pulled their mattresses into the kitchen. They gathered all that they could and piled it in the corner of the wooden wall. Maria Augustina held her children in her arms as the back living room wall crumbled to the outside. The next wall fell on top of the side fence. The family and Carolyn Rose huddled together in the front corner of the house while Mario and Rick hung the blue tarps to provide some protection. The buck knife proved handy, cutting sections of rope. Maria Augustina started crying. Mario went up to her, held her tight, and said to her, once again, "It is not a problem. We will put ourselves to work."
***
Evening found Carolyn Rose and Rick back at Amador’s church. Rick was helping some of the men shuffling mattresses into whatever spaces they could create. Carolyn Rose stood by the door talking to Pastor Amador. A few candles were lit. Several men took up their guitars and began strumming. Their music defied the violent rain hammering against window and roof. Mario had chosen to stay with his family. They were safe, for now.
Carolyn Rose called Rick over to join them. She spoke: “Pastor Amador wants to know if you can drive the Land Cruiser.” Carolyn Rose explained that there are several who can’t stay here. One man seems to have a broken back -- concrete blocks fell on him. There’s a young boy with a bad fracture -- the bone is sticking out. One old woman is badly diabetic and they have nothing here for her.”
Rick stared gravely at Carolyn Rose. “There’s no other choice?” he asked.
“Yes, there is,” she replied tiredly. “Either we try or they stay. That’s the choice.”
Rick yawned, slumped, and rubbed the back of his sore neck. “Well, Mario’s got the keys. I’ll trust whatever Mario recommends. If he says, ‘yes,’ I’ll give it a go.”
“We will give it a go,” she corrected.
He was too exhausted to fight her.
“It’s not as if you know where to go anyway,” she explained. Carolyn Rose reached for his shoulder and leaned against him. “If we can get to the clinic, the pastor wants us to make our way to back to ACC headquarters and tell them what’s happening up here. The clinic is located on the edge the University, between the University and the Basilica de Suyapa – it’s on the far side from the river, fairly level ground. Ephraim tells me to take the high side and come down on the main highway from the east.” She added flatly: “I think he really wants us to get to where it’ll be safe, but he also hopes someone from ACC will be able to send some food.” She surveyed the room which was filling with dozens of families. “You drive,” she concluded. “I’ll navigate.
“Ansley and Alexander at your service”
“Alexander and Ansley; let’s make sure you get it right.”
“You and me. Come what may,” said Rick mildly, not with resignation in his voice but rather as an affirmation.
***
Mario Reyes said yes. Of course he said yes. Whatever Pastor Amador thought best. Privately, Mario was relieved. He needed and wanted to stay with his family. Pastor Amador probably suspected as much. Maria was scared, and not just about looters. Their sons and daughter were chilled and trembling. Olvin was doing his best to act the man but Mario could tell his boy was overwhelmed. Mario pulled the ignition key from his front pocket and tossed it to Rick. Rick caught it, nodded, and signaled a ‘thumbs up.’ Carolyn Rose kissed Mario on the cheek, touched Maria’s hand lightly, and exited behind Rick. Mario yelled after them, “Amigos: cuidado!”
Rick maneuvered the Land Cruiser as close as he could get to the church building. Pastor Amador led a small group toward the vehicle. One of them opened up the back hatch and slid the young man inside. He had been strapped to a plank by ropes, the plank itself once a pew with its wooden legs pried off by a crowbar. His wife crawled in beside him. The young boy, his arm wrapped tightly in several T-shirts, was lifted into the back seat by his father who climbed in and sat next to him. The boy’s eyes were dazed, glassy from the pain. The boy’s father then helped the diabetic old woman into the space next to him. The seats squished like sponges.
The most dangerous part of the trip was the descent down the cobbled roads through Mario’s Colonia, each road more river than road. They shuffled and skidded downhill, Rick constantly tapping the wet brakes till they burned and smelled. The wipers were useless. The headlights offered scant help. But crawl and creep and ford the low parts and edge forward they did. It took them 50 minutes to travel the ten miles but they finally arrived at the clinic.
Dozens of military vehicles were parked there, impressive, encouraging, and reassuring with their emergency lights flashing. They drove toward what Rick assumed was the entrance, there being a collection of soldiers in camouflage ponchos huddled under the remnants of a concrete portico. A portion of the portico lay in ruins on top of a smashed Toyota pick-up truck. One soldier waved his flashlight at them indicating that they should stop. Pulling his poncho hood over his head, the soldier dashed out from the protection of the doorway and splashed his way to the driver’s side window. Rick cranked down the window. The soldier, too young yet to grow anything more than a light black wisp of a moustache, stared inside. Three pairs of helpless eyes stared back at him from the back seat. He then smudged the side window with his sleeve, shone his light through it, pressed his forehead against the window, and peered in at the man and woman lying down in the back. Carolyn Rose shoved Rick’s black knapsack out of the way and stretched over the gearshift to talk to the solider as his poncho whipped around his legs.
“He says to drive around to the side of the next building. They’ve converted the old warehouse into some kind of a center. We can unload them there. He can’t guarantee how soon they’ll get any attention though.”
“It’s just reassuring to see somebody official,” Rick said, nodding toward the soldier who was already running back to his squad. Rick cranked the window back up and drove around the corner of the building. Carolyn Rose turned around and explained what was happening to their passengers. A second group of soldiers greeted them, directing them with flashlights where to park. Tenderly, they helped remove the injured from the Land Cruiser and escorted them inside the building.
With tired and clouded eyes, Rick looked over at Carolyn Rose. “You think you can now find your way to ACC?”
“I think we’re going to be okay on this side of town. It’s bad, but it’s not too far away and these roads seem passable.” Her voice turned suddenly resentful. “After all, this is the rich side of town. Can’t you tell? Not as much damage. We’ve gone the long way around, now we’re heading straight back.”
“We push on then, eh’ love?” Rick asked.
Carolyn stretched across the gear shift to get closer to Rick and kissed him on his scruffy cheek.
“Tempting seduction, lady,” Rick said suavely. “But what I could really use is a drink. Fish in my bag, would you?”
“You’re joking.” Then she pursed her lips. “Oh hell, I might join you.”
“I think there’s a bag of fried banana chips in there too,” he said. “Probably crushed by now, but I’m hungry.”
Flipping open the flap to his knapsack, she reached in, rummaged about, and pulled out a half full bottle of white rum. “What is it with you guys and your road-trips,” she teased. She unscrewed the cap, tasted a little of it, moistening her dry lips more than anything else, and handed the bottle to him.
“God love you,” he said with a grateful gulp. Needing to shift into third gear, he wedged the bottle between his thighs. The wind gusted so strong he had to grab the steering wheel with both hands and prevent the Land Cruiser from being shoveled off the road. He suddenly realized how severely his hands ached. His neck ached too. The damn knife kept poking into his side. Everything felt sore and cramped. Even the air felt heavy, thick, oppressive. There was a familiar smell of rot and failure. He needed to breathe. He needed to stretch out. But the best he could do was flex his left hand and lower the window an inch. “I wonder how Sam and Don are doing?” he wondered aloud.
***
It took him honking the horn six times before the sleepy old man finally raised the garage door. Rick really didn’t want to have to send Carolyn Rose around to the front of the building in this downpour to see if anyone was actually there. They had to be there. Crisis is their business. The garage door opened and he drove the Land Cruiser into the garage bay. He exhaled and relaxed. Finally, they were protected from the rain and wind. He imagined that this must be close to how Lewis and Clark felt finally reaching the Pacific ocean. No, not Lewis and Clark. They still had the return journey. Maybe more like Lindbergh landing at the Le Bourget airfield. Finally, they could rest. Finally, they were safe. Finally, she was safe. Soaked to the skin but safe. She breathed a soft sigh of relief as he shifted into neutral, engaged the emergency brake, and shut off the engine. Not knowing what to do with the keys, he left them in the ignition. Rick looked over at her with admiration. She could barely keep her eyes open. The crumpled package of the banana chips sat on her lap.
The guard shuffled over to unlock and pull open the door to the offices for them. Rick pressed his hand on Carolyn Rose’s back and invited her to enter first. She stopped short. Tomas was standing at Marisela’s desk. Except for Tomas, the lobby was deserted. Tomas stared at them blankly before his face brightened into menacing delight. Rick’s hand slipped around Carolyn Rose’s waist and he pulled her behind him. Tomas flung the papers that he was reading onto Marisela’s desk, scattering them.
Rick at first refused to look aside. An icy ten seconds later, he blinked and chose instead to offer a bemused shrug. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I’m sitting down. I’m too tired for this nonsense now.” He reached around for Carolyn Rose’s hand and gently drew her along with him toward the two chairs stationed beneath the map of Honduras. She cautiously followed, keeping to Rick’s right. Tomas tensed as Rick walked past him, anticipating some trick. The fox always expects everyone else to act the fox. But the only surprise was how Rick ignored him. And that was the greater insult. Rage replaced cunning. Tomas grabbed Carolyn Rose by the wrist, wrenched her hand away from Rick’s hand, twirled her around, pulled her toward him, twisting her arm behind her back. Rick spun to face him. She tried to squirm away but couldn’t. Tears from the pain welled in her eyes.
Tomas slid his free hand into the pocket of his black silk jacket. Rick swallowed an acidic surge of fear. What he feared was Tomas’s jealous rage turned sideways. He feared for her. What he wanted was for Tomas to focus his feral pride against him.
Rick stilled himself. “You truly amaze me,” said Rick, trying to draw him the way a lightning rod draws lightning. “Your people are dying out there and you’re nursing your damn ego,” he said as he carefully unlatched his buck knife from its belt case on his hip. “You want my suggestion? How about getting the hell out of here. Go out and do some good.” Eyeing Tomas’ hand in his pocket, he took a step toward them. He twirled the fingers of his left hand in the air. With his right hand, Rick fingered the metallic butt of his knife. “I know the kind of man you are. Maybe more people should learn? Maybe an audit might be in order. There’s other people working here tonight, right? Got to be. Besides, I’ve got three pretty hurting young men back in Talanga who can tell everyone what kind of man you really are. Oh yes, in case you didn’t get word, they failed. I’m betting they’ve been turned over to the police by now. I’d be worried if I were you. Real worried.” Rick chuckled. “I have a feeling that after tonight, a whole lot is going to be revealed.” Gingerly, he took another step closer.
His grip tightened on Carolyn Rose. Intrigued by the commotion they heard, three ACC employees stepped out from an office around the corner. Tomas nervously glanced at his co-workers, whose faces betrayed confusion. He slowly backed up toward the garage doorway, pushing open the door, and pulling Carolyn Rose with him into the shadows of the garage. Rick followed and stood on the top step. The old man squinted at them from the other side of the garage. He too was puzzled. The wind whipped and howled. The rain swirled in sheets. Anita refused to be ignored.
“You need to know, amigo,” Rick frowned, “that the lady’s not going anywhere with you. She doesn’t want to and I don’t want her to.” Rick stepped another step closer. “You find it so easy to bully a woman, don’t you? How about a man?”
Injured pride combined with brazen confidence to persuade Tomas to release Carolyn Rose, who instantly rushed beside Rick. Rick pulled her toward his left side.
“Have her then,” he sneered. “I’ve had my pleasures with her.”
It was Carolyn Rose who cut him the sharpest. Rubbing her sore arm, she looked on Tomas with pity. “What a fool I was,” she said sadly. “Tomas, my dear Tomas: your time is up and you don’t even know it. That’s the sign of a truly pathetic man. The world is tired of men who only know how to use others.”
It wasn’t a switch-blade in his pocket, it was a semi-automatic pocket pistol. Tomas unhurriedly raised it toward them. Tomas laconically pointed its 3.35 inch stainless steel barrel at them. Rick acted. With his left hand he pushed Carolyn Rose from the steps to the floor, with his right hand he swept his buck knife from its case and flung it underhanded at Tomas, intending for the blade to sink deep into him. It didn’t. Instead, the butt of the knife struck him in the shoulder, but enough to throw off his aim. The errant shot buried itself in the wall to the left of the doorway. The knife bounced off Tomas, smacking sideways onto the window of the Land Cruiser, then clanged to the concrete floor. Never hesitate. Rick lunged toward Tomas but Tomas slammed him against the door of the Land Cruiser, pivoted, and ran outside into the rain.
“Are you okay?” Rick asked as he stepped down to pick Carolyn Rose up from
the garage floor. The ACC workers gathered at the door, confused and alarmed.
“My ears hurt,” she replied. “Did he really shoot at us?”
“You’re alright now. He took off.” Rick shook his head. “My mistake. I thought he only played with knives.”
The silver coupe sped to a sliding stop at the entrance to the garage. The pistol appeared in the driver’s window. The shot screamed past as it seared the skin of Rick’s neck. The Mercedes roared off.
“Dammit, you stay here,” Rick demanded, pressing his hand against his throat, inspecting his palm for blood. “That bastard,” he swore as he tightened his bandana around his neck. Once scratched, the match flares and ignites tinder. Before Carolyn Rose could object, before she could pull on his arm, he threw open the door of the Land Cruiser and jumped in. Immediately he grabbed the key, turned the engine over, and ground the gears. The Cruiser flew into reverse.
The Mercedes-Benz was already turning left two blocks down by the time Rick slammed the gear into second and hit the gas pedal. The back tires, long bald, spun and smoked as he raced after Tomas. His mind raced just as fast, just as recklessly. He knew intuitively that he had a better weapon than that damn pistol. The Cruiser was enough, should be enough. It could do the job. Especially in this weather. Though if he had given himself time to think, it would take him some seconds to figure out what that job really was. Right now he was just fed up. Just fed up. Fed up with the hurricane. Fed up with the dead bodies. Fed up with the hide of this country ripped apart by all the vultures. Fed up with being shot at, beaten, stabbed, threatened. Fed up with all the hurt. Fed up with the damn Tomas’s of the world. Fed up with the entitled ones. Fed up with those who think power means control. Fed up with those who see everyone else as put on earth for them to use. Fed up with the Tomas’s who climb over the far more decent Mario’s of the world to get what they want. Fed up especially with this Tomas who thought Carolyn Rose was his. Damn if she is. She’s not mine either, Rick snarled. She’s hers! She’s her own! But, dammit, she chose me, so the hell with him!
The water of the slick road forced him to tap his brakes at the intersection. He could see the Mercedes turning right onto the main road. The traffic lights were out. The street lights also were out. The street signs shook as if palsied, buffeted by the storm. Rick down-shifted into the right turn. The Cruiser groaned, the engine screeched. He corrected the overturn. Theirs were the only two vehicles on the road. Rick noticed that the Mercedes was now proceeding slowly, cautiously. He doesn’t see that I’m behind him. Rick grinned. Rick floored the Cruiser into a fish-tail. Immediately the Mercedes picked up speed. The erratic headlights must have alerted him. Rick knew there would be no way he could keep pace with the Mercedes in normal weather. But this was hardly normal weather. The advantage was his. Maybe.
Rick pushed on through the blanketing rain and bleak darkness. The rear lights, glaring crystalline from the spray from the rear tires, were right in front of him. The Mercedes was only yards ahead. They raced through intersections, the traffic lights flapping from the heavy wind. Suddenly the coupe swerved. Rick’s lights caught the danger in time. Wires down. He too swerved, clipping the Mercedes’ rear, causing it to spin clockwise. Rick couldn’t stop in time, sliding past as the Mercedes corrected itself. Rick braked, jolting to a stop. The window of the Mercedes lowered. Against the wind and torrent of the rain, Rick could barely hear the report of the gunshot. The bullet shattered the passenger window, ricocheting into the roof of the Cruiser. Rain swept inside and soaked an already soaked Rick.
“Crap,” Rick grunted, as he floored the Land Cruiser and tried to ram the Mercedes. The second shot struck the snorkel. Tomas reversed the Mercedes in time. The Cruiser sped past. Rick decided he better keep going. Now the Mercedes chased Rick. Rick sweated. Rick bit his lip. Rick scanned for a chance.
Twice he dared ploughing through high water, daring to hope that Tomas would follow him, but Tomas was shrewder. Tomas calmly kept to the high side of the street, still pursuing Rick. Rick had to lower his driver’s side window and wipe the rear view mirror to see behind. The high beams were still there, refracted by the rain. Rick saw that Tomas was trying to speed up and catch him. Three times he tried to push up on Rick’s left side, once on this right. Rick knew he couldn’t let him come alongside him. Rick wondered how many more bullets could Tomas fire. Too many, he guessed. Rick still hoped, despite Tomas having the pistol, that he had the advantage. Headlights crept up on his left; Rick down-shifted as he swerved in front of the Mercedes. Tomas was quicker and braked in time to avoid the collision. Neither man was going to give ground.
The Land Cruiser suddenly hit a pile of mud and rock that had sloughed off onto the right side of the road. Rick bounced, clinging to the steering wheel. It felt as if the Cruiser’s axle would break. The Mercedes-Benz swung smoothly into the oncoming lane. This time Rick thought he heard the shot a millisecond before the rear window exploded. Well, at least now he could see the headlights clearer. Rick also noticed that they were now driving on a road he actually recognized. Rick tightened his jaw as he drove past the yellow traffic sign warning drivers about the curves ahead. Again he braked in an attempt to have Tomas hit his bumper, but this time it was more of a tease. “Come on, Tomas, you want me?” Rick challenged through clenched teeth. “Come and get me.” Rick marked the lumber yard on his left. Rick slid into the oncoming lane. But the sheeting water and debris which streamed downhill forced him to slow down.
Tomas’s eyes widened at the opportunity. He sped up into the open space on Rick’s right. This time Tomas decided to be smarter. This time he would shoot out the rear tire. He imagined the beauty of the crash. Especially sweet would it be if Rick were trapped in the wreckage, dying slowly, painfully, helplessly, broken, bleeding. For Rosacita he had other plans, far, far sweeter. He pushed the button and lowered his window. He reached for his pistol. Seven rounds in the magazine, two left.
Ten yards beyond the tire repair shop, Rick spun the steering wheel fast to the left. The Cruiser, sliding, hydroplaning, almost flipped over, coming to a full stop only after spinning around in a complete circle.
It was too late for the silver Mercedes. Tomas’s headlights beamed into the darkness where once there was a road, shining across broken cinder blocks and twisted tin, his velocity sending him beyond the fallen debris, the headlights shining all the way down to the first ledge of the ravine, the car flipping trunk over hood on its descent. The roar of Hurricane Anita masked the crunch of the crash as the roof of the coupe hit rocky ground, crushing Tomas’ skull instantly. The car wrenched itself onto its crumpled side, rolling, skidding, careening deeper down into the mire of the ravine until it was stopped by a grove of banana trees.
Rick panted heavily. His hands clenched the steering wheel. He stared out through the fogged windshield. The windshield wipers swept metronomically yet vainly against the rain. “I told you,” Rick whispered. “I don’t believe in luck.”
***
It took Hurricane Anita three more days before she tapered off into a tropical storm. She made landfall again on the Yucatan Peninsula where she weakened into a tropical depression.
Their entire morning had been spent at the United States consulate in an official emergency meeting with as many non-governmental organizations as could attend. The trauma resulting from a lack of clean water and adequate food, sanitation needs, housing, medical care, rescue for the missing, burial for the thousands unearthed in the aftermath, those found dead by drowning or accident, had to be addressed. Carolyn Rose translated whenever necessary for a very determined Executive Director of ACC.
Simply because he had earned the right to be there, Rick also sat at the long oak table that morning. Sometimes he listened. Twice he quietly shared an off-hand lesson from history, only to produce tolerant looks from the important men around the table. Eventually he tuned out the arguments by scratching his scars, cleaning the lenses of his glasses with his bandana, and, after stretching out his legs under the table, gazing through the decorative iron bars of the consulate windows up toward the central hill of the city. The 70 foot tall concrete statue of Christ stood tall, his arms reaching down in supplication, his palms open. Cristo del Picacho. A major chunk of the hillside had washed away down into the Choluteca, along with it over 80 homes, but the statue survived to overlook a ruined and reeking Tegucigalpa.
Come the afternoon, they spent an hour assessing the damage done to several low lying barrios, and another hour getting one of the ACC church sites ready for when the emergency supplies provided by Church World Service would arrive for distributtion. Tomorrow, they hoped. The mud reached up to the top of the second floors of buildings. Late afternoon saw them returned to Mario’s neighborhood to spend three hours helping Mario rebuild one of the walls to his home.
Armando had kept their plates of beans and tortillas wrapped up warm in a towel for when they returned to Monte Carmelo. A fresh bottle of hot sauce was placed next to the plates. After supper they collapsed on the familiar plaid couch in the office listening to the battery operated radio. Nestled against each other they fell asleep, lifted as one by a wave of contented fatigue. Rick’s mug dangled from his hand until his fingers gradually relaxed and it fell gently onto his black knapsack. Minutes later -- his sleep deep, body content, wounds cleansed, breathing irregular -- a faint smile dawned beneath Rick’s moustache as his closed eyelids flickered…
…the volcanic island of El Tigre stands off in the distance, a bold mound of lush green rising from the green waters of the Pacific gulf. In the shady corner of the beach a weathered wooden bar with five old stools juts out from the corner of a comfortable house made of sticks, tin, and terra cotta. Chicks scramble after the piglets, eagerly pecking the sand. A fellow snores in his swaying hammock, his straw hat placed on the ground underneath the hammock. Three children play with the puppies while momma watches from the kitchen window. They sit side-by-side on the faded red hull of an old overturned rowboat, wiggling their toes in the water. The water is warm. The breeze is slight and balmy, fragrant with the scent of lemons and orchids. The rising sun behind them burns bright, casting beams and shadows through the fronds of the thirteen palm trees which line the small curved beach of their hidden cove. The large rustle from the palm tree looming over them startles them. Together, holding hands, they look up as a brilliantly colored macaw launches itself from its palm branch, sweeps over them with his scarlet wings outstretched, turns, and, with one powerful stroke, flies straight toward the flaming sun.
-- End --
I Cultivate a White Rose
By Jose Marti
I cultivate a white rose
In July as in January
For the sincere friend
Who gives me his hand frankly.
And for the cruel person who tears out
the heart with which I live,
I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns:
I cultivate a white rose.