The Furthest City Light (30 page)

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes, you do, Tomas.” She sounded kind but firm. This was clearly not the first time she’d had to talk him down from a bad trip. “Give me the gun, Tomas. I have a bottle of rum at my house.”

“We won,” he said.

I heard him slowly standing up and then saw him walking toward Amelia. She took the gun from his hand, emptied a couple of bullets onto the tile floor, and then put her arm around his shoulder and together they left the house.

It took a while to clean up the mess, but most of the food was salvageable. In silence, we laid it all out again, divided it into three piles, and then Liz and Allen prepared to leave. Because they looked so sad, Sonia hugged them and told them not to worry, that Tomas had many friends he could count on.

After they left, she wagged her finger at me and said, “That goes for you too.”

I rolled my eyes like a world-weary twelve-year-old. “I know, Sonia. Worrying will only make me look old.”

“That’s right,” she said. “And then I will have to put that lotion on your face.”

“No,” I said, backing away from her. “Not the lotion.”

Our month-long stay in purgatory was finally coming to an end. Our souls had apparently undergone the requisite punishment and purification, and we’d been cleared for takeoff. Over the past week, which I’d spent doing whatever cleanup projects Susan and Richard invented, the Contras had been chased back into Honduras and the road to Jalapa was open. On Saturday morning, two weeks later than planned, our funky chariot would be waiting to transport us north toward heaven, or at least as far as Ocotal. And on Sunday, the army promised to escort us the rest of the way.

Most of us decided to spend our last day in Managua with our families. On Friday morning, I woke up with my usual headache, sore throat and slight fever and heard Sonia sweeping the night’s leavings off the back patio. She was humming something jazzy with a bossa nova beat. I rolled out of my cot, slipped on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and went out to greet her. The early morning light was so bright I almost stumbled. Someday, I told myself, you’ll own a dozen pair of sunglasses and you’ll never be defenseless again.

“Buenos días,”
I said.

“
¡Qué calor!
” Sonia replied, fanning her face.

“Oh please, it’s the same as it always is.”

She smiled mischievously. “No, my friend. Today it’s much hotter!”

Sonia’s nephew was still missing, but if you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t guess she was especially worried about anything. It wasn’t pure stoicism like my mother’s or even fear of looking old, but something more pragmatic: she was a survivor. If she talked about Jorge, it was always in the present tense. Each night, of course, she still stood in front of his photograph and prayed for good news.

In the picture, which I’d studied a few times when Sonia wasn’t around, Jorge was sitting on a stone bench, dressed in well-worn army fatigues, a machine gun propped against his left leg, smiling confidently at the camera. He looked young and happy, an adolescent male having the time of his life.

Sometimes Sonia was selfish and prayed only for her nephew, but more often than not, she included all the “wolf cubs” fighting against the Contras. Occasionally, she was very altruistic and prayed for everyone on the planet, including President Reagan who she hoped would find something more important to focus on besides Nicaragua.

That afternoon, Sonia decided to teach me how to cha-cha. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea (like most gays in North America, the only music I’d ever danced to was disco), but once she’d dragged me to my feet, I decided to be a good sport. At first, she couldn’t stop laughing at my self-conscious attempts to mimic the easy way she moved. Finally, she stood behind me with her hands on my hips, swiveling them around as I stepped forward and back chanting, “One, two, cha-cha-cha.” After a while, I improved enough and she faced me again, and for more than an hour we danced barefoot without music on the tile floor in her living room. I can still do it now, the footwork smooth and easy, my hips and shoulders moving expertly the way my teacher taught me. Unlike disco, though, you really need two people to cha-cha, which may be one of the reasons ballroom dancing is still popular and disco isn’t.

That evening during supper, Estelle dropped by with a letter for me. There was no return address on the envelope, but I recognized the handwriting. Vickie must have given it to Maggie who’d sent it in care of Estelle. I took the letter and stuck it in my pocket. Later, when I was alone in my room, I sat on my cot and stared at the envelope, postponing the inevitable news that Vickie had had enough. Finally, I took a deep breath and ripped it open. Maybe she’s not angry, I told myself as I straightened the two pages. Maybe she just misses me.

Dear Rachel,

I just got off the phone with you and I feel sad, angry and confused. I decided to write this letter with no expectation that you’ll respond anytime soon. First of all, I think you’re a liar (which didn’t used to bother me as much as it does now) and that you haven’t sent me any letters. If I’m wrong and get one in the next few days, I’ll feel embarrassed and happily surprised. But I’m not holding my breath.

What I want to say is how familiar it feels not to expect very much from you. I don’t think it’s okay anymore. In fact, I don’t think it was ever okay. I love you a lot, Rachel. If you came back tomorrow, I’d probably forget everything I’m saying, or at least bury it somewhere deep and never try to find it. But I don’t think you’re coming home anytime soon. I think you’re lost in your grief and that you’re having (how can I say this without sounding unkind? I can’t) an existential tantrum.

I’m sorry, sweetheart. Maybe I’d feel more empathy if you hadn’t left. I know I would. But here it is: I’m tired of waiting for you to figure out how to live in this world. I’m tired of waiting for you to learn the crucial art of balance. Some people can’t. Maybe you’re one of them.

God, this sounds so bitchy, so unsympathetic, and I’m not. I’m really not. Each time you shut me out because your pain seems unendurable, I’m forced to shut down too. And I’m worried that if I have to shut down too long, I might not be able to come back. This isn’t a threat, Rachel—it’s actually a love letter although you probably won’t perceive it that way. Oh well.

Until whenever,

Vickie

I reread the letter twice, then folded it up, and tucked it carefully into my duffel. The letter wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. The relationship wasn’t over. All I had to do was learn the crucial art of balance and everything would be all right. I sank down on my cot and tried to imagine what steps I could take short of a lobotomy that might help me learn it in time. There were probably a thousand books on the subject—I imagined some possible titles:
Living La Vida Loca, Say No To Existential Tantrums
—but I wasn’t likely to find any of them in the few, poorly stocked bookstores in Managua. Liz might be helpful, though. I could talk to her, see if she had any tips.

A few minutes later, I heard Sonia changing out of her clothes and preparing for bed. I’d promised her more than a week ago I’d pray for Jorge, but so far I hadn’t. She would have no way of knowing, of course, but that wasn’t the point. Although I’d lied to Vickie more times than I cared to count, for some reason I still didn’t think of myself as a liar. I looked up at the ceiling and sighed. What the hell.

I climbed out of bed and tried kneeling on the floor the way children in fairy tales prayed, but it felt so ridiculous I settled for sitting on the edge of my cot. Now what? I clasped my hands together, then immediately unclasped them. In the unlikely event God existed, He, She, or It would surely have a well-developed bullshit detector. All right, just a short prayer for Jorge, for his safe return, and then I could lie down again. So, how did one start? Hell if I knew. Did people take lessons? I’d attended a few Bible classes when I was ten and learned how Noah escaped the flood, something about a burning bush, how the Jews had to bake matzos on their way out of Egypt, but whatever prayers I’d learned had long since disappeared into one of the many Bermuda Triangles in my mind. I would have to improvise.

“Okay God,” I whispered, “this is my prayer. First of all, if Jorge isn’t dead already, could you please try to save him? Sonia will be devastated if he doesn’t come back. And while I’m at it, could you also watch out for her? I think she might be sick. And for Amelia too. Well, for all the people in Nicaragua.” I paused. “And hey, if there’s any way I could learn the art of balance before Vickie leaves me, I’d appreciate that as well. Thanks. Bye.”

I rolled my eyes, climbed back into bed, and tried to sleep. For the first time in a month, my chicken didn’t show up at dawn and I feared the worst. I waited an hour just to make sure, but she never came.

***

Our trip north to Ocotal was surprisingly uneventful: no flat tires, no DDT at lunch, no distant gunfire. It made us a little nervous, as if something very bad would now have to happen to make up for it. We stayed at the same hotel as before and prepared for bed with an eye toward being able to jump up at a moment’s notice, grab our shoes, and run.

That night, Liz and I shared a room with only one bed in it. Since the bed was shaped like a bowl, there was no way we could stick to our respective sides. Each time we tried to inch our way apart, we’d slide back down into each other. After a while, we gave up and lay still.

“This whole trip is about surrender,” I muttered.

“Tell me about it.”

We said good night, and then curled up with our knees almost touching our chins and our backs pressed against each other. Miraculously, we managed to doze off and sleep about five hours before a burst of gunfire woke us at four thirty. A few minutes later, we heard a couple of machine guns that seemed a little closer, but after that, nothing. We waited another fifteen minutes but that was it.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Liz asked.

“No way. What about you?”

“Let’s go outside and watch the sun come up,” she suggested.

“That’s a great idea.”

We climbed out of bed, padded out into the courtyard, and sat down on the cool pavement. No one else was there. The unexpected silence was exquisite. No barking dogs, no roosters crowing, no people shooting at each other.

I stared at the large empty fountain and imagined how pretty it must have looked when it was full of flowing water and the grounds surrounding it were all kept up. Perhaps the Somoza supporters who’d once lived here weren’t bad people, just happily ignorant. Since time immemorial, they might have reasoned, there had always been a division between rich and poor; everyone was entitled to inherit whatever their ancestors chose to leave them, and if the Somozas were corrupt, at least they kept the country running smoothly. As the sky metamorphosed from gray to mauve and then eventually to orange, I considered telling Liz about my relationship with Vickie and the letter I’d just received. But it was so quiet and I didn’t think I’d feel any better after I told her. So I didn’t. When it finally got too hot, we roused ourselves to go back inside.

As we stood up, my friend put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Rachel, I don’t think you should stay here that long.”

I was getting a little sick of people telling me what to do and how to live. “Yes I know, Liz, you’ve told me that before. Why does everyone think I’m so incapable?”

She looked surprised. “I don’t think you’re incapable. I think you’re one of the strongest, most capable women I’ve ever met.”

“Then why shouldn’t I stay?”

She hesitated. “Because you’re too sad.”

I stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody’s sad here. I’ll fit right in.” Did I
look
sad? “Besides, it’s normal to be sad. Anyone who lives the examined life is sad.”

She shook her head. “That’s not true, Rachel. I’m not sad. Just because you care about the world doesn’t mean you have to be sad.” She still had her hand on my shoulder.

“Well, I just lost a big case.” And my girlfriend was going to leave me as soon as she realized I couldn’t bear the idea of coming home.

Liz kissed my cheek. “And if you take my good advice and leave, which I hope you do, I’ll miss you very much.” Her face in the early morning light, looked peaceful and rested, as if she’d spent the night in a different hotel than I had.

“Well, don’t start grieving,” I told her. “I make a point of never taking anyone’s good advice.”

She sighed. “Okay, I tried. Let’s round everyone up and get some breakfast.” She looked at her watch. “The army is supposed to be here in a couple of hours.”

“Yeah, right,” I said and we both snickered.

***

In Nicaragua, nobody intended to lie. When people said they would do something or be somewhere at a certain time, they meant it but because of circumstances beyond their control, it was usually impossible. When the army promised us an escort at eight, they meant it was their
intention
to get there at eight, and if they showed up anytime that day or even the next, we’d be lucky. As it turned out, we were very lucky and they were only six hours late.

Our escort consisted of five Nicaraguan teenagers who looked as if they’d all decided to dress up as soldiers for Halloween. I doubted if any of them were older than eighteen. Two of them were young women. Each one carried the requisite AK-47 slung across their back. The soldiers spoke with Tim and Estelle first, shook their hands, and then Tim introduced them to us: Omar, Francisco, Javier, Miriam and Marta. Omar and Francisco were already grinning at Veronica who was probably two years older than they were.

Ten minutes later, after speaking with someone on their radio, the teenagers hopped into their plain brown jeep and shouted for us to follow. We all cheered, then clambered into our truck and began the last leg of our journey to Jalapa.