by Hazel Hunter
There were a few moments of silence.
“Well,” she said, still looking at the ground, her voice strained. “I just wanted to apologize. Sorry for getting you out of bed.”
“Really, I wasn’t in bed,” he said but, as her eyes drifted upward, they paused on his chest and he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Lightning flashed and lit up the courtyard as thunder cracked almost directly overhead.
Although Jean glanced at the sky and backed away from the courtyard, Clarks eyes were riveted to her. She’d been looking at his chest and, though it had only been for a moment, he felt adrenalin rush through him. She continued to back away but finally looked at him.
“I’ll let you get back to…I mean I’ll…um,” she stammered.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Right,” she said, nodding. “Tomorrow.”
Then she spun on her heel and Clark watched her go. As she retreated, he listened to the soft clacking of her shoes on the wooden floor. In moments, she’d rounded the low railing of the balcony, opened the door to her room, and was gone.
“Tomorrow,” he said and turned back to his room.
As he closed the door, he looked across to hers one more time and realized that, for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to tomorrow.
CHAPTER THREE
Jean had sensed that something was off since they’d left the house. Luckily, though, she hadn’t had to say or do much. George was doing all the talking. Actually, questioning would have been the better word. He’d been peppering Clark with questions since they’d headed out for the tour.
The rain had let up and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Whatever made for less heat would be good. She had her window in the back of the SUV down all the way.
“These fields were planted three years ago,” Clark said, pointing out George’s window.
“Three years,” George said, sounding impressed. “You’ve taken two years off the maturation process? I thought the data said one year.”
“No, you’re right,” Clark said. “The data says one year. We haven’t yet attempted our first harvest in this field. Too soon and the trees will just end up damaged and never reach their full potential. It’s as much art as science.”
He’d slowed so that George could take a photo with his phone. Jean saw Clark look at her in the rear view mirror. She smiled at him. Though it was only his eyes that were visible and the back of his head and shoulders, she couldn’t help but visualize the way he’d looked last night. He was dressed casually again but today wore khaki shorts instead of trousers. Though George was dressed in long pants and a tie, he at least wore a short-sleeve shirt. Jean had brought nothing but long-sleeved silk shirts for their short stay. She was already sticking to the one she wore.
“I assume you’ve got the seedlings somewhere else,” George said.
“Under lock and key,” Clark replied as the Jeep sped up. “No need for the consortium to worry. At this moment, there’s nowhere else in the world these exist. The latex can’t be reverse engineered. Of the seeds that are planted, only about four percent germinate. It takes tens of thousands of seeds to create even a small crop. Growing the seedlings is the key and that only happens in the greenhouse, under lock and key.”
“Exactly what I wanted to hear,” George said. “When will we see the seedlings?”
“At the end of the day,” Clark said. “The greenhouse is in the plaza behind the main house. I like to keep them close.”
The Jeep passed through fields of regularly spaced, leafy trees. Jean wondered again if she’d seen rubber plants as they’d approached the main gate of the plantation. But as the Jeep crested a small hill, the trees suddenly became taller and metal buckets hung from them all.
“Ah,” said George. “The harvesting.”
The stands were easily one hundred feet tall, like those of the inner courtyard of the main house. Still evenly spaced in rows and columns, these trees were thicker and their high branches formed a solid, dark green roof. On each, a metal bucket hung suspended about four feet off the ground. As they rushed past, Jean was able to make out pools of white liquid inside the pails. Each tree also had a spiraling gash of white cut into the light beige bark. Although she hadn’t read much about the science side of the project, she at least knew that the bark of the tree was cut and latex flowed from it in an attempt to protect itself.
“Next stop is processing,” Clark said.
Again he glanced in the rear view mirror.
Jean managed a smile.
Another fifteen minutes and they were well into the darkest and tallest of the trees she’d yet seen. Clark stopped the vehicle.
As soon as the breeze died, Jean could smell something acrid. Clark was immediately out of his door and opening hers. He held out his hand.
“Watch your step,” he said.
She’d tried to pack light and only had two pairs of heels. At least she’d left the pantyhose off today, fairly sure she’d have melted with them on. She took Clark's hand and he led her to the cement pad that fronted the simple building.
As George took photos from the vantage point of the vehicle, Clark waited with her on the walkway that led to the doorway. Jean realized the door wasn’t open, it was gone. In fact, none of the windows had glass or screens either, it was completely open. Several people were inside who looked as though they might be sweeping the interior.
“How are you feeling?” Clark asked lowly.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Was it that obvious? “Just a little warm.”
“You know, it’s actually cooler today than yesterday,” he replied.
“It is?”
George joined them and held out a bottle of water and a tablet to her.
“Electrolytes,” he said as Clark gave him a quizzical look.
Clark nodded as she took the water bottle.
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said as he watched her take the tablet.
“The vats,” George said as he left them and headed into the building.
Clark took her by the elbow and they followed George.
“Traditional,” George said, as he took more photos.
Clark let her go and she came to a stop next to a rusted metal handrail near the first vat.
“It’s a small time arrangement,” Clark said. “We’re not here to harvest latex for sale, though we do sell what we make. It’s more a proof of concept.”
There were twenty large rectangular vats about the size of small swimming pools. At half of them, men and women of various ages used wood rakes to collect hardening latex just under the surface of the brown liquid. There was an acidic sourness that permeated the air. The stench was almost unbearable.
“As the rubber coagulates,” Clark said, “it’s removed from the vats and pressed into sheets.” He pointed to the far end of the room. A young man there seemed to be stepping in place. George moved in that direction and, as Clark followed, Jean knew she had to move. The smell was making the back of her throat itch. Maybe on the other side of the vats, the air would be better. She paused for a moment, took a breath, and walked briskly to cross the room. Each person that she passed stopped momentarily and looked at her. No doubt she was quite the sight, in her business dress, heels, and holding her breath. Finally, on the other side of the large room, she let her breath go and inhaled.
Oh my god. If anything, the air here was worse.
The young man, who was treading barefoot on the solid latex, stood aside as Clark lifted the white sheet from the rectangular mold. An inch thick and the size of a beach towel, dripping wet with brown liquid, he held it up for George, who felt a corner of it. Clark glanced at Jean. Whether he was offering to let her touch it or was checking on her she didn’t know but she gave him a little wave while keeping her nose and mouth covered with the other hand.
“Next,” Clark said. “We squeeze out the extra moisture.”
He took the rubbery sheet to a set of wide
wooden rollers and the young man helped him insert the latex between them. As Clark cranked the handle, the young man fed the white material in as a thin and almost purely white sheet came out the other side. When it had gone completely through, Clark held it out for George. Jean took a few steps and stood next to a window. There was a tiny movement of air through it that seemed a little better. She took in a lungful.
“And here are the drying racks,” said George.
He had turned away from her and was looking up. Jean looked up and blinked at the endless rows of latex sheets hung from the rafters up above them. She’d completely missed them. In various stages of drying, some were pure white like the sheet Clark had just been handling, while others were a dull brown color.
“Exactly,” Clark said. “The darkest brown are nearly cured.”
Though George was going to the end of the room to photograph the curing sheets, Clark came back to her.
“The smell of latex,” he said. “It takes some getting used to.”
She nodded but kept her nose and mouth covered. Despite the openness of the doors and windows, the room was feeling close and oppressive. It was also unbearably hot.
“I guess that didn’t come through in the text and numbers,” she managed to get out, before coughing.
But what had begun as an itchiness in the back of her throat had turned into a burning. The coughing wouldn’t stop. She took a quick sip from the water bottle. But it only made her cough all the more.
“Jean?” Clark said.
She could barely hear him. Though her lungs were dragging in air, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Tiny lights were appearing at the edge of her vision, like multi-colored fireflies. She heard the water bottle hit the floor.
“Jean?” Clark said, though his voice was dim.
He was standing in front of her and she slowly reached out to him but the room started to spin. As her legs gave out, she was vaguely aware of his arms around her and then there was nothing.
• • • • •
“Annan!” Clark yelled.
He cradled Jean in his arms as he took the steps up the grand staircase two at a time.
“Annan!” Clark yelled again.
“Yeah, Boss,” he heard from below.
He didn’t bother turning.
“Call Doctor Kinchai! Get him out here!”
“Yes Boss,” Annan shouted.
Clark quickly arrived at the second story, rounded a corner of the balcony, and strode into her room. As he lay her down on the bed, she tried to hold onto him. She’d never completely lost consciousness though she was clearly on the edge.
“Clark,” she said, weakly.
“You’re all right,” he said. “We’ve called the doctor. He’ll be here soon.”
“No,” she whimpered. “Please. I’m fine.”
She tried to sit up but quickly fell back.
“I can see that,” he said.
George came to the side of the bed, panting from trying to keep up.
“Has she been ill?” Clark asked.
“No,” George said, a little breathlessly. “No, she’s been fine. Just complained of the heat.”
Right, thought Clark. She’d done that last night and also this morning. He put a hand to her forehead. She was burning up. He looked at her feverish face and the sweat drenched blouse.
“We need to get that fever down,” he muttered.
There were footsteps at the doorway.
“Doctor’s on his way, Boss,” Annan chirped.
Clark whirled toward him.
“Get me some towels and ice,” he said. “Hurry!”
Tam’s weathered old face appeared in the doorway, just as Annan dashed off.
“Tam, get Mrs. Juntasa up here,” Clark said.
Tam didn’t waste time with words and quickly shuffled off.
Clark spun back to the bed and turned on the fan above it. He tugged the cord twice to kick it into high gear.
“Clark,” Jean whispered. “Please, I don’t need a doctor.”
Clark turned back to her.
“Let’s let the doctor be the judge of that,” he said, taking her hand.
His words had a familiar ring. In fact, everything was starting to feel like déja vu. Had it only been a year ago? At the moment, it seemed like yesterday. He forced himself not to think of it.
“I’m sorry,” Jean said, lowly, her voice shaking.
“What?” Clark said, sitting on the bed next to her and taking her hand in both of his. “Nonsense.”
“I don’t want to mess up the deal,” she said.
“You’re not messing up the deal,” he said quietly.
Tam appeared in the doorway just then. The old man was breathing hard, hand on his chest.
“Mrs. Juntasa’s not here,” he breathed. “In town maybe?”
Clark couldn’t remember if this was the day she usually made her supply run or not.
“Dammit,” Clark said. “Okay, Tam. Thanks.”
He’d needed a woman. Jean needed to get out of those clothes and get some ice on her head and her skin. Annan pushed by Tam with a bucket of ice and a stack of folded white towels.
“Good,” Clark said. “Leave those here and…” He hesitated. “Close the door but wait right outside.” Annan arched his eyebrows but didn’t question him. “Tam, wait downstairs for the doctor and tell him which room we’re in when he gets here.” Tam disappeared from the doorway immediately and Annan gave Clark one more glance before closing it behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” Jean whispered. “Look at what I’ve done.”
Clark ignored that, only one thing on his mind right now.
“Jean,” he said. “Can you take off your clothes?”
She blinked her eyes slowly a couple of times.
“What?” she said.
“You’ve got to get out of those clothes,” he said. “I’ve got ice and towels and we need to get your fever down before the doctor gets here. I’d have Mrs. Juntasa help you but she’s not here. I’ll step outside if you can manage yourself.”
He was talking too fast. Memories of another time were flooding over him. His heart was pounding.
“I can do it,” she said. She reached out her hands to him. “I just need to sit up.”
He took her hands and gently pulled but she was having trouble keeping her head up. By the time she was sitting, she was already slumping forward against him. As he held her away to get some distance between them, her hands fell into her lap and her head lolled backwards, her eyes closed. She’d passed out.
“Jean,” he said, holding her.
He eased her back onto the bed and felt her jugular. Her heart was racing but the pulse was good and strong. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. He undid a couple buttons on her blouse, saw the black lace of her bra, and abruptly stopped. Jean was not Linda. He shouldn’t even be thinking of undressing her.
The ice ought to be enough, even through the silk.
He turned away, quickly wrapped some ice in a towel and tucked it behind her neck. Then, he took a few larger chunks of ice, already slick and partially melted, and ran them over her forehead. Water trickled down the side of her face and he followed it with the ice. He rubbed it lower down her throat and over the exposed part of her chest. The wind from the fan pushed small rivulets of water down into her bra and out toward her shoulders. He turned back to the bucket and, with both hands, scooped out ice water and small chips from the bottom. As he ladled the combination over her torso, every curve of her body stood out under the thin fabric clinging to her skin. He forced himself to look away, grabbed more ice and started again at the top. Her forehead was already dry but as he moved the ice over it, her eyes slowly opened.
He stopped, quickly reached across her and brought a sheet over. The fan blew it down and the water from the ice plastered it to her.
“What…what happened?” she asked.
Clark dropped the remaining ice into the bucket.
�
�You passed out,” he said, standing next to the bed. “The doctor is on his way.”
“Passed out,” she repeated.
Her hand moved against the sheet. She looked down to see it soaking wet and adhering to her.
“I had to cool you down,” he said, watching her puzzled face.
“I…I don’t remember,” she whispered.
Slowly, she sat up, holding the sheet in front of her.
“Take it easy,” he said, his hand on her upper back. “Not so fast.”
“I just wanted to take out this clip,” she said.
She reached a shaky hand up to her hair but her fingers couldn’t find it.
“Here,” he said. “Let me.”
Carefully, he unlatched the smooth, plastic fastener and released her hair. Dark shining waves of it cascaded down to just below her shoulders.
“That feels better,” she whispered.
The silky brush of it on his hand made him want to run his fingers through it but she began to sway. He put his arms around her, leaned forward and eased her back down to the bed.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile.
There was a knock at the door.
“Doctor’s here, Boss,” Annan said from the other side.
“Good,” Clark called back. “Be right there.”
He looked back to Jean.
“Dr. Kinchai’s good,” he said, moving toward the door, but she’d taken hold of his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said quietly, taking her hand in both of his. He lightly stroked it as he laid it on the bed next to her. “Let’s see what the doctor says. I’ll be right outside.”
• • • • •
In the confusion, it’d been easy for George to slip away. As the staff rushed to and fro, George had simply walked through the middle of them. He’d taken special note of the large greenhouse behind the main house as they’d passed it on their way back from the processing building.
He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, moving down the long corridor to the back of the house. Though the mansion was large, there were actually only three people that he’d seen. He’d catalogued their movements since they’d arrived. Most were accounted for in other places right now, mostly centered around Jean.
