HURRICANE
A NOVEL
TERRY TRUEMAN
DEDICATION
For Jesse Cruz Trueman
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
La Rupa, Honduras: March 1998
Six Months Later: One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Author’s Note
Addendum
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Q&A with Terry Trueman
Excerpt from Life Happens Next
Other Works
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
LA RUPA, HONDURAS
MARCH 1998
It’s early on a Saturday morning in our little town of La Rupa. I’m in a championship soccer game on the main street of town—actually the only street in town. Today this street has become a soccer field. All our neighbors are out cheering me on. They smile and wave and jump up and down. Even my dog, Berti, looks interested, and nothing ever gets her very excited. But one voice stands out from all the others. “José,” a man with a deep voice says. “JOSÉ!” the man calls again. But when I open my eyes, the soccer field and all my adoring fans are gone.
My older brother, Víctor, wakes me up with a gentle tug on my shoulder. “Come on!” Víctor says, giving me the “shush” sign so that I won’t wake our little brother, Juan, sleeping in his bed across the room. Berti wakes up too, lifting her head and staring at us. She gets up to follow.
Víctor leads me to the back door before I even have any breakfast.
I’m grumpy, but Víctor ignores my mood. When he has a plan, like he has right now, there is no changing his mind. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is on a mission.
It is a nice morning. The air feels warm and a little damp. Our grass is chopped really short because Ernesto, the man who cuts it for us with his machete, was here just a few days ago. I glance up at the hillside behind our house, behind all the houses on this side of La Rupa. Last year a logging company cleared lots of the trees off that hill. The trees used to be home to the wild parrots that fly overhead on most days. The parrots are still around, though; they just moved a little bit deeper into the forest.
Víctor interrupts my daydreaming. “Look at this,” he says, nodding at the huge, dirty, old brick barbecue that has stood just outside our back door since we moved into this house. Both Berti and I stare at it. Víctor smiles and says, “This thing has got to go.”
I ask—stupidly, I’ll admit, but after all it’s still early in the morning, “Where’s it going?”
Víctor laughs. “We have to tear it down and get rid of it.”
I look at it again, tall and brick and sturdy. “Why?”
Víctor says, “Mom and Dad have their twenty-year wedding anniversary coming up. Mom has never liked this thing, and it’s ugly. Dad suggested that we could tear it down and make the backyard nicer for their big celebration.”
Our mom likes to cook outside, since the days and evenings are warm and humid. She uses a small barbecue we have in the back, but she has never used this big one. None of us have ever used it, and no one in La Rupa has anything like it. Still, looking at what Víctor is suggesting, I can see that it’s going to take a lot of hard work.
Víctor and Dad are probably right. Tearing the stupid thing down is a good idea, but it’s going to get hot today, like it does every day, and it isn’t going to be easy to break all these bricks apart.
“Víctor,” I say, “this is going to be a pain.”
Víctor looks at me and smiles. “José, anything worth doing is usually a pain, but getting rid of this thing will make our home nicer. Think of how much better our house will look when your preppy friends from your rich kids’ school come to visit. It’ll be great. Come on, just help me for a little while. Let’s get to work, okay?”
Víctor often teases me about my “preppy friends.” I think he’s always been a little jealous of my going to the International School, where we’re taught in both Spanish and English. He calls me “preppy” when he wants to give me a hard time. He doesn’t understand that I kind of like this nickname because I like being called the same thing that all the rich kids at school are called. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be rich too! Víctor didn’t go to a bilingual school. When he was starting school, Dad’s business was just getting going and our family couldn’t afford the high tuition then. Besides, Víctor had always wanted to work with Dad anyway; school was never important to him. I’m the student in our family, not my big brother. He’s a hard worker, though, strong and tough and stubborn like Dad, only different. In ways it seems like Víctor is almost a grown-up already. He’s always been almost a grown-up. I don’t know how else to describe it. I’m not going to say that Víctor is kind of bullheaded, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true!
So for now, like it or not, I’m a worker too, and Víctor’s helper.
I look over at Berti. She’s lying in the sun, relaxed and comfortable. She doesn’t know how lucky she is to be a dog. In all the many months we’ve had her, she’s only learned one trick: sit. When you roll a ball for her, she just looks at it. When you call her to come to you, she only does it if you have a treat in your hand that she can smell. Playing, running, and even taking a walk are of little interest to her. Berti’s idea of an exciting life is to lie around all day doing … well … nothing.
I have no such luck today.
Mr. Arroyo, who lives with his wife behind their little store across the street, is already sweeping his porch like he does every morning. He’s a funny, smart, nice guy. When he glances in our direction, he smiles and waves. The kind of “store” he and his wife have is called a trucha. Most neighborhoods and most small towns in Honduras have them. I’ve seen movies from the United States where they have Circle Ks and 7-Elevens, small stores where you can buy a few things when you need them. Here in Honduras we have truchas that are built in the front part of people’s houses. The only trucha in La Rupa is at the Arroyos’.
In the first half hour of tearing the barbecue down, a crowd of neighbors gathers along the street and the side of our backyard. It starts with the kids, but eventually parents come over too. We have a big audience. The Arroyos lean out the window of their little store and smile, and Vera Ramírez, who lives next door, cooks bacon and eggs in a skillet over a little fire in her backyard while watching us. Eventually almost all of La Rupa show up: the Handels, Mr. Marpales, the Cortez boys, Mr. Ramírez, the Ortegas, the Baronases, the Altunezes, Mr. and Mrs. Cortez, the Barabons, and the Larioses. Everyone wanders by to watch us for a while. Truth is, there are not a lot of other things to do in town anyway.
“Hey, Víctor, that’s quite a structure to be tearing down,” says Mr. Ramírez, smiling, “only I’m not sure what La Rupa is going to do without our jailhouse.”
Víctor laughs.
I whisper to Víctor, “Jailhouse?”
Víctor smiles at me and says quietly, “He’s just kidding, but look at this thing—built of bricks and almost big enough to be a jail.”
I pick up a load of bricks and stack them against the back fence, where Víctor has told me to put them. When he first suggested this idea of storing the bricks, I asked, “Why are we saving them, Víctor?”
He looked at me like I had asked the stupidest que
stion in the world. “These bricks aren’t cheap. What do you want to do, just throw them in the street?”
“No,” I answered, but I couldn’t think of anything else to suggest.
Víctor patiently said, “We’ll find a use for them someday, José. Maybe Dad and I will pave the patio area, or maybe we’ll find someone who wants to buy them, and we can haul them out of here then.”
I said, “Oh, sure. That sounds good.”
“For now, though,” Víctor said, “let’s get them out of the way and stack them neatly against the back fence there, okay?”
I tried to think of some argument against moving them all that way, but I just answered, “Okay.”
So hauling bricks is my job, and as we work, I make a bunch of these trips.
Allegra Barabon calls to me, “José!” I glance over and see her twirling one of her pigtails around her finger. “Do you feel like a mule?” I don’t answer, but I force myself to smile at her dumb joke.
Our sister Ruby, who is sixteen and the unofficial beauty queen of the town, comes out and watches us too. Ruby says teasingly, “My goodness, Víctor, you are truly the greatest brick barbecue destroyer in all of Honduras.”
She looks over at our crowd of neighbors and smiles. Now she says to Víctor, “As you can see, such talent does not go unrecognized nor unappreciated!”
Our neighbors smile back at Ruby, and Víctor laughs again.
A little later, Ruby brings us glasses of lemonade. I sip mine slowly. Víctor inhales his in one gulp.
Dad comes out of the house and sees all our neighbors standing around. He goes over and visits for a while with Mr. Marpales and Mr. Cortez. When Dad walks by us to go back inside, he says, “Excellent, Víctor. What an improvement tearing down this monstrosity will be.”
Víctor smiles and seems very proud. But when Dad sees that Víctor isn’t looking, he winks at me.
I try to pretend this horrible task isn’t really happening. I see the flock of wild parrots, soaring overhead. They’re so graceful. I look up at the steep hill that rises along the north side of town just behind our house. This hillside is a green wall that protects us from the world. The loggers clear-cut part of the hill, but I still love the forest even though it’s no longer so close to our home.
I smell the smoke of breakfast fires around town, especially from next door, where Vera Ramírez has finished cooking. She looks over at me and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I manage to smile back despite how miserable I feel. I’ve known Vera Ramírez since I was born. She’s like a second mom to me.
Some of the kids, led by Carlos and Pablo Altunez, tire of watching us and go out in the street to play soccer. I wish I could join them.
As I carry bricks, I see all the houses of our little town. Glancing at our neighbors who stand talking together, I realize that I know every home in La Rupa and the colors, shapes, and sizes of every room in every home. The houses here are just like most houses in Honduras—simple buildings, with one bathroom and two or three bedrooms. We don’t have basements like I’ve seen in movies about the United States, or big two-car garages. But our houses are painted more colorfully, in bright pink or yellow or turquoise. I have been inside all these houses many times, eaten meals with the families, and watched TV with the kids. I know where the picture of Jesus, with his chest open and his heart showing, hangs on the living room wall of the Hernández house; I know that the Álvarezes always have pink toilet paper in their bathroom to match the pink tiles on their bathroom wall. I know exactly where the canned hams or canned peaches are in the Arroyos’ trucha. I know every person in every home, where they sleep, where they eat, and who gets along or doesn’t get along with whom.
The only family that I don’t know really well, a family no one in town knows very well, is the Rodríguezes, squatters who live on the opposite side of town from our house, poor people with three kids and no money. They moved here a few months ago. Their “house” is made of tarps, two-by-fours, and scraps of weathered plywood. Every neighborhood and small town in Honduras has at least one Rodríguez family. Nobody minds them being here. They are just poor people who have no place else to go. But we haven’t gotten to know them very well either, because these families move often, never staying in any one town or neighborhood very long.
After an hour and a half of working, Víctor and I have the barbecue torn only about halfway down. Víctor is being very careful to not break the bricks as he uses Dad’s wrecking bar and a hammer to pry them loose and then sets them gently on the ground.
I stare at the Altunez and Cortez boys still playing soccer in the street. They’ve been joined by Jorge Hernández, who is my age, and Félix Marpales, who is a year older but a small guy and not very athletic. If I were playing, I’d be the best soccer player in the group. I so wish that I could join them!
“Go ahead, José,” Víctor suddenly says, nodding his head toward the street.
I ask, “Really?”
Víctor says, “You’ve helped a lot. Go play soccer. I can finish this up.”
I look at the rest of the barbecue still standing, and I want to say that I’ll stay and help, but I can’t make myself say it. Instead I ask, “Are you sure?” knowing that Víctor will say yes.
Víctor smiles. “Yeah, go.”
I feel guilty, but I can’t stop myself. “Thanks,” I say as I take off toward the street. “See you.”
“See you too.” Víctor immediately gets back to work.
Berti sees me moving toward the street and slowly, lazily stands up and starts to follow me, but she only walks ten or so steps before she stops. I look back at her and ask, “You wanna play soccer?”
She sighs a dog sigh and plops back down onto the ground in a spot where she can watch both Víctor working and me playing. Berti might just be the laziest dog ever born. Teasing her, I say, “You can be goalie,” but she drops her head onto her paws and looks back at Víctor again. “Suit yourself,” I say, running to join the game.
I score six goals in our marathon match. I am the star … at least to myself!
Five hours after we started, Víctor is finally almost finished. The news spreads throughout the town, and soon all our neighbors—most everyone in La Rupa—comes back to watch Víctor complete the job. Our soccer game breaks up for good, and all of us go to watch too. As we approach the yard, Berti gets up again and trots over to stand near me.
When Víctor has unloaded and stacked the last of the bricks, he walks back toward the house and says, “That’s it.”
Many of the adults burst into applause. They call out, teasing, “Bravo!” “Encore!”
Angelina Altunez, Carlos and Pablo’s mom, says, “You are a great man, Víctor.”
Víctor won’t let our neighbors see him blush, but he smiles, raises his arms, and takes a dramatic bow, which makes everyone laugh, cheer, and applaud even louder.
My shirt is soaked with sweat just like Víctor’s, only mine is from playing soccer for the last three hours, and now I feel guilty that I didn’t help Víctor more. I also have to admit that I feel a little bit jealous that Víctor is getting all the credit, even though he deserves it. If I had known that Víctor would become La Rupa’s hero and main attraction for the day, maybe I would have kept helping. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have. Víctor is the oldest. It’s his job to do things like tear down huge, ugly barbecues. I’m only thirteen; my job is to help him a little bit and then go have fun.
I glance at Víctor as he finishes his bow. To tell the truth, I’m hoping that he’ll say something like “José helped too,” but he just smiles at me. As much as I hate to admit it, Víctor really did do most of the work. I guess fair is fair.
Berti looks up at me and kind of smiles in that way that dogs do when they seem calm and happy. I reach down to pet her, but she licks the soccer-game sweat off the palm of my hand before I can start patting her head. Víctor may be La Rupa’s hero for the moment, but Berti still likes me best—at least right now she does.
; As I look around at all our friends and neighbors, I can’t imagine La Rupa ever changing very much. We’re a tiny Honduran town in the middle of nowhere. Towns like ours are not just in Honduras or even just Central America. They can be found anyplace, really. Then again, what do I know? I’ve lived here all my life.
SIX MONTHS LATER
ONE
“Berti! Come! Come on, girl!” I’m standing on our front steps, yelling down the street and then in the other direction, over and over again. Berti never wanders away for very long, but she hasn’t been home for several hours.
“BERTI! BERTI!”
Mom opens the front door and says, “That’s enough, José. She’ll come home when she gets hungry.”
“But Mom …” I start to say, but she interrupts me.
“You’re too loud, son. Come in and have dinner, and after you eat, you can go look for her some more.”
I say, “Okay,” but I’m not really happy about it.
Where is that stupid dog?
It’s not just Berti who is missing dinner. There are only five of us home tonight. It’s been rainy all day, a hard rain (the kind of rain that Berti never goes out in!). Víctor and Ruby are with Dad on his deliveries. Dad delivers goods—everything from expensive furniture for rich people’s houses to groceries for the little truchas in the small towns near here and in the closest big town, San Pedro Sula, seventeen miles away. Dad is almost always home in time for dinner, but tonight he’s late. I figure that the storm must have slowed him down. Víctor works with Dad on most days, and Ruby had to talk to some people at a modeling school in La Ceiba, seventy miles away, where Dad’s deliveries are today, so she rode along with them.
Hurricane Page 1
