“Did it ever start?”
“I guess not. I’m done with guys.”
“So soon?” Libby asks.
“I have a terrible record. Libby, will the beans crack while they’re soaking?”
Let’s face it, flatulence is the perfect discussion when avoiding the subject of my love life. I’m paying special attention to the cooking lessons because obviously my love life is going nowhere quick, so I might as well hone my skills.
“Her selector is off. She needs someone else to pick for her,” Claire says matter-of-factly.
“I’d pick that J.C. for her. He may not be too bright, but he’s a cute thing. He must be book smart too if he got into that Pepperdine of hers.”
“J.C. is out of my league, Libby, and besides, I thought your whole deal was making sure no one mingled with the opposite sex on your property.”
“Oh, I’d kick you both out, don’t get me wrong. I’m only saying I think you two would be darling together. You could bring the common sense to his book smart ways, and you two would be unstoppable.”
Claire laughs at this. But I hardly think jokes at my expense are funny at the moment.
9
My Life: Stop—July 8
Factoid: 329 million people are native Spanish speakers. I am not one of them, and never was this more apparent than today.
It’s the first day of Vacation Bible School and the compound is abuzz already. I suppose I shouldn’t say “compound,” as that implies cult or underground military chamber . . . but then again, Libby does have a few things in common with certain military leaders and cult organizers. Of course, it’s not politically correct to say that. It’s just true.
The pace is frenetic and exciting, and there’s a lot less English going on around here than there has been, so I am feeling more lost than usual. I’ve had three years of high school Spanish, but with the speed natives speak it, I catch about every sixth word—which leaves a lot to be desired in the area of overall comprehension. No one has time to speak in an alternative language (mine!), so there’s a bit of Spanglish going on as well. I’m better at that.
J.C. is back, and he’s sleeping soundly in the middle of the living room. I suppose because he looks half dead, Libby feels it’s safe to leave him with me—that I won’t pounce on him. Sigh. What is up with that?
We all had a breakfast of scrambled eggs with hot sauce alongside J.C. in bed. I guess Libby doesn’t want him to get too comfortable with being sick when she’s got work to do. I thought for sure those gorgeous eyes would pop open at the scent of the pepper sauce, if not the noise of clanking silverware, but J.C. slept through it all. As soon as Libby and the rest left the main house, I actually checked J.C.’s breathing. I did so in speed mode so Libby didn’t come in and catch me and accuse me of making a pass at Sleeping Beauty.
But I’m done with guys. Even if Libby would never believe that. Hey, Claire probably wouldn’t believe it either, but it’s time I stopped wasting energy on romance and focused on my education. Clearly God doesn’t think I’m cut out for both.
In a way, I feel invigorated at the idea of having my love life behind me and well into the future. I’m too young to think of such things anyway, right? It saves my tender heart from being broken again. I made it through high school without a steady boyfriend. Surely I can manage college as a loser as well—it’s a lot easier to get lost in the crowd there, and no one needs to know I’m dateless. I mean, a single girl. Nothing wrong with being single! Guys do it all the time, and it has this free and fabulous connotation. It’s time we girls changed that for ourselves.
Maybe I’m entering new territory, like a purity pioneer, if you will. Although with Libby the man-hater married—and to a really decent guy—it’s doing nothing to swell myself with pride.
I washed up the breakfast dishes, and now I’m sitting on the sofa watching J.C.’s expansive chest rise and fall with each breath and being thankful I’m over guys and dating. Though I have to tell God, it would be a lot easier to get totally over them if J.C. looked like a hairy troll rather than a blond cherub with gorgeous gray-green eyes.
I should start fixing lunch and finishing the morning snack. I just can’t help but hope my travel journal will have SOME form of travel in it before I’m done here. Some form of travel other than climbing up and down the ladder to my pathetically hard spot beside the cot.
Libby storms through the door. “Today’s the day!”
I shut my journal and stuff it under the couch. She has renewed vigor and purpose at seeing all the kids outside, and she is not happy to find me on the sofa.
“Loafing already? Daisy, come on, you’ve got work to do. All this celery needs to be cut and the ants on a log made. Come on, snap, snap!” She shakes J.C. awake with both of her mitts. “How are you feeling?” she asks him in a tone that’s loud enough for the entire camp to hear.
J.C. groans from under his blanket.
“I see you’re still not up to par. I need to move you. Daisy needs the prep space.”
Libby lifts up the foot-end of J.C.’s cot and roughly slides him across the room with the cot legs squealing, until he’s farther from the kitchen and closer to the fireplace—which I still have yet to see used. Staying with Libby is like living in a cold, concrete cave.
“Now you won’t have to get out of bed until you’re ready,” she says as though she’s done him a favor. “But when you’re ready, we’ll obviously need to move you so we can run the camp more efficiently. How does the sting site feel?”
“It’s my arm.” He moans. “It’s throbbing. The sting site isn’t that bad. Just ugly.” He uncovers his foot from the blanket and shows us a red volcano of pain near his toes.
I cringe just looking at it, but Libby is still matter-of-fact in tone. “Oh my, that’s a good one. Must have been a baby scorpion. They’ll put a hard cast on your arm as soon as the swelling goes down. Are you keeping up on your pain meds?” She shouts to me, “Daisy, come get J.C. more of his pain meds and get the potatoes going for lunch before you start the celery. He doesn’t need to take that on an empty stomach.” Libby sits alongside J.C. on his cot. “Daisy’s going to take care of you today. I assume you’re making arrangements to get home, no?”
“No, I can get up and help. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t leave while your arm is still throbbing. It should stop throbbing by tomorrow morning.” Libby pats his leg a bit too hard and J.C. flinches. “Hank was right. We had extra volunteers show up from church at the last minute. God is so good. If you do plan to stay, you can just help with more of the cleanup at the end to get your college credit, but the swelling won’t go down at all if you’re up and about, so I’d say stay down for now. I’m certain Hank has some yard work that needs to be done at the end of the week. He talked about building a pergola.” Libby has a smile on her face, and for all intents and purposes, she apparently thinks she’s being gracious. “Daisy, I’m going to get things started outside. The children are so excited. Here we go!”
Libby leaves the room, and J.C. and I both breathe a sigh of relief.
I walk across the room to the kitchen. Claire and I shredded potatoes until late into the night so I’d be ready for lunch and still able to prep the celery stick snacks. We covered them with a tiny bit of lemon juice to keep them from turning brown, and now they’ll provide a filling meal for the kids—maybe the only one they’ll get today, which still makes me want to cry every time I think about it. It almost seems laughable that I complained about homemade clothes when half these kids don’t even have shoes. For all Libby’s faults, I can see she does love the children and want to see them well fed with both the Word of God and food.
I open the icebox, take the shredded potatoes out, and rummage for some orange juice so that J.C. can take his medications. I fill up a glass and hand him the pills, then help him drink from the glass.
He groans from the movement. “I can’t be sick here. You heard her.
Now she’s not going to sign off on my scholarship.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to worry about that, and I think an insurance agency offering a scholarship knows enough about injury that you should be excused. Besides, maybe Libby says all that to keep us on our toes.”
We both look at one another and say, “Nah!”
“When these meds kick in, I’ll get up and help you with snacks and lunch.”
“Why don’t you just stay in bed and I’ll say that you helped? I think we’d both feel better that way.”
“Lie? To fulfill a mission?”
“Abraham lied about Sarah being his wife in the Bible.”
“I don’t think it’s a how-to section, though.”
J.C. makes me laugh. “No. Do you want some eggs? I’ll make them fresh. The other ones are hard by now, and you slept through breakfast.”
“It’s the pain meds. They make me tired. But I’ll take the hard ones. The last thing you need is more work. Isn’t Claire going to help you in the kitchen?”
“She’s playing Queen Esther. She’ll be back.”
“Did your friend show up with the candy finally?” he asks, and I’m honored he remembered about Max.
“He showed up. But not with the candy. I do believe he dumped me. Or I dumped him because I didn’t believe in him enough, and that was his excuse. I don’t know. Something happened. Maybe it was lost in translation.”
“Or I was right. He’s a jerk and he wants you to believe it’s you. I’m telling you, I’ve seen it time and time again. You girls will take on the guilt as easily as you’ll wear a new outfit.”
I smile at him. “You’re not too kind to your own gender.”
“It comes from having a psychologist mother. She sets me straight on the games people play. Like you girls pretending to be helpless for male attention.”
“Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I’m not that helpless. Do you think it would help me if I acted weak and needy?” I lift the back of my hand to my forehead and say with a Southern accent, “Oh, if I could only lift all these potatoes, but alas, I am so very weak and hope a big, strong man will come around to help me so I can get lunch ready on time.”
“Oh brother.”
“No? It doesn’t work for me?”
“It might help you find another loser.”
We’re both laughing when the tiny boy from yesterday toddles into the house. He’s still wearing only a diaper and holding his bottle, which is filthy with handprints.
“Oh, sweetheart. Aren’t you cold?” I take my sweatshirt off and put it on the boy, and he grins and waddles precariously over to J.C.
The boy points to J.C.’s arm. “Owie?”
“Sí,” J.C. tells him. “Owie.”
The little boy is filthy and barefoot, though his diaper appears fresh.
“Do you think I could give him a bath? I can get warm water in the sink.”
J.C. shakes his head. “That might tick Libby off. You don’t have clean clothes for him anyway. Unless Libby has something out in the classroom we don’t know about.”
“Libby must have some out in the classroom. I could check.”
“I don’t know, Daisy. I don’t think you better mess with it.”
“He’s just a baby.”
“I know, but I heard his stepfather yesterday when I took him home, and he’s not a nice man. You don’t want to get Libby into any trouble, and something tells me that’s exactly what would happen.”
I look at the dirty little boy with his pudgy cheeks and shaved head, his swollen stomach. The last thing I want to do is cause trouble, but this child is so darling and I want someone to care for him.
“Just take him out to the classroom.” J.C. stands and sways a bit to find his balance. “Never mind, you’ve got work to do. I’ll take him.”
“No, I’ve got this. Just relax. You need to let the swelling go down on both your arm and your foot. You’re like a walking balloon. Your foot is twice its size. Sit down.”
J.C. grabs the toddler, and his expression changes. “Daisy, look.” He swings the boy up into his good arm and shows me a distinct black-and-blue bruise on the boy’s hindquarters. “He couldn’t have fallen here.”
“People are allowed to spank their kids, though, right?” I say tentatively, though I can’t imagine what such a small boy could have done to deserve such a spanking.
“This is a toddler. Look at the size of his welt.” The boy squirms in J.C.’s arms as he tries to show me the bruise’s topography, and I slather some peanut butter on a celery stalk and hold it out to the boy, who takes it readily.
“We have to tell Libby. She’ll know what we can do and how the law works.”
“I don’t know, Daisy. Libby is swamped today, and she’s not going to like us meddling in the neighborhood’s business. What if she tells us to do nothing? Then we have to listen to her if we want our papers signed, and I’m not sure I could live with myself under those circumstances.”
“But she might tell us exactly what to do. Maybe we can call the police and ask them what we might do.”
J.C. speaks to the little boy. “Pablo, alguien hacerle daño a usted? Did someone hurt you?”
He shakes his head.
“Pablo,” J.C. says again, and the little boy curls up into J.C.’s neck.
“No casa.”
“You don’t want to go home?”
“No casa,” the toddler says again.
“J.C., we have to tell Libby.” My stomach is sick at the thought, but there’s a way things are done down here, and we just don’t know enough.
“Libby knows the man, Daisy. She has to, and as much as this little guy has been around the house in the last few days, you can’t tell me she doesn’t have an idea what’s going on.”
“If she sees the bruise—listen, I’m no Libby fan, but I can’t believe she’d turn her back on a child. I’m not willing to believe it.”
“I tried to tell her that the house looked badly cared for, but she told me already I didn’t understand how people down here lived and to just do as I was told and mind my own business.” J.C.’s gray-green eyes look right through me. “If we’re wrong, the police will work it out. If we’re not, we leave Pablo to fend for himself.”
I look at the toddler again and bite my bottom lip. I know J.C. is right, but the consequences . . . “Libby could revoke our paperwork.”
“She could, but don’t you think the insurance company would understand if we did the right thing? We’ve got the power of numbers anyway. It’s our word against hers.”
“Yes, if we did the right thing, but what if we’re jumping to conclusions? What if he fell like you did yesterday, and we’re causing trouble where there isn’t any?”
“Pablo, tu papá te golpearon?” J.C. asks if Pablo’s father hit him.
“Sí,” Pablo says and curls up against J.C.’s chest. J.C. has him snuggled in his good arm, and the sight is heartwarming.
“Let me take him before your good arm wears out.” I reach out to the boy, and he comes readily and snuggles into the crook of my neck. “Oh my, he’s such a little monkey. I love him.”
J.C. sticks his wallet into his back pocket. “I’m taking him to the medical clinic. I know where it is from yesterday. You’d better stay here in case Libby comes looking for me.”
“J.C., you can’t drive.”
“My rental car is right outside,” he says, missing my point.
“Your foot is twice its natural size. You have a broken arm. That can’t be safe. You don’t want Pablo hurt any more, do you? You’d feel terrible.”
“Have you ever driven in Argentina?” he asks.
“No, but you stay here and I’ll drive him. Tell me how to get there. As long as I don’t have to go on the main freeway, I’ll be fine. I drive in Silicon Valley. It can’t be any worse here.”
“No, you won’t drive. We don’t even know if they’ll do anything, and then we’d have to sneak back here.”<
br />
“I think we should ask Libby,” I tell him as I pull Pablo closer to me.
“Ask her.” J.C. holds his good arm open. “Be my guest.”
“I’ll do it.” I set Pablo on the sofa and march outside, then look behind me to see if he’s watching. He is standing in the doorway, so I head to the classroom.
The small room is filled with children ranging in age from mere preschoolers to maybe junior high. I find Libby in the crowd and walk toward her. She holds her hand up to halt me. I draw in a deep breath.
“Did you finish the snacks?” she asks.
“Nearly.”
“Lunch?”
“It’s on the stove.”
“J.C.’s all right?”
“Yes. I just wondered, is it legal in Argentina to—”
“Pablo!” I hear a deep, gruff voice outside and my heart starts to pound.
“Oh, that man. He’s back again!” Libby hikes her cotton skirt up around her boots and heads outside. I follow her and see what I’d describe in America as a star criminal suspect on Cops. He’s unshaven, wearing a wife-beater shirt, and his hands are rolled into fists, which makes him look like a gorilla of a man. Libby walks toward him in the same stance.
Libby speaks in Spanish, but it’s slow and methodical enough that I can understand her. “I told you, Pablo isn’t here. You don’t want him signed up, I didn’t sign him up. Get off my property.”
“You got my boy!” he accuses in English.
“Go inside and look if you don’t believe me, but if you scare any of those children in there, I’ll have the police out here immediately and make you get off my land.”
The man looks into the room and scans it, practically foaming at the mouth with anger. “If Gloria comes home and finds that boy missing . . .”
“If I see him, I’ll send him home, but he’s not here. Had someone bring him home yesterday, then he got stung by a scorpion on the way back. In the middle of the day.”
The man yells curses in Spanish as he stomps away from the house. Libby turns and hisses under her breath, “Animal!”
“Does he want to hurt the boy?” I ask Libby.
Perfectly Ridiculous Page 10
