by Shelby Hiatt
"What happened?"
"Officers came. They held me at gunpoint and took Victor away."
"Why not you?"
"Possibly they knew I was part of Alfonso's troop. He may have protected me, given orders not to pick me up, I don't know. Maybe that teniente we apologized to when we were boys had something to do with it. I keep trying to figure it out. I'll never know. Anyway, they took Victor to Montjuich and tortured him."
I flinch at that, my first sign of emotion. Federico now keeps his eyes on me, doesn't back off or spare me the details. He wants to see if his little Dayton flower can take a hot wind of Spanish truth and I do take it, looking him straight in the face, no tears, no recoil, unmoving.
"They kept him in the double-zero cells and whipped him, forced him to stay on his feet without sleep for days, and fed him dry bread and salt fish with no water until he vomited blood. But he didn't reveal any names. He didn't give in, and my assassination attempt failed."
He stands still, contains his own emotion.
Slanting rays of setting sun fall across both of us. I don't feel the heat or the breeze from the Cut, only a slight nausea caused by what he's just said and the strain of the situation.
"I came to Panama after that," he says. "My family was afraid I'd be arrested, and Alfonso took all our money and property, everything, calling it a voluntary contribution to the Church. It killed my father, literally. His heart gave out." Tears jump to his eyes. He sucks in his breath.
"And your brother?" I say.
"The torture left him blind and he can't talk. My mother takes care of him. The two of them live in a little room ... That's all that's left of my father's fortune." A sardonic laugh comes out of him. "The Church took her husband, her son, everything she owned and forced me to leave the country, but my mother still gives pennies to the Virgin when she can and prays. She doesn't grasp it."
He steps onto the porch and looks across the Cut for a moment. "I should have told you this a long time ago."
"You tried, didn't you?"
"Did I?"
"This week in the gazebo?"
"You could tell?"
"We made love instead."
"Right."
The sky is changing from violet to deep blue-black, another spectacular end of a day. "Do you know what the peasants earn?" he says to me, still looking away. "Three shillings six a week. That's what in dollars?" He looks back but he doesn't really want an answer. He just takes another deep breath.
He's shaken and so am I.
"Wouldn't you like something to drink?" I'm amazed at my poise—I guess that's what it is.
"Thank you, no. Really, I'm all right."
We're now officially a universe apart.
In my mind I see our Methodist church on the corner of Twelfth Street—Wednesday prayer meetings, Thursday carry-in supper, no ornaments, a picture of a Nordic-looking Jesus with wavy brown hair, no rituals, hymns, prayers, and a sermon about right living and staying clean of soul. The collection plate is passed—give if you can...
"I can't imagine it," I say.
"That's good." He smiles, his head tipped a little to the side. He likes that about me. Reading El Unico is as close as I'll come to his deranged world. Our house is as close as he'll come to my benign one. He stands there, pensive, looking at me, then says, "I can't stay, I'm sorry..."
He glances around the room and understands that he's destroyed my plans. "I'm sorry, really."
"I understand."
He looks at me in that curious way again, trying to figure me out, as though he doesn't know me or my kind and wants to but not right now, no time for that now.
He nods—no courtly bow—we're way past that.
He goes toward the kitchen and I follow. Out on the porch he pushes the screen door open, smiles at me weakly, and goes down the steps. He doesn't look back again and his figure disappears behind the brush along the track.
Seventy-Five
When he's out of sight I go back in and sit on the sofa, looking out at the darkness that's descended in only minutes.
My eyes finally rest on the table beside Father's chair, where there are clippings from Katharine's latest letter about Orville's recent European trip and with it newspaper photos of the flying machine tipped at a slight angle in the sky. I stare at it from across the room. There's an index card lying with the letter. Katharine's sent the recipe for Orville's turkey stuffing so we won't have to go another Christmas without it. She knows how much we all love it, and Mother, who rarely asks anyone for anything, has requested that recipe, and there it sits while they're in Taboga.
I take the card into the kitchen and put it with Mother's other recipes in alphabetical order in a small blue box with a faded floral design on the hinged top. I push the recipe box back into its place and stand there trying to take in what has just happened, but I can't. It doesn't seem real. It's a story from another world that I'm not likely to ever see.
What is real and clear to me is that Federico and I are now further apart.
I cannot write a single word about this in my diary that night, and I don't see or hear from him again for weeks.
Seventy-Six
It's Saturday evening and on the track below us a group of Spaniards appears, carrying two large flags and singing "Garibaldi." Father is the first to hear them. He goes out on the porch to watch.
"Spaniards," he says when I join him. "They have troubles back home, you know."
"Mmm."
Mother comes out with us.
They're almost straight below our house, all of them dressed in colorful clothes, sashes and berets, with flags and banners and a leader—Federico.
I stop breathing. My eyes go wide.
The group stops walking. Federico steps forward, looks up at us, and speaks. I really can't breathe.
"We have come to thank you, Jefe. You have been a great help to us in the past and you are our loyal friend..." And he goes on—more good things about Father and that they've come to honor him. Mother remarks to me quietly about the quality of Federico's elegant speech.
"Oh, yes," I say and have to clear my throat.
Federico's voice carries well; we hear every word praising Father. There are cheers and shouts of "Viva!" Mother and Father watch, completely entertained and I begin to relax a little.
"Good men," Father says. "Good men."
The group suddenly begins climbing our hill. My stomach screws tight as Federico leads them boldly, not showing the slightest fear.
Father smiles and gives them a little salute in greeting. Federico doesn't avoid looking at me but doesn't give any indication he's ever seen me before, either. He looks very correctly at all three of us, the jefe's family, and focuses on Father, the center of the occasion.
They're halfway up the steps and Federico shouts out political slogans, viva this or a bajo that, about honor and justice, and the group responds with " Viva" to each one. Then the flag bearers come up the steps to cross the flags in front of us, and the group sings a melody about Spain and its natural bounty. I'm terrified and excited and want it to end, but the song goes on and on.
Mother, who usually dislikes demonstrations, loves this, the singing and Federico's handsome face looking up at us.
"He's very good looking," she murmurs to me.
"Mmm."
They finish and there's another shouted viva for Father. He gives them his friendly salute again and they retreat down the hill. Federico shoots me a quick glance and I half smile. I'm shaking.
"Beautiful," I say to Mother, trying to be normal.
"I don't ever want to forget that," Mother says. "Oh, the Kodak, for heaven's sakes!" Too late. No snapshots.
We're going back into the house, blood finally pumping through me again, when we hear someone behind us—Augusto.
"Please come with us, Jefe," he says. "A bajo in the cantina ... a banquet."
Augusto is not as smooth as Federico. He keeps glancing at me, which Mother notices. She nudges me.
"He sees how pretty you are," she whispers.
Heart pounding, stomach churning. "I'm flattered," I say. This is too much.
Seventy-Seven
Father goes with them to the bottom of the hill into the Brown Spider Cantina, a grim establishment nicely decked out for the festivities.
Mother and I sit on the porch and listen to the celebration. The whole thing unnerves me. We bring out plates of supper and eat with the singing and shouts of "Viva" and revolutionary speeches drifting up the hill.
There are occasional clear phrases about saving Espana, which I loosely translate for Mother. Spanish is still difficult for her and the voice we hear most is Federico's. For me it's unsettling.
"He speaks so beautifully," says Mother.
Of course he does.
Hours later, long after dark, Father comes back and describes the evening: lots of wine and food he's never seen before.
"Spicy," he says, "and some of it hard to eat. They passed around those leather pouches—the wine streams into your mouth. All kinds of toasts ... to me ... to Spain ... other things. You know, most of them said they'd worked at my site one time or another, but I couldn't remember all their faces. That leader, though, I remember him—fellow named Federico. Nothing like the others." He sinks into a chair, full of food and wine, and says he's dizzy.
This shakes me, hearing Father say Federico's name.
"Their Spanish is too fast for me, but I got the gist of it. Spain must be a mess—starving population, bad king, corruption..." He shakes his head. "A shame ... All of them are good boys, bright. Any one of them could learn to do my job in no time ... and here they are..."
He waves his hand toward the Brown Spider and shakes his head again. He understates his own expertise to show his admiration for the hard-working Spaniards, typical of my modest father. Mother agrees with him and I stay silent, and in a little while the two of them go upstairs to bed.
The noise from the banquet continues, and I can see the edge of the cantina from my room overlooking the foliage and growth down the hill and across the tracks. Among the voices is Federico's, stronger and firmer than the others.
I try to figure out the whole thing. I don't doubt he's planned this ceremony to honor Father, the good-natured American they all work with from time to time who wishes them well, supports them, thinks of them as something more than faceless labor. He's a man to be respected. But in my fevered mind I believe Federico organized the whole elaborate scheme to make his presence known to me again, to make things right, and that's the thought I hold on to because it's what I want to believe: it was all for me.
Different versions of the scenario drift in my head for hours, but one thing sticks: Federico, the leader, the organizer, forced to flee king and country, has boldly stood on our steps leading cheers for Father and facing me with my parents. This is a new version of him that I never expected. It's exciting.
And it creates a new version of me: less secretive, more self-assured, less jumpy.
The next morning I feel stronger and ready for the day, and once again I feel there's nothing I can't do, nothing I can't overcome.
Entry in my diary: We're a couple again. That's all.
Detour
Seventy-Eight
Mr. Herman from the school office comes in with a note for Mrs. Ewing, glances at me, and goes out.
Mrs. Ewing calls me to her desk.
"You have to go home immediately."
"Father's hurt?"
"Heavens no. Something that important, they'd come for you. It must be something else. Don't worry. Go on home."
But Mother's never called me home "immediately" for any reason and I know only something extreme would make her do it. I do worry.
The train ride to Culebra seems endless and so does the walk to our house in air heated to bursting, about to break in a downpour. I imagine awful things—Father hurt, Orville killed, Mother herself sick or injured somehow ... Up our hill two steps at a time, in the back door.
Mother calls down from upstairs.
"There's a terrible flood."
I bound upstairs and she's hurrying around the bedroom, talking and packing.
"We'll take the twelve-forty to Colon, board the Advance tonight. Start packing."
What? WHAT?
"Every house on Hawthorne Street's flooded; every structure in Dayton is in deep water. Katharine called and said some of the single-story houses are covered to the roof—it must be terrible..."
It is terrible. Horrible. Leaving Federico just when things are bound to heat up again. (Not a single thought for my Dayton neighbors.) "This is awful," I say.
"Pack some clothes, something sturdy—there's mud everywhere. The water's deeper downtown than at our house. All the stores on Main are under water and mud on everything. Bring your hightop shoes and jodhpurs. Can you imagine it? Business files floating down Main Street? And chairs and tables. There's furniture floating all over—she said it looks like toys in a bathtub..."
All right. Stay calm. Think this through. How will I get word to Federico? I'm about to disappear and he'll have no idea what's happened.
I know the visit honoring Father signified we'll get together soon, but if I'm gone and not at any of our regular meeting places, he won't know what to think. He'll probably think Mother and Father have found out and I'm punished somehow for life. But how do I let him know what's really going on?
"...it started Sunday. Katharine said you could hardly hear the closing hymn, it poured so hard, but this time of year, you know, there's always rain and some flooding ... Bring all your underwear—we won't be able to wash easily."
"Why?"
"Everything's under water..." She stops and looks at me, frowning. It's pretty obvious I'm rattled but not for the same reason she is.
"Right, right," I say. I duck my head and get busy.
Seventy-Nine
It's a disaster of major proportions. It's not one of our standard Ohio Valley spring floods. There are injuries, deaths, and terrible damage. Mother says waters from the Miami and two other rivers rampaged toward Dayton and a dam collapsed, so it was a wild torrent by the time it reached the city. The levee on Stratford Avenue overflowed, flood breaks on East Second and Fifth streets gave way, and the city was inundated. This is biblical.
Mother's agitation doesn't keep her from moving fast, neatly folding her garments and placing them into cases while she advises me what to bring and relays Katharine's news.
"...she says she and Orville overslept on Tuesday and rushed out to appointments in another part of town, and the flooding happened so fast, they couldn't get back to the house..."
I follow her orders, pack what I'll need, but I'm knotted inside and completely stressed.
An hour later we're on the train.
***
Mother stares out at Zoners as we pass but I don't think she sees them. She's silent, deep in worry. The flood is grinding in her like Federico is in me.
Suddenly she says, "Milton and Mrs. Wagner were rescued by a man in a canoe. Imagine that—took them to Mr. Hartzell's house."
"Incredible," I say.
"Our living room and dining room and kitchen are floating..."
There's a catch in her throat, and that's the last she says about the flood. She can't go on and I'm glad; she's upset.
Nothing in the Dayton house means much to me, but I know it does to her. The furniture and the pictures on the walls and small articles were carefully chosen and placed, and they're Mother's entire life. I have no attachment to any of it, but I can't keep from feeling for her, and just for a second, Federico is out of my mind. I hug her.
I've never done that before, never been the one to give comfort to her. She's hurting and fearful, no doubt, of what we'll see when we get to our house half submerged in river water and unlivable, only the upstairs high and dry.
Mother wipes her nose, gives me a quick smile of gratitude, and looks out the window.
It feels
good to console her but I'm hating this, every minute taking me farther away from Federico.
That evening we sail for New York.
Eighty
On the train from New York to Ohio I can only agonize over how long we'll have to stay, still no concern or sympathy for my Dayton neighbors. I don't ask Mother; she couldn't possibly know, and considering the suffering and destruction we're going to see, it's all wrong to mention.
I ride along in a daze of Federico scenarios—him searching for me, giving up, sweating in the Cut, wondering why I've dropped out of sight. No longer his good-natured, totally reliable American girl after all? I shudder at the thought. When we pull into Dayton Station, I look out the window and thoughts of Federico vanish.
Nothing Mother said has prepared me for this: Dayton is submerged in yellow ooze. Fences and hedges are torn and twisted in the mud. It looks like the aftermath of a cyclone, a flood in its wake.
We arrive at Hawthorne Street and it reeks. There are heaps of refuse moldering where flower beds used to be. The Wrights' perfect lawn and rock garden are jumbled with debris and unrecognizable objects.
A tricycle has been deposited with mud against the Wrights' wraparound porch, the one the boys built. Their beautiful turned railings are slime caked and smeared. Porch rockers have all but disappeared, pushed against the wall, plastered with sludge. The expert handwork Orville did on the uprights is covered with silt that's dried to a strange ochre gloss. And near the second floor, a dirty yellow line makes a high-water mark as it does on all the houses on the street—on ours, too.
It's a shock to see.
Our house looks much like the Wrights', with nothing done to clear away the litter packed with mud on our porch. Mother stiffens but doesn't say a word.
We go inside, Mother in high boots and heavy clothing, me beside her with Mrs. Wagner, a neighbor, who warns us, "Slowly—you don't know what's under the mud."
