Emerald Street

by Felicia Rogers

  Hours later, Uncle Roland found them huddled together on the couch, studying old pictures. He took a seat across from them and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Honey, come look at these pictures. Can you believe Raylyn was ever this small?” The pictures showed them at one picnic or another, her parents holding her with Renee and Roland in the background.

  “Of course I can. I remember holding the girl in my hands. But right now, I have more important concerns.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s my supper?”

  Aunt Renee covered her open mouth and ran to the kitchen. Smoke rolled into the living room, and the keen scream of the smoke alarm rent the air.

  Uncle Roland sighed and rose. “Guess I better go see if I can get the pizza delivery guy out this way.”

  Raylyn smiled and settled back against the couch. She was going to miss them, but she knew she was making the right choice.

  Chapter Ten

  The force of the plane’s take-off sent Raylyn back against the seat. She grasped the arms and prayed for safety. Moments later, the plane leveled out, and she relaxed.

  Eyes closed and ear buds in, she thought about the last couple of weeks.

  Training at the Medical Missions Academy had been rigorous. Not only had they reviewed her medical skills with limited supplies, but they had also reviewed her knowledge of the Bible and her ability to learn a foreign language. The normal year-long program had been shortened to a month because of the mission field’s great need for nurses.

  Two weeks of her month-long training had been spent living in a jungle setting. She had been placed with a team of missionaries who would potentially live in this type of environment. They had assisted her in constructing a suitable shelter and had taught her how to secure water. Food and other supplies had been backpacked in before the training.

  One of the most difficult parts of her training had been securing a working knowledge of Spanish. Although most of the people in Chiapas spoke native languages, Spanish would help her to get by, and she had been encouraged to learn as much as possible before her arrival. The more she conversed without a translator, the easier it would be for the people of Chiapas to trust her.

  The plane bumped along the runway. Raylyn again grasped the chair arms and breathed through the process. The plane rolled to a halt. She disembarked at San Cristóbal de Las Casas National Airport. The cool March weather caused her to draw her sweater tighter around her shoulders as she maneuvered toward the luggage carousel.

  People milled around the exit. Cabs, express buses, and colectivos, a form of transportation for locals that resembled a crowded van or bus, lined the street.

  Raylyn gnawed her lip and pondered what to do. The address for her temporary residence was on a folded sheet of paper in her purse. Taxi fare was rumored to be fairly reasonable.

  She turned in a full circle. Several individuals stood beside cars, holding signs. Trying to make out the writing, she noted her own name.

  Carry-on bag hoisted higher on her shoulder, she stepped off the curb. The ancient, rusted vehicle looked like it had seen better days. The man standing beside it wore a short-sleeved white t-shirt, a pair of white trousers, and a white hat. The light colored clothing contrasted with his dark tanned skin and his dark hair. As she approached, she noticed the deep cocoa color of his eyes.

  “Hello,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “Hello. I’m Raylyn Morrison.”

  “Ah, finally you arrive.” He threw the board into the back seat and approached the driver’s side door. When she made no move to climb inside, he peered over the roof and narrowed his eyes. “Is there a problem, señorita?”

  “No,” she drew out the word, paused, and added, “But I don’t get in cars with strangers.”

  He came back around to her side, his lips twitched in the semblance of a grin, as he held out his hand. “Forgive me for the slight. I am Alfonzo Gomez, welcome to San Cristóbal de Las Casas.”

  He stowed her bag in the trunk and opened her door. Hesitantly, she slid onto the seat. The ceiling of the vehicle skimmed her head, and she wondered how the tall native fit. He made the task look easy as he reclined the seat and took his place behind the wheel.

  The car motor hummed and drowned out the radio, yet Raylyn caught the words: It’s an unusually cold March day here in Chiapas, Mexico. A cool breeze is blowing, and we recommend not packing those sweaters away just yet.

  Without preamble, the driver stated, “We have been without a nurse for some time.”

  “Yes, I read the letter you sent.” She smoothed the wrinkles from her trousers and worried her lip. Stories of tourists being picked up by strangers and robbed ran through her mind, and she prayed she hadn’t made a vital mistake.

  “I am very surprised you chose to come here. Have you been to Mexico before?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. You pique my curiosity.”

  “How so?” She faced him.

  “Do you know of the dangers?” He never took his eyes off the crowded road. People stepped in front of the vehicle; he honked the horn and waited for them to move before creeping past.

  Did he mean dangers besides his driving? Forcing herself to look away from the people and their near misses, she said, “Yes,” mentally adding, I read your letter, or have you already forgotten?

  “Did they tell you in school or did you do your own research?”

  “Both.”

  “You are aware Chiapas has many caciques, or powerful community chieftains, that are a mix of Mayan religion and Catholicism, and they don’t like Christians?”

  “Yes.” Her heart felt like it rose in her throat. It was one thing to read this in a book; it was something entirely different to hear a native say it.

  “Do you know the bad things that happen to us?”

  She cringed at his tone of voice and prayed he wouldn’t go into detail. She answered, “Yes.”

  “And you know you will live in a ghetto that surrounds San Cristóbal and houses the people you will be helping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know everything.”

  Raylyn doubted that, but she didn’t comment. They passed through what she thought might be the town center. The various colored buildings looked colonial with red-tiled roofs and wrought-iron balconies. Narrow cobblestone streets caused her to cringe as Alfonzo drove without slowing.

  “We have found you a place to stay. The apartment is tiny, but it is clean and in a safe neighbor. Well, as safe as San Cristóbal can be for us. I will personally pick you up each day and escort you to the clinic.”

  “You don’t have to—“

  He stared at her. “Yes, I do.”

  The brief look caused her heart to race, and she nodded. They drove only a little further and stopped outside a two-story building with white stucco walls and columns.

  Bars graced the first floor windows, and Raylyn tried not to appear nervous as she climbed from the car. Alfonzo hauled her luggage from the trunk and carried it to the wooden door and sat it down. The handle rattled in his grasp as he turned the key.

  The door swung open, and she gulped before taking the first step. She entered, and was taken aback. The entire apartment encompassed one room.

  A couch faced the open door. To the left was a dining room table and a smaller-than-average stove, sink, and refrigerator. On the wall closest to the door sat a desk and chair. The opposite corner coveted a television. On the furthest wall resided the bed.

  “All the comforts of home,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes.” Not exactly.

  “I’ll let you settle in. I live close by, so I will return with your supper.”

  “You don’t have to—“

  “Yes, I do.”

  The door clicked closed, and her heart felt like it had settled in her stomach.

  ****

  A completely naked toddler ambled through the room, his ebony hiney shaking with every step.

&nbs
p; Korzan Sekibo cocked a brow and ignored the sight. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a stair-stepping gang of children jogging by. He blinked. When they passed, he said, “Maybe we ought to take our conversation to a different room?”

  Jack nodded in agreement and rose. Before he could take a step to follow, a woman with cocoa-colored skin and long, silken black hair stopped before them.

  “Korzan, can you help me?”

  He looked at Jack.

  The lady faced him and held out a soap-covered hand. “Sorry. I’m Melanie Sekibo. Welcome to our home.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you. Hannah has spoken of you.” Jack shook her hand and then wiped the suds on his pant leg.

  The smile faded as Melanie looked at her husband. “Now, Korzan, can you please help me? I’ve been trying to get Malachi into the tub for the last hour, but the child refuses to cooperate.”

  “Well, he’s ready for the tub,” said Jack, fighting a snicker.

  “What?” she asked, looking between the two of them.

  “Dear, I’m afraid our son is leading the others on a merry goose chase through the house while in his birthday suit.”

  Melanie slapped her hands to her reddening cheeks, sending bubbles flying through the air. “That child will be the death of me.” She stomped from the room muttering, “Adopt over twenty children, and the only one that gives me problems is the one that came from my own womb.”

  “If you need to go, I can wait,” said Jack.

  “Naw, Melanie will take care of the situation.” He stood and directed Jack to a small room off the back of the house. Dark wood paneling covered the walls. A rounded table resided in the corner, flanked by two comfortable, cushiony chairs.

  They settled, and Korzan said, “Rory told me a little bit about what you wanted to know, but I’m not sure I’m the one to help you.”

  “I guess I’m hopeful that you’re wrong.”

  “Very well. Tell me and we’ll see.”

  “I want to join the missionary field.”

  “Okay. Why?” asked Korzan, his hands folded in his lap.

  Jack rubbed his thighs. Part of his pants poufed around his prosthesis, and he lifted his hem. “I lost my leg in war. I feel blessed to be alive, and I’d like to share some of my amazin’ story with the world, especially with those who are suffering for Christ.”

  “I see. And what skills do you bring? Are you a pastor?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a teacher? Do you have a ministry degree?”

  “No.” Jack straightened.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Then tell me, what do you have to offer?”

  “I’m a hard worker, and I want to share my faith with others.”

  “That’s good. Now what useful skills do you have? If you want to enter a hostile country, the best way to do so is with a skill. You can work and yet witness at the same time. Do you fly?”

  Jack squirmed.

  “I see. So you do fly, but you don’t want to advertise this skillset. May I ask why?”

  “Yes, sir, you can ask.”

  “But you aren’t going to answer?”

  “No, sir.” Jack’s heart skipped a beat. Why did it always come down to his ability to fly? Wasn’t he good for anything else? Couldn’t he be used for the Kingdom in a different capacity?

  Korzan tapped his finger to his chin. “Are you sure you want to do this? You’ll be away from the most advanced medical care. You won’t have access to people who can help with your prosthesis. What about your family?”

  “My family and I are estranged at the moment.” Jack laid his leg over his knee.

  “Ah, not the best way to leave the country.”

  Jack studied his hands. They were tanned from weather and worn from work. Living the lifestyle of a rich man would never satisfy him. “I’ve done it before.”

  “I see.” Korzan quieted. He stood and strolled behind an oak desk. Papers ruffled as he shifted through a drawer’s contents. He held a slip of paper in between his fingers. “If I give you this, and it goes poorly, I do not want to be blamed.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Contact this organization. They are always looking for laborers. I’m assuming you can build things.”

  Jack tilted his lips upward into a wide smile. “Yes. I built many things when I lived on the farm. Pig pens, horse stalls—”

  Korzan rubbed a spot between his brow before interrupting. “Good. I will put in a good word for you. Don’t disappoint me.”

  The door knob rattled. Melanie stood in the opening with her hands planted on her hips. Water dripped from her clothing, and bubbles clung to her hair.

  “I guess that is my cue to leave. Thank you so much, Korzan, sir. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Korzan clasped his hand. “Farewell, my friend. May God help you find what you seek.”

  ****

  Jack stood at the San Cristóbal National Airport and waited on his ride. The pole he leaned against was cool, and he closed his eyes and rested.

  Training to be a missionary in a foreign country had been a little like boot camp. There was no real textbook, just lots of practical knowledge and practice. Several of the teachers had given him a hard time about his infirmity, not completely convinced he could carry out the work, but through persistence, he had persuaded them they were wrong.

  The normal year-long training had been completed in a little over a month. He had been allowed a pass on the language and jungle training. At least his military knowledge had come in handy for something.

  He shifted from foot to prosthesis. The long flight had caused a cramp in his leg, and he was glad to walk around.

  The street outside the airport teemed with people. Taxis and buses encompassed most of the traffic. People moved along the row, waving signs. Jack clenched his luggage handle and scanned the newcomers. It didn’t take long to locate his driver.

  Luggage rolling behind him, Jack increased his pace. Always a natural when it came to languages, he addressed the short, rotund man in fluent Spanish, and the fellow lifted a brow as he replied, “Welcome to San Cristóbal. I’m Manuel Gomez. I’ll be your driver and escort.”

  Jack placed his bag in the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. Manuel entered traffic and kept up a running monologue.

  “San Cristóbal de las Casas, also known as Jovel, used to be the capital of Chiapas until 1892. Now it is just the cultural capital. President Felipe Calderon called the city The most magical of the Pueblos Magicos. We have restaurants of all kinds and interesting festivals. In fact, it seems as if we have a festival almost every week!”

  The man laughed at his own joke and continued, “You have arrived at a good time. In March, the temperature is perfect, right around seventy during the day. Later, when you get a break, I will have my brother take you to the town center to see the culture.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I guess you know you have come to a dangerous place to work. Especially because you volunteer to improve the houses in the ghetto. That will be frowned upon by the caciques.”

  Jack didn’t reply, and the little man stopped talking. Jack knew all about the area. He’d studied it extensively when the missionary board had given him his location. He never considered requesting another, but even if he had, it wouldn’t have done him any good. Chiapas was the only place they would let him go. The thought he was a burden depressed him, but he pushed it aside. Why must he constantly prove people wrong in their estimation of him?

  They stopped before a white stucco complex. Stones covered the walkway. The terra-cotta tile was covered in a green moss that resembled mold.

  “You will be on the upper floor.”

  They followed the path until they reached the corner of the building and ascended a set of rickety cast-iron stairs. On the balcony, Manuel let Jack into an apartment.

  “All the apartments are the same, so no need to be je
alous. I will retrieve you for work in the morning.”

  With those words the door closed, and Jack was alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Raylyn dropped onto the edge of the bed sending the rickety metal frame bouncing. Light reflected off dancing dust particles and highlighted the kitchen area. Two dark-stained cabinets graced one wall. The silver-colored, one-holed sink sparkled. The narrow white stove took center-stage, sporting two eyes. Plastic, brown coating flecked and peeled from the college-sized refrigerator. Traditional Spanish tile covered the wall behind the appliances.

  Faded terra-cotta tile graced the floor in a plain design. White stucco walls were offset by the dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling.

  A door led off the main room. Sighing, Raylyn stood and strolled toward it. Hinges squeaked as she pushed it open.

  The entire room, floor to ceiling, was covered in bright, white tile. A showerhead poked through one wall. A metal bar circled a corner, holding a bright orange shower curtain. A drain hole opened in the middle of the floor.

  A toilet without a seat was opposite the makeshift shower. In front of the commode sat a pedestal sink with an oval mirror hanging sideways above it. The glassy surface reflected her shocked expression, and she leaned against the doorjamb and drew in a deep shaky breath. She would figure all this out. It wasn’t so bad, just different. She could do it. She was here to help people, to forget her past and start a new life, and to stop thinking about Jack and what her life might have been like.

  Back in the main room, she unpacked her clothes and placed them in a chest at the foot of the bed. Finished, she stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. What now?

  ****