“There will be nearly fifty passengers on the Vaschenko. You’ll see him, but you will not have to talk to him on any personal level or be anywhere near him.”
“I can’t. I love you, Twila, but I—I can’t. Please understand.”
Twila turned her head away—and that gesture hurt more than anything she said. “I beg you. Please.”
I had never heard her talk like that. She was one of those cheerful, upbeat types, and nothing ever seemed to upset her. I decided to choose my words carefully. Maybe if she knew his secret, she’d understand. “You see, Twila—”
As if she hadn’t heard me, she said, “I want you to know why this is so important to me and why I want you—why I need you—on the ship with me: I don’t expect to live more than a few more months.”
Three
I didn’t know what to say when Twila told me she would die within the year. I must have looked as if I were frozen, but I couldn’t take in her words.
She grabbed my hand. “I’ve decided to tell you—only you—and you must not tell anyone. Promise me that?”
Still unable to speak because of the shock, I nodded.
“I have cancer. You remember shortly after we met, I told you that three years ago I underwent a mastectomy.”
Again a mute response from me.
“It’s back, and it has metastasized.” She went into a medical explanation—she was an MD who specialized in psychiatry. Except for her personal physician, an oncologist, no one else knew how aggressively the cancer had spread. “Nothing has worked. We doctors do what we can, but sometimes God overrules.”
“No, no—”
“These things are in the hands of God,” she said. “I am at peace.”
“You can’t—you can’t die—”
“Please, my dear. If you must argue, argue with God. I’ve made my peace with Him.” She smiled and said, “I’ll soon be with my Otto and Reinhard.”
I knew who she meant. She and Otto Belke (which he shortened to Belk because people couldn’t pronounce the short e in German) married shortly after both of them had finished their residencies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Otto bought a partnership with two other surgeons in Clayton County. Twila went into private practice.
Twelve years later, Otto and their only child, Reinhard, died when a truck’s brakes failed at seventy miles an hour and rammed their car into a concrete abutment. Twila had been hospitalized for weeks with a broken pelvis. Her right leg never healed quite right, and she walked with a barely noticeable limp.
“Shh, no tears,” Twila said. “Please don’t shed tears for me. I am going to that perfect place we sing about in church.”
The truthfulness of her voice made the tears slide more rapidly down my cheeks.
Twila is going to die soon.
No, it can’t be.
“You’re only sixty-one. You’re so spry and filled with life—”
“You wish to argue with God, is that it?” Twila smiled, and it wasn’t a false smile. The deep inner peace was obvious.
“I can’t accept that. There are other treatments and—” she stopped me before I could suggest she get a second opinion.
“This is my body. I know it is breaking down, and I’m ready.” She took my hand again and held it. “We shall never speak of this again.”
“But I can’t—”
“I’ve told you because the trip to Antarctica is to fulfill my last dream. When we first married, Otto and I decided that one day we would go to Antarctica together. I must go. This is the last chance. Otto can’t go with me, but I can take the friends who are the dearest to my heart.” She seemed unaware that her nails dug into my hand, but the serenity on her face melted my last ounce of resistance. “I think Otto would have liked that. He was so good with people and had so many, many friends.”
She stopped speaking and stared at me. Those light brown eyes seemed to plead with me.
She had me, and I think she knew it. “Of course I’ll go,” I said.
“I want this to be a big, big event.”
She had no idea what a big event it would be. How could she have known that someone would take her life in the beautiful, frozen land at the bottom of the world?
Four
Twila had made the travel arrangements for all of us. I didn’t want to calculate what it must have cost her. She had booked forty-seven seats on a Delta flight to Buenos Aires. We all met on the E Concourse at the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. Everyone arrived at least two hours before our flight. Betty Freeman later told me she was so afraid of being late that she had arrived nearly four hours early. Even two hours seemed a little extreme to me, but that’s what the airlines suggested.
That meant I had two hours to avoid eye contact with Burton. I saw him, and I’m sure he saw me. It was almost like a dance routine. I moved in one direction, and he moved in the opposite. Although I was very conscious of his presence and location every minute of the two hours, I successfully avoided eye contact with him.
To his credit, he made no move to come near me. I tried to observe him by looking at reflections in the glass windows or glancing at him from behind. I did have a feeling that he might be doing the same thing, but I restrained myself from trying to catch him at it. My emotions were still raw, and I didn’t want any contact with him.
Heather Wilson, who knew we had dated, came over to me. “You and the pastor aren’t with each other.”
“You’re very observant,” I said in what I considered a noncommittal way.
“What’s with you and Burton?”
“Nothing is what’s with Burton and me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We no longer date.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I mean, that’s probably terrible or something for you.” She smiled. “Did he cast you aside?”
“Ask him.”
“So he’s available, is he?”
“Ask him,” I repeated and walked away.
She definitely wasn’t Burton’s type even though she was a lot prettier than I am. She’s also six inches shorter and looks good when she stands next to him. She could wear heels and still look good beside him.
All right, she was gorgeous—one of the prettiest women I’d ever seen. Her features were flawless-alabaster skin, full red lips, patrician nose, and blue eyes. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a severe bun, which would have detracted from any other woman’s appearance but only enhanced hers. Heather wore a richly textured sapphire blue dress that probably cost more than I spend on clothes in a year.
Our brochure advised us to wear warm, casual clothes for the trip. At the airport the rest of us wore leisure clothes (that is, mostly jeans or warm-up suits). I wore flat shoes. I told myself it was because heels were totally out of place on such a trip—which they were—but it also brought my height down so that I was less than an inch taller than Burton—I mean, if we ever stood next to each other again.
When Heather spoke to Burton, she got close to him—a little closer than most people would. But then, Heather would never win an award for being subtle.
Until they called us to board, we moved around in small groups. Our group made up almost half of the passengers on the Delta flight.
Twila and I sat together near the rear of the plane, so we were able to board before Burton. That avoided an awkward moment for me. We left on time, which was just after midnight. It was a ten-hour flight to Buenos Aires, and we landed around ten o’clock the next morning. We were still in the same time zone, so we didn’t have to worry about changing our watches.
We landed at Buenos Aires only about half an hour late. Going through Immigration was simple enough. We collected our luggage. I smirked when I saw the huge suitcase that Heather pulled. I overheard someone say that she had paid forty-nine dollars because she was above the seventy-pound weight limit.
We met together just outside Immigration. Twila had arranged for us to eat at a restaurant in the airport. I noticed with chagrin that
somehow Heather had gotten Burton to pull her monstrous-sized suitcase. He traveled with one large carryall.
After our meal together, a fleet of taxis took us to the domestic airport, where we boarded a LAPA plane that flew the whole way along the spectacular Atlantic coast. Three hours later we landed at Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. Ushuaia is touted as the southernmost city in the world. It’s at the tip of the Andes where Chile and Argentina meet and nestles between what the tourist books call the “spectacular snowcapped mountains of the Andes and the Beagle Channel.” This is one time the brochures didn’t exaggerate.
From the airport, again a fleet of taxis (actually six drivers who made repeated round trips) drove us to the edge of the town, turned onto a dirt road, and wound around a bluff that overlooked the ocean. Twila had booked most of our group at the Los Niros hotel—a remote and scenic spot, high over Ushuaia. It was too small for all of us, so she reserved rooms for fifteen people at another local hotel.
We learned that the niros is a tree. I spotted one in front of the hotel, and the clerk proudly acknowledged, “Yes, it is our most famous tree.” As far as I could tell, it was also the most infamous. With no competition, they could say anything they wanted about it. The niros stood about twelve feet tall. It was scraggly and ugly, and I suppose the only type of tree strong enough to survive the hardness of the weather. Relentless winds shook the building constantly. Despite the sun and moderate temperatures (according to the thermometer it was almost forty degrees Fahrenheit), the harsh, blustery winds brought the windchill factor to slightly above zero.
After we checked in, I felt restless. I wrapped myself in two heavy knit sweaters and two pairs of slacks. I debated about whether to unpack my heavy gloves and knit cap. I decided it was too much effort. I was still tired from disrupted sleep on the plane. Any further delay inside my room, and I probably would have been forced to lie down and rest.
I went outside. On one side of our hotel, I gazed at the Andes and the country of Chile. On the other side, I marveled at the high waves of the ocean whipped up by persistent and unyielding winds that also ripped at my face. I couldn’t decide which side was more beautiful.
The wind never let up. It was cold—the kind that seems to penetrate every layer of clothing. There was no snow, only wind. Later I walked into a low-lying area, much like a small valley. To my surprise, I actually saw a copse of trees. Just for fun, I counted them. There were eight. One of them would have measured more than eight feet high if it had been able to stand erect. Even there, the wind was so severe that they were permanently bowed.
Twenty minutes later my cold feet and numb hands told me it was time to go back to the Los Niros.
I spotted Burton with someone about two hundred feet ahead of me. They were obviously walking together into Ushuaia. I didn’t have to guess the identity of the other person. Heather was appropriately dressed in what looked like wool pants and a parka. She has a very distinctive walk and I wonder if sashay is the proper description. She also wore distinctive, fur-lined boots with three-inch heels. As always, she looked gorgeous.
Doesn’t she ever look normal like the rest of us?
“What do you care?” I answered myself.
She’s a shameless flirt.
“Right, Julie. What’s the saying? It takes one to know one.”
He’s no longer my concern.
“That’s right!” I said. Okay, I shouted it. He was no longer a part of my life. But my tear-filled eyes wouldn’t let me lie to myself.
I went back into the hotel. I felt lonelier than I had in years. I wasn’t sure why. Twila was my friend and there were others I liked to be around, but my heart was out there, wishing I were next to Burton.
From inside, I peeked back. I’m sure he didn’t see me. Heather clung, but to his credit, Burton seemed indifferent to her. His head was bowed slightly forward to brace against the torturous wind. It seemed as if she talked constantly. If he answered her, it wasn’t with much animation.
You’re through with Burton. Remember?
I turned and walked toward the dining room. It was closed, but when I waved a dollar bill, a nice waiter smiled at me—or maybe he smiled at the money in my hand. “Tea? Chai? Te?”
With a full grin he led me to a small alcove where I found hot water and tea bags. After handing him the dollar, hearing his cheery thanks, and retorting, “De nada,” I made myself a cup of tea, went back into the fairly small lobby, sat in the corner, and began to read.
All right, I didn’t read, but I had an open book. And yes, I glanced out the window occasionally—like every eight seconds. More than an hour passed before Burton and Heather came back. She pretended to trip and grabbed his arm. Such a cheap trick.
But then, I had used the same trick the first time Burton and I walked together at Palm Island.
But, of course, that was different.
As I sat alone, a terrible sense of foreboding crept over me. I kept pushing it aside, trying to convince myself that it was my anxiety about Burton.
Afterward, I wondered if I had done something—anything—or just paid attention to the nagging sense of dread that came over me, would I have been able to save Twila’s life?
Five
I turned away when Burton and Heather walked into the hotel. I stayed in the lobby nursing my long-cold cup of tea until it was time for dinner.
I called Twila, but she didn’t feel like going to the dining room. She had already arranged for her meal to be brought to her room. She assured me that her medication took care of any pain. “I’m tired, my dear, just tired.” She went to bed. I was in the room next to hers with a connecting door. I wanted to leave it open in case she needed me. Twila wouldn’t allow it.
When I reached the dining hall, I sat down near Betty Freeman and Shirley Brackett (who was at the table without her brother, Frank). When I asked about him, she said, “He’s tired and is having his dinner in his room.”
The two women chatted constantly. I smiled and made brilliant comments such as “Oh,” or “Hmm.” They didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t talk.
That inner nagging wouldn’t let up.
I tried not to notice Burton come into the dining room. He hurried past me and sat with Thomas Tomlinson, Mickey Brewer, and a half-dozen people I didn’t know. Less than a minute later, Heather pranced into the room. Okay, pranced is my prejudiced word. I’ll try it again. Heather entered the room as only Heather can. I didn’t see where she went (my back was to Burton and the others), but I heard her say, “Oh, I should have been here earlier. I would have loved to sit with you.”
No gallant man offered to give up his seat—or so I assume—because she came back and took the only empty space at our table.
The next morning after breakfast, we were told we could explore the town, but we were to meet in front of the Albatross Hotel no later than four o’clock, and we would be transported to the dock from there. They assured us the hotel was easy to find.
After breakfast, Twila and I wandered around Ushuaia for a couple of hours. For me, it was the most desolate place I had ever seen or imagined. The rugged spine of the Andes met the sea at the southern tips of Chile and Argentina. We learned Ushuaia had originally been a penal colony and about forty thousand people lived there.
Twila and I and ten others signed up for a half-day tour of Parque Nacional Park in Tierra Del Fuego, which abuts the Chilean border. It was the only tour we could take, because the ship left at four thirty. We rode in a van with a guide named Nora. Although she was pretty and friendly, her English was marginal. She answered every question, but most of the time, her answers had little relevance to what we asked.
At four o’clock we were at the hotel. As I stepped out of the tour bus, Burton stood right there. There was about a three-foot space from the lower step to the ground. He held out a hand to each female passenger.
I stared into those blue eyes for a fraction of a second before I looked away. “Thank you,” I mumbled. Because
I looked away, I stumbled—accidentally—and he grabbed me.
“I think I’ve done this before,” he said softly.
“Oh, really?” I hurriedly moved on. I love it when I can say something like that. Too late I remembered that was part of what Burton liked about me.
From then until the bus arrived, which was nearly half an hour later, I kept my back to him. That wasn’t easy. He moved around and talked to various people—he’s quite outgoing that way.
He chatted for a minute or two with Twila, but I still kept my back to him. Take that, I thought. I won’t look into those gorgeous blue eyes. I won’t let your dazzling smile get to me.
He walked away and spoke with the next group. The bus finally arrived. I had to laugh. We could see the dock from where we stood. We boarded a bus and rode less than half a mile to where we were to embark. Our ship, the Vaschenko, was scheduled to leave port at 4:30 p.m., or as they called it, 1630 hours.
The summer season was nearing its end, although there were still almost fifteen hours of sunlight. By March, no ships would leave the area of Patagonia until after the sun appeared again well above the horizon. Someone said that would be August, but I knew there would be no cruise ships until November.
I had been on Caribbean cruises twice and had enjoyed the luxury and the size of the huge ocean liners. Perhaps I expected something like that, but the Vaschenko seemed tiny, like something out of a 1930s black-and-white movie. No luxury here, but it looked sturdy, and I liked the warm smile of the captain.
Sunil Robert, the captain, greeted each of us as we boarded. He held a chart and personally checked off each name and told us the location of our cabins. Even if I hadn’t been able to tell from Captain Robert’s dark skin and straight black hair, I would have known he was from India by his delightful accent that fluctuated between British English and East Indian.
Not that I paid much attention, but he was quite handsome, about thirty-five, and just under six feet tall, with a stocky build that had just begun to turn soft around the midsection. As we got closer, I observed his wedding ring, which made him suddenly seem less attractive.
Everybody Called Her a Saint Page 2
