by Ann Warner
Rob glanced at Sam. “What does our medical officer think about that?”
“If you haven’t taken Diamox ahead of time, coca is a good alternative to alleviate symptoms. You either chew the leaves or drink the tea. You won’t get high, but it might help that headache.”
The driver turned off the highway onto a narrow unpaved track lined with potholes and rocks and, as the van began to bump and grind, Rob took several of the coca leaves out of the recycled plastic bag they’d come in. After he’d chewed the leaves for a while, all he noticed was a slight numbness to his tongue, then he realized the headache had begun to abate and his fingers no longer had the shriveled look of something left too long under water. He didn’t care for the taste of the leaves, a distinctive green flavor with an underlying bitterness, but the bad taste was a reasonable trade for the headache.
As the day progressed, the novelty of being in Peru wore off and Rob regretted his decision to come on the expedition. Unfortunately, it was too late to back out now. He was stuck for the duration.
The only good thing? The foreignness of the surroundings and the physical discomforts of the journey distracted him, for the first time in months, from the soreness of his psyche.
Climbing above Cuzco’s 10,000 feet, they passed through a stark landscape of tans and browns. The driver shifted into low gear, and Rob turned away from the sight of the sheer drop on his side of the van. They would have to wait a long time for rescue if they got stuck or slid off the road, and given the way the vehicle shimmied through the ruts, that was a distinct possibility.
Since he could do nothing to avert the possibility, he tried not to think about it. Instead, he struggled to follow the example of Jolley and Sam who were chatting in a relaxed fashion.
When they stopped to stretch their legs, Rob glanced up and was struck by the deep clear color of the sky.
“It’s the high altitude and no pollution, of course,” Jolley said, when Rob remarked on it.
Shivering, Rob blinked to lubricate his eyes and licked his lips, beginning to peel in the thin, odorless air.
Over the next few hours, the road ascended further before beginning to descend. Vegetation reappeared, and Rob spat out the last of the coca leaves, glad to be done with them.
Plant life became progressively more lush and the air changed.. No longer crisp and clear, but thick and damp.
After Tyrese Brown mugged her the day Rob left for Peru, Clare told Beck about the incident and the deal she’d made with the boy to come to Hope House.
She knew by the way Beck pummeled his bread dough he was upset. “You’ve got to promise me, Clare. No more walking home by yourself.”
She rubbed her arm where Tyrese’s companion had gripped it and had no difficulty giving Beck her word.
“Don’t want no gang members here.”
“He isn’t one. At least, not yet. And we can’t just stand by and wait for him jump off a cliff before we step in. Not when we can possibly stop him from jumping in the first place.” Despite arguing the point with Beck, Clare wished she’d never made the deal with Tyrese. Wished she’d simply called the police. Let them handle it. But the boy was so young, so frightened.
“You think it’s that easy?” Beck said.
“Of course not, but that’s what you’re trying to do, isn’t it. Save people?”
“Only ones that wants it.”
“Maybe we can help him want it.”
“I’ll talk with this Tyrese. If he shows up. See what he has to say for hisself. Then we’ll see.”
Clare felt no sense of victory at Beck’s agreement. Suggesting the boy come to Hope House had been a spur of the moment thing. Now that she’d had time to think, she hoped Tyrese wouldn’t show up. It would be so much easier.
She stretched her shoulders and rubbed her neck, achy from a night of being jolted awake by images of merciless eyes and dark alleys full of trash and broken glass. Her uneasiness deepening, she went looking for John Apple, needing to tell him about her encounter with Tyrese before he heard it from Beck.
He was repairing a window frame in one of the classrooms. Standing in the doorway watching him, Clare felt the way she had as a child about to confess a wrongdoing to her father. As she had then, she recited the facts of her misdeed quickly.
“Dammit, Clare. You know better. If you don’t want to ask me to walk you, you ask Beck or one of the men. They could’ve had guns or knives, and if they had, those few little moves you learned wouldn’t have saved you.” The screen fell with a bang, and he stooped to pick it up, swearing softly.
“It’s not your job to worry about me.”
He set the screen down and turned to face her. “Someone’s got to, Clare Eliason.”
Her heart startled into a quick rhythm.
He shifted his feet, looked away. “I saw you dance. Didn’t recognize you, though. Not until we were showing you those defense moves.”
“My name is Clare Chapin.”
He nodded. “Clare Eliason Chapin.”
“You have no right to check on me.” She turned away from him, clutching her arms around herself, the only sound in the room the ragged pant of her breathing.
His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I had no business making personal comments, but you seemed up—”
She jerked away from his touch and ran from the room, going to the only place there was any privacy at Hope House. She closed the bathroom door behind her and locked it, then stood bracing herself on the sink, trying to still the mad churn of emotion summoned by John’s words and the touch of his hand on her shoulder. Rob. Oh, God. Rob.
When she straightened, her gaze was caught by the image of the woman in the mirror. A woman with a small, pinched face; wide, staring eyes; and short white hair. A woman old before her time.
A woman who no longer remembered what it was like to dream.
Chapter Fourteen
Grand pas de deux - Variation for the danseur
Dance for two - Variation for the male dancer
Two days after departing from Cuzco, Rob and the others arrived in Shintuyo. As they climbed out of the van, the driver shook their hands, a broken-toothed grin on his face. “Una buena viaje.” A good trip.
Given they’d had two flats and one breakdown, Rob wondered what would constitute a “bad” trip, although he definitely preferred not to find out.
They completed the transfer of their supplies to open boats, Rob hoped would be more reliable than the van had been. Travel on the river quickly became monotonous. Huge trees lined the shore like the walls of a stockade, and any flowers remained hidden, as did the wildlife, except for birds.
The river itself was several hundred feet wide and as opaque as the chocolate milk it resembled. The boatmen stuck to the middle where there was less danger of running onto a shoal or encountering debris, but it meant they had no protection from the sun. They pulled out hats and sunglasses and Sam passed around a tube of sunscreen.
The sight of a parrot caused Rob a spasm of pain, reminding him of that first Christmas Eve with Clare. More parrots, flashing blues, reds, and greens swooped past the boats, their screeches audible over the drone of the small outboards.
When they reached the Machiguenga village that would be their home for the next six months, they found their accommodations were a grouping of four huts. Like the ten other huts that comprised the village, each was a simple raised platform with half walls of cane branches. Roofs were thatched with palm fronds.
Except for a few straggly patches of vegetation, the area where the huts were located was all hard packed dirt, with only the occasional muddy spot to remind them they were in a rainforest.
Jolley looked around, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. “Excellent. Excellent setup. We should be quite comfortable.”
Rob’s gut spasmed at the certainty of the discomfort in store.
The supplies were off-loaded, and the boats turned back to Boca Manu leaving them with the Mach
iguengas. The men, with their circular haircuts and simple serape-like tunics, resembled medieval monks—short, bowlegged, broad-chested monks. Their sturdy wives were dressed in various pieces of Western clothing—blouses or t-shirts and skirts. A cluster of children with shy smiles, large dark eyes, and straight black hair stood nearby.
As Rob lifted a duffel into the hut he and Jolley would be sharing, the full force of what he’d done hit. Here he was in a jungle, for chrissakes, miles from everything familiar, when all he’d had to do was move to another apartment in Boston and begin a civilized dialogue with Clare about a divorce. Instead, he faced six months of primitive living that only postponed the reckoning.
It wasn’t the way he usually handled problems.
Rob had been gone two days before Tyrese Brown showed up at Hope House. Beck arranged for him to come after school every day to be tutored by Clare and to spend an hour with John Apple cleaning classrooms, removing trash, and learning to do simple repair jobs.
Clare looked up as her newest student sidled into the classroom, a sullen expression on his face. “Found out you ain’t no cop.”
“I never said I was.”
“You ain’t the boss of me. Can’t make me do this.”
Clare hid her discomfort at his angry tone with a shrug, relieved that three men were taking practice GED tests in the back of the room. “You’re right. But I can still turn you in.”
“Ah, lady, why you gots to do this?”
An excellent question, and the honest answer was she had no idea. She stared at the boy, who was shifting from foot to foot, wishing she’d been able to walk away from him. Instead, with Beck now on the case, she was stuck.
“We may as well get started. I see you didn’t bring any books today.” She walked over to the bookcase and pulled out Horton Hatches the Egg by Doctor Seuss.
“Honky bitch.” Tyrese had mumbled, but the words were loud enough for her to hear.
Dear Lord, how to handle it? What to say to a child as angry as this one? She took her time turning around, waiting until she’d managed a calming breath, but she still didn’t know how to counter Tyrese’s aggression.
“We’ll use this today, but you need to bring your schoolbooks with you tomorrow.” She gestured toward a chair and, once he sat down, she sat next to him and opened the book.
He stumbled through the first half page. “This’s stupid.” He slapped the book shut and glared at her.
One of the men looked over and frowned. Clare shook her head at the man. She needed to handle this herself. The certainty steadied her as she walked over to the wall phone and pretended to dial. “Sergeant Mallory, please.”
“Don’t have to go and do that.” Tyrese jumped up and grabbed for the phone.
She held it away from him, heart pumping rapidly.
“I’ll read the fucking book.”
The man who’d looked up before began to stand. She motioned him to wait, but his presence reassured her. In spite of the successful outcome of her first encounter with Tyrese, she had no desire to face him down again without backup.
“We don’t use language like that at Hope House.”
“Fuck Hope House.”
Okay, enough. “A neat trick. One I doubt you can manage.”
Tyrese continued to glare at her and she matched him look for look until he returned to his seat. He opened the book and she sat next to him, breathing a sigh of relief a bluff had once again been successful. She nodded a thank-you to the man who was prepared to come to her aid if needed.
For the next hour, she worked with Tyrese, showing him how to sound out multisyllabic words, rereading some of the lines so he could hear the rhymes and rhythms, praising him every time he remembered a word he’d previously stumbled on. At the end of the session, she was exhausted from the effort of pushing against the boy’s determined resistance.
Over the next week, Tyrese made slow, contentious progress. He was still uncooperative, but she was convinced it was more and more of an act. An act that was beginning to slip. The bigger problem was Tyrese’s continuing use of bad language. Then Beck overheard him asking one of the men why there was so much effing white bread at Hope House. Beck marched Tyrese to the kitchen and washed his mouth out with soap.
Amused by the story, Clare went in search of Beck. “I haven’t heard of that remedy being used in years.”
“Likely why there’s so much trash-talking today.” Beck stirred a bowl of dark batter.
“That isn’t a Calvin Becker double chocolate cake by any chance?”
“Thought it might help get the taste of soap out of someone’s mouth.”
“You’re a good man, Beck.”
He stirred harder. “He don’t get none till he apologizes. Told him, he don’t say he’s sorry, I’ll let you demonstrate more of your karate moves.”
Smiling at the thought, Clare left Beck to his baking. She was correcting the men’s written work when Tyrese arrived for his lesson. He sidled in, eyeing her as if she were a snake coiled to strike.
“Good afternoon, Tyrese.” She set the papers aside and waited while he slipped onto the chair next to her and pulled a book from inside his coat.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He ducked his head and flipped the book open. “Got something I needs to say.” His eyes slid sideways and he peered at her.
She sat still.
“I, uh, I disrespected you. Mr. Becker, he say I gots to apologize. I’m sorry.”
Clare waited for more, but the boy appeared to be finished. “I accept your apology, Tyrese.”
He wiggled in the seat before opening the book.
“Mr. Becker wants to see you when we’re done.”
“Oh. I already done seen Mr. Becker, ma’am. I don’t need to see him no more.”
“He won’t bite.”
“I surely think he might.”
She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she patted the boy on the arm. “I promise he won’t. Now, what are we working on today?”
“Hah!”
Rob jumped as a small boy pounced at him from behind a tree at the edge of the village. Like all Machiguengan children, he was beautiful. Thick black hair stuck straight out in spikes a rock star would envy to frame a face with smooth golden skin. Dark eyes danced with mischief.
Rob smiled. “Buenas dias. Como se llama?”
The boy giggled, his hands over his mouth.
“Me llamo Rob.” He pointed to his chest, then pointed at the boy. “What’s your name?”
The boy cocked his head as if considering, then danced off without speaking.
After that, the youngster shadowed Rob’s every move. Eventually, Rob learned his name was Tatito, and the two of them commenced a relationship, communicating with a mix of signs and words in Spanish, English, and the Machiguengan language.
“Were you ever as angry as Tyrese?” Clare asked Beck. She wanted to believe the sullenness was a defense mechanism, but it still wore her out.
“Tyrese getting to you, is he?”
She nodded.
“Why not say you through with him?” Beck said as he wiped down a section of counter.
“I guess I’m being stubborn.” She pulled up a stool and sat, resting her chin on her hands, facing Beck. “Do you think there’s any hope?”
He gave her a sharp look before turning away to rinse his wiping cloth. “When I sixteen, got my first job. Fast food joint, down by the ballpark. Didn’t know I was, how you say it? That thing where you can’t see letters and numbers good.”
“Dyslexic?” It was unclear what this had to do with Tyrese, but she settled in to listen.
“Yep.” He turned to dig a canister of flour out of the cupboard. “This one day, we got lines a mile long when this white woman pushes into my line, saying I didn’t give her enough change. Said I owed her six dollars and seventy-two cents but I only give her twentyseven cents. Didn’t even remember her. Figured she scamming me.” He continued pulling ingredients and implements ou
t of the cupboards.
“The supervisor came over, heard what she saying. Told me give the woman her change. I did it. Figured that’s one smart woman. Just made six bucks for two minutes’ hassle time.” He stared at the items on the counter as if trying to decide what was missing, then turned to the cupboard and got out packages of yeast. “I go on working. Suddenly, same woman’s in my face again. Talking about change and how I shorted her. Made me mad as hell. She must think I’m an idiot, I don’t recognize her. Only turned out she ain’t complaining about me shorting her. She’s giving me back six dollars. Said, when she complained, I gave her too much change. You could have laid me out with a feather. Never even had no white woman look at me like I belong to the same species before that.”
