The Coconut Latitudes: Secrets, Storms, and Survival in the Caribbean

by Rita M. Gardner

  I see an old sparkle in Berta’s eyes. She puts her fingers to her lips and I nod. We’ve both realized none of these people can guess we speak Spanish. It’s like when we were young and visiting the capital. We’d eavesdrop as everyone talked around us, never knowing that we understood every word. We’d keep up the pretense except for the few times when boys would say things about us that they’d never dare say out loud in front of Dominican girls. If no grownups were around we’d turn back to these hecklers and spew out a river of colorful Miches curses. The boys would stop dead in their tracks, mouths open in embarrassment and shock. Before they could respond, we’d spin around and walk away tall with dignity, still looking—to them, at least—just like foreign tourists. When they were out of earshot, we’d double over in laughter.

  Once aloft, we both settle into our own thoughts. I have so much I want to say, to ask my sister-stranger, but the hum of the aircraft and the splatter of conversations are comforting, a welcome blanket over my anxious mind. Berta pulls out a paper sack crammed with a book, magazines, and articles she’s torn out of newspapers.

  “You travel prepared, huh?”

  “Well, sure. We have hours to kill. Need something to read?”

  “I guess.”

  She rummages around and shows me an article on forest preservation she’s cut out of some magazine. I shake my head no. “Here’s something you probably haven’t seen for a long time. I was going through some papers and found Daddy’s opus.”

  “Daddy’s what?”

  “You remember that article he wrote ages ago that he thought National Geographic would print? We always called it Daddy’s opus.”

  I say maybe I’ll remember it if I read it again. She pulls out a thick sheaf of papers from a long envelope and hands it to me, saying, “Yeah, if you read this, you’d think we had just a wonderful life in Miches. Well, Daddy, anyway. We’re hardly mentioned at all. But then again, what would we expect, right?”

  “Right.”

  I spread open the tissue-thin sheets of paper, and now I remember the months that Daddy—in the mornings, sober of course—would take a lined notebook with him when he fired up the furnace in the drying shed at Cocoloco. He’d bring his completed pages to Mama so she could type his notes up on the Royal typewriter. Her typing is as fast as rain hammering on the roof. His story was never published, but he sent copies to friends in the States curious about our strange life. I read aloud some of what Daddy wrote in 1958 about Miches:

  Six years ago a number of coconut palms coming into production persuaded us to move here, bag and baggage, plus our daughters Berta and Rita. There is a local expression that “el ojo del amo engorda el caballo” which means the owner’s eye fattens the horse, and I wanted to get started on personal management of the finca. After all, I had to start learning about coconut growing sometime, as my past experience in farming had been limited to kitchen gardens of radishes, tomatoes and the like. At long last, Cocoloco finca is beginning to prove itself not so “loco.”

  There is not much social life in Miches, but with friends and the bright lights of the capital only three hours away by car it is not missed. (Perhaps it is just as well there isn’t too much activity because Emily has very nicely managed to teach the children, by means of the Calvert correspondence courses.)

  BERTA INTERRUPTS. “Oh, sure, only three hours away to the excitement of the capital. As if we ever got out of Miches more than once a year.”

  I skim past all the descriptions of Cocoloco and how the plantation runs until I get to the part of about the velorios, the ancient drumming ceremonies that happened every June. I’d forgotten about them. Now I remember Padre Daniel once said that velorios were the work of the devil. Berta stares out the airplane window as I read aloud. Seeing Daddy’s words, I remember the hot June nights, lying in bed to the throb of drums, which rose and fell like waves. Even the frogs and crickets seemed to stop and listen to the ancient sounds of drums and voodoo. The stewardess brings cups of ginger ale and packets of peanuts. I put away Daddy’s story, then pull out the last page and decide to read his final sentence. “Listen to this,” I say to Berta:

  “We have had our trials and tribulations, and expect more before our plans and hopes are realized, but as the steamship companies advertise—‘getting there is half the fun.’”

  Berta sniffs at that. “Oh yeah, getting there was definitely half the fun, all right.” Her voice, sarcastic and bitter, makes me feel oddly defensive of Daddy. Maybe I have this reaction because of all the years she missed; the times that weren’t so bad, except when they were. Sadness seeps in like a mist after reading Daddy’s words. It’s all true, what he writes, but it’s as if there’s another person on these pages, another Daddy—not the rum-crazed father who yanks us out of safe beds on dark nights and makes Mama cry.

  Berta is dry-eyed when we land, wearing her sorrow like a shield, and soon we’re on the familiar cross-island journey. The driver says that the main road over the mountain is impassable; we won’t get to stop at the top of the mountain ridge for the ritual of seeing Cocoloco like we’re used to on every trip home. My heart sinks at the news. Here was the one place we could see Daddy’s entire dream come true, the swath of coconut fronds next to the beach, nestled right up to the turquoise bay. Our world, our life—growing and glowing off in the distance, always beautiful. Sometimes this sight even seemed to make everything worthwhile.

  Instead, we detour away, turning into unknown hills and passing papaya trees swollen with fruit, straggly settlements too small to be called villages, and stands of coffee trees with their bright red berries. It begins to rain, and the sweet smells of wet earth and cool rain engulf the car. I take a big gulp of wet air, and almost as swiftly as it began, the rain stops, and a double rainbow appears then disappears. We get stuck in one rut for almost half an hour before the driver and two men riding donkeys manage to yank the car out and back on somewhat solid ground. This is unfamiliar territory, so we’re both startled when, after another hour of lurches and turns, we suddenly arrive in Miches. Berta squeezes my arm so tightly it stings as our eyes strain in the dusk.

  The driver pulls up to the gate at Casalata and honks his horn. We spill out of the car, try to shake off the ghosts of the past, and brace ourselves for the unknown. The gate is locked, but there’s no need to ring the bell. Mama’s small shape hurries toward us, her steps jerky and fast. Daddy, rigid as a soldier, marches behind. It’s too far away to see his eyes or smell for liquor. I’ve forgotten to tell Berta how Daddy has aged; I’ve forgotten to warn her how small everything will seem. I’ve forgotten to tell her he isn’t as scary as he used to be. Too late now. I can’t tell her everything, and she won’t tell me anything. We stand together and I feel her tremble, her skin cold and clammy in the warm evening.

  “Girls—you’re really here!” Mama’s voice cracks as she fumbles with the lock. Daddy’s arms don’t seem to know what to do; they jerk and twitch, and his mouth opens and closes, trying but failing to speak. For a few seconds we’re all frozen in our tracks and I can feel the numbness seep in, that fog I pull around me for protection from danger or at least the anticipation of something bad. A cough behind me from the driver, and the silence is broken. He’s waiting to be paid.

  “Un momento,” Daddy says, and then his arms reach out toward us, and I step aside so it’s just Berta in front of him. They face each other. She straightens up so she’s almost as tall as he is.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  I feel faint and realize I’ve been holding my breath. Mama’s hand finds mine. It’s damp with perspiration. A frog croaks off in the distance, and a mosquito buzzes against my cheek. In the corner of my vision, the driver has backed away to give us privacy. He leans against the hood of his car and turns his head to light a cigarette. The smoke curls around his fingers and a red dot glows in the shadowy dusk.

  “Well,” Daddy says. “Well.”

  Berta remains still. I can
tell she’s not going to make any move. I’m here, says her straight spine. I’m here, say her clenched fists. It’s your turn, says her jaw, thrust forward. Your turn, says her blue stare. A strangled groan rises from Daddy’s throat, and then he’s reaching, reaching, crying. Berta lets him hold her, lets him pull her in, lets him sob into her pretty hair. She’s still tight and stiff, not ready for any kind of surrender, not now. By the looks of it, maybe never. Mama is crying now, long gasping mews. She pulls me with her and we join in the awkward hug. I stay safe in my fog. I sniff the air like a dog but I don’t smell rum, just exhaustion, fear, relief, and adrenaline. Daddy steps back and composes himself. He pulls out some bills from his worn khaki shorts and finds the driver.

  “Ay, que bueno,” says the driver, not to the money but to the family, together again. “Hace mucho tiempo, sí?” he asks. It’s been a long time, yes?

  “Sí, demasiado.” Yes, too long, Daddy answers. Too long.

  On our first night together again, we are like swimmers just trying to stay afloat on the sea. Beneath us, the ocean of our life heaves and groans with the weight of everything that’s unsaid and will remain unsaid. This sea is all churned up and monsters lurk in its depths, the events and facts of which we must not speak. Sharks hide in the shallows, moray eels slip through forests of kelp, ready to nip if we sink. So we flail about on the surface to keep from bumping too close to each other. Yet we are afloat, all of us finally here in one place, together.

  I close my eyes and get sucked down in the undertow of an unwanted image. That’s where she is, that other girl, the one who really was murdered and tossed into the Gulf. The one we thought was Berta. I don’t know why I have to think of her now. I’ve never even thought of her family before, whoever they are, wherever they live. Or was she all alone, with no one to ever miss her? I beat my way back up to the surface, paddling my legs as hard as I can.

  We skim our conversations off the top like fishermen flinging nets to catch the fish that swim close to the surface. Daddy says we’ve got a bumper crop of nuts but the price is dropping. Juan Kair’s son found a gold nugget in the river near La Mina and they displayed it in the store until a thief broke in and stole it. Two new bars have opened up in the hills behind the baseball field. Mama says there’s a new medical clinic in town, and a dentist who splits his time between El Seybo and Miches, not like in the old days when we’d have to wait weeks with a toothache or travel all the way to the capital. I describe my new life with the Swishers, but I don’t tell them how they are the family I’ve always wanted. I tell them Ellen and I plan to get jobs at NASA next year, and maybe our own apartment. Mama says “Oh my goodness, that sounds so grand. Keep up the typing.”

  Berta says she might move to California in a couple of years when she can afford it. Mama heats up beans and cooks a pot of rice. Daddy sips his rum and coughs a lot, but says he’s getting better. The gripe had a good grip on him, he jokes. Berta produces a tight little smile. Mama has cleaned out the storage boxes from our bedroom and made up the beds with clean sheets and new mosquito netting.

  Berta and I trip over each other unpacking in the tiny space between the beds. She opens the window to the night. A faint breeze sifts through the heavy tension. The early evening quiet is shattered by radios blasting holiday songs. Daddy pulls out the old Victrola and plays Perry Como’s Christmas album, which muffles the outside noise somewhat. Before supper we pour ourselves tall glasses of Presidente beer and sit on the porch with Mama and Daddy. Berta’s jaw relaxes a notch, so I do too.

  Without warning, the lights go out and all noise drops to a sigh. The darkness is softened by a quarter moon and a paradise of stars. The four of us walk out to the front gate and look over the harbor. Here and there flickers of light appear, like fireflies glowing, as kerosene lanterns are lit. Just like when we were small, before power came to Miches. We don’t talk. With no radios to blare, no motors, generators, or other noise, we hear the slap of waves breaking, palm fronds whispering high above our heads, and the occasional screech of crickets.

  We eat by lantern light, which casts a honey glow. An illusion of coziness, we’re a surreal version of a Norman Rockwell painting, napkins tucked in and lamplight glinting gold off our glasses. Daddy has stayed moderately sober, which is enough to cheer me up. We sit in our seats just like the old days, as if nothing much has changed except Berta and I got bigger and Mama and Daddy got smaller and the house has shrunk too.

  Daddy lifts his glass in a toast. “To our happy family.” Berta chokes on her beer. I gulp mine down in one big swig, and then say “Amen” before bursting out with a hysterical cackle. Berta kicks my leg under the table and then tries to stifle a chuckle. Mama looks puzzled, but she and Daddy start to laugh anyway, until the aluminum walls reverberate with the unfamiliar sound. Beyond the laguna, the frogs fall silent and even the crickets quiet down.

  Daddy told me years ago that the eye of a hurricane has the lowest sea-level atmospheric pressure on earth. The eye can range from a few kilometers to over a hundred miles across. The calm is deceiving, of course—but for its duration, it’s a time to draw some full breaths, to take a break and prepare before being lashed again by the wall of the storm. Cocoloco is the eye of the hurricane, the place where for a few precious days we rest, a family united by a cyclone of secrets and lies and a bud of hope that we’ll somehow weather the storms that surround us. In its center we knit a peace, a fragile blanket as thin as a spider’s web. We stitch it with careful words, with no words. Daddy hardly drinks for the entire visit; his sober nights are woven into this blanket too. So are the still-awkward hugs, and the evenings we play four rounds of Scrabble and it doesn’t matter who wins. For two weeks we huddle in the center. Here in the eye the winds are slight and patches of blue sky freckle the bay with clear winter light.

  On our last night a rain shower taps its way across our roof, light at first, then letting loose like a pounding drum. I lean over and shake Berta awake.

  “Listen,” I whisper. She sits up as the rain slanting in the open window sprinkles the mosquito netting with raindrops like pearls in the dim light.

  “Let’s go outside,” Berta murmurs.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The rain will feel good.”

  We tiptoe outside in our pajamas, feet squishing in the wet grass. Berta puts her face up to the rain and opens her mouth. Like a little girl, I stick my tongue out to catch the drops as they slide down off my nose. Berta giggles, and I say “Shhh.”

  “Oh, they can’t hear anything with this downpour.”

  When we start to get soaked, we duck under the roof and perch on the porch step to dry off. As the squall passes, the moon slips out from behind the clouds and the stars are freshly washed diamonds.

  “Look.” Berta points down to the step.

  “What?”

  “Remember? Our feet.” I’d forgotten that when Casalata was built, Daddy and Mama had a special ceremony to mark its completion. Daddy mixed the concrete himself for the last job—the porch step that leads to the laguna. Berta and I got to leave our footprints in the drying cement. Water has puddled in the shallow indentations, making them stand out in the light of the moon.

  We sit together and stare off into our own galaxies. I pat my tiny footprints as if they’re flesh and blood, still part of that five-year-old child who pressed her feet into the cool gray cement so long ago. I run my fingers over my sister’s larger prints. My heart feels tender and raw. A cloud drifts over the moon and reminds me of the darkness of hurricanes. Even if a big one comes, bigger than Casalata can stand, these footprints will survive. Berta slips her arm over my shoulder, her skin sticky with goose bumps but comforting anyway. I jump at the unexpected tenderness. Her eyes drop their shields and for just a moment she lets me see all the way through the dark blue night of her pain, and out beyond to the wheeling stars where everything is all right, all the time.

  E
pilogue

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Suitcase, California

  Deep in the dim light of Berta’s hall closet, hidden by old coats and blankets, I find the suitcase. Its battered white plastic has a molded brocade pattern, now weathered after decades of journeys. This is its final resting place. My heart races. Is it locked? Holding my breath, I slide the snaps, and they pop right open with that satisfying snark sound—decisive and loud. A musty smell engulfs me, filling the space with the stale aroma of old secrets. Inside, the ice-blue satin lining has come unglued, and the gathered pockets at the sides and back gape open in a collective yawn. The sagging elastic gave up trying to keep anything secure long ago.

  She bought the luggage when she was still a teenager, that first year she left the island to attend boarding school in the States. She lugged it with her for over forty years, starting from our home in the Dominican Republic. It traveled first to the high school in Florida, where she disappeared. It was almost six years later when she and it emerged into the hot sun of Arizona, as suddenly as she had vanished. Even with this miracle—the shock and joy of her resurrection—my sister’s determined silence lasted her entire lifetime. It was clear: I was not to pry, ever. Now here I am, doing just that. Guilt and shame battle with a hungry need to know. My throat is dry and my hands tremble. This container of her past is filled with small and large envelopes, photographs, bulging bundles of papers once held together by rubber bands that have grown limp and are now stuck to them like strands of overcooked spaghetti.