Ashes of Foreverland

by Bertauski, Tony

  And one never occurred without the other.

  “Danny,” he said. “Danny, Danny. ¿Cómo estás, mi amigo?”

  “Muy bien.”

  “¿Huh? ¿Si?” His laughter faded. He rolled the cigar between finger and thumb, the smoke hanging over the Florida birthmark. Something was off. It was like two images that didn’t quite line up.

  “I worry about you, Danny. I worry.”

  “Pero innecesario.”

  “Oh, I think it very necessary, amigo. You are so young and the world so big. You grow up so fast, and I worry. You have everything ahead of you, Danny—whatever you want. ¿Comprende?”

  Danny nodded. I understand.

  Maria brought their drinks and a bowl of fruit. Santiago took tiny sips, sighing. He worked the cigar like a child casually hitting a pacifier. Danny took an ice cube and ran it across his forehead. They spoke about the stock market, about potential investment opportunities as well as the current ones.

  When lunch arrived, Santiago shook his empty glass. When Maria brought a second drink, he bit a grape in half. “There is the matter of Mary and her investors.”

  Danny winced. It took a moment to comprehend what caused it. His forehead tingled. He connected the sensation to a word.

  Investors.

  The Investors, they were the old men that brought them out to the island, the old men that meant to steal their bodies. That word would always sting. He put on sunglasses, the world feeling a bit too bright.

  “You see, your escapade”—he waved his knife—“the running you did at our meeting has caused...consternation, Danny. It was childish. People do not care to give money to a child.”

  “I won’t explain myself, Santiago. There will be other investors, you see. Entrepreneurs are interested in one thing—money. They don’t care who makes it for them.”

  “May I ask, what was the letter?”

  “A girl, in town.” The lie seemed fitting, less secretive. He was grateful for the sunglasses.

  “¿Amiga?” The laughter slowly rumbled. “This is what I mean, Danny. Amigas are for boys, not men.”

  “Then the world is run by boys!” Danny’s laughter was louder than Santiago’s.

  “Perhaps this is so. But, lucky for you, I saved this meeting with your investors. Mary will meet again on the promise you wait to chase your amigas after lunch.”

  “How do you work such magic?”

  Santiago shrugged. “They know me, Danny. They trust me. I tell them to trust you because I believe in you. Since day one, I believe in you.”

  “Why?”

  “I know a jewel when I see one. I recognize talent.”

  “¿Cómo?” Danny pressed. “What talent do you see?”

  “You always ask the right questions, that’s what I like about you. You make good choices.” He pointed with the knife, chewing with his mouth open. “You are one in a million, Danny.”

  When lunch was finished, Santiago pushed away from the table and lit a second cigar. He took a cappuccino from Maria and puffed blue rings.

  “No more running, Danny.” He pointed with the cigar wedged between his fingers. “The investor will meet us tomorrow at the same restaurant. No more letters and such, no interruptions or we meet right here, on the veranda.” He thumped the table. “They want your ideas, Danny. You are visionary. You will help bring a new world into one that is tired and old. ¿Comprende?”

  New world?

  This was a new pep talk. Santiago was always about enjoying the fruits of life. By fruits, he meant wine, he meant women. Not a tired world or a new one.

  It was getting hot, even in the shade. Maybe it was the smoke. Danny rubbed another ice cube on his forehead.

  “Everything is yours, Danny. And when you are old enough, we will enjoy cigars together and talk of our triumphs. We will drink good liquor and live very long. A new reality.”

  Reality? “You mean new world?”

  “Same thing, Danny. You have everything you want. ¿Comprende?” Santiago’s laughter returned. He lifted his cup. “¿Por qué nunca dejar?”

  Danny choked.

  Santiago didn’t notice. His head was back, a column of blue smoke streaming from his lips. It reminded Danny of something long forgotten, a chimney on the tropical island that belched smoke when one of the old men had successfully stolen another body. Smoked is what they called it. Someone just got smoked.

  “What did you say?” Danny said.

  “¿Que?”

  “What did you say, just a second ago?”

  Santiago thought a moment, dashing his ashes. “¿Por qué nunca dejar?”

  It was an innocent phrase that sank its knuckles so far under Danny’s ribs that it robbed his breath. He gulped small bites of air, tears brimming behind the dark lenses.

  “The bathroom calls.” Santiago excused himself.

  Danny raised a hand but didn’t wait for the Spaniard to return before going to the patio’s wall. He ran the last couple of steps, vomiting over the edge. He rinsed his mouth, wiped his eyes and tried to appear normal.

  Those words, the very same words, had been uttered before.

  He’d heard those words on the island, long ago, to describe Foreverland—the imaginary land where he and all the boys were forced to go, where their dreams had come true, where they got everything they wanted so they would never return. They would leave their bodies behind, empty of awareness.

  Foreverland was the trap they couldn’t resist, so wonderfully everything a boy could want. The old men told them so. They said exactly what Santiago just said in Spanish.

  Why would you ever leave?

  “Lunch tomorrow, Danny?” Santiago waved from the house. “I come pick you up.”

  Danny agreed.

  It was the second lie he told that day. He wouldn’t be there when the Spaniard arrived. He wouldn’t go to lunch. Reed sent those letters.

  Now he had to find him.

  8. Alessandra

  Upstate New York

  “¡Hola! ¡Hola!”

  The front door opened, followed by rustling bags and heavy footsteps. Alex wiped her hands on an apron and turned just in time to see a petite woman come at her with arms wide open.

  “Ooo,” the woman dressed in brown moaned, clenching her daughter in a long hug that betrayed her inner strength. “¿Cómo estás?”

  They hugged beneath a rack of stainless steel pots and pans, an embrace Alex tried to relinquish twice.

  “Bien, Madre. Bien, bien, bien.”

  Madre pulled back and stared at her daughter, searching for the truth. Alex took the old woman’s hands and kissed them like she did when she was a child. Madre’s eyes teared up. She held Alex’s hands to her cheeks and kissed them over and over while muttering prayers.

  An unsteady march came down the hall.

  “Ah, there she is.” Her stepfather, a retired farmer, limped into the kitchen, the uneven gait the result of a tractor rolling on top of him. He wore boots made for cutting wood because you never know when a pile might need tending. The only thing bigger than his boots was his belly and, of course, his personality.

  “Can I get an autograph?” Hank asked.

  Alex hugged him. His beefy hands were cut from bucking bales and manhandling ornery hogs. He lifted her onto her toes.

  “Bonita.”

  “Gracias.” She laughed. “You’re early.”

  “No traffic,” he said. “Your mother fell asleep.”

  “So you drove 100?”

  “Not quite.”

  Alex took the paper bag and placed the bottle of wine on the island counter. Hank went to find a comfortable chair and a television because, as he always said, driving makes you tired.

  “You are cooking?” Madre asked.

  “I follow the directions on the box.”

  “But that’s still good, you know. The apron and everything is good.” Madre patted her hand like before, this time without the prayer.

  Alex began cleaning dishes. She
could only take so much of that look, the one Madre lovingly saddled onto her children. Look what you do to me, Madre would say when something bad happened. Her brothers, perhaps, deserved as much, but none of the guilt stuck to them. And Alex, the fallout of her older siblings fell on her like ashes of a well-tended fire that had once burned fiercely.

  It took three years of therapy for Alex to unwind the weight of Madre’s suffering. That was why Samuel didn’t call her from the hospital, why Alex didn’t contact Madre until she was home, when everything was normal. The old woman no longer said those words, not to Alex. But her eyes still spoke them, the creases on her forehead were very clear.

  Look what you do to me.

  Alex lifted her hand halfway to her head before stopping. She thought the voices were beginning to swarm, but it was just the lawnmower. That strange crowd of voices, young voices like children, still came in waves. If she listened for them, they were always there, in the distance. The doctors had no explanation, just to be patient.

  Hank came back into the kitchen and asked for a corkscrew. Madre refused to let him open the wine. They argued while he pulled the cork out.

  Cheese and crackers were served and nearly gone when Samuel finished mowing. Madre’s worry lines had faded in the warm glow of red wine. Now there was just laughter, and a warm feeling infused the room, like sunshine beamed from the light fixtures. The last time Alex felt like that she was very young, before she was saddled with worry and declarations.

  A sunbeam sliced through the window; a heavy cloud of dust danced in the light when she noticed the distant chatter, like a crowd on the other side of the fence, the garbled words muffled in the trees. She paused at the sink and looked into the backyard until the voices faded.

  Samuel had turned the yard into paradise. Almost everything was blooming yellow, her favorite color. Butterflies and bees and dragonflies came to visit and never seemed to leave. And the scent of her favorite shrub filled the kitchen, violet flowers in full bloom.

  Lilac.

  ——————————————

  Hank dropped the last card on the pile and they added up the points. Alex wrote down the scores while Madre gathered the cards to shuffle. Samuel excused himself to find another bottle of wine.

  “When are you going to start writing?” Hank asked.

  “When I’m ready.”

  “Well, how long does that take?”

  “I’ll know.”

  “You know what they say about getting back on the horse?”

  “Wear a helmet?”

  Hank bellowed laughter like a distant relative of Santa. Madre arranged the cards all in one direction, tapping the deck on the table, and began the ritual of shuffling exactly seven times. She placed the deck in front of Hank.

  “Whatever happened to the piece you were working on, the one on animal abuse?”

  “Hank.” Madre knocked on the deck. “More cards, less talk.”

  He nodded and dutifully cut the deck. Madre began dealing. Alex didn’t answer. She didn’t want to talk about writing or hospitals or accidents. She caught Samuel’s cards before they slid onto his chair, and waited for his return.

  “What’s done is done, Alex,” Hank said. “You can’t fix the past.”

  A cantankerous old fart, Hank liked politics and drama. Not the usual modus operandi for someone that grew up in the country. If you’re not pushing buttons, he once said, you’re not living. Hank insisted that stones were not meant to sit and rest, but to turn over to see what was hiding beneath. Sometimes that meant you had to throw a few.

  “I’m not trying to fix the past, Hank. Just leaving it where it belongs.”

  “But you’re not writing. Sounds like the past is still in the present.”

  “Stop,” Madre hissed. “Talk is over, old man.”

  “I’m just saying.” He gave his patented shrug and leaned back with a slight smile. It was the equivalent of a boxer taunting an opponent with his chin. “Alex is a writer. She’s not writing. So is she Alex?”

  “Bones don’t heal overnight,” Alex said.

  “Or maybe they’re not broken.”

  “You still limp.”

  He patted his hip. “That’s hard living, chica.”

  Alex bristled. He only called her chica when he was bored, his way of saying she hit like a girl.

  “You could get it fixed,” she said.

  “It’s not broke.”

  “Then why do you limp?”

  “Old men are supposed to limp.”

  “You’re saying your past makes you who you are? Sounds like someone isn’t present.”

  “I’m saying I’m exactly who I should be. Old men die and babies suck on mother’s milk.”

  “Enough.” Madre slapped the table. “No more talk of niños. Look at your cards before I take them.”

  Lines carved her forehead, but these were different than the ones Alex feared. This expression Madre reserved for her husband, when he forgot to take out the trash or pushed arguments too far.

  He scooped up his cards, adding a twinkling wink that said meet me out back later and we’ll finish this. Samuel came back with a fresh bottle and filled all the glasses. The game resumed; cards were played.

  Jazz streamed through the speakers and somewhere outside children were playing. Samuel began to whistle and Hank asked him to stop and Madre told them to behave themselves. The hand was almost over when someone said.

  “Don’t forget who you are.”

  “What?” Alex said.

  “Your play,” Hank said.

  “No, what’d you say?”

  The others looked confused. “It’s your play, Alex,” Samuel added.

  “No, he said something else.” Don’t forget who you are.

  Alex waited. She wanted to push more, but Madre’s lines of impatience could turn to worry, so she dropped a card. Madre smiled, played her trump cards, and the hand ended soon enough.

  Samuel corralled the deck.

  Alex noticed the subtle tracks on the polished surface, a light dusting. She dragged her finger across the table, wondering where all the debris was coming from.

  “Some things you can’t forget,” Hank said. “Or shouldn’t.”

  But when she looked up, the old man was finishing his wine. And Samuel was eating a cracker. Madre tallied the points.

  She didn’t ask him to repeat it. Instead, she excused herself to the bathroom.

  Madre didn’t need to see her breakdown.

  ——————————————

  Alex went to the bathroom then hauled the recycling out to the garage.

  She didn’t explain why she felt compelled to do it before the card game was over, just called out from the kitchen and walked out before anyone could argue.

  Hank got to me.

  The old man never argued with Samuel. Maybe because Samuel was a lawyer, a damn good one, or a man. Or maybe because Hank knew Alex would give him a good fight but, in the end, he’d get the final word. She couldn’t recall anyone ever winning a debate with Hank, whether it was politics or Chinese checkers.

  But she’d never heard him pretend not to say things.

  She didn’t imagine that. He wasn’t pretending. He couldn’t have said it because he had a throat full of wine.

  She took a deep breath, made a detour through the backyard, and cleared her mind. Despite the cloudless sky, it was brisk. She hugged herself against the chill and wished she would warm up. She needed to clear the clutter in her head. Maybe a nap. Sleeping had been doing her good lately. She always woke up refreshed and happy.

  And happy wasn’t a word she wore often.

  She dumped the recycling and crossed the driveway. The neighbor across the road waved from his mailbox. Alex waved back and slowly made her way out to the curb.

  The street was lined with mature elms that arched overhead. Despite the dappled shade, it was warmer out there, almost ten degrees. She already felt good inside and out. Must’ve be
en the fresh air. Sometimes a short walk is the remedy.

  There was a wad of envelopes stuffed in the mailbox; she sifted through them on the way back, half of it junk. The garage door was still open. She tossed all of it into the recycling bin but noticed the address on a large envelope.

  Alessandra.

  A wave of gooseflesh raced down her arms. Alex looked around, even at the blue sky. She’d done a story once, when she first started as a journalist for The Washington Post, on paranoid schizophrenia. One of her subjects insisted there were cameras always watching, satellites that recorded everything. He described how he got this feeling when the spies were watching him, how his joints tickled and the back of his throat itched.

  She never forgot that.

  She tore the envelope open. Several glossy sheets fell on the concrete. It was from a travel agency. The fliers advertised package deals all over the world with illustrious beaches, endless sand and swaying palms on uninhabited islands.

  She flipped the pages over, admired the views and, one by one, dropped them into the recycling bin. But they seemed familiar. Where have I seen these?

  It was the last page.

  White sand was on one side of the island and cliffs on the other. The view was from above, taken from a helicopter or a drone. Maybe even a satellite.

  She’d seen this photo, seen this island.

  “Alex!”

  She dropped the photo. Samuel was on the back porch.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, sure. Just...picked up the mail.”

  “You want to finish the game?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  How long had he been standing there? Was that what she felt?

  She wadded up the page and tossed it. Of course she hadn’t been there. She’d never been to a remote island in her life. She’d seen a thousand photos of beaches. She climbed the steps and noticed the red tulips in the bed Samuel had mulched.

  He stood with the door open. When she turned around, the tulips were yellow. Maybe she needed to schedule another appointment with Dr. Mallard or Dr. Johnstone. She wasn’t just hearing things.

  She was seeing them, too.

  9. Alessandra