Grave of Hummingbirds

by Jennifer Skutelsky

  “Mmm. Gone. I’ll make you smell of onions.”

  He’d been chopping garlic and cilantro, too, and had prepared a rub of olive oil, ground pepper, and coarse salt. She straddled him with his fingers gripping her butt and her hair dangling into the herbs and fuming white rings. The window nearest to them became clouded with their breath and steam from the stove; he held her up for as long as he could before carrying her to the sofa, where nine blushing tulips reached out of their vase on a table beside them, cups open and stems dipping.

  He braced himself above her, and when she begged for his mouth, he dropped to an elbow to give it to her, lips and tongue and teeth and every part of her brimming with him, every space between them expanding and shrinking until nothing was left hollow, every sound opening into the hushed corners of the house.

  Life and death had passed since then. Gregory’s vision misted as he stepped outside with the buckets of food and fresh water. Some of it splashed onto his boots.

  He passed the enclosures where sierra finches, seedsnipes, toucans, and macaws sang of their yearning for the skies, the wind, and the diminishing canopy of their rain forest. A few were chicks who’d been separated from their parents; others had hurt their wings. Three required surgery and gradual rehabilitation after sustaining spinal and leg injuries in a logging accident. Some would be ready to leave soon.

  The barn was cool and quiet. Used to her stillness whenever he entered, Gregory paused, giving her time. Then, as he knew she would, she tried to stand, and as she struggled, he could hear her, find her in the scant light.

  “Ah, my beauty. Good morning, good morning. Have you rested well?”

  She lurched toward her food, dragging an immobilized, bandaged four-foot wing along the floor, and darted her head at the meat he’d prepared for her.

  While she ate, he spoke. “You know I must check your wing. You don’t want me to, you never want me to, and I don’t blame you, but things could be worse. We’re not so bad together, you and I.” He got nearer. “I want to move you outside soon. Wouldn’t that be just what you need, just what we prayed for?” He was almost there. “I’m preparing an aviary for you. It’s not a mountain, but it’s better than the dark. And if we are clever, and we are, we will never let anyone hurt you again.”

  Close now, he could almost touch her. “Come. Come to me.”

  But she would not, and part of him was glad she resisted him. Gregory didn’t want her tame and meek. Swiftly he reached for her and held her against him with all the cautious strength he could muster in one arm. With the other, he slipped a noose over a beak that could slice the eyes out of his face. He tightened it and soothed her as she tried to heave away from him.

  “Shshsh, shshsh, it’s me. Only me.”

  Alberto visited each day. He stayed away from the barn but did everything else: swept out the cages, carried buckets, and assisted Gregory as he allocated food for the birds. The boy worked fiercely, as though the activity would erase the shooting of a sacred messenger out of the sky. The aviaries gleamed.

  Gregory saw all species of patient at his clinic, with complaints ranging from a headache to the flu to a festering paw. Alberto offered to polish the steel table and launder the sheets that covered the examination bed, but Gregory declined. “Thank you, Alberto. As you can see, things are in order, and Isabella comes in to help, too. I’m grateful for your offer, but you know you are forgiven.”

  “I’m thinking of your patients. Soon there’ll be a line down the mountainside.”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “It’s the same every year—some trampled by the bulls,” Alberto said, “a few with alcohol poisoning, and I bet you’ll see a lot of broken teeth. There’s always fighting.”

  “Then if I need you, I’ll be glad of your help.”

  Today at noon they’d eat together, not work. Alone during the morning, Gregory had prepared a tasty lunch; all he had left to do was heat it up. He’d encourage the boy to speak of girls and his dreams for the future. He would again try to persuade him to apply to the University of Búho to get a degree Gregory wanted to pay for. Alberto had graduated high school just before Nita’s death, and she had once shared with Gregory the boy’s aptitude for learning.

  “He’s so eager, Gregory,” she’d said. “You remember. You were like that, too.”

  Alberto resisted the idea, preferring to look after his father’s livestock for now. His injuries had healed, but faint scars from his interrogation almost a year ago would always be there, hidden under the embroidered festival shirts and the white cotton-jersey knit polos Gregory had given him.

  Between Isabella’s housekeeping visits, he stopped returning the pots and plates to their shelves and racks, so they sprawled across the table and cluttered the surfaces of cabinets. She always chided him for making a mess. Now he shoved and restacked the crockery, selected a pan, and lit the stove.

  “Good morning, Dr. Vásquez Moreno.” Alberto stood in the doorway.

  “Alberto, come in, come in. Sit down. I’m making us something to eat.”

  “You know the mare, Esmeralda?” Alberto made no move toward the table. “They’ve chosen her for the fiesta.”

  Gregory’s hand dropped off the pan he was about to lift. The blue flame waited as he leaned on stiff arms and balled fists against the counter.

  He should have seen it coming. In a few days, men from Colibrí would sacrifice a horse to capture the fiesta condor. This year, apparently Esmeralda would be that horse.

  “I know you love her,” Alberto said. “I’ve seen you stop to give her something from your pockets when you go down to the village.”

  “I do,” Gregory said. “I love her, and I can’t help her. If anything, I should have expected it.”

  The mare was old and stooped now. When she and Gregory were both younger, he with an adoring wife and Esmeralda still frisky, he had watched the horse run toward him, white mane and tail streaming. She no longer ran, and mane and tail were matted clumps. Her coat was dirty gray and she stood, alone and drooping, in her paddock at the village. Gregory still stopped to greet her from time to time, waiting as she stumbled toward his voice, her nose soft and seeking a treat. She let him drag his fingers through the knots at her neck before he patted her and moved on.

  “You could . . . ,” Alberto said. “Buy her? Perhaps?”

  Gregory shook his head. His fatigue returned. The aromas of garlic, cumin seeds, and coriander had temporarily lulled his despair. He scraped the chicken into the pan and thrust it onto the flame. “I’ve bought many horses over the years. Old horses like Esmeralda, that are almost finished. They just use another one. And the ones I save, I soon have to put down. I change nothing.”

  Alberto’s black eyes watched him. “I know. But Esmeralda is special.”

  “I agree, Alberto. I agree. Please, sit down and let’s eat. Forget about the fiesta just long enough for us to enjoy some lunch.”

  They sat together over chicken with rice and beans, black olives, and cheese.

  Alberto, awkward at first, pushed the meat around, mashed the beans and rice, and rolled the olives from one side of his plate to the other.

  “What’s the matter?” Gregory asked. “Don’t you like it?”

  Alberto quickly tasted the food. “Oh no, it’s very good.”

  “So eat.”

  They both ate for a while, in silence.

  “What is it, Alberto?”

  “I was thinking of the condor. Do you think she was alone?”

  “I don’t know. We do what we can.”

  “What if she had a little one? It will die.”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I could look for it.”

  “No. If she has a chick, she has a mate. Forget it. It’s dangerous.”

  “But . . .”

  “No. Promise me. We won’t speak of this again. Finish your food.” Gregory softened his voice. “I have some cherimoyas for us.”

  But he doubted the power of c
ustard apples to keep Alberto from the rocky enclaves, high above the canyon.

  EIGHT

  Sophie Lawson and her son, Finn, caught a taxi from Búho International Airport into the city. It was cold in the car, an old chocolate-brown Beetle. The flight from San Francisco had taken ten hours, and now, at two in the afternoon, the gray light and chill made it feel as though night were creeping in.

  Shantytown hovels lined the road. The driver rested his hand on the stick shift, the hair on his fingers spider dark, his smile constant. At first, he spoke to Sophie and Finn in a modest attempt at English but soon gave up and turned on the radio. He swayed his head to the rolling sounds of a guitar and a husky female voice, and tried to brush Sophie’s thigh as he changed gears. She pressed her knees against the door.

  They drove past rows of corrugated-iron-and-adobe houses, with tightly packed soda cans and glass-bottle bottoms set into some of the walls. Wooden doors were painted in sea colors, and laundry fluttered above narrow, unpaved alleys.

  Finn sat forward to gaze at a beige bony dog who snuffled in concrete debris. Close by, a lone donkey drooped at the end of a halter. Beyond, yellow star-of-Bethlehem burst through a crack in a wall that looked as though a wrecking ball had pounded it. Women selling clothes sat like fallen apples on the asphalt in a parking lot.

  Finn had pressured Sophie into coming here. Now she regretted it, which made no sense—she loved to travel, and her work as a forensic anthropologist had taken her to Africa and Europe. She could find no good reason for this bleak mood. It had to be the weather, or possibly the clear signs of poverty and crushed resistance that led them into the city.

  Sophie knew a thing or two about Pájaro. For decades, communists, anarchists, fascists, and drug lords had imposed their will on a beleaguered people until it became impossible to tell one from the other. They all handled opposition in the same way. Now a fledgling democracy, the country still choked in the hands of men whose camouflage simply adapted to each new political landscape.

  She had let Finn choose this holiday spot and organize their accommodation, mostly because it was easier to cooperate than argue with him. At seventeen he was easily bored, impatient with her, and rarely at home. Now they had a month off from her teaching job at Berkeley and his ballet, and she hoped in that time to reconnect with him. To pull that off, she’d do just about anything to please him.

  “You okay back there?” she asked.

  Finn hesitated before he replied, “Yeah, I’m good.”

  The driver adjusted his rearview mirror and peered into it, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “He’s okay!” he said over the music.

  Sophie shut her eyes, anticipation submerged in waves of trepidation. She and Finn hadn’t been together 24/7 in ages. He was slipping away and changing rapidly. She wouldn’t cling. She wouldn’t fuss. She wouldn’t keep looking for signs of her boy in the man he’d soon become.

  Finn had picked some remote village to stay at, where a controversial Independence Day celebration drew the attention of environmental groups and the international media. When he’d come across a documentary on the festival, it was all he could talk about for days. His interest had to do with outrage, not ghoulish fascination, and he wanted to see the ceremony for himself.

  Sophie had let her son set them up for a crusade, one that was likely to make both of them miserable, if not get them into trouble. She had managed to wrangle a promise out of him not to be reckless, to mind his manners, and to quietly observe, but her doubt and unease persisted.

  Near the city center, old colonial buildings bore the smudge and dirt of neglect. The sidewalks were teeming with people, and the scent of food drifted into the car. The city was famous for its wildflower bread, and Sophie caught the faint aromas of garlic, rosemary, and rich beef stew.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked Finn.

  “Starving.”

  There were shadows under his eyes and probably hers, too. Neither of them had slept on the plane, and they had barely spoken. For twelve hours he’d watched movies while she’d tried to shake off a growing sense of foreboding, flipping through the in-flight magazine, travel brochures, and a novel she could remember nothing about.

  One thing that didn’t escape her notice was the effect women had on Finn, and he on them. The flight attendant had looked only at him, even when asking Sophie how she wanted her Scotch.

  The taxi dropped them off at a once-opulent hotel with twisted columns and stone walls. Finn had found it online, advertised as an inexpensive baroque masterpiece.

  The woman at the front desk spoke Spanish into a cell phone. Although she looked up as Sophie and Finn came through the double oak doors, she turned her back and carried on her conversation. Sophie heard the woman’s voice catch a few times, rise in pitch, fall to a scratchy whisper, and rise again. Finn walked over to the wall and studied a fresco of a red unicorn, its horn wrapped in vines and outsize leaves. He beckoned to Sophie.

  “She’s talking about someone called Alejandro,” he said. “I think he was murdered.”

  Shocked, Sophie watched the woman attempt to wipe off the mascara under her eyes.

  “Lo siento,” she called to them at last.

  Finn returned to the desk and Sophie followed.

  “Can I help you?” She drew a shaky breath and brightened for Finn.

  Sophie thought she looked a little predatory—as though Finn reminded her that she, at least, was very much alive.

  “Yes, we made a reservation for Lawson. That’s L . . . A . . . are you all right?” Sophie asked.

  “I will be all right,” the woman said to Finn. “Thank you for asking.”

  They waited.

  She jerked the mouse around and stared fixedly at the screen of an old computer. “You’re in room two-one-one,” she said with a deep sniff, “on the second floor.” She wore a frilly forest-green silk blouse and a tight black skirt. Two tiny owls, perched on her silver hoop earrings, gently butted her neck whenever she moved her head. A makeshift bun, precariously secured at the top of her head, looked as though it was about to tumble. She was only a few years older than Finn.

  He stared at her breasts, pushed up and together by a black bra, its lace edges peeping through the deep vee of her shirt.

  “Is there anything we can do? For you, I mean?” Sophie asked. She distracted Finn with an elbow to his ribs.

  The woman shook her head and handed them a key that might open a vault or dungeon. She pointed wordlessly at a metal spiral staircase that led up to an elevator with a doorknob and an accordion gate.

  Sophie and Finn wedged themselves and their backpacks into the small space, Finn facing the wall. The elevator smelled of rusty nails. It groaned and heaved as it took them to the second floor.

  “We’ll take the stairs next time,” Finn said.

  “Good idea,” Sophie murmured. “Let’s hope we live that long.”

  With a double bounce they arrived, squeezed out, and moved along the corridor. Their room was the color of ripe pumpkin, with blue accents and running leaf patterns on its cornices. A high beam of sunlight shone on particles of dust that floated above a fringed rug.

  A ball-and-claw-foot tub sat in the middle of the bathroom, its drain rusted. When Sophie turned on the tap, spurting pipes coughed and sprayed, and long seconds passed before the water ran clean.

  “Let’s go out, get something to eat,” she called to Finn, who’d fallen onto one of the beds. The quilt bunched under his sneakers, and she had to stop herself from scolding him when she came back into the room.

  By three in the afternoon, the day had turned hazy and wet. A fine drizzle fell on the streets and sidewalks. Along a cobblestone path near the hotel, they found a small restaurant still serving lunch. Silver flatware and linen napkins lay on the tables, and bright blankets draped the chairs. Only four tables were occupied.

  “What do you think?” Sophie asked.

  “Looks fine.”

  Finn had discovered at the hotel that
he could text as easily as if he were at home, and she knew, once he placed his phone on his side plate, there’d be no conversation over lunch. Sure enough, it buzzed and lit up, and he read it, quietly laughing.

  Sophie ordered a carafe of hot cinnamon wine, and Finn decided to try the ceviche, if he could have it without fish. A blushing server, with Audrey Hepburn eyeliner winging across her lids, hovered like a pollen-crazed butterfly. She brought him palm hearts marinated in lime and chili peppers, served with chunks of toasted corn and avocado on beds of showy lettuce.

  Sophie ate rotisserie chicken prepared in a wood oven and set before her on a woven coaster. The skin was crisp and the meat was tender and moist; the faint taste of citrus and fennel lingered. Alongside the chicken sat medallions of roasted sweet potatoes and slim green beans sautéed in garlic and butter.

  Halfway through the meal, Sophie took a break and wiped her fingers with a napkin. Lifting her wineglass, she stared at Finn over the rim and said, “We should talk. You know, to each other. Remember how?”

  “I thought you hated sarcasm,” he said through a mouthful of lettuce.

  “Only when it’s coming from you.” Her attempt at humor fell flat and she could feel, if not see, his eyes roll.

  “I’m not ready to think about college,” he said.

  “Who said anything about college? What about school?”

  “What about it? I’m not going back.”

  “I think you mean you can’t go back.”

  Toward the end of his sophomore year, Finn was caught drawing pictures of his Spanish teacher, Senora Rojas, on her back with her toes in the air. The principal couldn’t very well expel him for sketching nudes, but he could decline to accommodate Finn’s ballet schedule, which he did enthusiastically. Finn found the whole thing a joke and was only too happy to quit school.

  Sophie tried to close the door she’d opened. “Actually, let’s not go there,” she said. “Whether you want to dance or not, you have to graduate.”

  “I will. I’ll study online. It’s not the end of the world. I won’t have time to go to school anyway.”