Absent a Miracle

by Christine Lehner

  24

  The Persistence of Sharks

  THE MEETINGS WITH the agricultural ministry had to be over. Maybe he was planting more coffee trees? Did that involve a shovel or a backhoe? What did I know? Or was he eviscerating chickens? No, I could imagine the boys and I eviscerating chickens (then throwing the offal to the dogs) a thousand times before I could imagine Lalo's hands slimed by chicken guts. That was not the point. The point was Tristána and whether her saintliness had performed any more miracles. The point was to be useful.

  So I called Nicaragua. Nicaragua shared an area code with New Mexico (505) and in fact shared the code with the caves in New Mexico. This was not a coincidence, but it had to be something.

  "Abelardo Llobet, por favor," I said.

  "Momentito. ¿Quien habla?"

  "Alice Fairweather," I said. "In Nueva York."

  "Claro."

  I waited and listened to sounds of footsteps and voices in a tropical soup — the sounds of otherness. Then came Lalo. "Alice, finally."

  "Hello, Lalo. I'm just wondering how you are. If you've recovered? And your aunt too."

  "Your voice is marvelous, absolutely marvelous," he said. This was marvelous to hear. But I was having trouble hearing; the blood was thumping inside my ears. "I am fine now. I will stay out of snowstorms in the future. Snow blizzards and Abelardo Llobet are not meant to be together. But now you must tell me that you don't think I am mad, not altogether mad?"

  "Oh, no, not that at all," I said. "Everyone has bad days."

  "We can talk about it later," Lalo said. "Or perhaps you will prefer never to speak of it again. How are your friends in the ambulance?"

  "Same as ever, I guess."

  "Good. When are you coming to visit?"

  "Oh, that's not why I called. I was just checking. And to tell you about the virgin saints. There are more than you ever imagined. Than you thought possible."

  "How many had their portraits painted?"

  "While they were still alive? None. That I know of. Or maybe Theresa of Ávila. I'll have to check. Does that matter?"

  "Everything matters. It is up to us to make it matter, to make it a positive factor."

  "I need to apologize, Lalo. Because I don't think I've been useful at all. I mean, I've loved reading at the club, and I really like Hubert even though he is rather unusual, and it's been great having a place to go and pretending that I was doing something useful. But deep down, I can tell you now, I haven't accomplished anything."

  "Deep down, dear Alice, I can tell you that is not so. It will all be profoundly useful. So when are you coming?"

  "Lalo, I can't come to Nicaragua. Just like that. The boys have stuff to do, and I have to take care of the dogs, and Waldo ... even Waldo needs me."

  "Of course you will all come. All the Fairweathers," Lalo said. Then he paused and disappeared into the space of a continent that separated us. "But now I must go, dear Alice. There is a problem at the beneficio and I must go. But soon we will speak again."

  I was alone once more and shouted for Dandy and Flirt. We headed out and toward the woods. They ran fast, then faster, but always they circled back and returned to me. And I found that reassuring.

  Waldo was reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I was close to sleep, next to him, when Abelardo Llobet Carvajal of Las Brisas and León, Nicaragua, called his old college friend Waldo Fairweather IV of VerGroot and Catamunk.

  The kindest thing of all was that Waldo actually answered the phone.

  "How are you doing, amigo?" he whispered.

  I rolled onto my side so that I could hear.

  "No," said Waldo.

  But I couldn't hear. Waldo kept the phone to his right ear, and I was on his left side. He ignored my semaphored pleas to switch ears.

  "So how's the coffee business?" Waldo said.

  "Pésimo," Lalo said. Had he shouted that? Or had my hearing become suddenly acute?

  I curled against Waldo's crème caramel back. His skin was too soft and warm for a man, too much like silk. Really, it was almost unmasculine. Except that it was so purely masculine. Except that it gave me such pleasure. I curled and warmed myself against Waldo's unfairly smooth skin, thinking of what a good dresser Abelardo was. How heavenly he'd looked in his blue suit. And how dreadful in a johnny. The one and only time I'd touched Lalo's skin was in the snow, trying to get him dressed.

  What was Lalo wearing just then, as he spoke to Waldo on the phone, as he said things to Waldo that I couldn't hear?

  I wrapped my left leg around Waldo's left leg, and gripped his Achilles tendon between my big and second toe, holding on for dear life to that brilliant tendon that could bear ten times his weight.

  "He wants to talk to you." Waldo handed me the phone and promptly rolled over, detaching my leg and my toes from his leg.

  "Dear Alice," Lalo said. "I apologize for leaving so precipitously earlier."

  "Don't worry. Did you solve the problem, whatever it was?"

  "Aha. The secadoras were overheating, and they have stopped overheating—for the moment—but I fear that problem will come again. I fear we have this to look forward to."

  "Oh," I said. Though I doubted he was dealing with the clothes dryer, in which case I had no idea what he was talking about.

  "Have I told you how lovely the climate here can be?" he said.

  "I think it's pretty hot."

  "Only in Managua. Here at the farm we have cool breezes. You can sleep in a hammock if you like. Do you like hammocks?"

  "I'm not sure," I said. "Sometimes they make me motion sick. I have a tendency that way, but not like Ezra."

  "Nicaraguan hammocks are the best in the world. That is not according to me. That is a fact. Our coffee is good but not yet accorded that status."

  "I don't know anything about growing coffee," I said. This time I flung my right leg over Waldo's legs. He had abdicated this conversation far too soon. I could already feel the swaying hammock and my head was spinning.

  "So when are you arriving?"

  "Arriving where? Oh, Lalo!"

  "Aeropuerto Sandino, Managua. Whatever the time, I will be there to meet you."

  "I have no plans to come to Nicaragua," I said. "It's rather far away. I've never been that far south."

  "I thought as much, and so we will make a special effort to show you volcanoes that are not erupting."

  "You have volcanoes that are not erupting?" I was confused. Which was more desirable—the eruption or its cessation?

  "Oh, Alice, this is important." Abelardo sighed.

  I sighed back. What else could I have done?

  "Once you meet my sisters, and the people here at Las Brisas, you will have a greater understanding of what we must do."

  "But I haven't said I'm coming."

  "All of you. Waldo and the boys. I am particularly anxious to meet Ezra, whose bed I slept in. We have lots to do in León. Do your sons like poetry? Rubén Darío was born here."

  "They don't know very much poetry," I apologized.

  "Ah yes, for gringos, it is not the breath of life it is for us Nicas," Abelardo said.

  "They're still young. Give them a chance, and who knows? Maybe it will be their breath of life too."

  "Forgive me, dear Alice! I forgot to ask if your dog is still alive."

  "Dandy? Yes, he's quite alive. Knock on wood, he seems pretty healthy now," I said. "Thanks for asking."

  "The best connections are through Miami."

  "I've never been to Miami," I said.

  "My sisters do all their shopping there," Abelardo said. "It's much cheaper."

  "Cheaper than what?"

  "Managua. Or Paris."

  Afterward I said to Waldo, "Lalo wants us to come to Nicaragua. What do you think? It could be fun."

  "I've been," Waldo said. "And it was loads of fun. But I can't go now. You should go."

  "What was it like when you were there?" Was it possible I had never asked this before?

  Waldo spread hi
s arms wide, as if indicating an enormous fish. "It's a tropical paradise," he said. "At the farm. It's like stepping back in time. Managua is a dump though. I don't recommend Managua."

  "I'm seriously considering it, Walds. I need to broaden my horizons!"

  "I agree, Al. Go for it," he said. "How come you didn't ask him about the letter Carmen sent us? Or did you?"

  "I don't know. I just didn't."

  Then Waldo slept. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get close enough to his body, because I couldn't crawl inside his warm skin. "Hold me tight, Waldo," I said. "No, tighter."

  Henry looked up from his bowl of Cheerios, the spoon poised before his open mouth. His morning hair ascended and aimed in several directions. All summer long the boys' relationships with combs became so strained that they often ruptured entirely.

  "Mom, are you aware of the risks of going to Nicaragua? How am I supposed to sleep at night if I have to worry about you and Ez?"

  "Who said I was going to Nicaragua? Who said Ez was going to go?"

  Henry answered, "Dad and I can't go. He has to work, and I have stuff to do here. I have to take care of the dogs."

  "And what exactly are the risks?" I asked.

  "The sharks. They have freshwater sharks. You would have to stay really far away from the sharks."

  "I have no intention of going near any sharks," I said. "Anyone for French toast?"

  "Me," Ezra said. "Please don't use that crunchy bread."

  "Lake Nicaragua is full of sharks. Bull sharks—the only kind that can live in fresh water. They get up these bursts of speed and then—bam! They get really aggressive in shallow water. Plus—get this—the females are biggest. Up to eleven feet. You'd have to stay really, really far away from them."

  Ezra said, "I thought sharks only lived in oceans, in the deep."

  "Everywhere in the world except Nicaragua," Henry said.

  Waldo looked up from the newspaper. "Okay, Chief, tell us about the sharks in Nicaragua."

  I said, "Who else wants French toast?"

  "I told you! They only live in Lake Nicaragua, the big one. Lake Managua, I am very sorry to tell you, is biologically dead. Kaput. As a doornail."

  "Where did you learn this?" I gave them French toast.

  "The geology of the isthmus is fascinating," Henry said.

  Ezra always cut all his French toast into small, evenly sized pieces before he poured on the maple syrup or took a single bite. He asked his brother, "Have there really been shark attacks there?"

  "I told you, the bulls are angry types. You guys will have to be very, very careful."

  Waldo said, "Abelardo doesn't even live near that lake. I think they should be more concerned about the volcanoes, or the hurricanes. What do you think, Henry? Don't volcanoes erupt all the time in Nicaragua? Henry's right, Al. You and Ezra need to stay away from smoking volcanoes."

  Henry said, "But we don't have a family history with volcanoes. We do with sharks."

  "Careful. You're talking about my mother," I said.

  "Our grandmother," Ezra said.

  "It was a great white that got Nana. Great whites are almost twice as big as bull sharks," Henry said.

  "That's reassuring," Ezra said. "Not."

  "When did we decide Ez and I are the ones going? Was I out of the room? Oh, I get it. Just because I don't have a proper job, I can just take off for Nicaragua."

  "You're the only one who thinks that," Waldo said. "And what about earthquakes? Nicaragua has lots of earthquakes, and so does California. Do you have any family history with earthquakes?"

  "I hope you don't think this is amusing," I said.

  "Where does your friend live, Dad?" Henry said.

  "León. It's near Chinandega, if that helps."

  "There's a volcano near León that erupts every five years. Volcano Telica. I'll have to check and find out when it last blew its top."

  Ezra said, "I wouldn't mind seeing a volcano go off. I think it could be beautiful."

  "In 1992 León was buried under six inches of ash when Cerro Negro blew up. It wasn't the kind of eruption you usually think of, with molten lava, it was just gases and ash," Henry said. "I would hate to be covered in ash."

  "Is there any more French toast?" Ezra asked. "At least you can wash off ashes. With lava you'd end up like a Pompeian."

  "Sorry, Ez," I said. "Are you still hungry? Want some yogurt?"

  "Which do you think is more dangerous?" Henry said. "An old volcano or a young one?"

  "I give up," I said.

  "Definitely the youngest," Ezra said. "So when are we going, Mom?"

  I saw Hubert one more time. He and Camilla Hyde, the beautiful Camilla, Posey's erstwhile Ping-Pong partner, were deep in conversation. She didn't look remotely satanic. On this one issue I had to assume Posey was all wrong, all wet. There were even fewer lights than usual in the library.

  Hubert popped up from their scrum of two and ejaculated, "You. I thought you'd be in Nicaragua by now."

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Abelardo, of course."

  "And I thought I would be telling you. Ezra and I are going."

  "Not a minute too soon," Hubert said.

  "Christina has sold her novel for a vast sum," Camilla Hyde said. She pursed her lips in delicate disapproval. It pained her to mention money.

  "It's the monsignor we're worried about. He's been called back to Rome."

  "Is that bad?"

  "We don't think he is properly understood there. He's a terribly sensitive soul."

  "Oh."

  "Nicaragua is another story altogether," Hubert said.

  "Did you by any chance tell Abelardo I knew something about the virgin saints?"

  "I told him you'd been diligent in your research."

  "You've misled him. You've led him sorely astray."

  "I beg to differ. You have been diligent and Señor Abelardo needs an ally. Far more than he needs your expertise in virgin saints."

  "Good, because I don't have any," I insisted.

  "As I said, that is not what he needs. He needs your friendship. He needs to unburden his soul."

  "That's even scarier."

  "Think of it as a tropical vacation," Hubert said.

  "Waldo said something like that," I said. But did he? Did I imagine it?

  "Think of it as the antidote to Maine," Camilla said.

  They were no help at all. "Have you read Christina's book?" I asked.

  "Only parts," Camilla said. "She's captured Hubert perfectly."

  Hubert actually blushed. "There are some who will be rather distraught. Who will, dare I say it, feel betrayed."

  "Anyone I know?"

  Neither answered. Hubert flicked the tip of his beard back and forth.

  "What shall I bring with me to Nicaragua?"

  "As little as possible," Hubert said.

  "Antibiotic ointment, broad-spectrum antibiotics, water-purifying pellets, Lomotil, and morphine if you can get your hands on it," Camilla replied. "And do remember me to Posey," she added. "Such a dynamo."

  I fell asleep on the train north. But I didn't dream. It was not a dream in which sharks stood on their tail fins and skated down the slopes of a perfect volcano.

  Part III

  Life in the Tropics

  25

  Airborne, Then Tropical

  The contents of the narrative prove it to have been for the most part an audacious fiction ... Its extravagant details are, of course, quite fabulous, but there is no reason to doubt St Amator's historical existence.

  —Alban Butler, "St Amator," Butler's Lives of the Saints

  WE ARE ALL PACKED. Waldo and I are alone in the kitchen, alone with Dandy and Flirt and all the ghosts, memories, and leftovers. I say, "Waldo, there is one more thing I need to be sure of."

  "Shoot." An olive pit catapults across the kitchen and lands in the soup pot on the stove. Waldo's aim is getting better and better. Soon this business of flinging small objects across the room will be
something he can list on his résumé. Unless it was not the soup pot he was aiming for but the sink or the rosemary plant.

  "This is serious," I say.

  He rearranges his features: his cheeks flatten back and his lips straighten out. The eyes he cannot dampen.

  "Tell me you're absolutely, irrevocably, forever and ever done with Sheila/Shirley."

  "Al, I am done. I am completely and forever done. Believe it, Al. It's true."

  "Tell me it's never going to happen again. Because I couldn't handle it, not ever again. I've exhausted my inner strength in that department. But not my outer strength. Next time I will resort to violence."

  "It might almost be worth it, Al. To see you violent," Waldo says. "But no, it won't happen again. Because I don't want it to. I can't completely explain it but that itch is gone. I promise you a thousand and one times. No, just once."

  "Good. Now we can go. It seems that I really want to go down there, see a few volcanoes, broaden our horizons, glimpse Ezra before he's grown and gone. Then we'll come home and we'll all go to Maine."

  "Maine's not going anywhere," Waldo says.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that the sight of a hugely overweight person lumbering down the aisle of the economy section of an airplane fills with guilty dread the heart of a passenger next to an unoccupied seat. Such is our dread as the young man soon to be known to us as Rodolfo Godoy makes his way past the first ten rows, then the second ten rows, then stops just before our row, row twenty-four. With fond trepidation I glance over at the empty window seat. Ezra is sitting on the aisle, the better able to observe the flight attendants as they attend to their rolling carts.

  Rodolfo Godoy, who weighs three hundred and ninety-nine pounds if he weighs an ounce, says to the air above our heads, "I think that's my seat in there."

  What else could we do? I unlatch my seat belt and stand, and elbow Ezra to follow suit.

  The young man asks, "Do you have to be on the aisle? Do you think you could switch with me?"