Swimming Lessons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Oh, God,” Cara said, clutching Brett’s hand. “He must have been planning to take her.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “It’s a possibility we’re looking into,” the sergeant replied. “It’s a known fact that most abducted children are taken by a parent.”

  The stunned silence was shattered by a doorbell and Flo sprinted from the room muttering, “At last!”

  Voices sounded in the hall, Flo’s high with worry and another voice, deeper and resonant. A moment later, Ethan followed Flo into the bedroom. His face was taut and his dark eyes scanned the room. He nodded in acknowledgment to Cara and Brett.

  “I’m Ethan Legare,” he said, reaching out to take the policewoman’s hand. “I work with Toy Sooner at the Aquarium. How can I help?”

  “Thanks for coming, Ethan,” Brett said. “This is a terrible mess and we’re trying to piece things together. First off, we have to locate Toy but we can’t get through to her. No one answers at her hotel.”

  “It’s a small, family run hotel. Tico style and very simple. It doesn’t have the same amenities a western hotel does.”

  “Can you think of any way to get in touch with her?”

  He handed Sgt. Kim the manila folder he was carrying. “That’s all the information I have about the symposium she’s attending in Costa Rica. I had planned to go, but I changed my mind. All the contact information you need is in there.”

  “Thanks,” the policeman replied, taking the folder.

  “We’ve already called the hotel that the meeting is being held at,” Brett said. “And left a dozen messages for the symposium organizers. No one has called back.”

  Ethan looked at his watch. “It’s late. The symposium will have ended for today.” He sighed. “And tomorrow is Sunday. I’m not sure anyone will be in the office.”

  “We can’t just wait around for someone to answer the phone,” Emmi exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “We’ve got to reach her!”

  “Can we call the police and ask them to locate her?” Flo asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “There’s only a small force with a lot of territory to cover. Look, I know Costa Rica. I lived in Tamarindo where the meeting is. I’ll go get her.”

  “No, I’ll go,” Brett said.

  “The roads are impossible any time of year, but in the rainy season, you’ll never be able to navigate them at night. I know my way around. It’s better if I go.”

  “It’s my responsibility…”

  The two men’s eyes met in challenge.

  “I love that child, too,” Ethan said, his voice implacable. “And Toy. Besides, your wife needs you here. I’m going.”

  Brett put his hands on his hips with a sigh and nodded.

  “I’ll catch the first plane out,” Ethan said and charged from the room.

  The following morning, Darryl sat on the edge of the mattress trying to focus on the numbers on the telephone. He was hung over and his brain felt like it was working through cotton candy. How much did he have to drink last night, he wondered?

  It’d been a lousy gig in a small mountain town bar and from the catcalls and hollers, the patrons thought they were a pretty lousy band, too. He could usually please a crowd with his music. But last night he got stuck playing with some old-timer, local piano player who preferred classic country to country rock and a drugged out drummer who didn’t know the difference.

  On the wobbly wooden table was a stack of greasy bills, his cut of three hundred dollars for the evening. Minus his bar bill, of course. He counted through the bills and frowned. Man, it was hardly worth the trip up to North Carolina.

  “Daddy, can I watch cartoons?”

  He turned his head and saw Little Lovie standing in front of the old television. She was still dressed in her blue gingham dress but now it was wrinkled and soiled in the front with mustard and ketchup stains from last night’s hamburger. Her feet were bare and her hair was disheveled from sleep. She stood holding the remote with two hands, her little fingers madly pushing buttons. But nothing was happening on the screen.

  Shit, he thought to himself, dropping his foggy head in his hands. He’d clean forgotten about her. What kind of a fool was he to drag a child all the way up here just so he’d not miss that sorry ass gig? Toy always told him he didn’t think things through and this time she sure was right. Sometimes he was his own worst enemy. He’d planned to head straight on to Nashville after the gig. Now he’d have to haul ass all the way back to Charleston to deliver the kid to Cara before he could take off for Tennessee.

  His mouth soured at the thought of Cara Whatever-her-last-name-was and the tongue-lashing she’d no doubt deliver. Well, where the hell was Mrs. High and Mighty yesterday when she was supposed to be picking up Little Lovie, that’s what he wanted to know? She’d been such a harpy about his being on time—and he was. He’d waited at the boat dock in the hot sun for over an hour, pacing back and forth buying Lovie candy after candy till he thought she was going to puke. His damned cell phone was cut off so he had to ask around for change. Then “good luck” trying to find a pay phone these days. He finally found one near the big aircraft carrier and dialed the number she’d given him.

  But she didn’t answer. None of the numbers did. And after that big deal she made about giving him that list and telling him how he should call if anything happened. Then Lovie had commenced whining that she was sweaty and her stomach felt sick.

  That’s when he got nervous—and mad. It was after five o’clock and he had a gig in North Carolina at nine. Did Cara think he was rolling in dough and could just skip out on a job? The more he thought about it, the madder he got till he decided to just let Miss High and Mighty sit and stew. Let her feel what it was like to have to wait on him for a change. So he’d thumbed his nose at Cara—and the whole bunch of them turtle ladies—and took his daughter with him to his gig in North Carolina.

  He’d meant to drive her home after the gig was done but the poor kid fell asleep in a booth at the bar. Besides, he was pretty wiped out afterward. Four long hours of driving back to Charleston was more than he could deal with. So he’d checked into a cheap motel down the road a piece to crash.

  He looked at the clock and saw that it was already 9:00 a.m. Rubbing his stomach, he burped, loud and rumbling.

  “You’re supposed to say excuse me,” Lovie said.

  “Excuse me,” he complied.

  “Daddy, I can’t make this turn on.”

  He dragged himself to his feet and padded over to take the remote. With a click the television flicked on. Lovie did a little two footed jig. He chuckled and began flicking through the stations.

  “That one!” she called out when a cartoon appeared. “I want that one.”

  “Okay. Hey, you getting hungry?”

  She shook her head no.

  Good, he thought to himself. He couldn’t face food yet but he’d kill for coffee. “Listen, I’ve got to call and talk to your people. After that, we’re gonna clean up and get some breakfast, then head back home. Okay?”

  Lovie only nodded, caught up in the cartoons.

  What a dump, he thought, letting his gaze take in the cheap carpeting, the greasy paneling and the bare furnishings. He’d stayed in worse, but he’d stayed in lots better, too. It was no place to bring a sweet child like her. He sat back on the mattress and pulled the phone closer to him. Then he smoothed out the folded paper with all the numbers written out in neat handwriting. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted at the numbers, wishing to God he had a cup of coffee.

  After two rings, a man answered the phone. “Yes?” The voice was huffy, like he’d run to answer the phone.

  “Uh, yeah. Who is this?”

  “Brett Beauchamps. Who is this?” A pause. “Is this Darryl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s Lovie?” he shouted into the phone. “Where the hell did you take her?”

  Darryl opened his mouth to speak but he didn’t have time to utter a sound.

  “Do
you think you can get away with this?” Brett launched into a tirade. “We’ve got the police looking for you so you might as well give it up right now and bring her back. You’ll get off easy if you do.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”

  “Child abduction is a federal offense. You don’t have joint custody, not even visitation rights.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “We know about that warrant for your arrest in California. You’re in deep, buddy. So make it easy on yourself and just bring her home.”

  Darryl felt an overwhelming sense of dread as he stared vacantly at the wood striations in the greasy paneling.

  “If you touch a hair on her head, just one hair I swear…” Brett paused. “I’ll come after you. Do you hear me? Huh? Do you…”

  Darryl set the phone back in the receiver, feeling like he was moving in slow motion. His stomach heaved and he thought he was going to hurl. Tightening his lips, he dropped his head in his hands.

  What the fuck was going on? he wondered. Was the whole world going crazy? He was just gone for one night, for crying out loud. With his own kid! What did they mean abduction?

  It felt like the blood was draining from his head and he flopped back on the mattress. It was thin and lumpy and smelled of must and cigarettes. He tried to think over the drumming of blood in his head, tried to replay the phone call in his mind—abduction…felony…police… They knew about the warrant out for his arrest? Hell, he hadn’t known she was under age!

  Darryl tightened his hands into fists. Shit. He couldn’t go back to Charleston now. They thought he’d kidnapped his own kid. They were convinced of it and for sure wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. And there was that California thing. They’d arrest him on sight. How did he get himself into this mess? He lifted his fist and hit the mattress. Then hit it again and again, all the while his brain silently screamed, goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.

  What was he going to do with the kid now?

  25

  Toy heard the music from the street.

  It was a pulsing, rhythmic beat against the melodic resonance of a marimba. Toy pushed back her hair and climbed from Rafael’s jeep. She clutched her black shawl around her bare shoulders, feeling unsure.

  “Don’t be shy!” Martina said encouragingly as she climbed from the car.

  Martina was a fellow intern from Brazil and already her hips were swaying to the music. Earlier that evening, Martina had seen Toy emerging from her room at Villa Baulas to join them for dancing. She took one look at Toy in her nylon sports pants and T-shirt and raised her hands.

  “Aiee! No, no, no!” Martina had cried. “You no can go dancing looking that!”

  Toy had looked at Martina with her flowing black hair and her tight scarlet dress that left little to the imagination. She was, Toy thought with wistful envy, fabulously sexy.

  “It’s all I have. Other than a straight skirt that makes me look like your mother.”

  Martina pushed back her mane of hair and crooked her finger. “Come with me, little kitten. Tonight, I’m going to make you a cat.”

  Now, standing in front of Kiki’s, a crossroads restaurant thrumming with dance music, Toy felt sure everyone in the room would see that she was a fake, not at all the sexy girl that she pretended to be with her hair flowing, ruby lips and wearing Martina’s form hugging, black halter dress. She pulled the wide pareo she used as a shawl closer around her body. It covered her like a tent.

  Rafael rounded the front of the car and took her elbow. He wore a colorful island shirt and loose pants that hung from his narrow hips. His favorite beads circled his neck and his dreads flowed down his back. He fit in with the crowd of young Latinos in the open-air, circular, thatched roof restaurant.

  “Ready to dance?” he asked her, his eyes already dancing.

  “I don’t know Latin music,” she replied hesitatingly. “I thought it would be, you know, rock.”

  “Oh, we listen to all kinds of music,” he replied in his easy manner. “But when we dance, it’s the salsa, meringue, lambada. Anything and everything, as long as it’s Latin.” He looked down at her shawl and frowned. “What’s this?” he asked, tugging at the fabric.

  The shawl slipped from her shoulders and his eyes widened with appraisal.

  “I just…Martina….” she sputtered.

  “Qué bonita!” he exclaimed, grinning with approval. “Tonight, you are a true Tica! Vamanos.”

  She laughed, tucking the shawl over her arm. She was in the tropics, far from home and anyone she knew. There was, she realized, an illicit freedom to being anonymous. She smiled widely and shook her hair free. Tonight she wanted to feel on the dance floor the same heady freedom she’d felt riding a wave.

  When she walked under the thatched canopy with Rafael, they were greeted with shouts and waved over to three long tables pushed together in a corner of the room. All the interns and their dates, spouses and pals were crowded together, laughing and pouring drinks, celebrating the first leatherback nest of the season. Some were leaving for home the next day and others were staying on.

  Randall Arauz, a lead biologist she’d heard speak at the meeting, came up to meet Rafael and slapped him on the back. Dark and robust, Randall was a native Costa Rican in full possession of the warmth and vitality she’d come to love. It didn’t matter that he was a world renowned researcher. Here at Kiki’s, all were equal.

  “I heard about the leatherback last night. Cool, cool,” Randall said, grinning broadly. “Maybe it’s a good omen, eh?”

  Randall guided them to two chairs at the table, greeting people that they passed, waving to others across the room, spreading his arms out in a grand gesture in response to the razzing of the Marimba band. Everyone was in high spirits, making jokes and laughing while eating grilled fish, chicken and beef, and gallo pinto, the classic dish of rice and beans.

  “Let’s get something special to celebrate!” Randall exclaimed, calling out an order to the waitress. The waitress returned with a bottle and a jigger. She stopped before each one and poured a jigger of the clear liquid and put it down in front of him or her.

  Toy leaned into Rafael. “What is it?”

  “Fermented cane sugar grown locally. You’ll like it.”

  She scrunched her face in doubt as she watched the drink make the rounds from person to person. Everyone at the tables cheered and shouted if you swigged it down in one gulp. If you didn’t, you were jeered. When the waitress came to her, Rafael wiggled his brows encouragingly.

  “Here goes,” she exclaimed and tilted her head to jerk it down. The liquid burned slightly on the way down, like tequila, but it was sweet and smooth. She laughed while everyone cheered her name.

  At the table next to them, a young camera crew from National Geographic had arrived in town to film the leatherbacks. They were conducting mock interviews, keeping everyone laughing till tears flowed. The band was playing local music. She swayed in her seat, enchanted by the marimba. It looked like a xylophone and sounded like a steel drum. Another man played a cylindrical gourd with rough ridges, brushing it with a stick. And Kiki, the proprietor, who looked like a Costa Rican Lionel Richie, sang folklorica while playing the maracas and swaying his hips. Folks called out songs to him, joining in and singing lyrics everyone knew, improvising with others.

  As the night wore on, however, there was more drinking than eating. More musicians arrived with their instruments—a guitar, a bass guitar, a saxophone, an accordion and the timbales. The music began to change from a gentle, rhythmic beat to a hard driving mambo with African and Spanish roots. She felt the shift in the mood viscerally. More and more people rose to their feet and made their way to the dance floor. Their bodies swayed to the Latin beat, arms in the air, hips grinding, sweat streaming. Martina was a blur of red on the dance floor. The music was infectious, so when Rafael stood and held out his hand, she took it.

  She was stiff at first, afraid of making a mistake. Rafael took her hips and swayed them in
time to the music. “Remember the waves,” he told her as he guided her to the beat. “Let the music wash over you.”

  Gradually she relented and released her inhibitions. The heavy Caribbean beat was hypnotic. She swayed her hips, lifted her arms over her head and moved to the music. The floor grew more and more crowded till she was in a sea of turning, twisting bodies, all lost in the rhythm of the heavy drum beat.

  Toy felt the music and alcohol combine to swirl through her bloodstream, even as she twirled on the dance floor. She felt so sexy, so alive. Around and around she turned, lifting her hair from her shoulders, laughing, feeling utterly free. “Look at me, Mama,” she thought to herself with a smug smile. Yes, I can dance!

  As she spun around, someone in the back of the room caught her eye. He was far back in the shadows behind the tables, close to the entrance. She noticed him because he was taller than everyone else and seemed out of place in his tan slacks and long sleeved white shirt.

  She twirled around again then stopped dancing abruptly. Her hair slapped her face. Slowly she lowered her arms, as though in a daze, not believing who she was seeing. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath. Then wonder switched to joy at recognition, and pushing damp hair from her face, she waved and called his name.

  “Ethan!”

  He sharply turned his head.

  “Ethan, over here!”

  His dark eyes spotted her and immediately he began walking toward her. His gaze locked with hers as he maneuvered his way through tables and dancing bodies. As he drew nearer, however, she saw that his face was drawn and somber. Her smile fell.

  All the joy she’d felt seconds ago chilled in her veins and she pushed through the crowd to meet him. She didn’t know why he was here, but when he reached her and took firm hold of her arms, she felt a rising panic.

  “Toy…”

  “What happened?” she shouted over the sound of music.

  “We have to go.”

  “What’s wrong?”