Hurricane

by Terry Trueman

  “What, José?”

  “Why don’t you and Ángela take Berti to the backyard and rinse some of the mud off her?”

  Ángela asks, “Can we use the water for that?”

  Dr. Albertson says, “Don’t use too much, but we’ve brought a lot of bottled water along, so a little bit would be fine.”

  María calls, “Come on, Berti.”

  Berti doesn’t move. She just stares up at me again.

  “Go ahead, Berti,” I say. “Go with María and Ángela. You need to get cleaned up too. Go.”

  María taps her hand on her leg and says, “Come, Berti.”

  Berti slowly walks over to my sisters, who gently take her by the collar and lead her out the back door.

  Nurse Sally finishes cleaning and disinfecting the many scratches and small cuts all over my hands, arms, and ankles. She is gentle, and after that first tiny stinging, the medicine hardly hurts.

  I translate for the doctor and nurse as they help everyone else. Mr. Barabon gets bandages for his cut and bruised hands; he says nothing about his two dead children. Mr. Handel, his back bent and his ankle horribly swollen, says nothing about these injuries, nor does he mention losing his wife.

  Soon everyone in the village is lined up, sitting or standing quietly, waiting to see the doctor. The children get shots. None of them cry, not even the littlest ones like Miguel Cortez, who lost his mom in the mudslide.

  Dr. Albertson tells each patient, “It might be a while before we can get back here. You have to avoid infections and illness the best you can. You must try to stay healthy.”

  “Yes,” Nurse Sally adds, “and boil, boil, boil your water, unless it comes straight from a bottle.”

  The day drags on. There are several broken fingers and one broken hand, but the problems are mostly sprains and the beginnings of sickness, coughs, and runny noses. No one complains, no one loses their dignity. I’d been so worried about Juan getting sick, and about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, that I hadn’t really noticed how many other people were injured.

  When the doctor is finally finished with the last patient, one of the soldiers comes in to talk with him. I go to the front door and look out at the town. The soldiers have set up large tents. The sides are rolled up, so I can see inside. There are cots, cooking stoves, cans of cooking fuel, big bottles of water, and packets of food. These shelters are for all the people who have been staying with us, at the Rodríguez place, and with Alfredo’s family. There are six large tents with enough room for everyone who needs to stay in one. These soldiers have shown us that we are not alone, that La Rupa has not been forgotten.

  Back inside my house, I overhear what the soldier is saying to Dr. Albertson.

  “There is nothing more we can do today, sir. We need to head back to San Pedro Sula for the night.”

  Dr. Albertson nods to the soldier and then turns to me and says, “We’ll be back as soon as we can, José.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Later in the week,” he adds. “Next week at the latest.”

  They’ve done so much for us, but all I can say is “Thank you,” again.

  “Sure …” Dr. Albertson begins, and then says, “Of course, if I receive any word about your father and the others …” He pauses for a second, looking over at Mom, then back to me. “If I hear anything, I’ll get word to you immediately.”

  I translate his words to Mom. She gives a little smile, but there are tears in her eyes.

  FIFTEEN

  Berti and I are standing together in the backyard and I speak to her softly so that only she can hear me. “I wonder what we’re going to do now. How will we ever clean up all this mud? And what about the dead people? We haven’t even buried them yet.”

  I know, of course, that Berti doesn’t understand my words, but she seems to sense what I’m feeling. It’s amazing how good it feels to have her back.

  Just before they leave, the U.N. soldiers tell us that the Honduran military will come later today to help us. They explain that the dead will have to be dug out and then burned in order to avoid the spread of disease.

  The Honduran soldiers arrive just before nightfall. They come in four beat-up old Honduran military trucks and two small tractors and a backhoe. The tractors’ engines sputter to life. The backhoe moves slowly toward where the Cortez house used to be. I smell the blue diesel smoke. Mom, María, Ángela, Juan, and I are alone in our house again. Our neighbors have moved into their new tent homes.

  We sit listening to the machines tear up the ground, searching for lost souls. They don’t stop until ten o’clock at night.

  Finally everyone buried in the mud has been accounted for and recovered. Each of the dead has been identified by a family member or, if a whole family was killed, by one or more of the neighbors. The soldiers have wrapped the bodies in plain brown cloths, tied with ropes, and carefully laid them, side by side, on the road.

  All of us gather around, and each person who wishes to speaks for lost loved ones.

  Mr. Altunez says to the dead body of his wife, “Good-bye, dear. We love you.” He is too choked up to say more. Both Carlos and Pablo are sobbing.

  Mr. Handel says, “Rest in peace, my son and my daughter. Rest in peace, Rosa … my love.” Now he is weeping too hard to say more.

  No one speaks for very long. The soldiers all stand in a line, their green caps held over their hearts and their heads bowed. One of them is crying. They all wait respectfully, but they have much to do.

  For the Marpaleses, the Hernándezes, and the Arroyos, since every member of the family was killed, an army chaplain speaks. “Dear friends, dear neighbors, we will remember you always and pray for you. Rest in peace now. Let us pray. Our father who art in heaven …”

  We all pray together. Soon everyone goes back to their tents. Mom, María, Ángela, and Juan go back to our house, where Berti lies on the porch waiting for us. But I wait awhile longer, standing by where the bodies are, saying my final good-byes. I watch as the soldiers gently load the dead into a large truck and then take them to a field southwest of town, a quarter mile away.

  One Honduran soldier, the last one still in town, asks me gently, “Did you lose anyone here?”

  He is a young guy, maybe just older than Víctor, but he looks grown-up in his dark-green Honduran army uniform. He has darker skin than I do, and his features look Indian. He’s handsome and his voice is kind.

  I answer, “No, I have no dead family here, just friends and neighbors.” I add, “My father and older brother and sister …” I pause and take a quick breath. “… they are missing.”

  He looks away from me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes,” I answer. Then I quickly add, “We still hope to hear from them.”

  “I understand.” The young soldier nods but still doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “What you do must be very difficult,” I say.

  He hesitates and then says, “We do what has to be done when we burn the bodies from the fields and rivers and—” Suddenly he stops and looks at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

  I interrupt, “No, it’s okay. I understand. You’re doing a hard job and you’re helping us. Don’t feel bad.”

  The soldier nods. “I have to go,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say. He walks toward his truck, climbs up, and glances back at me. I yell over the rumbling of his truck’s engine, “Good luck and thank you.”

  “You too,” he says, and waves good-bye.

  I watch him drive away, but I can’t stop thinking about what he just said to me: “when we burn the bodies from the fields and rivers.” I remember what the radio said about the thousands of people missing.

  What about Dad and Víctor and Ruby? How many people will never be identified, if their bodies are pulled from the rivers and fields and burned without anyone knowing who they are? I try to force myself away from these thoughts—but I keep thinking missing, missing, missing. Where’s my father? My brother? My sister?
/>
  Are they lost forever?

  SIXTEEN

  In the darkness, Mom, Ángela, María, and I stand on the steps at our front door. Juan is asleep already, but the rest of us watch the yellow-orange flames of the soldiers’ fire.

  After a while, I notice that María has moved closer to me. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to María since all this started.

  María says softly, “They aren’t burning life. They’re burning death.”

  I look at her and nod. Then I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know,” I say as she slips her arm around my back. I can’t think of another time in our lives when María and I have held each other like this. It feels good. As the next oldest to me in age, María is to me like Ruby was to Víctor … I mean is to Víctor!

  Ángela and Mom stand quietly.

  Our friends and neighbors stand outside their tents watching the fire as well. These moments—the hurried service by the side of the road and now this fire on the edge of town—are as close to a funeral as they will have for their loved ones. I feel so sad for everyone, for the dead and those of us left behind.

  Looking at the fire, Mom says, “Pray for them, for their souls.”

  Ángela asks, “What should I say? What words?”

  “Whatever words your heart tells you. Or the Rosary. Pray what feels right to you.”

  María begins to whisper softly, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

  I pray too, but just to myself. God, if you’re really there, if you’re listening … I don’t know why you sent us this. I don’t understand. I stop. Maybe God will be angry at me for what I’m feeling and saying. I’m so tired and confused that I can’t even pray right.

  Please, Jesus, help us. I pray for the Arroyos; I pray for Vera Ramírez, for Allegra Barabon, and for all the dead people. I pray for Ruby and for Víctor and for Dad. God, please let Dad and Víctor and Ruby be all right. I’m begging you, please just let my family be all right!

  Berti, who has been lying quietly in a corner of the living room, walks over and lies down at my feet.

  I watch the flames against the dark sky, bodies from La Rupa burning.

  It is the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.

  An hour later, with Berti once again sleeping on her blanket at the end of my bed, I fall asleep.

  My dreams are confused. Some are nice, like seeing Ruby eating an apple and laughing at something Dad has said. Mom laughs too. This actually happened in real life—Ruby and the apple and Dad and Mom. Everything is just like it was.

  In my next dream, Víctor stands next to me where the stack of bricks used to be in our yard. He points to the huge boulder that rolled so close to the house. “What is this?” he asks angrily.

  Víctor points at the bricks scattered around in the mud. “Damn it, we’ll have to fix this,” he says. Then, smiling, he adds, “Hail Mary, full of grace … damn it!” Then he laughs. Although I somehow know I’m dreaming, I almost cry because it feels so good to hear my brother laugh again.

  When I wake up in the morning, only one thought is in my mind: I have to find Dad and Víctor and Ruby. I have to find them!

  Mom says, “No! Absolutely not! You’re not leaving again! Can’t you see how much I need you here?”

  Of course, I know that her needing my help is not the real reason she doesn’t want me to go; she’s worried for me.

  I say, very softly and calmly, “I’ll be careful, Mom. I’ll come back every night, but I have to look for them. Maybe they’re already hurt. Maybe they need help. I have to try.”

  Mom says, “The soldiers are looking. They have helicopters, trucks, and hundreds of people. What can you do that they aren’t doing?”

  I say, “Mom, the soldiers have too much to do and too many people to look for. They don’t know us. They won’t search the way that I will.”

  I don’t tell Mom what I’m most afraid of, that the soldiers might find Dad and Víctor and Ruby dead in some river or some field and not know who they are and burn them, and that we’ll never know what happened. Thinking this makes me crazy.

  Mom’s quiet for a moment. Then she says softly, “You may be right, José. I know you would try hard to find them, but I need you here.”

  I look at her face. Something’s changed between us. There’s a new kind of trust. I know that she needs me, and she will especially if Dad and Víctor and Ruby are … if they don’t come back.

  I say, “You’re right, Mom. I’ll wait a little while, another day or two until things are better.” But we both know that nothing will be better in a day or two. We see this in each other’s eyes. Still, I can give her this much. I’ll wait a few days, but then I’ll have to go.

  SEVENTEEN

  On the morning of this fifth day after the mudslide, a group of us are shoveling in the street, trying to get it cleaned up enough so that cars will be able to drive through town again. Mr. Barabon, Mr. Cortez, and Mr. Ramírez are with me, along with Jorge Álvarez and Pablo and Carlos Altunez. We work slowly, shoveling mud and drying dirt to the sides of the road. I feel almost good. The blisters on my hands are turning to calluses and I feel strong. It’s sunny, and the warmth on my shoulders feels nice; it reminds me of tearing down the barbecue that day with Víctor, the day when everyone watched us. That seems like a million years ago. I wish I had kept on helping my brother that day. I’d give anything if Víctor were here now, the two of us working together.

  The morning passes slowly. Although there isn’t much laughter among us, we talk quietly to one another.

  Mr. Barabon says to me, “You were right about the food, about the Arroyos’ store. It’s good we had you to show us where to look.”

  I smile at him and answer, “Going to the Arroyos’ store was my mom’s idea. Besides, I was just lucky.”

  Mr. Cortez says, “No, José, luck had nothing to do with it. You are your father’s son. You figured out the perfect spot for us to dig. You’re smart and hardworking. You’re becoming a good man.”

  I feel my face redden. It feels weird to hear these grown-ups talking to me like this, but I’ve noticed the other grown-ups listening to me more too, treating me almost like I’m a leader.

  Mr. Barabon says, “You’re the man of your house now, José. You’re doing a good job. The way you went and found the doctor, your English—you are helping all of us.”

  “Thanks,” I say, but I feel funny hearing this. I’m proud that he is complimenting me, but I am not the man of our house. Dad is, and Víctor will be someday. I don’t want to think about this....

  After digging for a while longer, I hear a truck coming into town. We’ve made good progress and have cleared almost fifty yards. The truck stops near us and Dr. Albertson climbs out. I’m happy to see him again.

  He walks directly toward me. “Hola,” he says warmly. But his face looks sad. He looks me right in the eyes and says, “We’ve found the truck, José.”

  At first I don’t know what he’s talking about. I ask, “The truck? You’ve found the …” Now it hits me: He means my father’s truck. I want to ask where, but I can’t seem to find the word in English. “¿Dónde?” is all I can say, but he doesn’t speak Spanish. I feel light-headed. Looking at his face, I almost want to say, “Please don’t say any more.”

  He says, “When the bridge was washed out over the Conrejal River on this side of La Ceiba, the truck was swept away. I’m so sorry.”

  “Swept away?” I ask.

  The doctor pauses and glances away and then back at me. “The truck was taken by the river when the water knocked down the bridge.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Swept away, but … what about Dad and Víctor and Ruby? Did you find them?”

  He looks down and takes a slow breath. He doesn’t want to speak, but he makes himself continue. “They weren’t in the truck when they found it, but all the windows were broken out and the rig was submerged.”

  I feel a crazy surge of hope. “Maybe they’re okay then! I mean,
if the windows were broken out and—”

  “They might be,” Dr. Albertson interrupts, “but I’m not going to lie to you. It’s far more likely that they drowned and that the current carried them away.”

  “Are you sure it’s my dad’s truck?”

  “I’m afraid so, José.” He hesitates and says, “We retrieved some things from the vehicle.”

  “What things?” I ask.

  “Personal items.” The doctor stops and then asks, “I know this is hard, but are you up to taking a look?”

  “Yes,” I say, but my voice comes out weak and squeaks.

  We walk to the truck, and the doctor reaches in through the open window. He grabs a green plastic army bag with a ziplock top and hands it to me. I open it slowly and look inside.

  Immediately, I recognize Ruby’s shoe. Even though it is covered in mud, I see the Nike swoosh. The shoes were Ruby’s pride and joy. My legs feel weak and I’m dizzy. I empty the rest of the bag onto the hood of the truck. There are papers, soaked through and caked with mud but still partially readable—a registration certificate, insurance documents, a business license in my dad’s name. Víctor’s leather wallet is here too. I pick it up. Although it’s wet, it looks okay. I keep clutching it. “It’s so perfect,” I mumble. “Víctor’s wallet is in perfect shape.”

  Dr. Albertson says, “I noticed that too. These other papers”—he points to the soggy mess—“they were attached to the visor and …”

  I don’t hear the rest because I suddenly feel a wave of sickness wash over me. I put my hand on the hood of the truck to try to keep myself from falling down. Víctor’s wallet, Ruby’s shoe—these details are so unimportant, so useless, yet they mean so much.

  My hand begins to slide along the smooth green metal. The doctor sees me starting to fall. He reaches over and grabs my arm, holds me up, and steadies me.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, taking deep breaths.

  He says, “I could be wrong, José. I hope to God I am. Maybe the windows being broken means they did get out; maybe they didn’t drow—” He doesn’t finish the word or his sentence. Instead he says softly, “Maybe they’re okay.”