Hurricane

by Terry Trueman

  My mother takes the news quietly. Dr. Albertson doesn’t tell her as many details as he told me. I translate as he explains that the truck has been found but that Dad and Víctor and Ruby are still missing.

  Mom says, “We will just keep praying.” That’s all she says. I’m proud of her for being so strong, yet I’m also embarrassed to translate this to the doctor. Maybe he’ll think we’re just silly and superstitious. But when I tell him what my mother has said, he nods and takes her hand in his. He says, “I’ll pray too, Mrs. Cruz.”

  After Dr. Albertson leaves, Mom quietly goes back to her chores. I slump down at the kitchen table. I sit there for a long time, not moving, not thinking, not feeling.

  After a while I go out and stand next to the big boulder. I think about all the prayers I’ve said, all the Our Fathers, all the Hail Marys. What a waste of time! I raise my right fist and punch the rock. Pain shoots through my hand and up my arm, but I pull back and hit it again and again. Blood trickles from the open skin on my knuckles. I drag the wounds across the stone, leaving streaks of smeared blood.

  I feel like murdering the whole world.

  EIGHTEEN

  I join the others still shoveling mud from the street, but it’s like a fog surrounds me. The others understood about Dad’s truck. No one looks me in the eye. As I shovel, I’m quiet. Mr. Barabon and Jorge Álvarez, who are shoveling closest to me, must see something in my face that makes them quiet too.

  I think back to a time last year when I went with Dad to La Ceiba. It was just the two of us. All along the road that day, we saw flock after flock of wild parrots, their feathers green, red, and yellow.

  “They fly so beautifully,” I said.

  “Yes, they really do,” my dad said. Then he smiled and added, “They are Honduras.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Dad, still watching the road, said, “I was in the United States once when I was a young man. I traveled around a little bit and saw many wonderful sights, some of the great cities like New York and Los Angeles, much of the countryside, many mountains and rivers, and all of that space.”

  “I didn’t know that, Dad.”

  Dad smiled. “I know. It was before I even met your mother. I was a young man then, and it was my great adventure.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  Dad glanced over at me. “But in all the places I visited, José, never once, nowhere in North America, did I see wild parrots like we have here. They may live there someplace, but I never saw them, and I missed them so much that I couldn’t wait to get back home.” He smiled at me and laughed.

  I tried to figure out why Dad was telling me this.

  Then he added, “We’re Hondurans, son. This is a good thing … a great thing. It doesn’t matter how big your country is. It doesn’t even really matter whether you have wild parrots. What matters is what kind of man you become. But I’ll be truthful with you: I’d never want to live someplace where there are no parrots flying free.”

  In that moment I knew exactly what my Dad was saying. After that day wild parrots never looked the same to me again. They were always more beautiful.

  I go back to shoveling and force myself to think about other things. But I can’t stop thinking about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, and soon another memory comes, a memory of something that happened just a couple of weeks ago. I had walked into the kitchen, and Víctor and Ruby were sitting at the table, eating chips and talking.

  “I never said that I ‘loved’ her,” Víctor said, laughing as he threw a chip at Ruby.

  Grabbing the chip and munching it, Ruby said to him, “You didn’t have to say it, big boy. Look at your face!”

  Víctor blushed and laughed. “How am I supposed to look at my face?”

  I jumped in. “You could look in the mirror,” I said. They both looked at me and burst out laughing.

  “What?” I asked. “What’d I say?”

  Víctor said, “That’s right, José … a mirror. I’m sure I’d have never thought of that.”

  I felt like an idiot, but Ruby looked at me and could see that my feelings were hurt. She punched Víctor in the arm and said, “You stop it.” Then she turned to me. “You’re right, José, he could look in a mirror. He’s just jealous because you’re so smart.” They both laughed again, and despite myself, I laughed too.

  Nobody in the world could make Víctor and me laugh the way that Ruby could.

  I mean the way she can. I won’t believe she’s dead, that Dad and Víctor and Ruby are dead.

  I glance at the knuckles on my right hand, at the scabs and dried blood from when I hit the rock. I’m glad that my hand stings, glad that it hurts. It takes my mind off the pain I feel inside.

  I’m sweaty from all the shoveling. The sun warms my shoulders and beats down on my head. I stop for a moment to rest and look up at the sunny blue sky. There is a perfect rainbow. The colors are clear and bright, red, green, and yellow like a parrot’s wings. For a crazy second I have the feeling that this rainbow is a message from Dad. He’s telling me that he and Víctor and Ruby are somewhere up there in the sky, happy and safe and flying with the wild parrots.

  I feel this terrible, sad, happy ache. But now the happiness part leaves and I just feel sad. I don’t want them with the parrots. I don’t want them dead. I want them back home.

  It’s dinnertime, but after the news about Dad’s truck, I’m not hungry at all. I know I should make myself eat, but I keep seeing Dad and Víctor and Ruby being pulled from the river and then burned in a great pile of unknown bodies. I move the rice and beans around my plate with my fork and stare at the mess. I’d rather throw this plate against the wall than take another bite. Mom stares at me, but I don’t look back. I finally manage to eat a little, but I don’t taste it. I can barely get it down without gagging.

  How could this happen? A few days ago all I could think about was school and sports. My favorite ice cream flavor was chocolate. I used to imagine that someday I’d travel around the world and see great places, like my Dad did when he was young. But that was then, a thousand years ago, a million lifetimes ago. Nothing’s possible now.

  How could God do this to Dad and to my brother and sister? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.

  NINETEEN

  My sleep last night was angry. I can’t remember my dreams, but I wake up this morning with a feeling of dread.

  I dress quickly and go into the living room. At least the sun is out again, shining brightly through our big front window like it did yesterday.

  Mom is already up and in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. “Good morning, José.”

  I answer, “Hi.”

  She calls toward the bedrooms to the other kids, “Let’s go! It’s delivery time!”

  María comes out and stands next to me, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  Ángela and Juan straggle out a few moments later.

  Mom is talking about the rice and beans and flour we got from the Arroyos’ trucha. It’s still being stored at our house, and Mom has us deliver supplies each morning before our own breakfasts to all the tents and the Rodríguez place.

  Ángela asks, “How long do we have to do this, Mom?”

  Mom answers, “Until our neighbors have something more than canvas walls to protect them.”

  Mom has already filled the plastic bags for us.

  María and I are the real delivery people. Ángela and Juan are too little to help much. In fact, Juan’s “help” always makes the job twice as hard as it would be if I just did it myself. But I let him help anyway, just like Víctor always used to let me help him when I was little.

  María and Ángela deliver the food to the closer tents. I go to the three tents farthest away from our home and to the Rodríguez place. I have twelve bags in all. Juan “carries” the bags in my left hand with me.

  I’m walking down the middle of the street, down the wide path we’ve shoveled clear, when I first hear and then see a military truck coming slowl
y into town. Lots of trucks have been here over the last two days, so I am not surprised by this one. It could be bringing water, or maybe they’re coming back to start work on the sewer lines or the phones or the electricity.

  Suddenly a small flock of only three parrots zooms over my head and up toward what’s left of the hillside. They are the first birds I’ve seen since the mudslide. They land on a broken tree, where the rainbow was when we were shoveling yesterday. I smile, but the good feeling doesn’t last. What do I care about wild parrots anymore? What difference do they make? The plastic bags I’m carrying feel heavy. I’ll be glad when I’m done with this stupid chore.

  I kick a stone that’s lying in the street, but part of it’s stuck in the ground, so it doesn’t move. I look back at the truck, which is still slowly moving toward me. Maybe it’s Dr. Albertson and Nurse Sally, not that I care anymore. Besides, from this distance I can tell that it is a Honduran army rig. It’s older than the U.N. trucks and moves like a snail.

  I have reached the Barabon tent. My hands ache from the weight of the bags. I holler, “Hello!”

  Mrs. Barabon calls back to me, “Good morning. Come in.” She steps up to the flap and smiles at me.

  “Hi, Juan,” she says. Juan stands close to me, holding my leg.

  Juan says, “Hi,” and smiles at her.

  She pats Juan on the head. A few days ago, she lost her daughter, Allegra, and her son, Edgar. There is a horrible sadness in her eyes.

  I look away, feeling bad and sorry for her.

  Mrs. Barabon glances over my shoulder and suddenly her eyes open wide. “My God!” she says. “Look behind you, José!”

  I glance back at the truck again. It’s close now, close enough so that I can see the people inside. The driver is a soldier, but there are two passengers with him. I stare … blinking hard and squinting.... I keep staring, afraid to look away for even a second. I drop all the bags to the ground. The one with the rice breaks open.

  Looking at the spilled rice, Juan says, “Uh-oh …,” letting go of my leg.

  I run as fast as I can toward the truck, tripping and almost falling down. My heart pounds inside my chest. Words catch in my throat. I laugh and yell—not words, just loud hollering. Seated next to the soldier is my dad, and beside him, now leaning out the window and smiling at me, is Víctor!

  TWENTY

  Tears stream down my face as I reach the passenger door.

  Víctor, trying to sound stern, says, “What’re you crying about?” Then he smiles again. I jump up on the running board, and Víctor puts his hand around the back of my head, grabbing my hair and pulling me close to him, holding me tight and hugging me.

  Looking past Víctor to Dad, I see that his eyes are filled with tears.

  “Your mother?” Dad asks. “Your brother and sisters?”

  “Mom’s fine. We’re all fine. Juan was sick, but he’s getting better.”

  “Thank God,” Dad says softly. Then, not really speaking to me, just saying the words out loud, he asks, “Where is the town?”

  I think about Dad’s words, “Where is the town?”

  I know the answer, although for the moment I don’t say it out loud. We are the pueblo. We are the town now.

  When Dad walks into the house, Mom weeps and laughs and hits him and grabs him all at the same time. Ángela and Juan each grab and lock on to one of Dad’s legs, almost toppling him over.

  Mom hugs Víctor, who buries his face in her shoulder, hugging her back.

  María, standing back a little, asks softly, “Where’s Ruby?”

  Her question hangs over the room.

  “Ruby’s going to be fine,” Dad says. “She has a broken leg, but the doctor says that it’ll mend. She’s in the little clinic in Chalupe.”

  Dad pauses a moment, then says, “Actually, it was Víctor we were most worried about.”

  Víctor tries to wave off Dad’s words. “It was nothing,” he says. “A little bump on the head.”

  Dad smiles. “Yes, a ‘little bump,’ but he was unconscious for three days.”

  “I was resting,” Víctor says, and then he laughs. “Actually, I don’t know what I was doing.”

  We gather around the table as Dad explains what happened: “We were on the bridge when the water broke over the top. We abandoned the truck and took off running, but a huge log riding the current rammed into Ruby, breaking her leg and knocking her into the river. Víctor dove in to save her, but when he came to the surface, he was unconscious. I pulled them both to safety. God was watching over us.

  “I carried them, first Víctor for a few steps, then Ruby, then Víctor again, for a mile.”

  He smiles. “Ruby helped by hopping on one leg. Víctor helped by not complaining. After all, he was unconscious.”

  We all laugh, and Víctor smiles.

  Dad’s voice sounds tired as he explains, “We went slowly. The rain was like being hit by stones, but luckily the wind was blowing from behind us, pushing us along. I can’t even remember very much about the journey, just that I was so worried about Víctor and Ruby and I knew we had to make it to shelter someplace. Finally we reached Chalupe. We’ve been there all week, with no phones and no contact from anyone outside the town until the soldiers arrived today.”

  Once Dad has told his story, it’s our turn. We tell Dad and Víctor about the storm—the rains, the wind, and the mudslide. We tell them about the doctor and soldiers, about finding the food at the Arroyos’, about the sewer and phone and water and how I tried to go to San Pedro Sula. But we don’t tell them everything; we don’t talk yet about the dead.

  We all take turns, each of us telling different parts of the story. Mom doesn’t say much. She just sits close to Dad and keeps rubbing his arm, touching him, and staying at his side.

  Finally Juan, looking straight at Víctor, says, “José used C-3PO, ’cause he was scared.” After Juan says this, he glances quickly at me, like these words have slipped out by accident. He gives me a sheepish look of apology.

  Víctor smiles at Juan and says, “Oh yeah? Good. I wish I’d had C-3PO. It was pretty scary, all right.” Juan smiles at me, and I smile back.

  Sitting here with my dad and Víctor home and knowing that Ruby is alive and safe, I feel almost like a kid again—almost. I feel lighter and relaxed and almost happy—almost. I’d forgotten what happiness felt like. But even as I feel better, I know that I’m not the same kid anymore.

  As if she is reading my mind again, Berti walks across the room and lies down at my feet. I pat her head lightly, but she doesn’t react at all.

  “Roberta,” Dad says, smiling, and he pats Berti too. “Hi, Berti,” he adds, but she ignores him.

  Dad smiles again and says, “Some things don’t change, huh?” Suddenly he turns to me and says, “You’ve done a lot, José.”

  “Everyone has, Dad,” I answer.

  “Yes, I know,” Dad says, “but you’ve had to be the man here.”

  Mom interrupts, “And he’s done a great job.” She leans over, never taking her hand off Dad’s arm, and puts her other hand on my shoulder. She kisses my cheek. I manage not to blush as I wait for Víctor to tease me. If there’s one thing in the world I can always count on, it’s that Víctor will never let a compliment go to my head. But Víctor is quiet, and when I finally find the courage to look at him, I see that he’s smiling at me too.

  He says, “Very good, brother.”

  Now I can’t stop it any longer. My face turns bright red. I say, “Everyone has done their part. Everyone.”

  I think about all of us digging for the dead, digging for food, sharing our water, helping each other in every way we could. I think about finding my courage again when Berti found me on the roadway. But I’ll admit it: I am proud of what I’ve done.

  There’s a moment of silence at the table. The quiet reminds me of saying grace before dinner. I think about that word, grace.

  God’s grace.

  And how graced we all are by the wild parrots that fl
y over La Rupa once again.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hurricane Mitch initially killed more than 5,000 Hondurans. In the months that followed the storm, many of the bodies of 8,000 missing people were found. Those missing who were never found are now assumed to be dead. Mitch was the worst storm in the Caribbean in two hundred years. Two hundred years! The last time Honduras had had a storm this bad, George Washington was president. Floods from Hurricane Mitch affected 70 percent of Honduras’s agricultural sector. Entire villages and everyone in them were wiped out by mudslides. Hundreds of thousands of Hondurans lived for many months in shelters. Many of these shelters were in school buildings, including the school where I had taught when I lived in San Pedro Sula in 1981–82. Early estimates placed the cost of rebuilding Honduras at $3.8 billion, but the effort is still ongoing and it may take much more than that. In many of the small villages, there was no drinking water, and food supplies were dangerously low for months and even years. Dirty water became a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Malaria and dengue were rampant. People’s immune systems weaken without enough food, and weak immune systems allowed these diseases to grab hold. Some people say it could take fifty years for Honduras to recover from Hurricane Mitch. Some say it will take many generations.

  Like José in this story, I don’t know how to respond to that kind of talk. How does one recover from the loss of everything? How does one recover from the loss of somebody, or maybe everybody, one has loved?

  Although this story of José Cruz and his family is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is absolutely unintentional, it is certainly based on a true event. It is my hope that by sharing this story, we may better understand that we live on a relatively small planet and that we’re all family.