The production of bananas stopped for no man or woman. And no matter how in love we were, there were jobs to do. I was back on my tractor, and Alexa was back in the kitchen. Cletus stopped me after the day’s work and gave me the news that the phones were back up and running. I felt it was news that he was reluctant to give me.
I nodded, smiled, and got cleaned up for supper. By now, the thought of ever being separated from Alexa would have destroyed me.
I thought of asking Alexa to come home with me. But with more I thought, I couldn’t ask her to leave her grandfather and follow me to a place foreign to her and see me back in jail and being ridiculed by the media.
I was staying in Ecuador.
Alexa and I “dated” for a year before being officially married. After our ceremony, I grabbed my duffel from the workers’ cabin and stowed it in our bedroom. She gave me a son a year later. He was baptized in the closest Catholic Church available. It was the first time I had been in an actual church since Father Patrick’s death.
We named our son Patrick, for obvious reasons.
He was truly a “chip off the old block” with his skinny build and unathletic abilities. He even had glasses to make the ensemble complete. He was always the last one picked when choosing up sides for a game of soccer with the workers’ children. But he was always at the top of the list in school.
As time passed, Patrick grew up, and Cletus grew ill. We tried to convince him to see a doctor, but he was intent on letting his faith cure him. It was a trying time for all involved. Cletus’s faith and the fact that he had a new great grandson to dote on extended his life by several years. The workers were distraught at the thought of losing the patriarch of the plantation. Word spread of his impending death, and offers to buy came in from competitors.
I took over the management part of running the farm, and I watched Alexa care for Cletus as well as chasing Patrick around and answering the many questions that entered his young mind. I tried to help her by attempting to rock little Patrick to sleep. But all he wanted to do was fidget with my Battle Ring. He seemed enamored with it. She looked overwhelmed, and the thought of selling the family farm seemed like a way to relieve some of the emotional stress. I asked Alexa about a possible sale and told her that it was totally her call.
As timid as her exterior was, she answered me with a resounding, “No way in Hell!”
Fernando was the most distraught. He never left Cletus’s side and slept on the floor beside him. He would sob and purse his lips, trying to speak. It sounded like he was trying to say “Papa.”
The many prayers from family and friends helped as he managed to make it only days short of his eighty-eighth birthday. The funeral was held in the building that he himself had modified into a church. He was buried out back of the family farm next to his loving wife Maria.
The priest who officiated the Sunday services gave testimony to what a great man Cletus was and how his conviction to his religion had had a positive effect on everyone that passed through his plantation. Fernando was near collapse as he entered the church, and Alexa had already dealt with the death of her mother. Now, with the passing of her grandfather, she was too distraught to speak.
Instead, Alexa led young seven-year-old Patrick to the pulpit. He spoke eloquently about his grandfather and how he hoped to see him again in Heaven. Alexa and I were so proud of our little boy. When his mother could not speak, he took the family reins and gave thanks to all who came and blessed all in attendance.
Normalcy was hard to come by without Cletus’s smiling face to lead the workers. That task was now up to me. I had only a smattering of the people skills that Cletus had possessed. The workers seemed to sense that, and we all made adjustments to get along.
Chapter 37
Democracy being restored in Ecuador also meant paying taxes and following rules. Being in the agricultural business meant receiving visits from the government agencies in charge of making sure that our workers were well cared for and that our operation was sanitary. Cletus had always been in charge of this part of the business, and he had never had a violation or complaint against him.
It was up to me to continue this tradition.
***
A government car entered our grounds. It was an unannounced inspection. I greeted him, and he gave me his business card. I stuffed it in my pocket, neglecting to read it. We retired to the office where we kept our files.
I nervously shuffled through the papers he needed. I had not yet figured out Cletus’s filing system and vowed that after this young man’s visit, I would reorganize the paper work. The young man expressed his condolences on Cletus’s death and said that he had never met him but had only heard great things.
I nodded and smiled, only hearing partially what he was saying, as I was concentrating on the task at hand.
The young man seemed nervous as he looked at our employee files.
“All seems to be in order, Steven. Can we do a tour of the facilities?”
I led him outside. I was thankful to be out of that stuffy office, as I was sweating bullets―and not just because of the heat.
The outside inspection went well as he looked at the living conditions and took some random samples of our products. He walked to his car, and before he opened the door, he spoke:
“Thank you for your cooperation, Steven. I couldn’t see any violations or anything wrong anywhere. You are to be commended on your operation.”
I thanked him and wished him well. I was anxious for him to leave.
He lingered like he had something else to say.
“I saw your name on the contact information. I asked my superiors if I could switch with another inspector to see if this was really you. I believe we share a connection. Beth Randolph was my mother.”
I was stunned and shocked. It was Miguel Jr. The last I had seen of him was when he had posed for a picture with his father on the balcony of the presidential palace. Was he here to seek revenge on his father’s death?
“My mother said you saved my life. You baptized me, saving me from becoming my father’s successor. I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble, and I’m sorry about the death of Father Patrick.”
I dismissed his apology. Fate and destiny, kid. Fate and destiny.
I was still in shock, but soon found myself at ease. I inquired about Beth’s death.
“She had malaria, but it was my father that killed her. She wouldn’t give him her soul, so he withheld her medicine. After she died, I left my father.”
I asked about the location of her burial site.
“It’s only an hour from here. I would be honored if you would go there with me.”
I agreed and let Alexa know I would be gone for a couple of hours.
“Have fun!” she said as she and Patrick studied the Bible.
***
It was actually a two-hour drive. I guess he thought that if he stressed that it was a shorter trip than it was, I would be more likely to go with him.
It took no time at all to realize that the last time I had been with Miguel Jr. was when we were in my dad’s old Ford racing to the Catholic Church to baptize him. That night quickly ran through my mind as I pictured myself pushing Father Patrick away from Miguel Jr., saving him from certain death.
We exchanged smiles as he told me of his life.
“After my mom died, I told the authorities that I didn’t know who my father was. I was afraid they would make me live with him. I became a ‘ward of the courts’ and began living in a group home. Thanks to President Santiago’s government programs, I had the opportunity to better myself by learning a trade or a skill. I remembered my mom talking about how she loved gardening, so I picked agriculture. I didn’t inherit my mom’s green thumb, but my teachers thought I would be good at the business side of it. And here I am,” he said. “Steven, could you tell me about my mom? What was she like when she was young?”
I told him all I could remember and embellished on some stories to help ease his pai
n with her death.
“Did you love her?” he asked.
“Yes…very much so,” I said.
We approached an unkempt pauper’s cemetery. We stopped and exited the car. I followed him to a crumbling headstone with the initials B. R. on it. Miguel Jr. apologized for the condition.
“I didn’t have any money for a headstone. I found this concrete slab by the side of the road. I carved her initials in it myself.”
I felt bad for the kid.
He returned me to my home, but not before we agreed that we would return together every year on Beth’s birthday and be better prepared with flowers for her stone.
We shook hands, and he seemed to hold on for a little longer than necessary, looking into my eyes.
“Steven, you know I have a brother, don’t you?”
I remembered Benny reading Miguel’s dossier and stating that he had a male child with another woman.
“Yeah, I know.”
Miguel Jr. gave me a concerned look and left. A familiar uneasy feeling returned.
I opened the door to find Alexa and Patrick napping on the daybed. It was as peaceful as I had seen them since Cletus’s death. And Fernando had returned to playing with the children. He had become my permanent sidekick, just as he had been with Cletus.
I took the business card that Miguel Jr. gave me and placed it in a drawer of my desk.
Chapter 38
The long seasons of growing bananas made time slip by. Young Patrick was about to graduate high school. Alexa had home schooled him until she felt that she was holding him back. She enrolled him in a public school that had high academic standards. It was a forty-mile round trip daily for Alexa, but she was determined to give Patrick the finest education available.
At the end of commencement, he announced that he had received the calling. He wanted to enter the priesthood. Alexa was overjoyed, and I was indifferent to his decision, as I had been hoping that he would stay on at the farm. But just as Cletus had left his family farm to answer his calling, so would Patrick as he entered seminary. I could only hope that Patrick would live a long and happy life, as Cletus had.
***
It had been twenty or so years since Miguel’s death, and I was feeling increasingly guilty for not contacting Jake. I had no idea how to reach him, so I contacted Miguel Jr. in hopes that he could use some of his government contacts to obtain a phone number.
He came through for me by reaching out to the foreign embassy in Quito. He not only gave me his phone number, but also a current address and a photo. I summoned the courage to call Jake and left a message with his secretary. I waited for a return phone call, and in my mind, rehearsed how the conversation should go. I was a little miffed that I didn’t receive an immediate call back.
Maybe he was mad at me. Maybe he didn’t remember me. I convinced myself that these were irrational thoughts and that he was probably just busy.
***
I was in my office concentrating on how to organize this year’s workforce when the phone rang, startling me. I grew frustrated that it had interrupted my train of thought.
“Hello?” I answered in an agitated manner.
“Is that any way to greet a long-lost friend?”
It was Jake, and it was great to hear his voice.
“Damn, Steven, I’ve always wondered what happened to you. I would have called sooner, but I get hassled by the authorities on a regular basis on your whereabouts. They even made me sign an affidavit saying that I didn’t know where you were. If they found out that I have been in contact with you, I could lose my license to practice Law. I’m calling from my secretary’s home. When I heard the news that Miguel had been killed, I thought maybe you were killed too. I’ve felt guilty all these years for sending you to Ecuador.”
“So,” he said, “How are things?”
It took me an hour to get him caught up on things and all of the memorable people that I had met and reunited with. I was getting hoarse from talking when I asked him a question that had nagged me since I killed Miguel.
“Is there still Evil in the world?” I asked this only because, since I arrived at the plantation, I’d had limited contact with the outside world. Rabbit ears on an old television and a biweekly newspaper that was printed in Spanish was about all I had.
Jake paused like he was looking for the right way to express himself.
“Steven, there will always be petty criminals, crimes of passion, and people who steal and kill to survive.”
“But Evil?”
“Pure Evil like you and I have known? I believe it’s gone.”
I felt relieved.
He then began talking about his family and how his boys had graduated from college and were leading prosperous lives. There was a lull in our conversation, and he started talking about Susan.
His voice began trembling. “After you left for Ecuador, Susan was diagnosed with breast cancer. We had all but given up hope. We even had hospice come in, and we were making funeral arrangements. My boys were still little and dealing with losing their mother. I was sure it was all Miguel’s doing to hurt me for helping you. There was an invisible dark cloud that hung over my family, and I always felt that death was stalking us. After I read in the paper about Miguel’s death, Susan began her recovery. It was long, but each day without that Evil demon on this earth made her sickness leave her body.”
“And for that, Steven, I will be eternally thankful.”
“You’re very welcome, Jake.”
We both took a minute to compose ourselves, and I felt we needed to change the subject, so I asked about Don Karcher. I had been feeling guilty for sending him that message about him being responsible for those soldiers’ deaths. I was sure he had just been trying to help, and he was one of the main people who had gotten me where I was today. He had also fixed up my dad’s car. I felt I needed to apologize.
Jake let out a boisterous laugh. “Steven, you won’t believe it. He’s entering politics! He wants to be the leader of the free world!”
I joined in the laughter, and we both agreed that with his ego and drive to succeed, he might just get there.
“But right now he’s being investigated for funneling money to some rebels in Central America.”
Oops.
We were both exhausted from the recap of our lives. Jake insisted we keep in touch, but only by mail, and he gave me a separate address to send his letters.
The guilt was over, and I was now back to planning the current year’s harvest.
Chapter 39
A few weeks later, I received a thick envelope stocked with pictures from Jake of his family. His boys were leading prosperous lives, and I was sure that Jake was relieved that he wouldn’t have to worry about Miguel visiting them looking for legacies to join his Evil ranks.
The pictures of Susan were emotional. There were pics of her bravely fighting the cancer that Miguel had willed into her body. The last one was when she had received the news that she was in remission. She was blowing a kiss to the camera. I placed it on my desk as a constant reminder of my journey.
The last paper in the envelope was a newspaper clipping showing the charred remains of Randolph’s church. It said that Reverend Randolph had perished in the blaze. It was shocking to see, and the quotes from the fire chief told their own tale.
“I’m not sure what was stored in that structure, but the fire was hot as Hell!”
I glanced at the date, and it looked familiar. It was the same day that I had killed Miguel.
***
Any chance that I would be granted immortality by the church elders was dismissed as I entered my fifties. The hepatitis that I had acquired while in the insane asylum had lain dormant in my system and was now rearing its ugly head. My liver and kidneys were failing me. My body was also taking notice of the ten years I had spent in prison hauling concrete in a wheelbarrow for twelve hours a day. I started using a cane to get around. Without the deep conviction to the Lord that Cletus had possessed, I soug
ht medical help. In Ecuador, hospitals were not in every town, and the nearest place for treatment was fifty miles away. But on the bright side, it was close to the seminary college that Patrick attended.
It was a weekly trek that I would make for treatment.
The workers rallied around our family and presented me with a Cushman scooter with a sidecar for me to make my rounds. With Fernando at the helm, we spent our day seeing that all production was going to plan.
***
The current year’s crop seemed to be the best ever as the workers left their homes ready to be reacquainted with each other and to welcome the new laborers to our plantation family. This was Fernando’s happiest time of the year, as he felt like a bigshot showing the new workers the facilities.
It was a tradition that Cletus had started: he would welcome each and every worker with a handshake and a smile. It was uncanny that Cletus had somehow known each worker by his or her name.
I was anxious to get started, and with Miguel Jr.’s expertise in predicting the harvest, I looked forward to eclipsing Cletus’s production record. We were already late in getting started when I asked one of the workers to fetch Fernando, as he had obviously overslept. The worker returned, shaking his head. I was angry, as I had to climb the stairs in agonizing pain.
I opened the door to find Fernando cowering under the covers as if he had seen the Devil. I knew something was wrong and thought of Cletus speaking of his “sixth sense.”
I left the room and hobbled back downstairs. No one else was able to drive the scooter, which led me to walk awkwardly to the workers.
As was the custom, I would greet each worker with a handshake and a smile. It was highly uncomfortable and painful as I made my way down the line of workers.
I started feeling light headed, but I continued greeting laborers. I had a tingling in my right hand that turned warm. It was my Battle Ring. It grew bright red as I made my way towards the end of the line. I looked up and shook the hand of a dark-skinned Ecuadorian boy with eyes that seemed to look through me.
The Killing of Miguel Page 18