Savior

by Caplan, Anthony

  That's crazy, Dad. Sorry I can't go there with you on that.

  But in your heart you know it's possible.

  I'm not sure. Look, can't we just enjoy the food in Mom's loving memory?

  Okay. You're right. That's a nice way to put it, I guess. To Mom's memory and her love for us and for all of nature.

  On the way back to the room, the French Canadian woman, back again for more, smiled up from the water. In the dark, a cat crossed the road and wanted to be let in their door. Al paused in the vestibule. He studied the carved door, the skinny orange cat looking for food. There were strange stars in the sky, a smudge of light on the horizon where the sun had gone down. All manifestations of life, even the arrangement of inanimate creation, spoke to him of the presence of his wife somewhere. Nobody knew where the soul ended up after death, but Al was sure of the continuity of personal identity and that some day he and Mary would be reunited. If only he could convince Ricky of that. But faith was something that had to be born in someone. It was out of his control. It couldn't be implanted by reasoning or by force of example. Ricky would someday find his way to seeing the light of God's true love.

  Ricky was reading a Time magazine left behind by Coleman on his last visit in the spring. Al wondered at the deal he must have had with the Costasol Hotel. Maybe he was a silent partner and had funded the expansion. There was still a lot of building going on, judging by their walk before dinner.

  What are you reading, Ricky?

  Do you know Joe Klein?

  I've heard of him.

  Something about the buying up of the American economy.

  Who's buying it up?

  Foreigners. Investors. The banks. Laundered money. Ultimately the drug cartels will control everything.

  I see. Well, that's capitalism for you. Money flows like water until it finds its level or it levels everything it finds.

  Al picked out a book, Kook by Peter Heller, from the doctor's shelves, about a middle-aged guy who learned to surf and traveled down the Pacific coast as far as Mexico. It was good, with some decent descriptive passages, and it reminded Al that he was not alone in his quixotic desire to take up surfing at a relatively advanced age.

  The next morning dawned in a rain. It stopped while Al made coffee from a leftover bag of Guatemalan dark roast he found in the cupboards. They needed to shop later on, after they hit the waves. Al walked up to the surf shop, skipping over the puddles, and collected both the boards from Juan's shop and returned before Ricky had stirred from his bedroom. They drank cups of black coffee. Ricky was quiet, serious. They put on bathing suits and flip-flops and walked down the road to the dark sand beach carrying surfboards like lances under their arms.

  The waves rolled in with an insistent determinism. It dawned on Al with the force of a dull crack that he might not be a strong enough paddler to get beyond the break. They watched a couple of girls in skimpy bikinis duck diving and getting pushed back and surfacing again into the face of the breakers. If they could do it, he would too. This was the test he had been waiting for.

  Ricky waded in without a second's thought and flipped onto his board and dug hard with the outwash. Al thought he could pick a better spot away from the peak and walked down the beach to the south and into the water. It was mild, no more of a shock than bath water. This was good. The sun behind was also encouraging. He clambered on and set to working his arms while keeping his feet pinned on the tail of the board. The first couple of waves he tried pushing the front of the board down before they broke and got pushed back a little before popping up on the other side and settling quickly as he could while keeping the nose of the board above water. Then he paddled hard, but seemed to get nowhere. He looked up and saw the waves looming larger than life. The next one broke over the top of him. He hung on as the water sucked him off the board and pushed him end over end. When he came back up, sputtering, the board was at the end of the tether and still pulling away from him. He found it, climbed back on and turned it out to sea just in time to get caught by the white water of the next wave. He dove out of reach; but the next time, up for breath out of the water, he looked around and was five feet from the sand.

  He let the next wave wash him back up on the beach. A few freshly arrived tourists were sitting in the sand over by the fringe of the dune grass. He looked back out to the water and saw Ricky still paddling, patiently getting further ahead, and gaining on the edge of the impact zone, the white water washing over him as he dove under it.

  This was as trying as anything, maybe as tough as running the half-marathon in Vero Beach the summer before last. But Ricky being out there on his own bothered him. He would have to figure out a way to beat the waves. He watched the pattern of the sets, trying to conjure a solution. There was about a twelve-second interval between the swells, five, maybe six minutes between sets. If he timed his entrance into the water at the end of the largest wave of a set, and was quicker getting through the initial couple of near-shore breakers, there was a short lull that could possibly see him out to the edge of the impact zone.

  After resting in the sand cross-legged for a few more minutes, he tried again. This time, paddling as hard as he could, his arms feeling like they were set in concrete, he came to the edge of a rising swell and settled over the back of it, out of the white water and into the translucent deeps. There was Ricky, paddling over to him.

  You made it.

  Yeah, finally. I didn't think I would.

  I tried catching a couple.

  Did you get them?

  Almost.

  Watch how these guys do it, Ricky. You got to be in the right place.

  I'm getting the hang of it.

  There were about five or six other surfers in a little knot that spread itself out to the north of them, just off the peak. The waves were breaking to the left. Al let the swells lift under him and drop him off their backs. At the top he could look down into the water. There were some manta rays playing underneath them. The beach was about a half mile away. Then he looked back and saw the first set wave building behind him, looking like it would topple over before it reached him.

  Come on, Dad. Catch this one.

  The other surfers were letting it go. Al paddled hard as it lifted him and looked over at Ricky, doing the same. For about a millisecond he seemed poised at the top of it before he was barreling down the impossibly steep shoulder, hanging onto the board in a freefall. Ricky had popped to his feet and had somehow managed to twist to the left the way you were supposed to. At the bottom, Al was still, somehow, on his belly on the board. He tried popping up once the white water had begun to lap at his tail. But the attempt was off balance, and he went careening into the wash. When he came back up to breathe, he was caught in the zone and spun by the next two waves. This time he knew enough to relax. The foam still sputtering in a white valley around him, he began the long, slow paddle back to the deep. He looked around for Ricky, but couldn't see him.

  The lineup was way beyond him, waiting for another big set. Panic crept up on him. With his arms heavy from paddling, he dove beneath a few waves, his heart in his throat. But Ricky was out there, he was sure. The next set arrived and he was still paddling out wide of the peak. One surfer popped up and looked down at him, momentary fear in his eyes, in the trough. He zipped low and cut back past Al, paddling hard for the crest before it breached.

  There was Ricky, paddling over to him again, cheerful as ever.

  Hey, Dad.

  You having fun?

  I caught that last one.

  I saw you.

  Now you.

  What?

  It's your turn. You're going to catch one.

  I hope so. It’s nice out here isn't it?

  We're too far out, Dad.

  Ricky paddled towards the beach, trying to stay up with the group of more experienced surfers. Al thought he'd catch his breath. He watched the beach. There were more people on it now. It was about mid-morning. A few sets later, Ricky had caught three waves and ma
naged to cut back over the top of one when the white water closed it down. The enjoyment was really just being out there, sharing the experience with his son. If he figured out how to do the popup on these steep mamas before they left in three days for the mountains, he'd be glad.

  One more wave, and he got to his feet this time, but hunched over instead of crouching. As he straightened too late, the board shot out from under him. He was flying, then spinning and tumbling under the churn of the wave. He held his breath, waiting for the power in the water to subside so he could shoot up and breathe.

  Al decided that was it for the morning. He was done. Instead of turning back out, he grabbed his board and waited, holding his breath again as the next monster clamped its white jaws around him. Spinning and sputtering, he caught the board, clambered back on it, and paddled the rest of the way in, standing at last in a few feet of water as a more experienced surfer zipped past him in the classic knees-bent pose of relaxed at-oneness with the wave, still being pushed by the shore break right onto the sand.

  Picking the board up under his arm, exhausted and breathing hard, Al walked up the beach a distance to the dunes and turned to study the water. The American man from the bar the night before, wearing a large canvas beach hat, was standing about ten feet from him.

  Nice out there?

  Just a little too much for me.

  Better you than me. You're a brave man.

  Just trying to keep up with my son. Beautiful here.

  A nice place. Santos Muertos taking over though.

  Who?

  Santos Muertos, he said, pronouncing carefully in expert Spanish. The LSM. Up and coming cartel boys. Targeting Guatemala as the newest entry point to our underbelly.

  Drug cartels? Really? In Guatemala?

  Yeah. They say they're interested in building infrastructure, improving the roads.

  Isn't that a good thing? Guatemala could use better roads.

  That's what they say. They buy you off and steal your wife. The bastards.

  Al sighed and looked around wistfully.

  This was my wife Mary's favorite place of all the places we'd been together. She wouldn't be happy with it becoming a stronghold for some criminal organization.

  How long were you married?

  Almost twenty years. Cancer took her from us a year ago.

  Yeah, that takes some getting over. Are you on Facebook?

  Yeah. I don't do much on it though.

  Neither do I. Robert Newman's the name.

  Al Lyons. Nice to meet you.

  The two men shook hands. Al was younger by more than a decade and indebted for the friendly conversation. He waited patiently, leaning on one foot and then the other. Newman was content with standing and watching the water, where Ricky was surfing a wave, doing a legitimate job of it, shifting the board and then dropping down on it and letting the water push him along to the beach. He was about forty yards to the south, clambering out of the water.

  Have a nice day, said Al, starting towards Ricky.

  Hey, you too. Take care of yourself.

  Al walked down to where Ricky was standing. For a fifteen year old he was tall, almost as tall as Al; but inside, where it counted, he was still a little boy.

  Looking good, kid.

  That was my best one.

  I almost stood up. I feel like I'm almost there.

  Yeah. Just got to keep working at it, Dad.

  Ready for breakfast?

  Yeah.

  They walked back down the beach to the road. The tide was starting to go out. Al thought that a few more days and they would forget they'd ever been anywhere else. Hunger was making him almost delirious, though. He thought of Mary and said a prayer to himself for her.

  Your Mom would be proud of you, Ricky.

  I know, Dad. She didn't care that I wasn't playing football. She was proud of me for standing up to you on that.

  You're right. She was. And you were right not to play. Although I think you would have found it a worthwhile and rewarding challenge.

  Dad. Don't start.

  Well, you brought it up.

  They were silent. The ugly subject of football had reared again. Now it would take a while. Al thought he should have just let it go. Next time Ricky brought it up, just not say a thing. First he'd been angry with Ricky for not going out for the high school team in ninth grade. As an eighth grader he'd been the leading rusher for the program, primed for high school success. Mary, of course, had backed her son up in his decision to take a couple of years and find out what he really loved to do. The day in ninth grade he'd said football was boring, Al had exploded on him and accused him of being a quitter. The worst thing he'd ever called his son and the worst insult he could think of. Al's passions sometimes got the best of him. Why did he care so much? Had he no life? Probably because his son's triumphs in his former arenas lit some vicarious flame in the hippocampus region, the circuitry charred out in the extended adolescence of American males, stuck in some Johnny Unitas loop of positive stimuli. Self-doubt settled like a filter in the air, a momentary pall on the day. How absurd could he be, a middle-aged man pretending to master a sport for boys half his age so that he could relate to his son? It was preposterous and made him into a half-pretentious nitwit. But then, he thought, it was fun. F. . .U. . .N, the three letters that justified any pursuit. This was the de facto philosophy of the street he argued against sometimes with Ricky. How fun was not enough. But as a defining concept, a rule of thumb. . . , it was good, as long as you didn't hurt anybody. As long as basic needs had been met, so you were basically talking about a higher pursuit. Interchangeable concepts. Fun. Good. The smiling grace of the Puritan heartland. Fun. The someday over the rainbow, the prettiest girl you ever saw, the Higgs inside the Higgs Boson.

  A hot shower calmed him down. Afterwards he sat in a chair and saw himself wasting the rest of the day in a lazy funk. The sound of the water running as Ricky took his turn reminded him that Ricky was still brooding, sunk in his own thoughts.

  The thing about Ricky was his soul was better, more refined by the waves of time. That was the way with sons. They were generally improved versions of their fathers, and it was what eventually made everything all right. As a father, he could officially just relax and spend some time in a chair, half-dressed, because Ricky would take care of business, kick his ass into shape, and get them up to the corner to do the shopping they needed to do.

  Dad, come on. I'm hungry.

  The town was within walking distance. It consisted of a crossroads deli market run by German hippies, the Yoga Institute further up in the hills, various bodegas along the road in both directions, north and south, the Computer Center where you apparently could connect with your social media, and various tourist restaurants and hangouts such as the Gilded Iguana, which advertised Live Music Tonite in neon-colored, non-erasable chalk on the board outside the palm-lined entrance. Al and Ricky walked into a bodega and bought provisions: eggs, cans of black beans, some root vegetables, a bag of oranges, two loaves of Pan Bimbo, and two cases of Dos Equis. There was a bank down the road that ran towards the northern end of the beach past the surfer camps. This was the next stop. Ricky wanted to stop in and see Coconut Juan, so Al went to the bank on his own, and afterwards he checked out a map of the area on a bulletin board just outside Coconut Juan's, provided by the Monterico Chamber of Business. He could hear Ricky chatting with Coconut Juan. The American girlfriend was in there also, along with a young boy who was the helper.

  Mr. Lyons, come inside.

  The American girl was calling to him. Al walked inside and over to the counter. Coconut Juan was sitting on a stool looking at him. The girl was arranging some of the trinkets under the glass counter. Ricky stood next to Coconut Juan, apparently also waiting for Al. When Al reached them, he waited for some clarification of the grave looks both their faces held. Coconut Juan raised up the tablet, the Mayan reproduction Ricky had spotted and liked the day before. In the light from the street, it had the
air of a holy relic, something eerie and power-ridden, as Juan held it up.

  Dees ees ahora de su hijo. You must to know because ees un peligro para mi y para ustedes tambien. Peligro. You know?

  Yeah. Corrientes peligrosas, said Al. What's up? Why is it dangerous?

  There ees men looking for thees. You eh, keep, eh, hide.

  What men?

  Los Santos Muertos.

  Look. I've been hearing about them. What is going on? How could this, this fake. . .be dangerous?

  Ees no un fake, Señor Lyons. Ees el Chocomal. The eh, key to the universo Maya. Ees. . .una cifra importantisima!

  So now it's Ricky's?

  Yeah, I knew it was good.

  Ricky picked it up and was setting to walk out of the store with it when Coconut Juan stood, leaned over the counter, and grabbed him forcefully by the shoulder.

  How much? asked Al. How much did you pay for it, Ricky?

  Fifty dollars.

  Look, no way. Give it back.

  Daaad.

  Coconut Juan let him go. He had a frenzied look on his face, still standing.

  Es que no entienden, he wailed in a bitter tone. The American girl, with a worried look on her face, looked up.

  Mr. Lyons, Juan believes his life is in danger because of that thing. All he's asking is that you take it and get it away from here. Please. Take it away.

  Why doesn't he just bury it? Hide it or something?

  He's scared they'll find it and kill him.

  I see. So if they find us, they'll kill us.

  There's that possibility.

  What is it?

  The girl threw up her hands in a gesture of futility.

  I don't know. A national treasure, I guess. Juan's very patriotic. He wants to give it to the National Museum in Guatemala City, but he's scared. He thinks everybody is working for the LSM up there in the capital. They have a lot of money, you see.

  So why don't you just dump it in the ocean?

  I've been trying to get him to do that. He just refuses. Won't go there.

  No, no dump, said Coconut Juan, waving his hands in front of him back and forth frenetically.

  Ricky was walking fast with the tablet, out the door.