Toward the Light

by Bonnar Spring

  Panic subsided; anger took wing.

  After they exhausted Martin’s repertoire of protest songs, they sang hymns, children’s counting songs. Cesar asked for “Submarino Amarillo,” which prompted a segue into the Beatles repertoire. They sang until Martin said his throat was too dry. Then they played checkers and Monopoly, Martin’s hands moving the little markers as precisely as he wielded a machete. A game.

  Martin’s mouth, the same Martin who had shouted in the forest “No prisoners!” called out “You won!” and insisted on a treat from the kitchen in honor of Cesar’s coup. The cook sent up blood-red watermelon and the three of them sat, sticky juice dripping down their arms, spitting seeds out the window.

  Later, Luz blamed what happened that night on coming face-to-face with the man who’d fueled the nightmares that still woke her, crying in sweaty confusion. Cesar’s need for a soothing routine kept her going through the familiar motions until his night nurse relieved her at bedtime, but as Luz returned home, fragments of memory, disorganized and unwelcome, overtook the present.

  She stopped for an uncharacteristic bottle of rum. Her father had never drunk rum, although most of the other men did. They’d gather around a fire in the evening, with a bottle and cigarettes, and clean their rifles. Luz hung outside the circle and listened to their stories about the resistance and about the people they loved, the people they fought for. Those men died in the mountains.

  Luz cried for them as her key fumbled in the lock.

  Turning on only a small table lamp, Luz squeezed oranges into the rum and sat in the dark as she had done the night of her mother’s death. Next to her, the silver frames of her family photographs glinted. Luz picked up the one in the middle. Although she couldn’t recall who had taken it, she remembered precisely when. They’d gone into a town. Luz and her father walked around the plaza, and he bought her a small cup of strawberry ice cream for a treat. When her mother rejoined them, she was excited, her cheeks flushed. Apparently, that was enough of a signal for her father to wrap his arms around her and kiss her. Later, over another treat—caldo de pollo at a small restaurant—they told Luz she was going to be a big sister. She was too young, that morning, to understand any more than her parents’ joy.

  Not long after, however, Luz returned to their tent to find her mother moaning, the blanket around her bloodied. She’d rushed out to find help. The women who came called for her father. Gradually, Luz understood the baby growing inside her mother hadn’t managed to live. In fact, her mother had almost died from the loss of blood.

  “At least I have you,” her mother said after the other women had taken care of everything. She picked up Luz’s hand and squeezed it, but she was looking at her husband. Although it was the cancer that finally stopped her heart, her mother had died of heartache, of loneliness.

  And so Luz cried for her mother.

  Of her entire family, only she survived. In the last months of her life, Luz’s mother had sprinkled many rambling reminiscences with “and when we all meet in heaven,” but Luz didn’t expect to be reunited with anyone. Heaven didn’t figure into the sort of world where men murdered children with impunity—worse, they murdered them, achieved victory, and lived long and prosperous lives. Whether her parents were at peace, Luz didn’t know. She could only say for sure that their struggles had come to an end.

  Not hers. Tomorrow, she had to go to work.

  And so, finally, she cried for herself.

  Luz had just gotten out of the shower, her cheeks still splotchy from tears even though she had scalded herself until the water ran tepid, when Evan called.

  “Hi, remember me?” he said, unmistakable eagerness mixed with a touch of self-deprecating humor sparkled in his soft voice. “I was going to go out for a beer and hoped I might persuade you to come along.”

  Tonight, Luz didn’t care what Evan knew or who he knew or what his agenda was. She needed not to be alone with her memories. Tonight, there would be nightmares, ghosts would arise, and she didn’t want to sleep alone. By tomorrow, when the sun shone once more, she would have the demons under control.

  She said, “It’s late. Come over here instead. You said you wanted to see my place.”

  Evan woke to cool morning air. Motion under the covers as Luz inched away from him. He reached out a hand and caught her wrist. “Mmmm.”

  “No, Evan. I’ve got to get up.” She squirmed out of his grasp. “You, too.” Luz flicked on the bathroom light, turned on the faucet, bent over the sink—a da Vinci nude in chiaroscuro, brushing her teeth.

  Luz had taken his hand in hers last night to draw him inside her door in a way that could have been casual friendliness. She led him to the sofa and sat next to him, not relinquishing his hand.

  “Beer?” she asked, but she lifted her face toward him, voice faint and eyes half-closed.

  Gone was the aloof Luz from the bus, the prickly Luz from the market. Gravity, the inexorable pull of a dying star, curved his body toward her. If unchecked, momentum would soon overtake all reason and caution. He had only to say yes to the beer, and she’d release him.

  Luz increased the pressure on his hand.

  Nobody has that much self-control. “Nah,” he said. “I’m good.”

  Her free hand, feather-light, reached across his body and traced a line down his cheek, neck, across his chest. Her thumb grazed his nipple. Evan pulled her toward him. Luz’s hand slid under his shirt. And Evan was lost.

  He couldn’t remember how they’d gotten to her bedroom. Evan stood and pulled on his pants, discarded by the nightstand. He found his shirt in a ball behind a couch cushion.

  Such a tiny place, but the simple, modern furniture and bright native fabrics suited her. Of course, Richard set it up for her—Richard who’d known her since she was a girl, Richard who no doubt had arranged a space he thought Luz would like. Richard who’d placed her in the fortress-like residence of one of the most-feared families in Guatemala where she was going to get something for him.

  God, this could go wrong so many different ways. I should never have come over. Should’ve asked for that beer and kept my mind on painting.

  It didn’t feel like the huge mistake it could become, though. Being with Luz felt natural; inevitable, even. Fantastic. He felt fantastic. Besides, she didn’t have to be at work for hours, and he certainly didn’t need to hurry home. The bathroom door stood open. Luz, in silhouette now, behind the shower curtain. Luz reaching to lift her hair, bending to let warm water stream over her. Her body slick, naked. Evan hesitated two steps into the bathroom. Better not screw up by expecting morning-after sex. He’d prove he wasn’t just some horny guy—he’d make breakfast instead.

  Evan could reach everything in the kitchen by standing in the middle. In the refrigerator he found eggs, cheese, and an onion. He’d make an omelet, fry a few slices of ham. Coffee? The bright red canisters on the counter were empty. The freezer—yes, there was coffee and sugar, safe from pests. Evan rummaged through the drawers until he found knives. He had just set down the cutting board when Luz walked in wearing shorts and a T-shirt, a towel wrapped around her hair.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making breakfast. You do eat breakfast, don’t you?”

  “I told you it was time for you to go.” A deep furrow he’d never seen before creased her brow.

  “You didn’t give me a chance to answer.” Evan was winging it. His Mr. Nice Guy persona was probably best. “I thought you might let me whip up breakfast for us. You must be starving.”

  “Evan, listen—”

  “No, I won’t. Go dry your hair while I chop vegetables.”

  As Luz neared the counter to survey his preparations, Evan laid his arm on her shoulder. She sighed but didn’t pull away, so he looped his other arm around her waist. Luz gave another little sigh, more of a hum this time, and leaned into him. Evan tugged at the fold holding the towel in place. It fell, and her hair spilled out. He ran his fingers through the ringlets, then twisted them into a k
not, inching closer all the while.

  Her tongue licked the triangle at the base of his neck. Evan shuddered as heat built between their bodies.

  They made the omelet together, later, and called it brunch. Luz withdrew again while they were eating. She was gearing up for her day, Evan thought. For whatever she was involved with at the Benavides’.

  When Evan finally left, Luz showered again and hurriedly dressed for work. He was sweet, and his passion had released long-stifled desires—as though, at the point of asphyxia, a cool breeze had revived her. But this morning had not been in her plans, and Luz cursed herself for again indulging in careless emotions. Now, she was going to have the devil of a time getting rid of him. On the other hand, he was young and strong and, well, sweet, and it had been a while.

  This morning, her head was clear and her trembling muscles strong. She could face the Benavides this morning.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Evan had sketched in a rough outline after returning from the market the day before. Now, after a night and a morning with Luz, her scent of cinnamon and lemon on his skin, he stood in front of the canvas and redrew a few lines. Erased them and tried again. Luz’s face, particularly her nose, still wasn’t right.

  Evan backed away from the canvas and squinted at it from his ratty green upholstered chair. He tried a different angle, moving to his little table along the rear wall where, systematically cracking his knuckles, he contemplated the charcoal sketch.

  It looked nothing like Luz. What was wrong?

  He tried the yoga exercise a long-ago girlfriend had taught him. Closing his eyes, he began a systematic relaxation of his body—shoulders and arms, neck, chest, lips, cheeks, mouth, tongue, jaw. Usually that was sufficient, but today the image of Luz burned a hole through his eyelids. And when he persisted with the centering exercise and tried to relax his hands, he found he was absently finger-drumming.

  Restless hands and eyes—not a good place to begin painting. He needed distance from the inadequate charcoal figure in his living room as well as from the vivid memories of Luz in bed. Evan traded his felt slippers for sneakers and tucked his house key into a pocket. He walked outside and jogged past the card-players who’d set up a table in front of the convenience store on the corner.

  His house, a sort of Guatemalan-style condo, comprised the first floor of one residence in a long row of jewel-toned townhouses. It was an older neighborhood, recently discovered by artists and other expats, who were gradually crowding out Guatemalan families. Although “crowding” was not the right word: The expats—singles, couples, the odd threesome—replaced families who lived three generations together, and often ran a small business out of the front room as well. Evan’s section, painted a buttery yellow with aqua trim, sat between that of an elderly British couple—rose with white accents—and a bicycle shop—largely unpainted, with scabrous patches of flaking stucco.

  Past the women doing laundry at the outdoor tubs in the little square. Past the little girls jumping rope in the dusty schoolyard to the shouts of their counting rhyme—A la una, anda la mula. A las dos, tira la coz. A las tres, tira otra vez … and on and on until the jumping girl missed. Past the cemetery, a quiet neighbor. Evan turned right into a maze of tiny cobbled streets that straggled up the hill and ran on the narrow, paved sidewalk shaded by elms. He tried to quicken his pace, but it was as though he had ten-pound weights attached to his ankles. Gradually, his scattered thoughts dropped away. He slowed mentally. By the end of the first mile, Evan was latching onto splashes of color—cinnabar in the shadows of the earthen walls, lemon ochre for the brilliant autumn leaves, the sky a wash of lazurite … colors.

  The oppressive weight melted. Nothing was wrong with the painting he’d started. The problem was that it existed only in black and white, while the living Luz was a feast of color. Pozzuoli red for her lips, raw umber for the highlights of her skin, and for the underside of curves, one of the earth tones—perhaps hematite or a burnt umber.

  Yes, the painting would be fine, but he was going to have to compartmentalize like crazy to visualize Luz solely in terms of pigment. He’d counted on the thrill of their nascent attraction to concentrate every last bit of creativity into her portrait. Sex with Luz—with Richard’s agent, for crissakes—could so easily get complicated. Not, Evan thought, as a long slow smile curved his lips, not that he’d resisted.

  Evan slowed to a walk and headed home. Now he had a month to get her out of his system and finish the damn portrait.

  On his return, Evan showered quickly, then picked up a clean palette. He arranged the colors he wanted and brushed in the background. The light failed about the same time he ran out of energy.

  Sounds of laughter from across the street. His neighbors with the big-screen TV were lugging it out to the front steps, and another family set up their outdoor cooker, an oil drum sliced in half on a rickety stand. Already a crowd had gathered to watch tonight’s football game. They’d cheer together, boo, second-guess the refs, passing around roasted chicken and bottles, children running around, babies sleeping.

  Evan nuked a plate of leftover lasagna and ate it standing at the counter, his gaze swinging from clock to door. He washed the single plate and fork. At nine, when he thought Luz would be home, he called.

  One ring. He could be cool, just ask about her day—Hi, how was work?

  She picked up the phone, her breathing shallow and rapid, her voice high. “Aló?”

  Two syllables. They vibrated through his body, knocking out his levelheaded plan. “I want to see you,” he said.

  “Come. I’m waiting.” She closed the connection.

  Evan shoved on his sneakers and loped through the quiet streets. He buzzed at her gate. With an immediate answering clack, the automatic lock disengaged. Luz had her front door open. When he got close, she stepped into his arms and buried her face in his shirt. As much as he’d like to imagine her fierceness was pure desire, red blotches marred her cheeks, and she quivered like a candle flame.

  There’d been a desperate intensity to her unexpected passion the night before. Now tears and trembling. Luz—the amateur—tangled up in some godawful mess of Richard’s. Whatever the complications, whatever the consequences to him, Evan resolved to ease her distress. So he folded his long arms around Luz and stroked her hair, letting her take the comfort she needed from his embrace.

  When she calmed, Evan lifted her in a bear hug and half-carried her inside. He slammed the door shut with a well-placed kick, shutting out the darkness. They stood in a cone of golden light from a small lamp next to her couch. Luz began to unbutton his shirt and slid her fingers over his sweat-slicked skin. Her mouth found his, and she kissed him as though only the bond of their lips kept her from falling into the abyss.

  Finally, they slept, sprawled on the sheets in Luz’s tiny bedroom, the fan cycling lazily overhead.

  It was the next afternoon, Sunday, Luz’s day off. Evan, hoping to see her in soft, natural daylight for a change—and to escape the temptations of her bedroom, for crying out loud—had invited Luz on a picnic to the Botanical Gardens. They’d taken the self-guided tour of the gardens, wandered briefly into the museum, and now they lay in the shade of a massive caoba, an ancient mahogany encircled with vines.

  Luz lay on her back with her chin tilted toward the sky. “What’s the earliest thing you remember?” she asked, another in the string of offbeat questions she’d been tossing at him all day. Waiting for his answer, Luz rolled onto her side and tickled his cheek with a blade of grass.

  “That’s a funny story,” said Evan. “For years, I thought I remembered my birthday party when I turned one year old. Everyone told me you don’t start having memories until you’re two or three, but I swore I remembered it all: the little jumper-seat I sat in, the red and blue spinning things on it. I wore a striped shirt and the cake was chocolate with white frosting with one big fat red candle in the middle.

  “One day when I was a teenager, though, I found some old pictures in the
bottom drawer of a big chest in our dining room. And one of the pictures,” Evan said, rolling toward Luz and laying his hand on her hip, “was a photograph of that birthday party—my striped shirt, the cake and candle. Exactly as I remembered it. I must’ve seen the picture when I was little. I should have known—because in my memory, I could see myself, see my face like I was looking at myself. I was already painting a lot, and that nudged me to start exploring questions of how we see and what we see.”

  Luz inched nearer. “So is there a real first memory somewhere?”

  Evan wrapped his arm around and caressed her back. “I think it’s holding my father’s hand as I walked on a stone wall at the base in North Carolina. We moved there when I was three, so that fits. I don’t see myself, but I see my father, see him holding my hand.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  Luz was close enough to kiss, but instead, Evan found himself wanting to prolong this peaceful interlude in the grass. “He died in a car accident. I was fourteen.”

  “Oh, right. I remember you said he died when you were young—something we have in common, our fathers dying as we were becoming adults.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “A soldier hacked off his arm with a machete, and he bled to death.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Luz had tried hard all day to deflect the personal questions Evan lobbed at her. He kept circling around why she came to Guatemala, what she was doing here, her job with the Benavides, her relationship with Richard. Perhaps it was genuine curiosity, but after a crash course with Richard and his cronies and two weeks in the secretive world of Martin Benavides, she had developed a healthy mistrust for face value.

  Now, one fucking second of distraction—and she’d blurted out her most personal, life-defining moment. Evan’s head had jerked back; a tiny nervous smile hovered at the corners of his mouth.