Safe Without You

by Ward, H.

  “Cal is my real name, but Compton isn’t it.” Cal put his fork down. “I suppose you have a right to know who I really am, since you know all the other hairy-scary stuff.”

  “I’m good with Cal. You don’t have to tell me if it’s better for me not to know.”

  He shook his head, “No, I want to tell you.” He paused, “Ruston. My name’s Calvin Lee Ruston.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Calvin Lee Ruston.” Amber gave Cal a serious smile, “I’m not sure why, but you telling me that has made me feel ten times better—I guess I need to feel like you trust me…completely.”

  “One thing is for damn sure, you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel like I could trust you.” Cal picked up his fork and knife again, “So what do you think about the plantains? Pretty effin’ good, huh?”

  Amber took a bite, “Yep, everything—everything is pretty effin’ good.”

  Journal Reflection 11

  You can tell a lot about a person from how they behave in the kitchen. Assertive is good, uber controlling is not. If your partner is a kitchen Nazi, watch out, scout! I once dated a guy who became enraged over me not putting the spices back in the spice rack in alphabetical order.

  Apparently I had put the cumin before the cinnamon. He acted like it was a national tragedy. I knew then that it was time to make a run for it.

  There are other things I watch for, too. Like people who only cook with prepared foods—frozen, canned, and boxed food—instant this and that. Those people are always looking for a short cut. They’re willing to sacrifice flavor, nutrition, and substance for ease. Granted, everyone needs a break occasionally, but if you have no idea what to do with a bunch of spinach or a nice piece of fish, or a bag of brown rice, well, you’re doomed to a culinary world where MSG and corn syrup are substituted for the things that make food truly satisfying on all levels. If you’re always looking for the easy way, well, you’re not usually the person who’s going to stick around when the going gets tough.

  You can go too far in the other direction, as well. There are the people who can never just throw together a good tuna fish sandwich or a quick stir fry; the ones who have to turn every meal into an over-the-top production meant to impress with it’s opulence and excess. You’re invited to dinner at eight, but it’s 11:30pm before the ostentatious chef finally serves the Guinea fowl with truffled fois grois and smoked gooseberry coulis. Meanwhile, the dinner guests have gotten plastered on vodka gimlets and stuffed themselves so full of cocktail peanuts, they couldn’t give a damn if they’re being served stewed bandicoot on a cracker. If you can’t get your head out of your own ass long enough to see that people would have been happier with spaghetti marinara at 8:30pm, then you’re more than a wee bit self-absorbed.

  People who know how to strike a balance between exertion and ease, between temperance and temptation, and between nutritious and delicious—those are the people who generally approach everything they do with conscious consideration. The same approach works when you’re whipping together a new relationship: you have to know when to turn up the heat and make it sizzle, when to back it off the fire, when you need to toss in a fresh ingredient, or when something tried and true is the best way to go. Every great chef may have a signature dish, but it can’t be the only good thing they can make.

  Chapter 11

  Amber woke to the chug of a small outboard motor just outside the house. Rolling over, she found Cal’s side of the bed empty. She yawned, stretched and pushed the mosquito net back as she sat up. A café con leche was the thing foremost on her mind until she heard the smack of the screen door, and the sound of Cal’s voice cajoling another man. Amber sat on the edge of the bed, listening, afraid to interrupt the conversation. Ramiro had arrived.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Ramiro said, with an exasperated tone. “You want to sleep with a chick, that’s your business, but bring her to live here? What are you thinking?”

  “Now wait…you’re going to like her,” Cal said. “She’s…”

  “White meat? Girls around here too dark for you?”

  Cal lowered his voice, “She can hear you…”

  “I don’t give a damn if she can hear me. This is the dumbest idea you have ever had.”

  The screen door slammed again, and a few moments later, the whine of the outboard started again, before quickly fading into the distance. Amber drew in a deep breath. She wondered if she should start packing her bag. She combed her hair back into a ponytail, and quickly dressed. Pushing the curtain aside, she looked at Cal, slumped in a chair at the little table.

  “I’m guessing that must be…Ramiro.” Amber pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Yep.” Cal ran his fingers back through his hair.

  Amber tugged at a loose thread on the sleeve of her t-shirt. “I guess this is what happens when you don’t think it through.”

  “He’s just blowing off steam. He’ll be okay when he meets you.”

  “Why would that make a difference? He sounds pretty pissed off.”

  “Let’s make some coffee.” Cal started to get up, but Amber pushed him back with a hand.

  “Sit down, I’ll make it. Start thinking it through—thoroughly.” Amber got up and began making the coffee, “So where did he sod off to?”

  “I think he brought some stuff from the city for his cousins. Probably to drop it off with them.”

  “Do they know what he really does?” Amber took a couple of coffee cups out of the cupboard and grabbed the milk from the tiny fridge and put some in a pan to warm.

  “No, of course not.”

  Amber walked around to the doorway so she could look at Cal. “So his own family—people that he’s known his entire life—can’t be trusted to know, but you thought it would be okay to tell some chick you met in a bar less than two weeks ago? Look at it from his point of view.”

  Cal tilted his head back, as if the ceiling fan might give him an answer. The coffee pot started to boil, and Amber turned back to snatch it off the stove. She poured Cal his espresso shot, and then diluted hers with the warm milk. She found the sugar bowl and a spoon, and put everything on a little tray with the coffee cups. She carried it all carefully to the table, and sat down.

  “I can leave. I’ll find a guide to take me to the national park.”

  “You don’t have enough money to get supplied, get in, get out, and get back to Panama City.” Cal stared at his coffee cup like he was trying to make it levitate.

  “Then I’ll Skype my parents and ask them to wire some money to the bank here. Screw it. I’ll go back to the Netherlands.” Amber pressed her lips together, afraid she might start crying.

  “Don’t…say that.” Cal’s lip had the hint of a tremble. “It’ll be okay. Go down to the beach today, take a book, relax. Let me handle Ramiro.”

  Amber nodded silently as Cal pushed a stray hair back over her ear.

  “Do you still want me to make dinner?” she asked.

  “Yes, that would be really nice. You know the way to a man’s…brain is through his stomach.” Cal smiled tightly.

  “Okay.” Amber sipped at her coffee, thinking. “I’ll stay at the beach until three, then I’ll go to the market. Dinner at eight o’clock sharp.”

  Cal stood up. “I’ll make us some toast.”

  “I’m not very hungry. I’ll just take some fruit and water with me to the beach.”

  ###

  The beach was small, but pleasant enough. There was family of foreign tourists, a couple who looked like Panamanians from the city, and a few local kids playing. Amber flapped out her beach towel, and soon lost herself in a paperback mystery. Time passed quickly as she alternated between reading, and taking a dip when it got too warm. She played with the kids some too, practicing her Spanish as she helped them build a sand castle, until they went scampering home for lunch around 2:00. An hour later, she packed up her little string bag, tied on her sarong, and headed back toward town.

  She noticed a small boat with a new-look
ing outboard motor moored to one of the stilts holding up Cal’s house. The door was unlocked, and she went in to drop off her things and get dressed before going to the market. The living area was empty as she passed through, and she thought she was alone until she heard the toilet flush. She pulled on her clothes quickly, and snatched the cash Cal had left for her on the bed with a little note. Her thought was to dash out before anyone saw her. But when she pushed the curtain of the bedroom aside, a dark and handsome man stood in the living room. He was a bit older than Cal, maybe thirty or thirty-two, and like many Panamanians, he had Latin features mixed with a dash of Afro-Caribbean. His skin was a light caramel brown, his black hair was cropped close, and his dark brown eyes had a smoldering look that complimented the sensuousness of his mouth. He was taller than Cal, perhaps six feet in height, with ropy, well-defined muscles. He looked more like a guy you’d find in GQ, Amber thought, than the DEA agent she knew him to be.

  She cleared her throat, “Ramiro, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly.” His eyes took her in, not in a flirtatious way, but in the way a soldier analyzes a threat. “And you must be Amber.”

  She nodded. She thought she might as well cut to the chase. “I’m not here to cause trouble…or to keep anyone from doing their job. I’m here…” her voice faltered. Why exactly was she there?

  Ramiro finished the thought, “You’re here because Cal wants you to be here.”

  She shook her head, and found the firmness in her voice again. “No…I’m here because I want to be here.” She looked at Ramiro steadily. “I’m very good at keeping secrets...in fact, I’ve been doing it most of my life.”

  One corner of Ramiro’ mouth twisted, “Okay Amber. You’ve got three days to prove to me you’re an asset and not a liability. Cal has a pretty amazing sixth sense about people, so I’m hoping he’s got you pegged correctly. If he doesn’t, I will personally escort you onto the next plane back to Panama City—which happens to be Saturday.”

  “Fair enough.” The tension in the air made the fine hairs on Amber’s neck bristle; she couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or… attraction. She swallowed; Cal should have really prepared her for the fact his partner looked like he should have been posing in boxer briefs rather than tracking drug kingpins. Amber headed for the door, and then turned back to Ramiro, “Dinner tonight is at eight o’clock. Bring a date if you like, but don’t be late.” She wanted to ask Ramiro where Cal was, but it seemed like it would weaken her position. Instead, she pushed through the door without looking back, and never saw that Ramiro was smiling.

  ###

  The market yielded some beautiful fresh fish, cilantro, tomatoes, more peppers and onions, some melon, and some fresh limes. Amber was excited about the fish, now that she knew how to work Cal’s hibachi. She envisioned making a rice pilaf bed for the grilled fish, garnishing it with a pico de gallo, and fresh melon on the side. It would be simple and delicious.

  As the woman selling her the melon made change, they chatted about her day at the beach, about the weather, and the fact the local church was getting a new priest. Amber felt lively, happy even, like she could make a place for herself in the little community. Saying good-bye to the melon vendor, Amber turned to hurry back to start on food preparations. She recognized the couple she’d seen at the beach walking her way, and they exchanged nods and murmured hellos. Then she had the strange feeling that someone was watching her.

  Amber kneeled down, as if to adjust the strap on her sandal, setting her bags down next to her. Discreetly she looked around, and noticed a man staring at her. When he realized she was looking in his direction, he quickly turned around and began rifling through pairs of jeans suspended on a rope line in front of a small shop. Suddenly, Amber wished she had her gun. Something about the man seemed out of place; he neither looked like a local nor like the handful of tourists about town. His clothes were a bit too crisp, the hair under his straw hat a little too coifed. And then she caught it, a small bulge under his arm. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a gun under his light jacket.

  Quickly, Amber gathered her shopping, and dashed toward home while he had his back turned. She took some odd twists and turns in her path back to the house, hoping that he wasn’t following. She burst through the door to find the house empty, with no evidence of either Cal or Ramiro. Dropping the bags in the kitchen, Amber ran to their room, quickly finding her bra holster and her gun in the top dresser drawer. She snapped the holster on, then spent a few moments practicing her draw. She looked at the box of ammunition and decided to load the gun.

  Checking the safety, she put the gun in place, and pulled her t-shirt back down. He was probably just some lech checking out her ass, she thought, probably lots of people around here carried guns. She let out a big breath.

  It didn’t take long before Amber was lost in scaling and cleaning fish. She hummed as she worked on the fish, and looked for a radio. She saw one in the windowsill of the kitchen and tried tuning it to music, but only the news seemed to be on. She half-listened, as she chopped vegetables, but soon grew bored listening to agricultural statistics and reports about politicians she didn’t know. Just as she reached to snap it off, the announcer reported a story about FARC insurgents coming across the Panamanian border into Darien. A Hungarian tourist and his Panamanian guide were missing, and believed to have been kidnapped. No names were given, pending notification of the missing men’s families.

  Amber froze. How many Hungarians could be roaming around Darien? The park didn’t get a thousand foreign visitors in a year. She clicked off the radio. She thought of Tomás’ phone number, stuffed into her journal. Should she dial it, just to see if he was okay? Then she thought about the creepy guy watching her in the market. What could—what should she do? A shiver ran through her; if she had chosen to go with Tomás instead of Cal, maybe she too would be a FARC captive right now. Had she created her life through the decisions she made? Or was it merely fate…destiny…kismet?

  When Cal and Ramiro returned that night, they found Amber sitting in a chair, grimly watching the door. She held her gun as it rested on her leg. The fish were still raw, the pilaf unmade. They looked from Amber to one another as Amber wordlessly stuffed the gun back into her bra holster, and set about finishing dinner.

  “By the way,” Amber finally said, “There’s some cold beer in the fridge. Dinner is going to be late.”

  ###

  Amber could overhear snatches of the conversation between Cal and Ramiro as she grilled the fish out on the balcony.

  “…Not only is your girlfriend crazy, she’s armed?”

  “…Clearly something happened…”

  “…Four words for you: plane to Panama City...”

  As she turned the fish, Amber wondered if she was in over her head. Maybe Ramiro was right; maybe she should be on the next plane to Panama City. Maybe Cal had made a colossal fuck up in bringing her to La Palma, in telling her his true identity. Amber couldn’t help but think of Tomás, somewhere out there in the jungle. Was he hurt? Scared? Of course he would be scared, what sensible human wouldn’t? And what might FARC do with a female hostage? Would they humiliate her, rape her, or leave her to die in the jungle if she couldn’t keep up?

  Cal would buy her the ticket back to Panama City. Amber knew that. And she knew he would give her enough money to stay in a safe hotel in the city until her parents could arrange a ticket out of Panama. She knew he would do that for her, because she knew he cared about her.

  The problem was that Amber cared about him; she wanted to be with him. FARC or no FARC, she had to admit, she didn’t want to leave Cal.

  Amber’s dinner was quite lovely when she served it. She had bought a bright blue cotton tablecloth for $5 in the market, and had cut some fresh hibiscus flowers and put them in an empty glass jar in the middle of the table. She tried to act as if she hadn’t met Cal and Ramiro at the door with a loaded gun, and wondered if that made her seem even crazier—like she was some kind of dangero
usly demented, Martha Stewart. They could talk about it over dinner, she decided, like civilized people. So far, both Cal and Ramiro had let her be.

  The three of them sat down and automatically, Ramiro folded his hands. Cal tipped his head down, respectfully.

  “Bless us, O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.” Ramiro crossed himself.

  Amber whispered an “amen” before gesturing to the platter of fish on the table. So Ramiro was a good Catholic boy, Amber thought. For some reason, it surprised her. She didn’t know if it was because he was a DEA agent, or because he looked like an underwear model.

  Clearing her throat, Amber decided to not waste any more time. “I know I must have looked a little insane when you guys came in.”

  “A little?” Ramiro said with a lifted eyebrow as he put some fish and rice on his plate.

  Cal gave Amber an encouraging smile.

  “I got a bit freaked out—there was a guy in the market today, he was checking me out a little too closely and he had a gun.” Amber passed the bowl of melon to Cal.

  Cal’s face clouded over, “What the hell? Why didn’t you say something right away?”

  “I was…more or less dealing with that, and then I heard a news report on the radio. FARC came over the border and a Hungarian tourist is missing and believed to be kidnapped.” She looked meaningfully at Cal as she emphasized the word ‘Hungarian.’

  “Oh geez Amber.” Cal set the bowl of melon down and looked at Ramiro. “Amber almost went to the National Park with this Hungarian guy, but she blew him off to come here…to be with me.”

  Amber looked at her hand resting by the side of her plate and realized it was trembling.