Kilometer 99

by Tyler McMahon

  A teenager in a mismatched hat and uniform shirt carries a shotgun and approaches as I park. He smiles and tries not to stare at my bathing suit. I ask him to keep an eye on the car for me. He nods.

  At the doorway to La Estancia, gringos fill two couches in the main room, their faces illuminated by the television screen. My pupils dilate, desperate to recognize someone.

  “Malia?” I hear my name before I can make anybody out. “Is that you?”

  “Courtney!” I’m so happy to hear her voice. “Do you have some clothes I could borrow? I’ve had a really bad day.” As I say it, I realize how true it is. My body is chilled and chicken-skinned, still speckled with salt, vomit, blood, and diesel exhaust.

  “Come on, honey.” Courtney rises and wraps me up in a tight hug. The warm softness of her feels reassuring. With an arm around my shoulders, she leads me toward the back bedrooms. By a few seconds, she may have saved me from a pathetic crying breakdown in front of everyone else. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  We enter the bedroom she shares with several others. I tell her the story of Pelochucho’s injury and the hospital, how I couldn’t find my way back.

  Courtney’s maternal instincts come into full bloom. She’s much bigger than I am, but she doesn’t hesitate to root through the backpacks of rookie volunteers in search of clothes. We come up with a wrap skirt and white tank top only slightly too loose. I take a shower and wash my hair with Courtney’s fragrant American shampoo. Niña Ana—the owner of the hotel—is able to change my hundred-dollar bill and reserve me a bed for the night.

  Once I’m clean and dressed, Courtney fetches two beers from the refrigerator.

  “Salud.” We clang the aluminum together.

  “So.” Courtney swallows beer and grins. “You up for going out tonight? A bunch of us are heading to the Zona Rosa.”

  I’d come here hoping for a quiet evening in. But after a few sips of beer, I feel a second wind. This could be my last night in this town, after all, the last time Courtney and I will get to go out together.

  I dry my bathing suit in Niña Ana’s oven, and put it on under my borrowed clothes. I stuff the bikini top full of Salvadoran bills. A caravan of yellow taxis arrives and carries us off to San Salvador’s best attempt at a posh nightlife district.

  * * *

  The Barra Española is a long woody room one story above street level. I always thought of it as expensive, a place to go on special occasions. But these volunteers see it fit for a Wednesday night out. They all order drinks and light up cigarettes, forming little circles of three to four throughout the space, going from one conversation to another in search of the most interesting chatter, the funniest jokes, the cutest boy or girl.

  Courtney orders each of us a beer and a shot of tequila. I feel in high spirits all of a sudden: clean, surrounded by friends, my hair smelling of tropical fruits. This is like the good-bye party I never thought to have.

  “To your trip.” Courtney raises her shot glass.

  The tequila goes down with a soothing, medicinal burn.

  “Are you excited?” she asks.

  “Of course.” I take a sip of beer. “I’m ready for a change of scenery.” My mind summons up the images that Ben has mentioned so many times: tossing that stone into the ocean at the Tierra del Fuego, ice and glaciers in the background.

  “I hear that,” Courtney says. “I’m so fucking glad to be in the capital right now, I can’t even tell you.”

  “What are you doing here? Just hanging out?”

  “I wish. I got to the Estancia right before you did. I had meetings at the embassy all day today.”

  “Meetings?” The fact that Courtney never works is a running joke between us; I figured she’d be even more checked out now, with so little time left on her service. “Are you busy these days?”

  “Totally.” She signals the bartender for another round, then looks me in the eye. “There is so much money pouring into this country right now; it’s insane. I’ve already got funding for two hundred latrines. I could probably get a water system if we could find a damn source that wasn’t contaminated.”

  “This is coming from the embassy, this money?” None of it makes any sense. Securing funding for a new project often took years—and might be the work of more than one volunteer’s tenure.

  “Partly them, partly other countries. To be honest, I don’t know where it’s all coming from. But it’s not like it used to be.” She lifts the beer bottle to her lips.

  I take one of the bills from out of my top and lay it on the bar.

  “Thing is, they gave us all those temporary plastic houses, and I got them distributed and set up in a heartbeat. Now I’m on their rock-star list. If you can spend their money fast, you’ll get more of it. That’s the way it works now.”

  “That’s crazy.” I truly don’t understand. “It would take me months to get an extra piece of pipe if we came up short on my project.”

  “You don’t get it, Malia. Back then, we were doing development. We’re in the relief business now, like it or not. No more twenty-year time lines. It’s about hit it and quit it.”

  “Is that sustainable?” I hadn’t used the s word in earnest since training.

  “Pfftt.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s handouts, plain and simple. Some of the shit’s downright dishonest. This latrine money is earmarked for families that lost theirs in the quake, but I’m giving them to everyone. Do I feel bad about it? Hell no. The donors don’t understand how it is where the rubber meets the road.” She is almost breathless as she pauses to take another sip. “And this will be over soon. Some volcano or tidal wave will happen somewhere else next month and the sympathy dollars will move on.”

  I nod, feeling bad for having doubted Courtney’s work ethic.

  “To be honest, I like the relief angle better,” she continues. “It’s less frustrating, more cut-and-dry. Give people shelter, food, water, medicine—basic human needs—and don’t pretend to do more, you know? All that ‘teach a man to fish’ crap they sold us in training will drive you crazy, if you let it.”

  “Is this happening with a lot of volunteers?” I’m interested in a way I never thought I’d be again, after seeing that mess of metal pipes scattered about the jungle.

  “With the ones who can read the writing on the wall. A lot of these guys are doing the same as I am.” She looks over my shoulder and takes a visual inventory of the others in our party.

  “That’s amazing.” Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we could’ve repaired that aqueduct. It might’ve even happened quickly, if all this money has indeed been loosened up.

  “You know who played it smart was Alex.” Courtney isn’t finished. “He saw the big picture—beyond his site. He’ll be traveling the world soon, disaster to disaster. Red Cross people wait decades to get the kind of experience he’s getting now.”

  It’s true. Christ, and with my education and experience, I’m more qualified for this line of work than either of them. Maybe there are options that Ben and I haven’t considered; maybe it isn’t as simple as staying or going.

  “Speak of the devil.” Courtney again looks beyond my shoulder. “Look who’s here!” She stands up off her stool.

  I turn around and see Alex, who’s once again wearing long sleeves in a town way too hot for them.

  We each give him a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks me.

  “Long story.”

  “It’s her despedida!” Courtney slams the empty beer bottle on the bar and orders a round for the three of us.

  “Where’s Ben?” Alex asks.

  “At the hospital.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “No, it’s not like that. We had to drive somebody else in. Ben’s just keeping company.”

  Alex nods but still looks confused. Perhaps he hoped for a different set of reasons to find me here without Ben.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” I admit.

  Alex shrugs. “I
live here now.”

  “Courtney was telling me how much things have changed. She says you played your cards right.”

  He accepts the shot and beer as Courtney passes them to him.

  The three of us drink and talk for a while. I relate our rush to the hospital. Alex tells the story of a local newscaster who gave a ten-minute on-air tirade, explaining how such a thing as the Monkey-Faced Baby was impossible. He’s not been seen on television since. Courtney’s laugh grows louder.

  It reminds me of our training days. On the balcony of Courtney’s host family’s house, the three of us used to make warm cocktails from cheap local vodka mixed with rehydration salts. Those were good times—before Alex and I hooked up, before his suicide attempt, before the earthquake. It was a brief era of harmless flirtation, not just with Alex but also with new friends, a new lifestyle, with the country itself.

  I suddenly wonder if that house—the only two-story building in that village—still stands. I don’t ask.

  One of the other volunteers we came with touches Courtney on the shoulder. “We’re going to the subterráneo.”

  Courtney nods and finishes her beer. “Let’s go.”

  I follow our crew of relative strangers out into the now-cooler San Salvador night. Well-dressed urbanites stand in doorways, shouting into cell phones. Shining SUVs piloted by drunks swerve upon the road. And in front of every home or business stands the requisite teenager with a shotgun.

  I don’t know our destination, but it isn’t unusual for new nightclubs to come and go in this district. Many are the half-baked business ideas from the sons and daughters of El Salvador’s ruling elite. They have the capital and connections to get them started but lack the skills or discipline to keep them open.

  We come to a stairway entrance. Ecstatic to see so many white girls, the doorman waves us all in at once. The oomp-chick of the techno music makes conversation nearly impossible. The gringas instantly have Salvadoran dance partners competing for their attention. Courtney drags Alex out to the floor.

  Suddenly exhausted, I find a stool at the bar. I ask for a rum and Coke, hoping the caffeine and sugar might grant me a second wind. I smile at the sight of Courtney and Alex on the dance floor, making a joke of the music, doing exaggerated disco moves.

  After the first song, Alex begs off. A Salvadoran suitor approaches Courtney. Alex comes over and signals the barmaid for one of whatever I’m having.

  While she makes his cocktail, Alex takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and holds it out toward me. He lights one for each of us. I suck a few drags and hold the cigarette close to my mouth, like I’m underwater and the cotton filter is the tip of my snorkel.

  “It’s good to see you,” I say.

  “Good to see you, too.” His voice strains against the music.

  “I’m happy you’ve done so well.”

  He lets out a lungful of smoke. “I found a niche, is all. To be honest, I’m more surprised by you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never pictured you as the type to follow any guy anywhere.”

  I look to the floor, use my flip-flop to smother out a bit of ash. “It’s not like that. Ben didn’t push me.”

  Alex shrugs. “I haven’t talked to you. All I know is that you quit to go on this surf trip with him.”

  I take a long drag and gather my thoughts. “If you can imagine staring at that mess of pipes right after the quake. On the one hand, it was sort of my life’s work—if you can call twenty-three years a life. But it wasn’t about my wasted time. It was more about all those broken promises, about the hopes I’d let run wild.” I stop and take another drink.

  He nods.

  “It all felt like a joke. Like, who was I to pretend I could help them? I barely knew them. I can’t even take care of myself.”

  “I get it,” Alex says.

  “I don’t mean to be a downer, but all of it hit me at once: all the trees we cut down to lay that pipe, all the crops we’d dug out, the river we’d eventually dry up, and the way that it was truly just a tiny bandage on this country’s wounds. You know the kind of water issues El Salvador will have in twenty years? The root of every single problem here is overpopulation. With this aqueduct—it’s big and impressive and the people are excited about it—but all it’s going to do is cut down infant mortality for a couple generations, let the population grow exponentially, and send thousands more into the fray once the shit really hits the fan.”

  I’m drunk and gushing, the way Courtney was earlier, but from a different point of view. Somehow, Alex seems to follow every single word.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Maybe it sounds like a cop-out. But all of a sudden, trying to save people’s lives felt … it felt a lot like trying to kill them.” I swallow and hope for some spark of articulation. “Even pretending to have any sort of control over life and death felt weird to me.”

  “I think about that all the time.” Alex lays his pack of cigarettes on the bar and lights another. “Especially when we’re distributing medicine or blankets or something. All these tall men in uniform, forcing a bunch of families in rags to line up—it reminds me of a scene from a Holocaust movie or something.”

  I’ve never spoken to anybody about these thoughts. I’ve never quite understood them myself.

  “Exactly,” I say. “After that, I couldn’t be a volunteer of any kind. I felt like a fraud for having been one at all. I just wanted to surf.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Fuck off.” I figure that for sarcasm.

  “I’m serious. I slit my wrists once I started thinking that way. If I knew how to surf, it might’ve turned out better.” It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his suicide attempt to me.

  “I’ll teach you one of these days.” I raise my empty glass to ask if he wants another.

  He holds up a vertical palm. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

  “Good idea.” I’ve nearly lost my voice from competing with the music.

  On the way out, I make eye contact with Courtney, who stops dancing long enough to offer a disapproving gaze. I start to shrug, but I’m pulled up the stairs by a hand that holds mine. We walk down the street, passing by men with guns at first, then beggars and supine drunks as we make our way to lower-rent neighborhoods. I smoke another cigarette.

  As we enter Alex’s apartment, it’s dark but for a streetlamp that lets in dull yellow light through a front window. Keys jangle onto a counter. Hands materialize at my waist. When his face first leans in toward mine, I do turn away—aware that something isn’t right.

  “Stop,” I whisper.

  Alex pulls his head back for a second, then leans in again.

  Between the alcohol and the memories of nights spent with him in this city, I can’t seem to stop it. The kissing feels natural—down to the prickle of his sharp stubble. For a moment, it feels as if this is all just a dreamy revisiting of an episode from our past.

  The borrowed tank top comes off over my head. As he stretches and pulls at my bikini, the Salvadoran bills tucked into it fall to the floor. My eyes adjust to the dark room. Bent forward, Alex places his lips on one of my shadowy nipples. He kisses it and then bares his teeth for a gentle bite. I remember this habit of his, but I never liked it. His face is like sandpaper against my breast. One of his hands moves upward along the inside of my thigh.

  We collapse onto his bed, which is in the same room, tucked in a corner far too dark for us to see each other. The second he’s inside me, I can’t remember how he got there. His breath burns hot against my shoulder. One of his hands cups the lowest vertebra of my spine.

  It’s not until then that I sober up enough to think of Ben, to realize that there’s a word for what I’m doing right now, and that word is cheating.

  But sex with Alex was always a peculiar brand of satisfaction spiked with shame, a baring of desperate and vulnerable parts. There was never talking, no communication of any kind. He was prone to acts of teeth and fingernail
s that stopped just short of violence. We were used to feeling embarrassed, awkward, even a little appalled in the aftermath. And it always felt inevitable somehow—like those kernels of suffering were a key part of pleasure, like love couldn’t exist without a smattering of cruelty.

  I buck hard against him. All of his weight presses down on a spot just below my navel. We grind against each other with force, like we want to get this over with, want to exorcise some specter of the love between us because we’re sick of it haunting our waking lives.

  Once it’s finished, I lie there in his arms. A wave of guilt and self-loathing looms ahead, jacking up along my mental reef and threatening to break. I hope it will back off for a few more hours, so I can at least get some sleep.

  15

  In the first few months of my service—before I ever met Ben, before I ever saw La Libertad, before I’d done a lick of work on the water project—I took a weekend trip with Alex. We stayed at a cabin high in the mountains of Morazán, and went to the Museum of the Revolution. It was staffed by former guerillas and displayed the weapons and equipment that they had used and that had been used against them. Pieces of shrapnel were on display with stamps that read MADE IN TEXAS. The biggest exhibit was devoted to Radio Venceremos, the underground radio network that formed the backbone of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front. Behind glass stood a re-creation of a studio room with some of the original transmission equipment. Outside, a bomb crater was roped off, alongside a disarmed version of the U.S.-made bomb that had formed it.

  “I want to go to El Mozote after this,” Alex told me. We hadn’t said much in this somber place.

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s a small town near here, the site of the worst massacre of the war.”

  I nodded, a little disconcerted that this was what he wanted to see.

  “I read a book about it,” Alex explained.

  * * *

  At the village of El Mozote, site of the worst tragedy in modern Latin American history, I followed Alex to the town square. We came upon the memorial—four black silhouettes cut from iron, two adults and two children, all four of them hand in hand. They stood on a stone pedestal, which bore a plaque that read THEY HAVE NOT DIED: THEY ARE WITH US, WITH YOU, AND WITH ALL OF HUMANITY.