Sketchbook (A Tale of Adventure and Romance in the Brazilian Amazon)

by Freda, Paula

  Mary Juliette Kensington reminded him of his mother. She had that same guileless look. She was built like his mother, as well. A touch on the plump side, yet not enough to be called overweight. Give her a husband, three kids and ten years, and she would round out considerably—and she would eventually land a husband. That kind usually did. That innocence and plainness was a banner proclaiming "wife material." Although most men ran for cover before its colors, there was always that one man who was in the market for what it represented. But he had to admit she had talent when it came to drawing. Her sketches were good. They were lifelike and expressive. She was also an excellent judge of character. She had captured his cynicism and his acceptance of the realities in life. Her sketches were a reflection of her mind. As for the image of the man she was going to marry—he suspected no such person existed. The first few buttons of his shirt collar were loosened, yet he tugged at a too-tight invisible neckband.

  He fixed his thoughts on Carol Santini. Now there was a woman. Experienced, for sure. The hungry pout on her mouth, the blue eyes, provocative and inviting. The slender, curvaceous body under her slacks and blouse was intoxicatingly sensuous. He was most comfortable with that sort. He knew how to handle that kind, if he chose to, that is. He made a mental note that when Carole Santini was no longer a passenger on his route, he would ask her out . . .

  Conversation between the two women had dwindled to a mutually enjoyable silence. Florence Mallory closed her eyes. Bus trips bored her. Life bored her. Struggling to keep body and soul together bored her. The three love affairs in her life had left her weary and suspicious. No one had ever cared enough to see her through the hard times. Love was wonderful, the first few months. Roses, dinner, passionate nothings—the works. Then the newness wore off and one night he did not call. Of course, he eventually called to apologize—something came up. But when it happened time and time again— She had not even cried this last time. Ben had seemed different from the others. With Ben she had even considered marriage and children. She believed she had finally found a man who could stand up to the responsibility of commitment and family life. She had no false notions about wedded bliss, not after watching her parents struggling to feed and shelter her and her brother and sister. But the kind of men you read about in romance novels, they did not exist. They were a product of women’s fantasies. All well and good, she supposed. It helped ease the torment of being alive. She blanketed further thoughts, and finally dozed.

  Mary Juliette discerned Florence’s even breathing. She returned to her seat. Opening her sketchbook, she took a soft charcoal pencil from her tote bag, and began to draw the dark-skinned girl, accenting the long straightened hair that glistened with pomade; the dark matte complexion, powdered and blushed; the skeptical look in her eyes, and the full lips, tinted and frosted.

  When she finished, she shifted to the opposite page and began to draw Florence Mallory minus the embellishments. She curled her hair and rounded it in an Afro. She left her face without powder and gave it a shine. She replaced the skepticism in her eyes with the sparkle of enthusiasm. She darkened her lips and parted them into a smile. She closed her sketchbook, but on impulse reopened it to a clean page. Referring to her previous sketch of Connors, she drew a profile of him facing a profile of Florence – her conception of the real Florence. She sketched yet another picture. This one of their full-length figures seated on a velvet couch, holding hands. When the picture was completed, she gave a tiny shrug. At least in her sketchbook, Florence and Connors would know happiness.

  From his side of the bus, Professor Rutger studied the flora and dense foliage that garlanded the banks of the Amazon River. A moment ago, a blue and yellow macaw had opened its hooked beak and squalled in harsh resentment as the monster on wheels roared by, disturbing its tranquility. Earlier, a spotted ocelot had stood by the edge of the river quenching its thirst. At the "Aaargh" of the buses motor, it had lifted its head and snarled a feline challenge. Even now, at this very moment, a mottled anaconda elevated its flattened head between giant lily pads, snapped its tongue, and hissed. How Bessie would have loved this trip. She was so very like himself. She loved life at its most natural. But Bessie was gone. After forty years of faithful love and devotion, his Bessie had rejoined the cosmos.

  The past year had been traumatic. The order, the routine, the warmth and understanding that he had come to accept as the morning accepts the sun, and the evening, the moon, all these reasons for living were lost to him forever. His children, all five of them, were so much like their mother, gentle and giving. They had prodded him back into the world of the living—an empty place without his sweet Bessie. Bessie would wake during the night and fluff his pillow when it was rumpled and squashed from his restless sleep. An empty life when there was no one to make his morning coffee and share it with him; to argue with over the outcome of current events, as they read the papers together. Their life together had held no bubbling excitement. It had been a peaceful co-existence. During the day he would teach World History at his neighborhood college; then in the evening he would come home to his family, to their love, and the beneficent companionship of his sweet Bessie. The pain of her loss had been too great. After the funeral he had returned to teaching, but as he lectured in class, unbidden tears would stream down his round cheeks, and his sight would blur. One day he had walked out of the classroom and resigned. Now he was Professor Emil Rutgers, Emeritus. He traveled a lot. His diplomas gathered dust in his study, and his bed lay mussed and rumpled, empty and forgotten.

  Near the front of the bus, Ira Krausner watched her husband as he slept. Under the paisley shirt, his stomach stuck out like the top of a jellyfish. What a man he had been in his youth! All the traits attributed to a romantic hero had been his. As he aged, and his blonde hair thinned, and his waist grew, he had turned weak and languid. Ira kept a strict watch on her weight and her appearance. She dyed her gray hair a bright auburn. Red was her color. It matched the fire in her blood. She used a wrinkle-smoothing cream and applied her makeup carefully and sparingly. She was no fool to appear over made. A year ago she had had an affair with a younger man.

  Barry knew. She didn’t know how he’d found out, but he definitely knew. Something in his pudgy eyes—a hidden sadness; in his voice grown higher-pitched with age—disappointment. He had not confronted her with the knowledge of her affair. Perhaps he understood that even at sixty her sexual needs continued to demand appeasement. Barry was only sixty-two, but in bed he was a hundred and two. A long time ago, when Barry had resembled Hennessey, Ira, herself, had been a young, fresh blossom, much like that Carole Santini who sat a few seats behind them. At the thought of Carole, Ira felt depressed. Despite her constant attention to herself, and her endless efforts to keep young, father time refused to be stopped. One day the stigmas of old age would prove too formidable for the face creams and the makeup to camouflage. But Carole Santini would also grow old one day, Ira pondered with relish. Her skin too would wrinkle and sag, and her pointed breasts flop downwards like empty, deflated balloons. And men like Hennessey would smile politely, offer their silent sympathy, and pass her by.

  The passengers intent on their own personal lives, no one except Connors noticed the figure perched in a tree, holding a long firearm ready and aimed directly at them. "Deus—Nao!" Connors uttered, as the dissatisfied Mestizo opened fire on the motor coach and its occupants.

  Enrique never knew what hit him. He slumped forward over the steering wheel.

  Blood seeped through the yellow weave of his shirt where the bullets had struck. Connors screamed as he dove to his knees and made a grab for the steering wheel, ducking as another volley of bullets hit the windshield and shattered the glass into a frosty kaleidoscope of blues and whites. He managed to turn the wheel trapped under Enrique’s bleeding chest, and steer the bus away from the river and its hungry inhabitants. More bullets riddled the metal monster on wheels as it veered and careened off the road, and finally crashed into a clump of gnarled vines and close-
knit trees.

  Hennessey, on all fours, crawled down the center of the bus, simultaneously shouting at the passengers to get down under their seats. Mary Juliette’s movements were too slow for her own safety. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down, and pushed her under her seat.

  In the opposite aisle, Florence sat stunned, having just come awake. Hennessey yanked her down as well, oblivious to her damning expletive at being so rudely pulled off her seat and thrust under it.

  Carole was already on the floor. Her reactions had been razor sharp. Hennessey went for the Professor next. "Professor Rut—" He stopped. Blood spurted from his forehead where the bullets had lodged. Hennessey checked the man’s pulse. The Professor was dead. Oddly enough, the Professor was smiling. Connors, also on all fours, joined Hennessey.

  "The Krausners?" Hennessey asked.

  "They are not injured."

  "What in God’s name—"

  "Snipers," Connors summed up in one word.

  "Why us?"

  Connors shrugged.

  Enrique’s body had fallen to the floor when the bus crashed. At Hennessey’s unspoken question, Connors shook his head.

  "Damn!" Hennessey swore, bowing his head.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Mary Juliette sliding out from under her seat into the aisle. "Where do you think you’re going? Get back under!" he ordered grimly. Big dark brown eyes stared defiantly back at him.

  "Go ahead, stand up, give those hell hounds a clear target," Hennessey told her in earnest.

  He was right, of course. But his tone had rankled. Without comment, she slid back under her seat. All she wanted was to find out what happened. Hennessey turned back to Connors. His friend watched him curiously. "We’re trapped here," Hennessey stated the obvious. "Whoever they are, they can pick us off one by one; or if they choose to be magnanimous, wipe us out in an instant."

  "It is for me to go outside," Connors said.

  Hennessey grasped Connors’ shoulder. "No, I don’t think—"

  The black man’s large hand covered his friend’s. "As you said, we are trapped here. Once they close in for the kill, it will be too late. If it is one, or two, even three, I will know what to do."

  "And if there’s an army of them?" Hennessey inquired.

  "Then I will die."

  "Connors—"

  "I must go. I am sure they have seen the women."

  Hennessey took his hand away and nodded. Ira Krausner would serve the snipers’ domestic needs and within the year turn into an old hag. Carole Santini would serve their sexual needs, and survive. Mary Juliette? His mind’s eye saw again the upturned nose, the guileless eyes, and the rosy blush. He felt a tiny knife pierce his gut. "I’ll go with you," he volunteered.

  "No!" Connors said adamantly. "I am better alone. And you must see to the passengers. I will leave my rifle with you. For myself, my knife is sufficient." Unbuttoning his shirt, he withdrew the long knife he carried strapped to his dark bearded chest.

  "I’ll cover you," Hennessey said.

  "Good."

  Connors’ exit went quietly and unnoticed.

  "Excuse me," a feminine voice asked.

  Hennessey turned, rifle in hand. Mary Juliette sat back on her heels. Hennessey’s face mirrored his exasperation. "Are you still looking to die young?" he inquired.

  "Kindly tell me what is going on?" she demanded, her chin rose resolutely. She was not moving until she had an answer.

  Her hair was mussed. There were black smudges on her dark green slacks and on the palms of her hands from crawling on the rubber matting. Her nails were short and uneven … a nail biter, he guessed. "I don’t know what’s going on, except that those men out there are not our friends."

  He felt a distinct urge to smooth back her hair. "You better get back under your seat," he told her. Her eyes reminded him of milk and coffee. The bus shook and metal splintered as the marauders renewed their fire.

  Hennessey threw himself flat on his stomach, taking Mary Juliette with him. He thought at first that the tingling sensation he experienced in his leg was the touch of his thigh brushing hers. But the searing pain that followed convinced him that what he felt had nothing to do with sexual stimuli. He swore as warm blood drenched his trouser leg. His brain spun and his stomach heaved. His head hurt unbearably. He sensed rather than saw Mary Juliette’s arms pillowing his head. Before he could tag what ailed him, his eyelids closed of their own volition and his thoughts ceased.

  "Oh my God, he’s hit!" Mary Juliette cried, forgetting that she was sitting up with Hennessey in her arms, herself an open target for the next volley of shots that might strike the bus.

  A trunk full of gold nuggets would not have moved Ira and Barry Krausner from their huddle.

  Carole and Florence came forward on their hands and knees. "His leg!" Carole cried.

  Florence noticed the blood dripping from the bullet crease on his temple.

  "Connors! Where’s Connors?" she asked.

  "I saw him leave the bus a moment ago," MJ answered. "We have to stop the bleeding," she wailed.

  "Where do they keep their First Aid kit?" Florence asked.

  No one knew.

  Each of them carried some kind of First Aid supply, but their suitcases were in the baggage compartment under the bus.

  "Anybody have a scissor?" Florence asked.

  "I’ve got a cuticle clipper," Carole said.

  "Good enough. We can use our blouses for bandages."

  "But I don’t have a bra on," Carole complained.

  "All right, we can use Mr. Krausner’s shirt, if needed."

  "Mr. Krausner," Florence called.

  There was no answer. But the Krausners were well within hearing range. They knew exactly what was going on.

  Ira and Barry bandied angry phrases between themselves. Then Barry said, loud and clear. "Of course you can have my shirt." And a few seconds later, he threw his paisley shirt over the seat tops so that it landed on Hennessey’s unconscious form. While Carole ripped the shirt apart, Florence snipped at Hennessey’s trouser, separating the blood-burnished poplin to expose the raw wound beneath. Carole handed each of the two girls pieces of the shirt; then growing pale at the sight of the raw wound spilling red, she excused herself and moved away, while Florence dabbed at the wound not really knowing what to do, but aiming at least to stem the loss of blood. She wished Connors would return.

  MJ cleaned the bullet graze on Hennessey’s temple, pressing a torn fragment of paisley cotton hard against the cut, until she was certain the bleeding had stopped. The women were at their wits’ end and wondering what they could do to revive Hennessey, when Connors rapped at the vehicle’s door and acknowledged his presence. Florence moved to the driver’s cubicle. She blanched at the odor of death oozing from Enrique’s corpse. She squelched the threatening nausea, stepped over the corpse and flipped the switch that opened the front doors.

  Once inside, Connors sank onto his knees beside Hennessey’s unconscious form. "Meu amigo," he whispered. He unwound the makeshift bandages, and checked the wound. "The wound must be washed and the bullet removed. I have medical skills. I will remove the bullet."

  The firing had stopped, and all movement outside had ceased. Connors stood up and moved to the rear of the bus. He lifted the rubber matting on the floor, and exposed a wide lid. Under the lid were blankets, tools, metal cups, a pitcher and plates, and a well equipped First Aid kit. He took the pitcher and called to Carole and Florence. To Carole he said, "Go to the river and fill this with water." To Florence, "Take the soiled bandages and wash the blood from them."

  "You want us to go out there?" Carole exclaimed, eyes wide and horrified.

  Connors nodded.

  "You’re crazy! They’ll kill us."

  "The two men who shot at us will annoy us no more. It is safe to go out now."

  "What—How can you be sure?"

  "They are dead. I killed them." He noted the women’s shocked semblances, and added, "in self-defense." />
  Carole swallowed. Florence smiled. She liked Connors. He was a man of few words who could be counted upon.

  Mary Juliette continued to cradle Hennessey in her arms. "Thank you," she said.

  Connors did not reply, but his dark eyes acknowledged her gratitude. When the two women returned from the river, Connors cleansed the open wound on Hennessey’s thigh. He sterilized his knife with flame from his lighter. He was no amateur, MJ surmised as she watched him cut into Hennessey’s flesh in search of the bullet. It was no haphazard procedure. His hands were steady, his medical skill self-evident. "You’re a doctor, aren’t you?" Mary Juliette asked, when Connors had removed the bullet, washed the wound again, applied antiseptic and clean gauze bandages from the kit. "But you don’t look like a doctor," she added honestly. Connors shrugged. "I practice in my village. But my people are poor. My work for the Travel Company helps to pay for medical supplies." Mary Juliette understood.

  Hennessey had not yet regained consciousness. "Shouldn’t he have come to by now," she asked Connors.

  "We will watch him. Here, take these," Connors said offering her the bottle of antiseptic and a roll of gauze. "Care for the graze on his temple," he told her. Mary Juliette took the items and proceeded to do just that.

  "You hold him as a mother holds a child." Connors said. "I see great warmth in your eyes for my friend." The tone of his voice implied much more.

  "All right, I’m easily read, but sadly for me, men like Hennessey don’t turn on for small-town squirts." She was not putting herself down, only telling the truth.

  "You underestimate yourself," Connors said.

  "Sure I do. It’s just that I’m used to falling in love. I’m just not used to having anyone fall in love with me."

  Connors grinned. He liked her. She reminded him of Hennessey. She had a gentle soul.

  Florence asked, "What are we going to do now? The bus is wrecked. Do we walk the rest of the way to the mission?"

  Connors startled her by asking, "Why do you straighten your hair? And wear these false colors?" His fingers brushed her tinted cheeks.