“Well, in an area where there are said to be uncontacted tribes,” Todd began, speaking a little too quickly. Holly glanced quickly at Doutor Eduardo, but the doutor only shrugged.
“Further to the northeast, I believe.”
“Then you’ve heard of them?” Todd asked.
“Amazing how these uncontacted tribes are so well known. It’s all rather like the experience of our friend’s ornithologists in Peru, who realized they could ‘discover’ a new type of parrot based on the description provided by the local people. It is my project to spend a pleasant evening describing all our local birds until I mention one that our friend here doesn’t know. I believe you would recognize the description of an unclassified bird?” the doutor asked Powell, who could do no more than lean forward in his chair before Todd interrupted.
“To the northeast, but south of the serra,” Todd said.
The range of mountains. Doutor Eduardo looked at him more sharply.
“I’m an old anthropologist, with an interest in these things,” Todd said. He smiled, but gave up trying to be charming when he realized the doutor saw through him. “And I hear the garimpeiros made some pretty goddamn emphatic contact with the tribe.”
“A rumour I heard as well. Untrue, as it happens. The garimpeiros haven’t reached that river yet.”
“Really? How can you be sure?”
“This is an extremely isolated area, as perhaps you have seen. What actually happened is that some Indian agents making an exploration there were fired on with arrows. I speak confidentially. The investigation is well in hand, but to avoid curiosity-seekers, it must be kept private. Which means, of course, that information circulates in a distorted fashion.”
Todd looked perturbed. “I was sure it was garimpeiros,” he said.
“So as to the birds,” Powell began.
“I’m glad I’m wrong,” Todd cut in. “But it’s still only a matter of time before garimpeiros really do reach that river. It’s a gold rush, they’re everywhere. You’ve managed to declare this land a nature preserve. Could we talk about the mechanics of doing the same thing with this new tribe’s territory?”
“They’re no more ‘new’ than you or I,” Doutor Eduardo replied. “And besides, they have no territory.”
“So it is your land.”
“People with no concept of private property can hardly have territory, can they? You realize that we’re talking about primitive people who carry everything they need in baskets on their backs. Carry them from one place to another, setting up camps to burn a little patch of forest. You’re an anthropologist, you know this. They grow their crops for a season and move on to another patch. But the government has already been very generous in designating a reserve north of the serra. Your not-quite-uncontacted tribe has long had ample room to live a traditional, nomadic life within the boundaries of the reserve.”
“But what if this really is another group, previously unknown, and quite distinct from the tribe living on the reserve?”
The doutor paused.
“Because if you could really find the time to describe the birds — “
“Give me a minute here, Powell.”
“How would you have me answer?” Doutor Eduardo replied. “If you want me to say I’ll help the Indians, I can say it. Although they haven’t asked.”
Todd considered his ambiguous offer in silence as Powell looked at him sullenly. Holly felt a prickle of sympathy for both, yet chiefly felt relieved to see Todd’s latest project unravelling. If Indian agents were already involved, he wouldn’t have to go back there, would he? And risk being shot with arrows. Yet to her surprise, Todd seemed to consider saying something more, only delaying when the lights flickered several more times, and Conor cried out from the bunkhouse.
“He can’t still be awake,” Holly said.
“Your disappearance that so angered your colleagues,” Doutor Eduardo said. “This was an attempt to contact your uncontacted tribe?”
“They would have been even angrier if I’d found them, wouldn’t they? I wonder where they could have gone.” Todd looked foggy, then added, “You wanted to know about the birds, Powell?” Yet when they turned toward Powell’s chair, the bird man wasn’t there. Nor could they see him in the clearing: the lights were flickering, the generator sputtering, and suddenly the humming, well-lighted camp fell into darkened silence.
“Mommy!”
Running toward Conor, Holly found that the fire cast a remarkably small circle of light. Outside the circle, the darkness and the cool air slapped her face like wet fabric. She stumbled, and when she righted herself, she found she couldn’t make out anything up ahead. Her eyes were open, but they might as well have been closed. She felt so disoriented that she turned back to the fire, where she saw Doutor Eduardo still sitting in his chair and Todd standing up to look toward the invisible bunkhouse. He was looking in the same direction that Holly had instinctively taken, and she turned back to follow the straightest possible line between the fire and her terrified child.
It was useless to hurry. After tripping a second time, Holly slowed down and staggered like the exhausted Evan across the uneven lawn, brushing against bushes and recoiling from the scratch of twigs on her bare arms. The sensation of the humid air on her blind, open eyes was so unpleasant that she finally closed them, and found she could walk more steadily with her eyes closed, picturing the clearing in her mind. Conor’s wailing had stopped; she could no longer use it to guide her. But when she finally bumped into the corner of a building, she could feel her way along the wire mesh to the door, taking its cool, curving metal handle in her hand. She was opening the door when the lights went on, and blinked to see Powell half sitting on the hammock, cradling Conor in his lap.
The moment she saw him, Holly knew. He looked too startled, and his hand was in the wrong place on Conor’s thigh. Not very high up, but wrong nonetheless.
“Come on with Mommy, sweetie,” she said, walking toward Conor. Did the expression on Powell’s face change? She wasn’t sure, she couldn’t be sure, and Holly lifted Conor from Powell’s lap without acknowledging his presence. It would be awkward to take both children out of there at once, but she was going to do it. Burrowing into his hammock with her free arm, she picked up the sleeping Evan and somehow arranged the children so she was supporting one under each arm, one on each hip. She didn’t know how she could carry them both, but she did.
“Mommy’s tired,” she told Conor. “You’re going to come sleep with Mommy, in her bunkhouse. Then you’ll be all right.”
They’d be all right, but Powell was all wrong, and Holly was terribly angry at Todd for not being there. Why hadn’t Todd come running too? Helped her out, backed her up, witnessed what she had trouble believing herself. Holly felt guilty when Powell gave her a reproachful look as she turned to open the door. But he’d be good at that, wouldn’t he? Weren’t they experts at disarming parents? Todd would probably believe his denials; the alternative was unthinkable. Yet that didn’t make it untrue. Straining under the weight of her children, Holly saw Todd as another innocent she carried. His campaigns, his plans, his touching, unshakeable belief that people were inherently good and would come around eventually.
No, Holly thought, they were not. She was furious with Todd, wanted to yell at him: Innocence is a luxury. It’s something we allow the children. You have to take more responsibility, Todd. I can’t do this by myself much longer.
Arms aching, heart pounding, Holly staggered into the women’s bunkhouse. Her legs were buckling as she put Evan in one hammock and Conor in another. Standing between them, she thought she might be mistaken about Powell. She might be unjust. But in any case, Powell wasn’t going to get anywhere near her children from that moment forward.
8
The next morning, Powell headed upriver with his mist nets before Holly and the boys were awake. Seu José took him in the
outboard, although his daughter, Olga, told Holly at breakfast that her father would return in time to take them to town so they could catch their plane.
Holly felt so relieved she was afraid to speak, and helped the boys with their cutlery before turning to Todd.
“They probably won’t get back much before the end of the week. Powell’s going to want to make sure he doesn’t miss anything up there.”
“He got his talk with the doutor last night after you went to bed,” Todd said. “It doesn’t seem to have turned up anything new. I’m not sure how long he’ll be away, actually. He looked pretty down this morning.”
Out of guilt or wounded innocence? “There’s something I want to talk about,” she told Todd. “Not now. But definitely later.”
“Big people’s talk,” Evan said, startling Holly with a knowing look, adult eyes in his baby face, on equal evaluating another. Holly felt a wrenching fear he’d seen something last night. But looking closer, she saw he just meant she didn’t fool him, he knew he was being excluded, and his mouth quivered with pride for having seen through her. Holly was impressed and nodded, making Evan grin.
And Conor? Conor looked unconcerned, dipping his spoon in the cereal, filling it cautiously the way he always did. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything wrong with Powell either, and Holly hoped there wasn’t, although she winced when she realized that the birdman could return just as suddenly as he’d left. After breakfast, as they walked outside, she found herself straining to catch the sound of an outboard motor. What if he’d forgotten something and turned back? Powell struck her as too well organized for that. In fact, Todd had said he’d packed most of his gear, which probably meant he’d be gone for several days. If they were lucky, maybe he’d even send Seu José to fetch them on Saturday and stay upriver by himself. Would he do that?
Seu José probably wouldn’t let him. What kind of tourist camp would risk leaving one of its guests alone in the bush? For the rest of the morning, Holly kept thinking she heard the distant buzz of the returning outboard, although it would turn out to be Olga’s husband Clovis at work with his chainsaw, or cicadas, the free frogs, or sometimes nothing at all. She was increasingly conscious of waiting, of being suspended, until the day began to seem muffled, unreal, slightly distanced from a sharper and more pressing reality, just as she was kept from talking to Todd by the constant demands of the children. What’s that bird? See what I drew? Volleyball time! I’m thir-sty. He’s bugging me, Mommy! Can we go swimming? They even found a soccer ball Olga’s grandson had left on his recent visit.
“Here, Mommy,” Evan cried, giving it a kick. Holly seemed to see a vapour trail across the sharp grass. Then Todd took Evan’s pass and they were playing soccer, although even this seemed disconnected, Holly’s thoughts apart from the rest of her. She kicked the ball, Go get it, Connie, taking passes, blocking Todd, laughing and thinking, When can we stop? When will it end? Why do I always have to take care of everyone else — Good one, C! — good wife, good mother. I can’t stand it any more. I just can’t. If this doesn’t end I’m going to —
“Gooooooal!” Conor yelled. He tackled Holly, sending her sprawling on the grass so he and Evan could clamber on top of her.
“Tickle Mommy,” Evan proposed, and they began pawing at her ribs. She hated what they called tickling and shrank under the paw paw paw of little hands, such blunt punching, such unbearable claustrophobic giggling in her face when all she wanted in the world was for them to stop, to get off her, to leave her alone.
Until they finally did, exhaling contentedly and cradling down on either side of her, one under each arm, so she could feel the fullness of both buttery little bodies, sweet with sweat. Relaxing, she nuzzled their hair, one after the other as she kissed them both, with Todd’s strong legs crossed on the grass beside them.
Oh, I love my babies, she thought. I love them so much. And lay, hugging them tightly, sheltered by the perfect sky.
Holly put the boys in their hammocks for a nap after lunch and walked over to Todd, who was reading on the veranda of the other bunkhouse.
“Last night,” Holly began, so Todd blinked up at her mildly, smiling, his eyes straying back to his book. She took it from him, sitting on the edge of the other chair.
“That man Powell,” she said. “When I got into the bunkhouse, he’d already got Conor in his lap. He’s a molester, Todd. A pedophile.”
“My God, is Conor all right? Why didn’t you tell me? The dirty bugger, what was he doing?”
“Conor’s fine,” Holly said. “Nothing actually happened. I got there so quickly he didn’t have a chance to do anything. But the way he was holding Conor was all wrong. His hand — “ She tried to demonstrate, but couldn’t remember what had struck her. It wasn’t the angle of his wrist so much as the look on his face, or maybe a combination of the two. “It’s hard to explain. He looked like someone who’d been caught. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought otherwise. His hand was in the wrong place, but you can hold a child awkwardly. And Conor’s all right, the boys are all right. They don’t have a clue what happened.”
Todd pursed his lips, staring down at his clasped hands for a long furrowed moment before glancing over at her quickly. It was a keen glance, and skeptical.
“The look on his face, Todd. Of being caught.”
“But nothing happened. That’s the important thing. You’re sure of that?”
“It could have happened. If he comes back, we have to make absolutely sure that it doesn’t.”
“If he does. With any luck, we’ve seen the last of him.”
“I hope so,” Holly said. “But in retrospect, doesn’t it strike you as a little odd, the way he attached himself to the boys so quickly? I could kick myself, but we let him jump right in. Why didn’t he get bored? No one plays that long with other people’s children. We should have noticed. But it was just too damned convenient for us, to let someone else do a shift with the kids. What on earth were we thinking?”
Todd shuffled in his chair, looking uncomfortable, rumbling with the effort having to explain something he knew she wouldn’t like. “I noticed,” he said finally.
“There’s more?”
He gave her another quick look. “He was trying to impress you, Holly. He kept looking at you, to make sure you saw how good he was being with the children. Coming on to you in his own peculiar way. This isn’t the first time that’s happened.”
“Oh, God, not again. Not even with that unattractive little man. Looking at me to make sure I didn’t notice, more likely.”
“What has being unattractive got to do with it? I don’t find him particularly engaging myself, love, but you’ve got to be fair. On these tours I take around, people try out all sorts of flirtations, all sorts of roles. I end up believing that’s half the reason they come. Suddenly, some wimpy little academic can play Tarzan. Testosterone fuelled. ‘Yaw, what’s a few mosquito bites in the pursuit of science?’ I like to say, ‘malaria,’ just to see them blanch. Maybe Powell has a fantasy of being a family man, nice kids, pretty wife. Cross me out of the picture, I’m tired and unobtrusive anyway.”
“Unobtrusive,” Holly repeated, smiling and admitting, “At first I thought that’s what he was doing, too. Trying to impress me. What a conceited ass I am. If you’d only seen the look on his face.” She punched her knee lightly in emphasis. “I just knew. And doesn’t it count for something, that in all the years we’ve had kids, this is the first time something like this has ever occurred to me? I don’t go around seeing bogeymen. Whatever else my faults, I’m not over-protective. Mavis inoculated me. I refuse to repeat her mistakes.”
“I know you’re not, love. But from what I’ve read, molesters tend to work in professions having to do with children, or at least they work with children in their spare time. Soccer coaches, choir leaders. The man is a pilot whose hobby is birding.” Todd shook his head. “What also troubles m
e is that I’ve read quite a lot about it lately. Suddenly we’re in the middle of an epidemic of child abuse. Where did that come from? Is it really that bad? Frankly, what it reminds me of is the communist scare I grew up with. Reds under the bed. You probably don’t remember much about it, but even my father got exercised enough to talk about building a bomb shelter. He never did, but it was an issue, and from what I know, every generation grabs onto an issue like that. War atrocity stories. Some big fear. I’m not saying these things don’t exist. But what we’re reacting to is probably only partly truth, and partly something worse. Tribal. Mythic. Archetypal, whatever the word. I know you’re a good mother, love. But I wonder if you aren’t unconsciously projecting the modern vision of the devil onto an innocent man.”
“Why can’t you believe me? I know what I saw. We have to be prepared if this guy comes back.”
“I’m prepared. I’ll be watching. And I don’t disbelieve you, love. I just think the jury’s still out.”
Holly looked down at her hands. Working hands, the nails kept short, looking older than her face, prematurely dry from solvents. They were serious hands, and respectable.
“It’s a problem for me, Todd, that you don’t respect what I say. You never just accept it. You have to turn everything over in your mind, and somehow the conclusion emerges is what you’d prefer to see. We moved down here to try to break old patterns. I know you said the job was problematic, but you were setting it up, thousands of miles from head office, and I really hoped you’d structure it so you could spend more time with your family. It’s all very well to say I’m a good mother, and I am. But I’m far from perfect. I don’t have the patience I see in other parents. I never wanted to be at home full-time with the children, and that’s even less true now, when I’m finally painting. So you can’t use me as an excuse. It makes me really angry, Todd, the way you simultaneously use me as an excuse to shuffle off your own responsibilities and put me down in the process. Holly’s a good little mother. Let her take care of the kids.”
Drink the Sky Page 9