The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  “We should take a cruise,” he said. “Go to the Bahamas…Jamaica. Anywhere you’d like.”

  “I’m pregnant, Stan.”

  He turned ashen, walked around the room, went outside, came back, turned the volume down on Beethoven and plopped down in his armchair. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to have the child.”

  “A rapist’s child?”

  “Not a rapist’s child. I met this man in Nicaragua.”

  He listened to my story, grabbed his jacket and walked out the door.

  Two days later he came back, looking like a beaten dog. “I can live with it, Jen. Never would have happened if I hadn’t been fooling around with that other woman.”

  “Listen to yourself, Stan. You’re as messed up as I am.”

  In spite of the growing evidence that Alan had dumped me, I tried his home number again, and again got Maritza’s recorded voice. I tried him at midnight and in the wee hours of the morning as I lay awake, clasping his little effigy witch to my breast like a child with a security blanket. Where was he? Was he tortured by the same memories that kept me awake?

  The night at the Spanish embassy.

  The way we made love.

  Ana Maria Island.

  My therapist suggested I not make a commitment to Stan in my current state, and for peace of mind, I should at least find out what happened to Alan. My mom gave me the same advice. So did Diane. So I called the US Embassy in Nicaragua, thinking he’d returned.

  He hadn’t. I asked for a contact number.

  “All we have is his home number, but I think he’s in Arizona…with his wife.”

  Wife. So Alan was just another married man. An affair on the side. Like Stan with the doctor’s wife. I yanked off his guardian witch and flung it against the wall. Again.

  The nagging fear that I was a fugitive in Nicaragua wouldn’t go away, so I logged onto nicaragua.com to check out the news. No mention of the missing lieutenant and no mention of me, but I found some old articles about Catherine, one of which mentioned the anguish of her family. It bothered me, and before long the secret inside me was begging to come out.

  I drove to Barnes & Nobles, used their phone, and called Catherine’s mom.

  Without identifying myself or mentioning the old couple, I gave her the names of Blanca, Gonzales, Fuentes, and Prudencia. She took the information, and before long was telling me all the things I already knew about Catherine—adventuresome, rebellious, assertive.

  “What did she tell you about her experiences in Nicaragua?” I asked.

  “Not much. Only that she was on the verge of a major discovery. She also met this wonderful young man at the embassy who was helping her.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “It was Alan something-or-other.”

  My morning sickness became more intense. I could barely stand the sight of food. The aroma of brewing coffee turned me green. Worse, Stan badgered me endlessly about making up. He even brought me roses, and one evening when I was feeling needy, he took me to dinner at Evan’s Farm Inn, a converted plantation with fireplace and lots of wood.

  “Listen, Jen. It’s time to put this bad experience behind.”

  I talked it over with my mom, with Diane and my therapist. They all agreed that Stan could be a loving father, but not to give up on Alan. So I foolishly tried his number one last time, still blinded by his magic, and again got Maritza’s recorded voice.

  It was over, finished, hopeless, so I bagged everything that reminded me of him, even the clothing I’d worn in Nicaragua. No more gown or lacy underwear, no more hiking boots.

  No more him.

  Finally, in the living room that night, I sat down with Stan and laid down the rules, saying if we got back together, I expected more personal freedom.

  He agreed, and even said he’d move up to New York with me.

  “I’ll also be going back to Nicaragua.”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t do that.”

  “I’ll do what I damn well please. Besides, it’ll be with a team. I need photos.”

  He stood, shuffled around a bit and sat down. “Fine, whatever you want.”

  “What I want is a promise you’ll never again stray.”

  “Never, Jen, I promise.”

  I wanted to seal the pact with a handshake. He wanted more, so he put on a Beethoven sonata and pulled me into the bedroom. No kisses. No sweet talk. He didn’t even turn out the lights. Or take off his black socks. I lay through it all unmoved, staring over his shoulder at the crystal light fixture. I shifted my position and was wondering if pregnancy was a depressant when I realized Stan was in the shower and the light fixture was covered with spider webs.

  For our “second honeymoon” we drove down to Appomattox in Stan’s red Porsche and visited the courthouse where Lee surrendered to Grant.

  I imagined myself in a tattered gray uniform, signing the articles of surrender.

  Stan asked why I was crying.

  Three days later, on a rainy afternoon, Alan showed up at the Smithsonian.

  Chapter 45

  There he stood, the prince of my dreams, sadness in his eyes, raincoat over his jacket and tie, umbrella in his hand, dripping water on the floor.

  “I couldn’t let it go, Jen. I needed to see you again. Get some answers.”

  My mouth went suddenly dry. Butterflies took over my stomach. I opened my mouth to say he was the one who needed to do the answering, but couldn’t get out the words.

  I sank into a chair. “What happened to you, Alan?”

  “Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “You didn’t leave any messages.”

  “I sure as hell did. Voice mail and letters.”

  He stepped closer. “Damn it, Jen, why didn’t you tell me your name was Richardson? I didn’t have your home address, your phone number—nothing. When I called Smithsonian, this woman who answered said they didn’t have a Jennifer McMullen in their directory. I told her I thought it was Office of Native American History, so she transferred me over. I told the receptionist I was calling for someone named Jennifer who went to Nicaragua. She said, ‘Oh, you mean Jen Richardson.’ That’s how I found you.”

  Diane popped into the lounge, poured coffee, sensed the tension and left, opening her eyes wide as she passed. Alan said, “Can we get out of here, go somewhere and talk?”

  I pulled myself up and straightened my jacket. “Give me a minute.”

  In my office—previously Victoria’s office—I took tissues from my desk and stuffed them into my purse. It was going to be that kind of day. Then I called the mailroom.

  “Yes,” said the man who answered. “We’ve got letters for a Jennifer McMullen. No one here by that name. We usually keep these things a few weeks, then do an RTS—Return to Sender.”

  “Can you send them up?”

  Diane stuck her head into my office. “Oh, my God, is that him?”

  “Listen, Diane, did anything happen to our phone system while I was in Nicaragua?”

  “They updated the system, changed everything. Why?”

  I donned a raincoat and was at the door when a young man from the mailroom came in with three letters. Why hadn’t I thought of the mailroom before? Probably the same reason I ran traffic lights and cried about everything. Or because I was pregnant. Or plain stupid.

  We finally caught a taxi on Constitution Avenue, taxis being in short supply on rainy April days. Alan gave the driver an address, and we were soon swishing past the Washington Monument, the Federal Reserve, and along the Potomac. A turn to the right and we rumbled along a cobble-stoned street in Georgetown. “Where are we going?”

  “My hotel.”

  “I’m not going to your hotel.”

  “Relax, they’ve got a quiet bar where we can talk.”

  The bar was anything but quiet. Happy hour had arrived, and people streamed in by the dozens, shaking rain out of umbrellas, talking and laughing, some listening to a vocalist d
oing a Patsy Cline imitation about falling to pieces.

  You want me to act/ like we’ve never kissed…

  A waiter with a Dracula-sounding accent guided us to a padded booth near the fireplace. Leaded glass chandelier above us. Candle on the table.

  “Diet coke,” I said to the waiter. “Decaffeinated.”

  As soon as the waiter left, Alan loosened his tie. “What’s going on, Jen?”

  I put my trembling hands under the table. “Why didn’t you tell me about Maritza?”

  “I told you. Said we were separated.”

  “No, what you said was ex-wife. There’s a difference.”

  A pained expression came over him. “Christ, Jen. I thought you understood. Maritza and I broke up a long time ago, just like you and Stan, but we were still…”

  “Married?”

  He glanced toward the bar. “Damn it, where are those drinks?”

  Our drinks arrived. Alan tossed down his martini and ordered another. There was loud applause as the vocalist finished her song. Alan said, “Why does love have to be so complicated? Why can’t boy meet girl, fall in love and ride into the sunset? No baggage, no regrets?”

  “Are you going to explain or get philosophical?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “We had a pending divorce for months. Only thing I needed was her signature. I figured she’d sign when she was ready. No rush. Didn’t trouble me until I met you, so I called and asked her to sign the papers…”

  “And?”

  “Started screaming, blaming everything on me. Even her drinking. I told her, fine, blame me, but sign the damn papers. A few hours later I get this phone call from her friend. Said she was comatose, an empty bottle of Valium next to her bed. They said she might not make it.”

  “How is she now?”

  ”Better. I checked her into rehab in Phoenix. That’s where I’ve been the past two weeks. She’s got relatives there. I had to do it, Jen. You’d have done the same for Stan. That’s why I couldn’t talk when you called me at home.”

  He leaned across and took my hand. “I tried to call you in Nicaragua. Couldn’t get you, so I called the embassy. They told me about your fax to Easton. I told them to get you the hell out of the country. They got in touch with Nelson. He said you’d gone out to Ana Maria. Alone. Then Nelson called to say you looked like you’d been run over by a truck. What happened?”

  “Wait a minute, Alan, hold on. I’ll answer your questions when you answer mine.”

  He held out his hands. “I already told you about Maritza.”

  “You didn’t say if she signed the papers.”

  “She’s in rehab, Jen. Her shrink said not to upset her with—”

  “How very convenient.”

  “Please, Jen. It’s not like that.”

  “Tell me about Catherine Cohen?”

  “What does she have to do with us?”

  “Just tell me, Alan. Were you sleeping with her too?”

  “A short fling. No big deal.”

  “Is that what you told Maritza about me…a short fling? No big deal?”

  “Christ, Jen, please.”

  “Did you ever take Catherine to Ana Maria?”

  “Never.”

  “What about Luz Maria?”

  “Damn it, Jen, Luz Maria was before Catherine. Before you. You’re the only woman I care about. Can’t you see that? Do you think I’d come here if I didn’t care?”

  Tears welled up in his eyes, and just when it seemed as if both of us would start bawling, the vocalist stepped to the microphone and spoke in a honey-smooth voice. The guitarist strummed along. “This song is called Always, first recorded by the incomparable Patsy Cline. It’s for Cedric and his new bride, Irma—from Omaha.”

  A flutter of drums. A smattering of applause. Someone saying, “Go Huskers,” and some old geezer in green pants pulled Irma onto the dance floor.

  Other couples joined them. Alan slid out of the booth and pulled me onto the floor. I buried myself in his arms and breathed in his cologne. Felt his hard muscles. Heard him saying how we were back together and nothing else mattered.

  “Just the two of us,” he whispered. “Always.”

  The tears came at last. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m back with Stan.”

  He stiffened. “But you said—”

  “I’m not going to be your mistress, Alan. Not going to break my promise to Stan either.”

  I left him standing on the floor and hurried back to the table, sobbing like the broken woman I was. He caught up with me as I was reaching for my coat.

  “Please, Jen, let’s sit down and talk.”

  “Don’t make this any harder. I didn’t know what to do. I was confused, hurting.”

  I pulled on my coat and headed for the exit.

  He signed for the tab, followed me outside and grabbed my arm. The rain was mixing with both our tears. “Don’t do this, Jen. Please.”

  I pulled free, climbed into the back seat of a waiting taxi and shut the door. The cab drove off, and when we stopped for a light, I glanced back through the rain and my tears and saw Alan still on the sidewalk, still with that stunned look.

  The light changed. The cab turned right and sped off in the direction of Chain Bridge. And I left the only man I ever loved standing on the sidewalk in the rain.

  Chapter 46

  The next morning, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Stan offered to drive me to the doctor. I told him no and waited for him to leave for work. Then I sat on the sofa and opened Alan’s letters.

  My dearest Jen. Once again I find myself wishing I were a poet so I could write this without sounding so clumsy, so utterly incompetent. I miss your face in the morning. I miss your smile and your laughter. Most of all, I miss your love. We were meant to be…

  Meant to be—the words he often spoke, etched into my memory with all the gravity of a biblical injunction. Why hadn’t I waited? Why had I caved to Stan?

  Not that it would make a difference. Alan would still be married to Maritza and I’d still be carrying his child, and the cave in Nicaragua would still be beckoning.

  The other letters were the same—explanations about Maritza, how much he loved and missed me. I looked at the spirals on the outside of the envelope, and then I was curled in a ball, crying so hard no sound came out.

  My despair deepened. I couldn’t eat. I felt like the loser in every sad Country song that had ever been song. I lost weight in spite of being pregnant. Guilt became the monster in the closet, and I don’t know what would have happened if my mom hadn’t called.

  “Ya basta,” she snapped. “Get over him.”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t get over him.”

  “Listen, mija, either you put him behind you or I’m coming up there with my pouch of cures.”

  She was right. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life moping. So on a rainy Friday evening when Stan was working late and I was sick of crying, I made myself a cup of Chamomile tea, put some flamenco music on the player, and settled on the sofa with Father Antonio’s manuscript.

  There was Molly again, potty-mouthed as ever, and Vampire Jack, and pirates on the horizon.

  A ringing phone brought me back to the present.

  Elizabeth Alvarado.

  “Thought you’d like to know your boyfriend’s back in Nicaragua,” she said.

  My chest tightened. “So?”

  “Looks like hell. Did you dump him?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did, but that’s not why I called. I’m calling about your excursion to Zapateras.”

  “I didn’t go to Zapateras.”

  “Oh, no, then how’d you fall into chichicaste. There’s none on Ana Maria. I went there myself. Checked it out. Only place on the islands with chichicaste is Zapateras. It’s also interesting that Lieutenant Fuentes went missing on the same day.”

  “Who is Fuentes?”

  “Oh, please,
Jennifer, give me some credit. I’ve connected the dots. Somebody beat the hell out of you and it wasn’t chichicaste.”

  “Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

  In my paranoid mind, I expected Elizabeth to tell her story on TV. Word would get to the embassy. Then the feds would show up and read my Miranda rights. Cuff me, throw me into a van and haul me down to the Hoover Building for interrogation.

  But they didn’t come and Elizabeth didn’t call. Neither did Mr. Easton at the embassy.

  Little by little, I regained my confidence and began thinking about the cave. Was it true that a female Moses had come to the Americas in antiquity with commandments for the natives? The only way to know for certain was to decipher the glyphs.

  Which would mean another trip to the cave. But could I do it?

  My mom protested. So did Diane. I assured them that I’d be going with a team, then I checked my calendar, decided on a tentative date, and called Niro Difalco into my office.

  The smell of tobacco followed him in. He was a wiry little man the color of sidewalk, with a gravelly voice and hacking cough, always with a pencil between the yellowed fingers of his cigarette hand, something he needed when he wasn’t smoking. Worse, he was only months away from retirement and had grown apathetic about his work.

  He sank into a chair. “What’d I do now, steal your lunch money?”

  “No, Niro, I just want to talk with you about my upcoming trip to Nicaragua.”

  “Thought you just went…fell into a patch of that whatchama-call-it.”

  “Chichicaste. It’s brutal. That’s the reason I couldn’t finish the job. I need a real photographer, someone like you, someone who could keep the mission hush-hush.”

  He stood, coughed his nasty smoker’s cough, and paced around the office. “Here’s the way I figger it. I was planning to go down to Costa Rica anyway, check out the retirement community. Maybe write a book. Florida’s not for me. Too many old geezers in shorts. Anyhow, Costa Rica’s next door to Nicaragua. If I go with you on the Smithsonian’s nickel, I’d need a flight to San Jose afterward. That a problem?”