He carefully measures Kammi’s feet, produces a perfect hiking shoe with the first pair he brings out from the back room. She walks around on the carpet, flexing and pointing her feet one by one. She smiles.
“Now,” he says, looking at my feet.
“Sports sandals, that’s what I want,” I say. “Not boots.” I hate the idea of my feet being closed in. Even the thought of pebbles getting under my feet doesn’t bother me as much.
Mother walks over, picks up a hiking boot off a shelf. “Are you sure—”
“Yes.” I don’t give in.
The man waits a second, but Mother doesn’t respond.
“I have just the thing,” he says, and he disappears into the back again.
The sandals fit. I pull the webbed straps close and secure them with Velcro. The rugged bottoms are ridged to grip the trail.
The taxi driver is parked right outside the pottery store when we walk up. He takes our packages and gets back in the car to wait for us.
Tourists cram the pottery store. A cruise ship has had engine problems, a clerk tells Mother, so the tourists have extra time for shopping. The clerk tucks a stray hair behind her ear, then dashes off to help a woman with a nasal Midwestern accent select local pottery. Mother rolls her eyes, but Kammi doesn’t seem to notice. She holds her flower purse tight and marches up and down each aisle, every once in a while picking up a small bowl or plate, then putting it back on the shelf. Just before Mother starts to look at her watch, Kammi heads straight back to the first aisle and chooses two small bowls, which will be easy to pack and won’t take up much room in her perfect suitcase. Each bowl is a rich brown with streaks of red bursting from the center outward. The sign says the design is called “Carnival.”
“My mom likes brown and red together,” Kammi says.
Blood and earth, I’m thinking. That’s what those colors mean. Not chocolates and cherries.
On the ride back, Kammi holds the pottery package close on her lap. Mother doesn’t speak, and neither do I. The air between us feels so heavy, not even Kammi speaks again, and the taxi driver turns up the jazz station on the radio as if to stir the air inside the car.
June 23 comes and goes, with no answers. Aside from the quiet moments in the boathouse, we didn’t talk about the anniversary. We stalked the topic all day, never closing in. Mother and I were just like the lizards that circle each other sometimes on the wall of the house.
After Mother retreats upstairs and Kammi goes to her room, I open the French doors and sit on the deck. I almost believe that if I walked out onto the beach, I’d see the bonfires they lit that night, brighter than those from the Bindases’ cookout. The sea beyond the white curve of phosphorescence along the shore is solid darkness.
The door to the widow’s walk creaks open. That’s all I hear, but I know Mother is there above me, alone in the dark. After I go inside, I close the door to my room, which is nestled against the back wall of the house, farthest from the sea. From here I can’t even hear the waves.
A year, and I’m still hoping for clues.
What can Mayur know?
Chapter Twenty-Two
EXACTLY at seven on Saturday morning, Dr. and Mrs. Bindas arrive to pick up Kammi and me. Martia gives us each a backpack stuffed with snacks and a bottle of water. “Just in case,” she says. Kammi struggles to fit in a portable watercolor board and her small case of paints.
The sun is already glaring at us when we step outside. The air smells dry and hot, as if we’re not close to the sea.
Mother follows us to the SUV. She glances at my feet. I’m wearing the sports sandals, though I was tempted not to. I stashed a pair of flip-flops in my backpack for later.
Mrs. Bindas sits in the passenger seat. She presses the button to lower the window. From the driver’s seat, Dr. Bindas holds his hand up to greet Mother. Very formal. “Good morning, Mrs. Walters,” he says clearly, without emotion. Like he was at the beach party, he’s proper, distant. Is that a trait of doctors in general or only of this doctor, because of who he is—or because of whom he declared dead on the beach? Whenever he sees Mother, he must see himself standing on the beach, still dressed in his fine clothes from a party, touching the white, white skin of a dead man he’d invited for cocktails or a dip in the pool that same week.
“No worries,” he says as he unlocks the back, and I open the door. Kammi pulls herself in, lugging her pack behind her. I swing in after her and slam the door shut.
“The girls, they will be very safe,” Mrs. Bindas says.
Mother looks past Mrs. Bindas to her husband, perhaps to confirm. Mother must have visions of Kammi sliding off a steep trail and landing in a ravine, where no one can reach her. She must worry that Howard will think she’s been negligent and killed his only daughter. Maybe he’ll think she’s a dangerous widow, a woman who kills those closest to her. Maybe he’ll break of the engagement.
“I’ve been on the trail many times before. At all times it is well marked,” Dr. Bindas says.
“Where are the others?” Kammi asks. She means the boys—one boy, especially.
“The boys are still getting organized. They stayed up very late.” Dr. Bindas frowns.
Mrs. Bindas turns in her seat and smiles at us, a big swept-up smile, just like her hair, though today she has tucked her hair under a red and gold scarf. She looks like a bright bird. “You will see. They are very interested to be going. After breakfast, I’ll leave them to hike with Dr. Bindas.”
Kammi smiles.
Kammi and I wave at Mother as we pull out. That is what families do.
Dr. Bindas swings the car wide into the shell driveway at their house, spewing shells onto the green lawn for the gardeners to pick out. Mayur and the other boys spill from the house, jostling each other, racing to see who will be last out. Mayur, since it’s his parents’ vehicle, steps to the SUV first, then flips the seat so that the others—Saco and Loco and Roberto—can climb into the far back. Mayur claims his spot by the window, slams the heavy door. The houseboy closes the gate behind the SUV, but he continues to stare after us. I look back at him until he sees me and turns away.
“Kammi, Cyan, you remember Saco?” Mrs. Bindas twists in her seat, waves toward the back of the SUV. Kammi smiles and flashes a glance backwards, too, then faces the front again. She barely seems to have looked, but I see from her face that she knows exactly where Saco’s sitting. If she looks in the rearview mirror, she’ll be able to stare right into Saco’s eyes. Mayur isn’t paying attention, not even to Kammi. He unknots and reties a climbing rope, even though no one mentioned climbing. We’re supposed to be hiking only. Mayur is just showing off, as usual.
Dr. Bindas pulls off the road to Christoffel National Park, stopping at a restaurant tucked in a grove of divi-divi trees bent seaward. The boys run ahead and stake out two tables on the porch. They jockey for position, fighting over who will have the outer seats.
“Boys,” Dr. Bindas calls after them as he walks ahead of Mrs. Bindas, Kammi, and me. Either they don’t hear him or they’re ignoring him. Kammi and I follow Mrs. Bindas, who doesn’t seem to notice the boys, or the frown from the café owner, who pops outside at the noise.
“Girls, please to sit here?” Mrs. Bindas smiles as a waiter comes over and wipes off a table and chairs with a towel.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kammi says, though I notice her look over to see where Saco is sitting.
I join her, though I want to get closer to the table where the boys are, too; closer to Mayur and his promise of information, whatever it is. He has his back to us, and I wonder if he did that on purpose, sat facing away. He knows I’m curious, that I can’t help myself. He isn’t going to make it easy. Typical Mayur.
The waiter comes with extra help and they quickly feed us a hearty meal of eggs and confetti rice. Mrs. Bindas’s driver comes to pick her up, and then the boys, Kammi, and I pile back into the SUV. Dr. Bindas puts it into drive, and we head toward the mountain in the distance.
Inside
the park, Dr. Bindas drives past the first trailhead parking lot.
“The longer hike,” he says.
“Yes, not the girls’ hike,” Mayur says, and the other boys laugh.
“Boys,” Dr. Bindas says, drawing the word out. “The hike we’re going on is even more scenic. We go right to the top.”
Saco taps Kammi’s pack. “What’s in here?”
“My art supplies,” she says quietly.
“What for?” Mayur asks. This is his hike. He wants everyone’s undivided attention.
“I want to paint something for my dad,” she says.
My chest twinges when she says that, it’s so unexpected. I thought she’d say she’s practicing for Mother. Somehow, that would be less painful than the answer she gives to Saco.
“And you?” Loco asks.
“No, I’m here to hike.” And to talk to Mayur. I don’t bother to explain that I don’t paint. I stare at the scenery.
“But your mother expects you to paint?”
“No, she doesn’t.” She prefers that I not. She wants to keep the art for herself, to tell me what art is and isn’t.
“Do you know how tall Mount Christoffel is?” Dr. Bindas asks, his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
The boys guess among themselves.
“More than three hundred meters,” Roberto finally says.
Dr. Bindas laughs. “But how much more?”
“Three hundred and seventy-four,” Kammi pipes up.
“Excellent!” Dr. Bindas smiles into the rearview mirror.
I grin. The information must have been on the cruise-ship tourist map.
“Three hundred is close enough,” Mayur mumbles.
“You would not say that if it were your allowance you were rounding down,” Dr. Bindas chuckles.
“That’s right.” Saco laughs and punches his cousin in the shoulder.
The road begins to wind through greener underbrush and vines. Cacti grow in clumps. Mango trees, their leaves a dark green, stand out, taller than the surrounding brush.
At the next trailhead, Dr. Bindas parks the SUV.
“Before we go,” he says, “two rules: Stay on the marked path. At the top, wait for everyone else. I have the lunch basket.” Then he grins, and the boys pour out. Kammi slides out on my side and shoulders her backpack. The edge of the watercolor board sticks out the top, the cord stretching over it.
Dr. Bindas hands us each a copy of the trail map. “In case you get separated. But that is not to happen. Right, boys?” Dr. Bindas looks only at the boys when he says this.
On the map, a star marks the peak of Mount Christoffel. The trail rises along the backside of the hill.
“From the top, you can see the ocean,” Dr. Bindas reminds us.
Roberto and Loco jog toward the trail, their packs flopping against their backs. Mayur stalks off after them. Scraping his boot in the dirt, Saco waits at the trailhead. For Kammi? Dr. Bindas leans against the SUV to retie his shoelaces in double knots, something Dad used to do before hikes.
“Come on,” I say to Kammi. I want to catch up to Mayur.
She nods and follows me. Saco falls in next to her. Dr. Bindas stays a few steps behind us. Then his cell phone rings, and he stops to answer it.
My sports sandals don’t keep my feet from getting dusty, but they give me good traction on the dirt and stones. I start up the trail, leaning into the ascent. If I hurry, I can catch up to Mayur. But once I do, how can I get him to tell me what he knows, or what his cousin is supposed to know? I don’t trust him. He’d say anything just to make me think he’s important. His father may be a respected doctor here, and his cousins may have to be polite to him because of it, but I don’t.
Roberto and Loco climb out of sight. Mayur’s in sight, not that far ahead of me.
“Hey!” I call after him, but he doesn’t turn around.
I walk faster and feel my face getting warmer. My shirt is damp where my backpack hugs my shoulders. At the next switchback, I look up the trail to see Mayur right above me. He’s stopped to look back down. He’s twirling a twig between his fingers. He’s breathing hard, and his pudgy face is red. He knows, though, that I was trying to catch up. I can see it in his eyes.
Part of me wants to tease him about how he’s not first up the trail, about how Roberto and Loco are in better shape. I don’t, though. I need him to tell me what he knows.
I take a swig of water from the bottle Martia packed for me.
“At the beach party, you said something. You said you know something.”
He digs in his pocket for a candy bar, rips the paper off, and stuffs the candy in his mouth. He nods, chewing.
“Wineglasses...” he mumbles, talking around the candy.
“That was in the police report. All that information. The champagne bottle, the broken glass.” I don’t tell him I found a shard in the blue boat, something missed by the investigators.
He swallows.
“Was there a note?” I ask him.
“A suicide note?”
That’s what I was thinking, but I say, “Any kind of note?”
He grins and starts hiking up the trail.
At that moment, I hate him. I want to push him off the side of the trail. He wouldn’t die—it’s not that steep—but he’d slide a long way, over clumps of ground cactus and stinging bushes. I’d watch him all the way down, and then I’d tie my scarf to the closest bush on the trail to mark the spot. I’d hike back to meet Dr. Bindas and tell him there’d been an accident. He would be shocked. Mrs. Bindas, too, when she heard later. Then Mayur would tell them I’d pushed him, just like I pushed him into the pool last year. And after they’d been so kind.
I grab his backpack from behind. “Tell me.”
He wrestles out of my grasp and faces me. “What’ll you do for me?”
“What do you want?” I hate that I even ask him that question.
“Oh, maybe it’s not me who wants something,” he says. He pushes my chest, but not too hard. If he hadn’t been afraid, he might have touched my breast. Maybe that’s what he meant to do.
“Yeah, right,” I say.
Mayur’s eyes narrow. I bet he thinks he’s supposed to hold something over me, and sex is the only thing he thinks having power over a girl is all about.
I try another tack. “I don’t think you really know anything. If you did, you’d tell me right now.”
He laughs.
“Does my mother know?” I ask.
He sobers, seeming to think a moment before shrugging.
I step back. It’s an answer and not an answer. If my mother does know, she hasn’t told me. Why not? And if she doesn’t know, should I share the information with her?
“How do you know my mother knows? If she knows, she’d tell me.”
“Are you so sure?”
I jerk past him up the trail. I imagine I feel a hand touch my butt as I go by.
Chapter Twenty-Three
SWEATING feels good as I pound up the trail, leaving Mayur behind. I don’t even look at the trees, the vines. I barely hear the sound of parrots or wonder what color they are. Now I know what Zoe means about running track. The sweating makes you start to feel good after a while. Not even my anger at Mayur takes that feeling away.
I don’t catch up to Loco and Roberto. I see them, though, as the ascent becomes rockier and less vegetated. Roberto makes it to the top first, Loco close behind him. They raise their fists in the air like conquering heroes. Then they dart out of sight, probably to explore the surrounding views from the summit.
I’m next, breathing hard as I scuttle up the last rocky section. On top of Mount Christoffel, I’m at the point farthest from the sea on the island. From here, the ocean looks the same color blue as the sky. The trade winds stir the air, cooling my skin. A pebble tumbles down the rocks below. Instead of Mayur, I see Kammi pulling herself toward me, hunching slightly under the weight of the art supplies in her backpack. She has this streak of stubbornness I’m beginnin
g to like.
“You didn’t wait for me,” she says.
This is the second time I’ve seen her angry with me. There’s hope. She can get angry.
For the first time, I hold my hand out to Kammi, and it feels good when she takes it and scrambles up the last few feet to stand next to me. I see Mayur so far down the trail he looks like a speck—or a mountain goat. I laugh out loud. Saco is with him.
“What?” Kammi peers around me, looking into the distance, but not down. From the angle she’s looking, she’ll never see Mayur.
“Mayur. There.” I point down the rock face. “He looks like a mountain goat from here.”
Kammi giggles. “I think I can see the horns on his head.” She looks at me, and her pink skin seems darker from the sun and the hike, even though she’s wearing a hat. But I still see she wants me to like her.
I laugh out loud again. Mayur, the goat boy.
I drink from my water bottle and motion to Kammi she should do the same.
“So where’s Saco?” I ask.
She blushes. “He was walking with me.”
“And?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. He didn’t do anything. He’s nice. Mayur wanted to talk to him. So he told me to go ahead.”
“Really? Talk about what?”
“Mayur didn’t say.” Kammi fidgets with her pack, sliding it off one shoulder. “But I wondered if it had to do with you.”
“Hmmm. Maybe Mayur told Saco or Loco about what happened to my dad. I bet Saco would tell you,” I say as it comes to me. I grab Kammi’s arm. “Ask him. Will you?”
For the first time I want something from her.
“I’ll ask,” she says.
“Today,” I say.
“Today.”
I sit on a rock ledge in the sun while Kammi sets up her paints. She arranges the tubes of watercolors in a circle like a color wheel. She tears a sheet of paper from the pad and clips it to the board, fastening all four sides to keep the wind from lifting the page and making the paint run. Then she pours water into a plastic cup and plants it next to her on the ground. Holding four brushes of varying widths in her hand, she looks at me.
The Other Side of Blue Page 12