Counterpointe

by Ann Warner

  “Your husband doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  “What about your family? What do they think about you working here?”

  His expression might have been surprise, irritation, or something else. He bent back over the faucet. “Sorry, Clare. I didn’t mean to sound overprotective, but I do think someone should walk with you. Let me know when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll be happy to see you have an escort.”

  Clare had wondered about John Apple. After that conversation she wondered even more—why was an educated man working at a menial job in one of the poorest parts of the city? The most likely explanation? He was an ex-addict or an ex-con.

  “I do have one final announcement,” the chairman said, winding up the faculty meeting. “Dr. Chapin has been approved for a sabbatical starting in October. He’ll be going to Peru to study Amazonian plants.”

  “Isn’t that a bit irregular?” Joyce frowned at the chairman. “To grant a sabbatical with so little notice.”

  “Irregular, perhaps, but not unprecedented. If you bring me a good plan like Rob’s, I’ll be happy to consider it.”

  When Rob walked out of the conference room, he found Joyce loitering in the hall, an expectant look on her face. “Wow, Robbie. Major surprise, you going on sabbatical. Didn’t work out with the dancer, huh? Or are you taking your prima ballerina to the jungle with you?”

  He’d never before been tempted to touch a woman in anger, but had the opportunity arisen at that moment, he would have struggled with his better nature not to push Joyce into traffic.

  “I thank God Clare saved me from you.”

  Joyce’s mouth gaped like a surprised fish. Good. He was damned tired of turning the other cheek. He walked past her to his office, closed the door, and stood rubbing his head, breathing carefully. Joyce’s attack did have one good effect. It allowed him to substitute anger for a more essential agony.

  John spoke to Beck about Clare walking home from Hope House, and Beck got on her case. “You going to come to the hood, Clare, you gots to know how to handle the brothers.”

  “I don’t believe in violence.”

  “Violence don’t care what you believe. Violence still there. Now what I’m going to show you, ain’t no violence. It just going with the flow. So’s you don’t get hurt, you run up against a brother don’t know you’re one of us.”

  One of us. The words warmed her. She’d felt welcomed by Vinnie from the first but had remained uncertain of Beck. “Show me with Anthony,” she said. “Then I’ll decide.”

  Anthony, sixteen years old, was one of Beck’s projects. Beck was working hard to keep the boy in school during the day and off the streets at night.

  “Anthony. You come at me, hear,” Beck said. “Like I a fat dude. Got attitude but no muscle.”

  Anthony, who reminded Clare of a heron picking its way through a marsh, lunged, and although Beck barely seemed to move, the boy ended up on his back, legs and arms like scattered sticks.

  “You see, Clare? Anthony lying there so peaceful, he could be taking him a nap.”

  The boy had such a comical look of surprise, it made Clare laugh. “Are you okay, Anthony?”

  “Like Beck says, I taking a nap. He somersault me. Matter a fact, felt kinda good. My back don’t hurt no more.”

  So Clare let Beck teach her new ways to use moves once ingrained in bone, muscle, and sinew, and in the process, she learned about how to save other Anthonys one at a time.

  And maybe how to save a Clare as well.

  “I’m going on sabbatical to Peru.”

  Clare frowned. “Peru?”

  “With Jolley.” Looking at Clare made his heart hurt. The last two years had stripped the flesh from her face, leaving it stark, surrounded by a halo of nearly white hair. Not the injury alone causing that, but marriage to him.

  She was still beautiful, though, and despite his frozen emotions, he knew he loved her. Would always love her. And if he kept his mouth shut, they could stay married. But he was no longer able to live with half-measures. It required a knack. A knack he knew at long last he didn’t have.

  “My salary will be deposited directly. I’ll go over the other financial details with you before I leave.”

  Clare shook her head as if to avoid a persistent gnat. “When do you go?”

  “Not for another month.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rob. That I wasn’t able to be what you wanted me to be.”

  “I only wanted you to be yourself.”

  “I can’t seem to...”

  “It’s okay, Clare. I know you tried.” It broke his heart anew to acknowledge it had been necessary for her to work at loving him, when loving her was as necessary to him as breathing.

  Peru. Sabbatical. Watching Rob’s lips form the words, Clare knew. He’d given up on her. On their marriage. Pain blossomed, doubling her over. She straightened quickly. At the very least she owed him a dignified ending. This good man she’d pushed beyond limits he could bear. She’d left it too late...the attempt to reverse her slow drift into despair. A drift that pulled him along as well.

  Not fair to try to change his mind. Dishonorable to hint she might be doing better. Better he left on his own terms. But did it have to be the jungle? Where so many things could go wrong. She ticked them off—snakebite, a host of tropical diseases, poisonous plants, accidents, contaminated water, rebels.

  So easy for him not to come back at all.

  At the thought, pain overwhelmed her. She barely made it to the bedroom and got the door closed before she broke down.

  “Why don’t you go with him, hon?” her mother asked.

  “He’s going to Peru. The jungle. The accommodations are extremely primitive.”

  “Oh. He won’t be gone long, will he?”

  “He’ll be back for the holidays.” Not exactly a lie, although her mom would interpret it to mean he’d be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, while the holidays Clare referred to were Passover and Easter. But it simply wasn’t yet possible for her to admit to anyone that Rob had left her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chassé

  One foot chases the other; done is a series

  Clare walked briskly, pushed along in a swirl of leaves and trash through the gloom of an autumn afternoon. John had a cold, Anthony was at basketball practice, and Beck and Vinnie were working on something she didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, Clare needed to be alone.

  Tucking her hands in her pockets, she shrugged her shoulders against the chill and picked up her pace, trying not to let the hopelessness drifting in the air weigh her down any more than she already was—her heart heavy with the knowledge Rob was gone. Likely for good.

  Suddenly, they were there. Two boys. Strangers. One on either side. They hemmed her in, slouching along, easily keeping pace, black sneakers silent against the pavement, almond-shaped eyes watchful in dark faces. Clare’s heart slammed against her ribs and her breath caught. No one else was in sight, no traffic even. She gathered herself to run, but the larger boy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward an opening between two of the brick row houses, his fingers a tight, painful band despite the thickness of her coat.

  Her only chance—to appear unafraid. That clarity eased her panicked breathing and, with that easing, she remembered what else Beck had taught her.

  She leaned back, resisting the pull on her arm, looking from one boy to the other. The smaller one looked away, but the one holding her stared back with pitiless eyes. Her heart pumped rapidly but everything else slowed and, despite the grip on her arm, she felt more observer than participant, as if this were a performance.

  A thought that brought both calm along with its own particular pain.

  The boy holding her tossed his head, making his dreads dance. “You cooperate, we won’t hurt you none, lady. We just wants your money.”

  So why hadn’t they snatched her tote and run? She readied herself, slowing her breath, waiting for an opening. With two of them, she would have only one ch
ance.

  “This one be ‘bout right size for you, Ty. Prove you got what it takes be one of us.”

  The boy called Ty grabbed her other arm. “Come on, lady. Ain’t got all day.” He nodded at Dreads, who released her.

  The smaller boy jerked her toward the alley. She resisted, leaning back, digging in her heels. The pull intensified, and she leaned back further before taking a running step toward the boy, twisting to pull his arm around her, searching for the fulcrum point, as Beck had shown her. Turning smoothly now, easily. The boy and her tote flying, momentarily weightless as balloons.

  Then gravity took hold and both boy and bag landed with solid thumps. Still feeling weightless herself, Clare pivoted toward the second boy, but he fled, cursing. She turned back to the one on the ground, leaning in to grab her bag, poised to run if he started to get up.

  “Shit, lady. You a cop?”

  The fear in his voice caused her to hesitate and take a good look at him. Not only small, but younger than she’d originally thought. A mere baby. And already lost?

  She narrowed her eyes going for a Lisa-look. “What’s your name?”

  He rubbed the back of his head, his gaze unfocused. “Uh. Ty. Tyrese Brown.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Tw—thirteen.” He brought a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted at Clare.

  He couldn’t be thirteen, or even twelve. Ten, possibly. She wanted to walk away, but his fear held her more firmly than had his hand.

  The decision of what to do next was so sudden and simple, she almost smiled, except she didn’t dare. “I’ve got a choice here, Tyrese Brown.” She made her tone icy and her expression forbidding. “I could take you to the station. Have them book you, throw you in a cell, and forget to call anybody for a while.”

  His eyes widened and his head shook from side to side. His continuing fear reassured her. Not a hardened criminal, or he would have seen through her in two seconds. So maybe there was hope for him. Worth taking a chance, at least. “Or we can make a deal.”

  It was only later, when she stripped for her shower and saw the black marks on her arm, that she began to shake.

  Rob left Boston for Peru with a heavy heart but with a feeling of relief. After months of emotional wheel-spinning, he was finally off dead center, moving, although it was unclear in what direction.

  In Cuzco, Norman Jolliffe met him at the airport and helped load Rob’s luggage into a taxi that took them to the hotel. “I’m sure you’re beat,” Jolley said, after helping him check in. “Rest if you like or take a look around. We’ll get together at dinner. Sam will be in by then.”

  Rob took a nap then went for a walk around Cuzco. It was like stepping into a page from National Geographic. The narrow cobblestone streets were stuffed with buses, small trucks, and tiny cars. Sidewalks, no more than two feet wide, were filled with scurrying people do-si-do-ing around each other, the tourists with their jeans and backpacks, standing out amid the bright colors of the Indian women’s skirts.

  The biggest surprise was the number of school-age children who plied him with postcards. A boy of about ten had the most compelling approach. “Hey, mister. You want to see the twelve-sided Inca stone?” He laughed at Rob’s puzzled look. “Come. I show you. Where you from?”

  “The United States.”

  “Thought so. Call me Ronald Reagan.” The boy trotted down the street with Rob following, puffing a bit from the high altitude.

  Halfway down the block, “Ronald” stopped and pointed to a huge block in the middle of a stone wall. Rob’s eyes followed the boy’s finger as he counted off the twelve sides. “How you like Peru, huh?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just arrived. Did you learn to speak English in school?”

  “Naw.” The boy shook his head. “I learn from tourists. Like you. Come on, I show you the puma.”

  The urchin led him around the corner and pointed out the image of a puma formed by more huge stones.

  “You like?”

  “Yes. It’s very interesting.”

  “Then you buy postcards. Four for forty soles.”

  Rob did a quick calculation. “Whoa there, Ronald. Ten dollars for four postcards? Bit much, isn’t it?” In spite of the hustle, he was drawn to the bright intelligence and cheeky smile.

  “It’s for my school tuition.”

  “So why aren’t you in school right now?”

  “I go to school at night.”

  Right, and Rob could fit a twelve-sided multi-ton stone into a wall. “Tell you what, Ronald. Here’s two dollars. You keep the postcards.”

  He felt guilty later when he learned schools did have multiple sessions, and the boy might have been telling the truth.

  “Rob, good. You’re here,” Jolley said, walking toward him in the hotel lobby that evening. “Like you to meet our translator, Alberto Rodriguez, and this is Sam Lewiston, our medical officer.”

  Sam was a tall, spare woman with a short, practical haircut.

  Rob shook the hand she held out to him. “So Sam is short for Samantha rather than Samuel.”

  “Jolley playing fast and loose with the truth, is he?” Sam was assessing him every bit as thoroughly as he was assessing her.

  “More a sin of omission.”

  “Is that a problem?” The question was stated calmly, but her gaze was direct and unequivocal.

  “Just a surprise.”

  Still holding Rob’s gaze, she nodded, making silver earrings dance that appeared to be her only concession to femininity, And it was a good thing she didn’t seem concerned about her looks. A woman who was could be a major pain.

  As they ate, Jolley briefed them. “We used to come into these areas expecting the native healers to share everything they know. They’re incredible naturalists and generally as friendly and willing to share as they are intelligent. But pharmaceutical companies came in and took advantage of that knowledge to develop products without compensating the natives who provided the information.”

  Things were changing. Now repayment was common. “That’s why Sam’s along,” Jolley said. “To set up a clinic as our offering.”

  “I’m also hoping I’ll have a chance to learn about treatment modalities from the native payés while I’m here,” Sam said.

  “Payés?” Rob said.

  “Medicine men, shamans. Payé is the term they prefer.”

  Jolley then summarized what he’d accomplished since arriving in Cuzco some ten days earlier. “Food, other supplies, and transportation are all set. The trickiest part was finding a small generator to run the satellite phone, but Alberto managed it. And you’ll be glad to know, Sam, the last of the medical supplies arrived yesterday. It means we’ll get away on schedule, a major miracle in this part of the world.”

  “Is lucky we can leave tomorrow or we have to wait until Monday,” Alberto said.

  “Why is that?” Rob asked.

  “Road very narrow. Very bad we meet someone come the other way. We must start right day.”

  “We’re looking at a total of twenty-four hours’ road time to Shintuyo,” Jolley said. “We’ll probably overnight in Pilcopata, depending on how it goes.”

  “So, how many miles to Shintuyo?” Sam asked.

  “Two hundred, two hundred fifty kilometers,” Alberto responded.

  Rob translated to miles and frowned at the number he came up with—a hundred twenty to one hundred sixty. “You’re saying we’ll average only five miles an hour?”

  “Oh, we’ll likely do better than that.” Jolley cut into his llama steak. “The twenty-four hour estimate includes stops for the usual things, as well as the unexpected. Although, it’s pretty much de rigueur that something unexpected happens on that road.”

  Sam grimaced. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Well, it can be a tough trip, but I think you’ll find it fascinating.”

  “What’s the highest altitude we’ll be hitting?” Rob fought the urge to rub his head and finally gave in. He’d had a headache most
of the afternoon.

  “Oh, somewhere in the neighborhood of 14,000 feet.”

  “We’ll buy coca leaves in the morning,” Alberto said.

  Coca leaves? As in cocaine? “Because?” Rob said.

  “It help with the altitude sickness.”