by Laura Resau
“Let’s go in person,” I suggest. “That’s our best hope. A personal plea.”
Layla squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll email the agent to let the owners know we’re coming. And get their address.”
Barely holding back tears, I whisper, “I’ve finally found home.” I look over her shoulder at the sun, glowing orange through the trees, dropping behind Punta Cometa. With new resolve, I whisper, “There’s no way I’m letting it go without a fight.”
The next morning, I wake to a steady drizzle and faint watery-gray light through the window. It must be before dawn. Layla hasn’t made her rounds with the bell for sunrise yoga yet. I’m about to close my eyes again when I hear a noise outside my door. I try to ignore it, but there it is again. I untangle myself from the mosquito net, and in my bare feet, I pad across the floor and peek out the window. A wet raccoon is pawing at something on my front stoop.
I open the door, which sends the animal scurrying. Then I look down. There’s a pile of bloody bones encircled with sharp stones, sticks, broken chicken eggs. Flies buzz like crazy around it.
Another curse.
After a wave of disgust, rage fills me. This is the last thing I need today. I’m already anxious about our visit to the landowners. And this curse—even though I don’t believe in this stuff—it reeks of a bad omen.
“Layla!” I call out, noting that her front stoop also holds a fly-infested mess. “Who’s on curse cleanup duty this morning?”
She comes out, frowning and shaking her head.
On the other side of my hut, Wendell pokes his head from his doorway. Not surprisingly, his front stoop also holds curse remnants under a swarm of flies. He wrinkles his nose. “Gross,” he groans. “Not again.”
“Hey!” Layla says. “There’s a note here.”
Wendell and I head over to Layla’s hut while she runs to the shed and returns with the rubber gloves. She plucks the note from under a stone and unfolds it, fumbling.
It’s written in block letters on notebook paper. LÁRGUENSE DE AQUÍ … SINO SE QUIEREN MORIR.
Silently, I take in the meaning. “Get out of here … if you don’t want to die.” For a moment, my heart freezes. Then anger surges through me. “Layla,” I say, “come on, let’s clean it up. Get out the incense and amulets.”
“I don’t know, love.” Layla looks at me gravely. “The owners want us to leave, and whoever’s leaving these curses wants us to leave … maybe we’re not supposed to be here.” A tear snakes from the corner of her eye. “Maybe we should go with the flow, stop resisting, just leave.”
“No!” The force of my voice surprises me. “This is our home. And this job, Layla—it’s perfect for you. And Wendell—you’re a natural with the turtles.”
“But who’s doing this?” Layla whispers.
I glance at Wendell, remembering his poacher theory.
Slowly, he says, “This curse happened soon after we saw the poaching. So did the last curse, right?”
“But,” I point out, “the poachers didn’t know we saw them.”
Wendell chews on a thumbnail. “They might’ve figured it out once they saw the cops investigating.”
“Well.” Layla draws in a breath. “For the moment, there’s nothing to do but clean up this mess, right? Wendell, get the buckets and trash bags and cleaning stuff. Zeeta, help me with the amulets and incense.”
As we gather the materials and dispose of the curse remnants, Layla regains her spark. And as the guests trickle out of their cabanas and offer to help, Layla grows even more energized. Soon she’s quoting Rumi with happy abandon, humming as she works. I take in the rain plastering her blond hair to her face, her dripping-wet huipil, her cheeriness in the face of this thoroughly unsavory task.
As I light some incense, a laugh escapes my mouth.
Layla grins at me and says in a Rumi-soaked voice, “You laugh like the sun coming up laughs at a star that disappears into it.”
“Hey, let’s go talk to the owners now, Layla.”
“I should really stay and finish cleaning up, love.”
I glance over at Wendell, who’s hosing off the paths. He’ll need to make coffee and breakfast for the guests. I hesitate. Do I want to face the owners alone? Maybe it would be best this way. I can devise a strategy, stick with it. “I’ll go by myself,” I say finally.
“You’ll do great!” she assures me. She disappears into her cabana and comes out with a scrap of paper. “Here’s the address. It’s not a long walk.”
The paper reads José and Guadalupe, Camino del Mar #22 in Layla’s swirling scrawl. That’s our street. The number is higher, so it must be farther along, toward Playa Mermejita, near Lupita’s. Hopefully, that grouchy firewood vendor isn’t one of the owners.
In the increasingly heavy downpour, I walk up the hill, my palms sweaty even though it’s cool. Clutching by bag, I pass the dirt driveways and their crooked wooden signs, follow the rising numbers. A few dogs bark halfheartedly as I pass, and one follows me for a while, until he stops, looking bored. The flowers and leaves hanging over the road glisten, their colors more vibrant in the rain.
I’m shivering by the time I reach number twenty. Maybe the owners are Lupita’s neighbors. Maybe she can help me convince them. And then I reach it, number twenty-two. But here’s the sign about mole for sale on Sundays, and here’s the bougainvillea. I pause, confused.
Then I realize: number twenty-two is Doña Lupita’s house. And a split second later, I remember that Lupita is a nickname for Guadalupe. And chances are her husband, Rogelio’s, first name is José, like most other men here.
I stand still, stunned, as rain drips down my cheeks, clings to my eyelashes. Finally, I take a deep breath, cross my goose-bumped arms, and walk forward.
The gate is closed, padlocked. The birds sound more subdued today, only occasionally calling out. The courtyard looks sad and empty without sunshine, without tea bubbling over the fire pit, without Lupita’s cheery presence bringing it to life. My finger shaking, I ring the buzzer.
“¿Quién es?” Lupita’s voice calls.
“Me, Zeeta!” I shout.
“Zeeta!” Her voice rings out, full of delight. She appears through the leaves with a ring of clinking keys. “Zeeta!” she says again, beaming. “How good to see you! Come in! I’m expecting some people to stop by soon. Business stuff. But you and I can still chat for a bit.” She ushers me inside. “Oh, you’re soaking wet!” She takes off her shawl and wraps it around my shoulders. Clucking about how I’ll catch cold, she leads me into the kitchen hut.
I set down my bag. I’m shivering more now, and I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet, letting her fill the space with her chatter. “Sit, sit, mija!” She bustles about, heating water for tea on the stove. She pulls a handful of fresh chamomile from a basket and tosses the blossoms into the water.
“Wait, Doña Lupita,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not here to chat. I’m here—you know the Cabañas Magia del Mar near Punta Cometa?”
She nods, puzzled. “Of course. That land has been in my family for years. My husband and I rent it out.”
I force myself to continue. “Well, I didn’t realize until just this morning, but I live on your land. My mom is Layla, the new manager for the cabanas.”
Her eyes widen. “Really? That’s your mother? You …” She blinks, confused. “You’re the one who’s supposed to come by this morning? You?”
I look at her imploringly. “We love it there. It’s perfect. And we’ve been doing renovations, and I’m building paths with my boyfriend, and we have big plans. We’re doing everything ecologically soundly, following all the laws, no electric lights, so the turtles stay protected.” I’m rambling now and can’t stop. “It’s the first time my mom and I have ever felt so attached to a place. And it was all perfect until …”
Doña Lupita puts her hand over mine. “Until we decided to give away our land.”
I nod.
She shakes her head, dismayed. “I had no
idea you lived there.”
“Whenever I tell people, they say the place is cursed. They act like we’re doomed. I was tired of hearing it. I decided not to mention it to you.”
She rubs her face. “I must be honest with you, mija. It’s true, the land seems to be cursed.… Oh, at first I thought it was just rumors and people’s imagination. But I have to admit, I’ve had more managers than I can count for those cabanas. Within months, they’re gone. I’m ready to give up.”
“But, Doña Lupita! It’s just that someone wants us off the land. Whoever left the curses and the note.”
“What curses?” Her eyes widen. “What note?”
“We found dead chickens outside our cabanas. And the second time—this morning—there was a note telling us to leave. Or else.”
She frowns, thinking.
“Listen, we’re not intimidated.” I sound more confident than I feel. “We just want to find out who’s trying to scare us away and stop them. We want to stay here for—” I almost say forever. Instead, I finish with “a long, long time.”
Doña Lupita is quiet as she stands up, stirs sugar into the tea. My hands clutch the warm mug, and we stare at each other through the steam.
Finally, she speaks. “Mira, mija. For years I’ve been saving that land for my older son. Against the wishes of my husband. I thought that renting the cabanas to managers was a way to make use of the property. At least until my older son could claim the land. But … things haven’t worked out as I’d hoped.”
She runs her hand over her braid, distraught. “For years my younger son has been asking for the property. But most of the time he was living in Mexico City. He made enough money there, and now he’s ready to settle here. Over the past few months, he’s been telling us constantly how much he wants the land. I’ve grown tired of arguing about it with my husband. I decided he was right. Why hold the land for our older son, who might never claim it?
“So finally, a few days ago, my husband and I decided to give it to our younger son, for his birthday coming up. He doesn’t know about it—we figured it would be a surprise. Of course, we felt bad breaking our agreement with the new managers—you and your mother, it turned out—but our son is so desperate for the land. He might leave again if he doesn’t get it.” She lets out a wavery sigh. “I want my family together. If the land will keep him here, then I have to give it to him.”
“Doña Lupita.” My gaze hangs on to hers, intense. “Could you put it off a little longer? Give him the land next year for his birthday? Or the year after that? To give us time to find another place to manage?” My voice crackles with emotion. “Please, Doña Lupita. Por favor.”
For a long time she stares at me, as if she’s taking in every strand of hair, every eyelash, every last skin cell.
I sip my tea, anxiously waiting.
Once I’ve made it through the entire cup, Lupita says, “Listen, mija, I will try to convince my husband to wait a bit longer.” She pauses. “I’ll see if I can gain you a few months.”
“Gracias.” I exhale with relief, but what I really want is years—five, ten, maybe more. And I don’t want another piece of land. I want this one, just at the edge of Punta Cometa. This place that draws me to it like a magnet, as if I were a sea turtle finally coming home, to the place programmed in the deepest parts of my cells. At the risk of seeming pushy and ungrateful, I make a last-ditch effort. “Is there any other option? Some way we can stay on the land for more time? Like … for years?”
A far-off look passes across Doña Lupita’s face. “If my older son returned. If he claimed the land. He always had a special connection with the place. You see, life has been a struggle for him. I wanted to keep him near me to help him, protect him. Of course, my husband has always said we should give the land to our younger son, to reward his successes. But I’ve held out for the one who needs us, needs the land. Most people—like my husband—don’t understand him. But I do. He’s tenderhearted, the kind of person who might let you stay there.”
“Where is he?” I ask hopefully. “I’ll talk to him.”
She shakes her head sadly. “He’s—he’s not …” She begins again. “He’d have to convince his father. And …” Her voice fades again. “There’s more. It’s a mess.”
Through the doorway, I see that it’s raining harder now. Thunder is booming, lightning flashing. She doesn’t finish her explanation, simply busies herself with washing dishes, and when the rain lets up and I say I should be going, she doesn’t object. She only gives me a long hug goodbye and says she hopes a few months is long enough for Layla and me to find some other property nearby. Her eyes tear up. “I’ve only just gotten to know you, mija. I don’t want you to leave.”
I know what I have to do next. Find Doña Lupita’s husband, convince him to let us stay. I need him on board, but I’m guessing it won’t be easy. Didn’t Lupita say he was stubborn, and bitter, like a cacao bean?
Remembering where Lupita said his store is, I take a narrow turnoff from the main dirt road and walk uphill, past shacks of wood and tin and cane leaves, tangles of flowering bushes. The pitter-patter of raindrops surrounds me, tapping on the leaves, the rooftops, a soft shhh. I start running, the rainwater streaming from the tips of my hair, down my cheeks, my bare arms. The road has turned to mud now, a network of tiny ravines and rivulets. Breathless, I skirt puddles, even though my sandaled feet are already coated with mud.
On the hilltop perches a small green cement building, with an awning and garage-door-style front, wide open. ABARROTES ROGELIO, the sign reads. Shivering, I hurry toward the shop. At the front, there’s a wooden table with an ancient cash register. A man sits behind it, dozing.
I wipe my feet as best I can, then enter the store quietly. He keeps snoring. He’s Lupita’s age, wearing a button-down cotton shirt and a sweater vest and dress pants, all worn and, at closer look, darned. His feet are encased in old leather sandals. His face looks vulnerable, his jaw slack, his head tilted back in complete abandonment to sleep.
An old, romantic tune plays on the small radio, what sounds like a classic Mexican song. Rubbing my arms, trying to warm up, I poke around the store. The two sparse aisles contain neat rows of cans and boxes, every one dustfree. Canned chiles, toilet paper, pasta for soup, cubes of beef broth, bags of rice, shampoo, pink bars of laundry soap. Remembering what Lupita said, I pick up a can and examine its expiration date. May, eleven years ago. Everything exudes oldness, loneliness. Like a museum that no one comes to anymore. In the corner is a pink feather duster, and beside that, a guitar.
I put down my bag and study the guitar. It looks old but well cared for, the wood oiled, all the strings intact. I run my fingers over the instrument, admiring its smooth curves, polished sheen. On an impulse, I pick it up and strum.
The man jerks awake with a start and a snort. Abruptly, he looks around, until his eyes land on me.
“Sorry, señor,” I say quickly. “I was just waiting for you to wake up and …” My voice fades. Really, there’s no excuse for touching his guitar. My mind reels. “I just—How much is this guitar?”
He blinks, orienting himself, and coughs. “Not for sale.”
“Oh.” Relief. What would I do with a guitar? I set the instrument gently back in the corner. Searching for some way to remedy this awkward start, I ask, “Do you play?”
“Not anymore. I just keep it clean and in tune in case …” He clears his throat. “Can I help you with something, mija?” he asks, his words kinder now.
I glance around and name the first thing my eyes land on. An ancient roll of toilet paper. I pick it up, make a show of looking for change in my pocket, wondering how to broach the subject of the land, when he says, “I’ll let you play it. But it can’t leave the store.”
I stare at the toilet paper, and finally sputter, “The guitar?”
He breaks into laughter. “Yes, the guitar! Not the toilet paper.”
I smile, embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t know how to play.”
&n
bsp; He studies my face. “Want to learn?”
I set down the toilet paper, trying to think of some logical answer. Nothing comes to me, so I say, “Yes.”
Through a film of cataracts, his eyes glitter. “You get a free guitar lesson with every purchase.”
“Really?”
He laughs, slapping his knee. “It’s a new promotion I just thought of now.” He nods toward the toilet paper. “Three pesos, please.”
I count out three pesos—about a quarter.
“Bueno,” he says. “Let’s begin! Here, sit down.” He scoots a wooden chair my way, then takes a wool blanket from behind the counter. “Put this around you, mija. You can’t play well if you’re cold and wet.”
I sit down, wrap the scratchy blanket around my shoulders. “Gracias, señor.”
He sits on the chair across from me, picks up the guitar, rests it on his lap as if it’s a small child. He tilts his head as he tunes it.
“Mind if I ask you some questions?” I ask, pulling my notebook from my bag, thankful that just the edges are damp.
“About guitar?” he asks.
“Um, sure. Guitar.” I poise my pen over a blank page. “What do you like best about teaching guitar?”
He chuckles. “¿Quién sabe? Who knows. You’re my first student, mija.” He pauses, tightening a string here and there, listening to the tone and making adjustments. “Pues, maybe not the first, but the first in a long time.”
“Did you teach it to—your children?” I hazard. A good way to bring up his son.
He looks down at the strings, plucking one, then twisting the knob. Then he says, “To my older son. He was talented, but he didn’t want to play the ballads I taught him. He only wanted to play rock music. Pura música de rock,” he says with a sigh and a shake of his head.
He starts playing a romantic ballad, singing in a raspy voice, sad and sincere and full of yearning. There’s something vaguely familiar about the melody. I pay attention to the words, catching snippets here and there.
“You say I have no pain, because you never see me cry,