by Laura Resau
She waves away our thanks.
I wait for her to ask what happened, but she just sits there, watching us. Watching me, mostly. She seems curious, and something else, some emotion I can’t put my finger on.
Finally, I say, “We wanted to catch the poachers in the act. So Wendell took their photo. They chased us with machetes and knives. All the way up here.” I study Meche’s concerned face. “Do you have any idea who they are?”
Wendell turns on his camera, and the photo appears on the screen. It’s too small to make out much detail. Two of the guys’ faces are visible; the other guy had his back to us. Maybe on a bigger computer screen we’ll get something useful. We pass the camera to Meche, who examines it carefully.
“Look familiar?” I ask.
“No,” she says, stirring her tea. “But I keep to myself. Gatito is enough for me.” Her eyes shine in the firelight. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
Wendell tries another avenue. “Have you noticed anything strange on the beach? Truck sounds? Music?”
“Listen, muchachos,” she says with a sigh. “I have only one suggestion: Be careful who you trust. Especially on the police force.”
“What?” Wendell says. “How—”
She cuts him off. “I don’t feed rumors.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Unless they’re about me, that is.”
I glance at Wendell, puzzled. “Meaning?”
Meche raises an elegant eyebrow. “Years ago, when I married an outsider, gossip flew. And then … when a certain tragedy happened in my life, the rumors multiplied. I decided not to fight it. If people thought I was a scary bruja, they might leave me alone. In peace here with my memories, with my Gatito.”
“Is that why you put up those signs?” I venture.
She laughs. “I admit, I had fun making those signs.”
I can’t quite gather the courage to ask if she also had fun sticking dead chickens on our stoops. Instead, I ask, “And what about the managers before us? You never—got to know them?”
She shakes her head. “The rumors they heard were stronger than what they saw with their own eyes.” She looks at me, almost fiercely. “Or hearts.” She sets her teacup on the table. “They expect a witch, so I give them a witch.” She peers out the window to Gatito. “Anyway, I only care about my baby.”
I nod, sipping the last of my tea. I want to ask her more, but I’m not sure where to start.
“I liked your pink cake,” she says out of the blue.
“Oh, that’s good,” I sputter.
“Could I have the recipe?”
“Sure,” I answer, surprised. “It’s angel food. I’ll tell Layla.”
I remember how, when I first saw Meche at the market, I wanted to interview her. And now’s my chance. I sneak Wendell a little smile, then take my notebook and pen from my bag. He gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look as I turn to a fresh page. After a moment, I ask, “Meche, can perfect happiness exist?”
She’s unfazed. Maybe she’s been a recluse for so long, she has no expectations for normal interactions. She cups her chin in her hand and says thoughtfully, “In moments and memories.”
“Like what?” I push.
“The laugh of a little girl.” She stares into her empty teacup. “Or the nuzzle of Gatito.”
“Tell me more about—” I want to say the girl, but Meche looks so vulnerable sitting there, I finish with “Gatito.”
Tears fill her eyes. “Gatito … he’s getting old. I’ve seen the changes. Losing his appetite, tired all the time, trouble walking.”
Just when I’m thinking that this creature certainly didn’t have trouble hurling himself at the fence, Meche says, “He still has bursts of energy, when he feels he’s protecting me.” Her voice trembles. “But soon, he’ll be too weak for even that. Soon, he’ll leave me here alone. Then I won’t have those moments anymore. Only the memories.” Her voice lowers, nearly inaudible. “And I don’t know if that’s enough happiness to live on.”
I stay quiet, glance over at Wendell. His eyes glisten with tears.
Meche is wiping her face on her sleeve, composing herself. “Sorry. I’m not used to talking to people. And it’s the middle of the night. And you’ve been kind. Kind enough to bring me that pink cake. Angel food.”
She takes a quivery breath. “The truth is, I’m afraid. I’m so afraid of what will happen when Gatito leaves me.”
I meet her gaze. I think about how Doña Lupita said she was a sweet girl, a caring mother. I think about Layla’s plan to gush pink waves of love. “After Gatito,” I begin, “I mean—anytime, now even—you don’t have to feel alone, Meche. Come visit us. There are always people coming and going. They’re friendly, interesting. Travelers who’ve never heard the rumors.”
“Zeeta,” Meche says softly. “That night in the woods, I thought you were my daughter. She’d be a young woman now, like you. Sometimes … when you spend so much time alone … it’s as though you see things, talk to ghosts. I thought you were—I hoped you were …” She shakes herself and says, “Would you like Gatito and me to walk you home?”
I look at Wendell.
“I think we’ll be okay,” he says. “But thanks.”
I nod. “It’s been quiet out there. I think enough time has passed. Seems like the poachers gave up the search.”
“It’s probably for the best,” says Meche. “Gatito has trouble walking more than a few paces at a time now.”
On the way out the gate, Meche hands Wendell the cake platter.
As he takes it, he says, “Come over soon, Meche. Layla can teach you to make that cake.”
I chime in, “Or you could come to sunrise yoga. Or how about a bonfire? You’d like it.” Impulsively, I reach forward and offer Meche a hug. At first, her body is rigid beneath my arms, but after a moment, she softens.
Wendell raises a hand in farewell and says, “Give Gatito a hug for us too.”
“And a kiss on the nose,” I add. And I actually mean it.
Back at the cabanas, Wendell slides the camera’s memory card into his laptop. When the photo comes up on the screen, we study it. Two of the men are unfamiliar to us—teenagers in baseball caps, white T-shirts, and jeans. Their faces are generally nondescript—the same dark, square, handsome faces as most teenage guys around here. The third man has his back to us, just a black T-shirt and cutoff camouflage shorts visible. He’s not wearing a cap, and he has a buzz cut, a fairly common hairstyle. His hand grips a shovel.
I stare at this third man. Something about the thick neck and stubbled hair is familiar. And those camo shorts … “Hey, Wendell. Zoom in on this guy’s hand.”
Close up, it’s obvious. The guy’s missing a finger. His ring finger.
At the same time, Wendell and I say, “El Dedo!”
After just a few hours’ sleep, Wendell and I grab quick cups of coffee, then head straight to the police station. Chucho and Gerardo are there, sitting on their desks, watching TV. “What can we do for you?” Gerardo asks.
“Actually,” I say, taking a deep breath, “we’d like to speak with you, Officer. In private.”
Chucho bristles. Then he stands up and walks outside. I see him hovering by the open window, imagine his ears straining.
Wendell talks to Gerardo in a low voice. “We were chased by poachers. Last night, at Playa Mermejita. They had machetes. They threatened to kill us.”
Gerardo’s face fills with alarm. He opens the file cabinet, flips through it, mumbles, “Still can’t find your other report.” Opening a fresh folder, he pulls a pen from his pocket and starts filling out the form. With concern, he asks for details—estimated times, exact locations. Wendell hands over a copy of the photo on a memory stick.
Gerardo studies the image on his computer screen. “Bet they’re from the city,” he comments. “The trouble-makers always are. Not like our local boys.”
I wish he would keep his voice down. I’m very aware of Chucho lurking outside the window.
We
ndell zooms in on the four-fingered hand. Keeping his voice just above a whisper, he says, “There’s a guy here, from Mexico City. He’s always picking fights. He’s missing the same finger on the same hand.”
“Well, look at that!” Gerardo practically shouts. “Missing a finger!”
I notice Chucho’s form outside the window, shifting. I imagine him texting El Dedo about this right now.
“His nickname’s El Dedo,” I whisper. “We can try to find out his full name.”
Gerardo rubs his mustache. “All right, but be careful. This kind of guy can be vicious. And leave the rest to us.”
I glance toward the window. “Actually, we—” How to phrase this delicately? “We’re concerned that Chucho might be involved. The poachers mentioned his name.”
Rubbing his mustache again, Gerardo says, “Well, you are aware that Chucho is a nickname for Jesús? One of the most common names here, next to José and Juan.”
I look at Wendell and take a deep breath. “They said Chucho told them to cover their tracks, be careful. A Chucho with inside information. And we think the curses we reported might’ve been left by these guys. With Chucho’s knowledge.”
Gerardo nods, says, “I’ll keep this from Chucho. For now. Until there’s more information. But you understand, I have to trust my fellow officer.”
I press my lips together, not sure whether to trust Gerardo.
He copies the photo file to his computer, hands back the memory stick, and shows us where to sign the forms. “Is that all, muchachos?”
“There’s one more thing,” I say, and tell Gerardo about the second curse, the threatening note.
He nods briskly, then shakes our hands and tells us to be careful.
As we walk outside, Chucho glares at us. A chill sweeps through me. Probably not a good idea to have made an enemy on the police force.
Next, Wendell suggests we swing by Tesoro Escondido to see if El Sapo has any ideas about El Dedo’s full name.
“No clue,” says El Sapo, shaking his head. “I don’t think any of us know his name.” He pauses. “But man, I’d love to see that vato behind bars. And his buddies.”
“His buddies?”
El Sapo nods, peering at the image on Wendell’s camera. “Two more guys from Mexico City. These guys here,” he says, pointing to the image. “Supposedly in his gang. You’re lucky you haven’t met them. They’re almost as bad as him.”
“Well, if any of them turn up,” Wendell says, “tell us right away, okay?”
“Sure. And I’ll spread the word.” El Sapo gives a satisfied grin. “If El Dedo shows his face on this beach again, he’s as good as in jail.”
Next stop, the Turtle Center.
We breeze across the grounds, straight to Pepe’s office. The door’s open; he’s absorbed in his cell phone, until he notices us and tucks it away. When we give him the latest news about the poachers and how we suspect Chucho’s involved, Pepe runs his hand through his hair, obviously upset. “I’m just glad you escaped,” he says gravely.
Deep creases form at his forehead. “Let’s see the photo,” he says.
When the photo shows up on the computer screen, Wendell points out the four-fingered hand and explains our theory that the poachers are El Dedo and his buddies.
Pepe draws in a sharp breath. “Anything else?” he asks, handing the memory stick back to Wendell.
Wendell nods and lowers his voice. “We don’t know how far the corruption goes, Pepe. We’re concerned that the volunteers weren’t there again. We think someone’s paying them off. Or maybe they’re the ones poaching.”
Pepe sighs, shaking his head. “What a mess. Listen, leave this to me, muchachos. I’ll look into all of this. Just don’t try anything like last night again. You could’ve been killed. Stay away from that beach.”
Wendell shakes his head, his jaw set firm.
“Wendell,” Pepe begins, his voice sharp.
“I told you,” Wendell interrupts. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect the turtles.”
I cross my arms. “We’ve faced danger before. We can handle it.” I keep my gaze steady. “We’re investigating this ourselves.”
Pepe stares at us for a moment, frustrated. Then his expression softens. “Hey, you two must be exhausted. Why don’t you go home and take a nap? We’ll talk more about this later.”
As we leave, he calls out, “Tengan cuidado, muchachos.”
Pepe’s right about the nap. I wake up feeling refreshed. Sunlight streams through my window and a song loops through my head—my favorite song from my father’s CD. The melody moves through me as I crawl out from under the mosquito net and walk into the bathroom. Surrounded by glass starfish mosaics, I splash water on my face, then braid my hair and throw on a sundress. On the way out the door, I grab Rogelio’s guitar. If I want to master those four chords, I’d better practice every moment I can get.
I settle on my hammock, squinting at the silver light reflecting off the ocean in the distance. One by one, I play the chords. A minor, D minor, E, and G. I switch from one to another, with only a small pause in between. Hard-won calluses have sprouted up on my fingertips. My hours of practice have paid off.
I savor the feeling of my fingers switching instinctively from one pattern to another to another, without my mind interfering. It’s like learning a new language—at first it’s such a struggle it hurts my brain, but after I say the same phrase fifty times, it becomes part of me. Without looking down, I just let my fingertips lead the way. I stare at the ocean as the notes repeat, like one wave after another.
Rogelio said these were the only four chords I needed to know to play “La Llorona.” I start humming the tune, singing a few phrases here and there, slowly fitting it all together. My fingers cooperate, finding the notes that correspond to the melody. And soon, to my complete shock, I’m more or less playing the song.
Yesterday, I was a wonder, Llorona,
And today, I’m not even a shadow …
Suddenly, my fingers freeze on the strings. “La Llorona.” It’s the song that’s been running through my head. My favorite song from my father’s CD. My father’s version had a different arrangement, but still, it’s the same song, the same basic four chords.
I’m staring at the waves, trying to comprehend this, when Wendell calls, “Hey, Z!”
He comes out of his cabana, yawning and stretching. Running his hand through his tangled hair, he plops down beside me with a kiss.
Then, seeing my odd expression, he asks, “You okay, Z?”
“The music Rogelio played for me,” I say slowly. “ ‘La Llorona,’ the song I’ve been learning those chords for … it’s on my father’s CD. The first song.”
Wendell wrinkles his eyebrows, trying to remember. “Hold on, Z. I’ll grab my iPod.”
A minute later, Wendell’s back. We each take an ear bud, listen with our heads close. The song sounds like diving below the sunlit surface into cool, dark shadows, and deeper, into the fierce currents of longing and regret. As I listen, I sing along softly, filling in the words I remember.
When it ends, I take out the ear bud and stare at Wendell. “That’s definitely it, Wendell. ‘La Llorona.’ ” Still caught in the music’s spell, I try to think about this logically. “Rogelio did say it was an old folk song. Probably everyone here knows it.” I bite my lip. “It has to be a coincidence.”
Wendell twists the cord around his finger. “Didn’t Rogelio tell you his son played guitar? And liked rock music?”
I nod.
His gaze intensifies. “He didn’t mention Jimi Hendrix, did he?”
I shake my head, but I see where he’s going. I try to recall the stray bits of information from conversations with Rogelio and Lupita. My words come out slowly. “But this son did leave as a young man. Years ago. And he never returned.” I search my memory for more. “And he was troubled. Different. But he loved Punta Cometa. He loved sea turtles.” Excitement is welling up inside me. Not sure if I’m getting ca
rried away, I turn to Wendell. “What do you think?”
“It could be your dad, Z. Everything fits.”
I clutch the guitar neck. It’s just a possibility, I remind myself. Not a sure thing. Cautiously, I let my mind go down that path, and little by little, more realizations hit me. “Wendell, if this is true, then Rogelio is my grandfather! And Lupita’s my grandmother!” Now I can’t help it. I let the sheer happiness of this idea overtake me. My mouth, my face, my entire body turn into one giant smile. Even my toes tingle with excitement. I throw my arms around Wendell. “My grandmother!”
Lupita already treats me like a granddaughter, without even knowing who I am. Who I might be, I correct myself. She’s trusted me with her secret mole recipe, showered me with hugs and advice. And if Lupita were my grandmother, and Rogelio my grandfather, then of course they’d let me stay on the land.
Wendell cups my face in his hands, looks into my eyes. “Will you tell them?”
After a long pause, I shake my head. “My father has to. We have to find him.” What I don’t dare to say out loud is If he’s even out there. If he’s still alive.
“Maybe Lupita knows,” Wendell suggests.
I nod, my mind racing. “I’m supposed to meet her this afternoon. I’ll find out everything I can.”
A thousand emotions swirl around inside me, until I’m nearly exploding. I need some outlet, or I might start jumping around and squealing. Or sobbing and screaming. Instead, I pick up the guitar and play those four chords, over and over and over, as if their currents might carry me to my father.
Lupita greets me in her blooming, buzzing courtyard with a hug. “¿Qué me cuentas, mija?” she asks cheerily. What do you have to tell me, daughter?
Oh, just that I’m your granddaughter, I think. Swallowing hard, I compose my thoughts. I mention my visit with her husband, which she’s already heard about—and which utterly delights her. Then I go into the events of last night—El Dedo and the other poachers chasing us, Meche and Gatito saving us, the incompetent cops.
“¡Ay, pobrecita!” Poor thing! Lupita folds me again into her great bosom. “How terrifying!” She insists on giving me a shot of what she calls agua de espanto—fright water. She pours dark liquid from a dusty, ancient bottle into a small glass. “Here, mija, so you won’t get sick from fright.”