The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  “Oh, don’t thank us,” the woman replies. “Someone knocked on our door. He yelled ‘Fire!’ in English and Spanish.”

  “Really? Who was it?”

  Her husband answers. “By the time we opened the door, he was gone. We assumed it was Joe or Wendell.”

  I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t them.” I glance around at the other guests. “Anyone know who knocked on the doors?”

  Horacio taps his cane thoughtfully on the tile. “No idea. But it was the same for me. I heard pounding on the door. And a strange man’s voice shouting ‘Fire.’ ”

  The other guests murmur in agreement about a man’s voice shouting warnings and fists pounding on their doors. But none of the men here takes credit.

  Wendell looks at me. “Who could it have been?”

  I shrug, mystified. “It’s weird. I don’t know.” I go into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, turning the possibilities over in my mind.

  Ten minutes later, setting out cups and saucers, I still can’t figure it out. I move from table to table, pouring tea, checking on everyone. Thankfully, our guests aren’t typical tourists. They’re shocked at the idea of arson, but no one’s been traumatized. In fact, they’re treating this as another bonding experience. There’s even an air of excitement as they buzz about the mysterious hero who saved us.

  Soon dawn comes, lighting up the putrid mess of what used to be our shed. I calculate what we’ve lost—some gardening supplies, tools, equipment. Nothing irreplaceable or expensive. We might even be able to rebuild the shed with some scrap lumber. I peer past the smoldering pile to the ocean, glowing silver and misty in the light of dawn. Letting out a long breath, I focus on what matters most: everyone is alive.

  After the fire and police chiefs leave, Layla announces that she won’t charge the guests for their stays last night. Not only does everyone refuse this offer, but after conferring with the others, the Australians shout, “It’s unanimous, we’re all in the mood to build a shed!”

  The other guests chime in, “Hear, hear!” Sven offers to draw up plans, and Joe and Wendell volunteer to go to town to buy tools and lumber. Layla beams, quoting Rumi left and right. I take the eggs from the fridge and start getting breakfast ready. After all the commotion, I figure people will be hungry soon.

  As the sun is just peeking over the sea, I make out two figures walking up our path from the road. It’s Lupita and Rogelio, rushing toward us, reaching out their arms. “We heard the sirens!” they cry, embracing me. “We were so worried about you, mija!”

  After assuring them we’re safe and introducing them to everyone, I invite them to have breakfast with us. When the guests hear that Lupita is the genius behind the mole, they gush compliments. Layla hugs Lupita for so long, I practically have to pry her away, worried that she might not be able to hold in my secret. Layla’s clearly as enamored of my grandmother as I am. And before long, she’s kidding around with Rogelio about how many rolls of toilet paper she’ll have to buy for her own guitar lessons. With all the bubbly conversation and laughter, you’d never guess there’d just been an arson attack.

  After breakfast, Lupita and Rogelio swing by their house to gather supplies while Wendell and Joe head downtown. The rest of us choose a flat area for the shed, prepare the ground, and stake out the perimeter with twine.

  I’m just tying the last stake when Meche appears. All heads turn toward her. She’s as glamorous as ever, wearing a black huipil, her fingers laden with silver rings, her hair in an intricate network of braids. She offers brief nods to the guests in greeting, then approaches with her oddly dignified limp. “I smelled smoke and heard sirens,” she says, looking around. “What’s going on?”

  Delighted, Layla greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “A shed-building party!”

  “What?”

  Layla sweeps her arm over the worksite. “We’re building a new and improved storage shed.” She laughs. “A little fire last night gave us the excuse.”

  Joe nods. “Complete destruction of the old, making way for the new. Just like the Mayan prophecy, you know—”

  Layla cuts him off. “Meche, if you have time, we’d love your help.”

  Meche blinks. “Well … all right.”

  “¡Maravilloso!” Layla cries, ushering Meche to the pile of wood. “Just talk to our architect!” She points to Sven with his long blond ponytail, who’s holding a ruler and a notebook.

  We’ve just finished leveling the building site when Wendell and Joe return with El Sapo and his sisters in tow, all carrying heavy bags.

  “Ran into them downtown,” Wendell says cheerfully. “They volunteered to help out.”

  “Qué chido.” I show them where to put the bags and direct them to Sven.

  Meche’s already started cutting the wood to size for framing. I remember the rustic chairs in her house and wonder if they’re the result of her carpentry skills. Guests trickle over to her, introducing themselves, admiring her jewelry, her braids, her handiwork with the saw. At first Meche seems overwhelmed with so much positive attention. But soon she relaxes, even begins joking around with the others.

  The girls, Mayra and Xochitl, are helping to mix cement for the foundation. “Zeeta!” they call in an urgent whisper.

  “That’s the jaguar lady, isn’t it?” Xochitl asks, motioning with her chin.

  I nod. “Her name’s Meche.”

  Xochitl looks triumphantly at Mayra. “See, I told you!”

  Mayra twists her face, doubtful. “Where’s her jaguar?”

  “He’s sick at home.” I lean in and whisper, “You should be extra nice to Meche. She’s been sad about Gatito.”

  I grab a glass of lemonade from a tray, hand it to Mayra. “Here, take this over to her. It’ll cheer her up.”

  The girls look at each other, eyes wide. Giggling, they walk over to Meche and offer her the drink. She quickly engages them in conversation, asks them questions, makes them laugh. She’s surprisingly great with kids. I can imagine how she was with her own daughter.

  When Lupita and Rogelio appear, toting supplies, the girls run over and hug the old couple.

  “Zeeta!” Lupita calls out. “I didn’t know you knew my grandchildren!”

  My heart flutters as I take in this fact. So these girls are my cousins. El Sapo, too. And Cristina is my aunt. She must be my father’s sister, who he mentioned looks so much like me. It’s all I can do not to throw my arms around them with unrestrained joy. “They’re my fellow bolibolistas,” I tell Lupita, forcing my voice to stay steady.

  “Where’s your mother?” Rogelio asks the girls as he hands them lollipops from his shirt pocket.

  “At the restaurant,” Xochitl replies, unwrapping her loot. “But she’ll bring us all lunch later, enough for everyone here.”

  It’s a strange feeling to see these people who are my family—yet don’t know it—gathered here at my home. A delicious feeling. It could only be more delicious if they knew who I was. Again, I’m tempted to blurt out the truth.

  But if I do, I’ll never get to see my father make the announcement himself. Somehow, if I told them, it would mean giving up on the idea of finding him. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

  Barely keeping my joy contained, I start hammering the frame together, with Layla’s and Meche’s help.

  “So, Meche, how’s your adorable little Gatito?” Layla asks, holding a beam of wood.

  A cloud passes over Meche’s face. “Doing worse,” she says, wiping sweat from her cheek with her forearm. “It’s a matter of days now.…” Her lip quivers. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

  Layla rests a hand on Meche’s shoulder, puts on a classic Rumi face. “Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who’s there.”

  Meche gives a small smile. “Thanks for the cake … and for everything.”

  As Layla spouts more Rumi, I glance around at the guests working, a happy sight. Beyond the little crowd, at the edge of the jungle,
there’s a movement. I keep my eyes glued to that spot.

  There it is again, between the branches, a flash of clothes, faded orange. A blur of dark flesh, shiny eyes. Black hair. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. But someone’s there, watching us. And as soon as our eyes meet, the person flees. A chill moves over my skin. Is it the arsonist? Or the man who saved us?

  I search for Wendell, to tell him what I saw. Immediately, I realize something’s wrong. He’s gazing at the wood he’s in the middle of sawing, a distant look on his face. A vision. I hurry over, watching him carefully. I’ve nearly reached him when he shudders, drops the saw, and clutches his hands to his throat, gasping for breath, his face wild with panic.

  My pulse racing, I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  His eyes are wide, terrified, his breathing ragged. No one but me seems to have noticed.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, “it was just a vision.”

  But as I hear myself say this, I know it’s not okay. Not remotely. Because as far as I know, every one of his visions has come true.

  Once his breathing is steadier, he says, “Zeeta …” Fear fills his eyes. His hands remain at his throat.

  “What happened, Wendell?”

  He gradually moves his hands away from his neck, stares at them.

  “Wendell, just this time, please tell me.”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

  I grab his hands. “There was danger, wasn’t there?”

  Slowly, he speaks, his voice hoarse. “You weren’t in it, Z. I was alone.”

  “But, Wendell—”

  He pulls me toward him and rasps, “I can handle it, Z.”

  My heart’s banging, my head a jumble of panicked thoughts. “Wendell,” I whisper, “you looked like you were”—I struggle to say the word—“dying.”

  He rubs his face, closes his eyes. “I can’t—I can’t let this freak me out, Z. If I do, I’ll be a slave to the visions.”

  I fight to control my voice, hold back tears. “Wendell, you have this amazing future ahead of you. A full scholarship to the art school of your dreams. You can’t lose that.” I choke back a sob. “And I can’t lose you.”

  He holds my chin, moving my face close to his. “Trust me, Z.” He gives me a shaky kiss. “I’ll be careful.” Offering a pained smile, he adds, “And anyway, life’s a mess, right?”

  I wipe my eyes and manage a weak grin. “Sounds like Horacio’s told you about his beautiful-mess-of-life theory.” For a while I’m silent, willing my heart to calm down, struggling to trust him that everything will be okay. “Whatever happens,” I say finally, “I got your back.” Then I add, “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You let Layla load you down with a few kilos of amulets.”

  Half smiling, he whispers, “So now you believe in that stuff?”

  I graze my lips over his red-streaked neck. “Whatever it takes.”

  The next day, Sunday, we put the finishing touches on our new shed. Layla’s painted an ocean view on the door, lining every cloud with glitter. Of course she snuck in a Rumi quote: We’re clouds over the sea, or flecks of matter in the ocean when the ocean seems lit from within.

  “Just to put our little troubles in perspective,” Layla says, satisfied.

  El Sapo and Xochitl and Mayra arrive right when we’re burning incense for the shed’s ceremonial blessing. Joe hands them some bells. After his heroic efforts during the fire, his purple wig doesn’t bother me so much.

  The girls get into the ritual, ringing their bells and belting out chants. Afterward, Xochitl turns to me. “Where’s Meche?”

  “At home with Gatito.”

  “We like her!” Mayra declares.

  Xochitl’s eyes light up. “Let’s make a present for her jaguar.”

  “I think she’d love that,” I say, showing them the brushes and extra paint and scraps of wood.

  Half an hour later, while I’m cleaning the Iguana bathroom, the girls burst through the door, proudly hold up a piece of scrap wood with a painting of a smiling, sparkling jaguar framed by jungle flowers.

  I admire it. “Oigan, I have an idea!” I find a stake in the pile of leftover lumber and nail it to the back of the painted wood. “I’ll hammer this into the ground just outside Gatito’s fence. Then he can enjoy it, okay?”

  The girls smile, pleased.

  Later, when Wendell and I walk down the jungle path carrying the sign, for the first time, I’m not scared at the idea of seeing Gatito. Not that I want to cuddle with him, but I do have sympathy for the creature. Next to the TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED warning, we set up the girls’ cheerful portrayal of Gatito. I’m sure that pounding in the stake will rouse him, but there’s no sign of him. We peer through the fence, scanning his patch of jungle. Nothing.

  “He must be really sick,” I say to Wendell.

  He nods. “Poor guy.”

  I take Wendell’s hand, lean into him as we walk back. Now that he’s shaken off the darkness of his vision, he tells me about online research he’s done on poaching regulations. “We need to go higher than the local police,” he says, determined. “Mexico has an agency that protects wildlife—PROFEPA. I’m going to talk with Pepe, suggest we contact them. Maybe PROFEPA can send people to investigate. Maybe even train a whole new volunteer force.”

  I nod in encouragement, but inside, I wonder how the poachers will exact their vengeance. What was it El Sapo said about El Dedo’s revenge style? Death by machete? I remember the threats El Dedo yelled as he chased us through the jungle. Then I remember how Wendell looked clutching his neck, gasping for breath, as though he were dying.

  I tighten my grip on his hand, wishing I never had to let it go.

  On Monday, under the blazing afternoon sun, Wendell and I head to the grounds of the Turtle Center. There’s a bulge beneath his blue shirt—the pouch of amulets he’s agreed to wear, after pointing out that I’m turning into Layla.

  We head past the turtle hatchery, straight to Pepe’s office. Wendell is holding a packet of information and a list of agencies to contact about the poaching.

  “Hola, Pepe,” he says, poking his head in the doorway. He’s trying to sound casual, but his voice is brimming with tension.

  “Wendell!” Pepe stands up with a look of concern. “I heard about the fire. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Thanks.” Wendell chooses his words carefully, trying not to sound accusatory. It can’t be easy. “Zeeta and I—you know we’re concerned that the volunteers aren’t able to protect the turtles. And—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, muchachos,” he says. “I replaced the volunteers who were slacking off.”

  Wendell and I exchange glances. Pepe would be offended at the suggestion that his entire volunteer program is part of a cesspool of corruption. “Actually,” Wendell says diplomatically, “we’re thinking the police aren’t doing the best job of it either.”

  “Really?” Pepe says, his brow furrowed.

  Wendell sets his printouts on the desk. “We have to notify PROFEPA. They can investigate.”

  Pepe leans against his desk, rubs his temples. “Mira, Wendell. Look. As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, you still have a lot to learn.” He rests his hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “You get farther in life by making friends, not enemies.” He sighs. “If the police find out that a representative of the Turtle Center has gone over their heads, they won’t be happy. We’ll pay for it. You see, we have a relationship going. You can understand that, right?”

  Wendell is quiet. I can almost feel the outrage he’s holding inside.

  “Leave it to me,” Pepe continues. “I have friends on the police force, friends all over this town. I’ll handle this in a way that won’t upset folks. All right?”

  Wendell’s face hardens. He looks Pepe in the eye and says evenly, “I have to protect the turtles … even if it means losing friends. Or my job.”

  Pepe presses his lips together. “Do
n’t contact PROFEPA yet. Just give me time to deal with it.”

  Slowly, Wendell shakes his head. “Every day means thousands more turtle eggs stolen, Pepe.” He takes a deep breath. “One day. That’s the most I’ll wait. Unless the poachers are caught, I’m contacting PROFEPA on Wednesday.”

  Pepe rubs his temple, looking disappointed, as if Wendell has let him down. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. Finally, Wendell says goodbye and leaves. I follow, not sure what to think. Maybe Pepe’s right; maybe there’s an easier way to deal with this. One that doesn’t involve making enemies. The last thing I want is another enemy at this point, especially not after Wendell’s terrifying vision.

  Flushed with emotion, he leads me past the shallow pools toward the beach.

  Under my breath, I say, “Wendell, be careful. Please.”

  He taps on the bunch of amulets under his shirt. “That’s what these are for, right?” His words are light, but I know him so well, I can sense the fear in his voice, his downcast eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he walks. He’s scared, and trying hard not to show it.

  I try again. “Wendell, why don’t you just give tours around the grounds for a while? Stay off the water?”

  “I have to go on the water, Z. That’s my main job.” He squeezes my hand and says, “Just trust that it’ll be worth it, Z. It’ll be okay in the end.” I suspect he’s saying it to calm himself as much as me.

  On the beach, Santy is washing his boat, and waves to us in greeting. After some small talk, he and Wendell push the boat into the water. Hugging myself in the wind, I watch from shore as they hop in and rev the engine. Wendell waves as they go, calling out something I can’t hear over the motor, probably something like “Don’t worry.” As the boat grows smaller and smaller until it’s just a pinprick of white, I do exactly that. Worry.

  The afternoon drags on. I can’t stop thinking about Wendell out there on the water, vulnerable. To distract myself, I work on the jungle path, even wishing Gatito would make an appearance—from behind the fence, of course. Later, I bring a bowl of mole by Meche’s house, guessing she’s too distraught over Gatito to cook. She doesn’t answer when I call out, so I leave the dish at her gate, not willing to risk an encounter with the jaguar, even if he is sick and weak.