by Laura Resau
“I’ll be fine, Santy,” I reassure him. Unfortunately, he’d just slow me down with his creaky joints. “Please, go home.”
“Call the Coast Guard,” he says after a pause. “All right?”
I promise, and then, reluctantly, he turns away, shielding his face from the rain. Immediately, I run down the path toward the road. The wind whips at me and the rain stings, but I focus on moving my legs. Tree branches are cracking and flying, and I dodge out of their way. In the flashes of lightning, I see that the uphill road ahead has transformed into a brown river. I head straight for it, bracing myself. My lungs burning, I slip and fall and scramble back up, smeared with mud. Finally, at the top, I turn left at the cabanas sign and tear down our driveway, shaking with cold and fear. Please be here, Wendell. Please.
I approach the kitchen hut, breathless, soaked to the bone. The trees shelter the dining area from the worst of the wind, but the candles are all blown out. The tables are empty; the guests must have retreated to their cabanas. Layla and Meche are huddled behind the counter, washing dishes by lantern light.
“Layla!” I call out as I enter.
“Zeeta! Are you okay?”
I nod quickly. “Wendell? Is he—?”
She shakes her head, drying her hands on the dish towel. “He’s not back, love.”
Meche grabs a black wool shawl from a hook in the kitchen. It must be hers; I’ve never seen it before. She wraps it around me, despite the mud clinging to my clothes and skin. Gently, she sits me down on a bench. “I couldn’t find him, Zeeta. Are you okay?”
I nod. “But Wendell—” I stifle a sob. “I think he’s out there on the water. Santy and I couldn’t find him.”
Meche and Layla shoot each other looks of alarm. Layla asks, “Should I call the Coast Guard?”
I hate that it’s come to this. “Yes,” I relent. “And the fire chief. Hurry, please.”
As Layla disappears down the path toward the phone, I catch a glimpse of movement at the edge of the jungle. My eyes scan the dripping-wet trees, their branches blowing in the wind. It’s dark, shadowy, but I’m sure of it: someone’s behind a tree. A branch covers most of his face, but I can tell it’s a man. A man in a dark shirt and pants.
As I stand up, he turns and disappears into the forest.
By the time I make my legs move a few steps in his direction, I realize it’s too late. He’s probably long gone.
I drop back down to the bench and look at Meche. “Did you see him?”
“Who?” Her gaze flickers around.
“A man watching us. In the jungle.”
“No.” She squints at the rainy foliage. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the same person I noticed before. One of the poachers?” I shiver, trying to think of a less scary scenario. “Or maybe the guy who warned everyone about the fire. Maybe the one who threw stones at the poachers.” I like this explanation better. The one involving an invisible protector.
She ponders this, staring into the jungle, then puts her arm on my shoulder. “Zeeta, why are you so convinced Wendell is out there? In danger?”
I pause. I can’t tell her about Wendell’s vision. “Santy described the guys who took him on the boat today. One of them fits the description of a poacher in Wendell’s photo. This guy named El Dedo.”
As I’m talking, I remember Santy’s words. If Pepe was the one who sent Wendell out on the boat today, he must know El Dedo. And he must have known that El Dedo was one of the poachers in the photo we showed him.
My mind is reeling. I sputter, “And this guy, Pepe—Wendell’s boss at the Turtle Center—he’s acting weird. Lying to us. Wendell wanted to report the poaching to PROFEPA even though Pepe told him not to.…” I struggle to compose my thoughts, which are leading me to some disturbing conclusions about Pepe.
Meche looks bewildered. “Wait, this Pepe from the Turtle Center … you mean Doña Lupita’s son?”
I glance up. “What?”
“Her younger son?” Meche asks. “The so-called community coordinator?” Uncharacteristic sarcasm has crept into her voice.
I try to make sense of this new information. “I guess that’s him.”
“Lupita told me about his new job,” Meche says.
My heart’s racing. “What do you know about him?”
She laughs wryly. “I’m not surprised he got the job, even with no science background. Everyone loves him. He’s charming, all about exchanging favors. He tried to involve me in his little network, but I refused. And I suspect he fuels the rumors about me, hoping I’ll leave and sell him the land.” She pauses. “Of course, he’s never been interested in turtles. He’s only been interested in—”
I stare at her. “What?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve said enough already. I hate gossip.”
“I have to know, Meche. Wendell’s in danger.”
After a long pause, she continues. “Money. That’s what he was always all about. Impressing his friends. Whatever it took to do that.”
I blink, fighting to rearrange my assumptions about Pepe. “What do you mean?”
“He came over a few months ago, pressuring me to sell my land. Said he’d let me in on an investment, a fancy hotel he wanted to build here.” Meche’s voice hardens. “My land is smack in the middle of his plans. And he’s assuming he’ll get this land you rent from his parents. Apparently, he met some investors in Mexico City. It all sounded shady to me. Of course, I refused. Which didn’t make him happy.”
“But how could he build a hotel? Wouldn’t the electric lights endanger the turtles?”
“Exactly. Why would he be working at the Turtle Center if he cares so little about the turtles?” Meche furrows her eyebrows. “Maybe he thought he’d have more power if he worked there, being on the inside. I wouldn’t put it past that man.”
I shut my eyes tight, not wanting to believe it, but it makes sense. Slowly, I say, “Pepe wants us gone. He’s always wanted us gone. With us gone, his parents will give him the land. And he’ll develop a hotel. And knowing him, he’ll get the support of his friends, the cops, and everyone else. He’ll find a way to avoid following the turtle protection laws. That’s why he doesn’t want Wendell going to PROFEPA—he doesn’t want anyone else interfering. If PROFEPA gets involved, they’d stop him.”
I hesitate, putting together the rest of the information. “El Dedo and the others must be Pepe’s friends from Mexico City. Maybe he does them favors—like letting them poach on this beach. And the volunteer force—it’s a sham, nonexistent. El Dedo and his buddies do Pepe favors in return, like leaving curses and committing arson, to try to scare us off.”
Meche listens intently, nodding.
The more I talk, the more pieces come together. “The first curse came after we reported the poaching. The threatening note came after Lupita found out that we wanted to stay for years. The fire came after I convinced Rogelio to let us stay. Lupita and Rogelio probably mentioned these things to Pepe, and he instructed his buddies to do the dirty work. And now this incident with Wendell—it came right after he told Pepe he’d go to PROFEPA.”
Each of Pepe’s attacks has escalated, gotten more serious, more destructive. And now, this latest one—would he actually try to kill Wendell?
I turn to Meche, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Wendell’s in serious danger, isn’t he?”
Solemnly, she nods. “It appears so.”
And then there’s the big question, which I can’t tell Meche about, because it involves my father: What if my father really is innocent of the crime he was accused of as a teen? What if his brother, Pepe, was the guilty one? Pepe would’ve had access to the keys to his father’s truck. He could’ve escaped from the truck, taken a shortcut home, and slipped into bed, unseen. He could’ve easily pinned it on his brother, who was out with a girl. Maybe everyone was so charmed by Pepe that they just assumed his troubled brother did it.
My insides are still spinning over the revelations about Pe
pe when Layla comes down the path. “I reported him as missing at sea,” she says, breathless. “The Coast Guard is out looking. The fire department too.” Twisting her face, she adds, “And supposedly those inept cops.”
“You called them, too?”
“The Coast Guard did. Said it’s protocol.” Sitting down beside me, she hugs me and looks back and forth between me and Meche. She must see the new wave of fear in our eyes. “What is it?”
“Pepe,” I say shakily. Between the two of us, Meche and I tell her about Pepe’s shady side.
Once Layla understands the meaning of this, she jumps up and runs to call in this new information to the authorities.
Now there’s a search on for Pepe as well as El Dedo and Wendell. For what feels like hours, I wait in the kitchen hut, watching rain drip from leaves, praying that Wendell will make it back. But with every minute that passes, it seems less and less likely.
After word of Wendell’s disappearance spreads, the guests stop by the palapa, trying to comfort me. They adore Wendell too. Many of them have gone on a tour with him at the Turtle Center, become enchanted by his turtle enthusiasm. There’s no bonfire tonight, only a solemn mood as people offer me sympathetic hugs, then, after midnight, trickle off to their cabanas.
Eventually, the only ones left are Layla and Meche and Joe, drying dishes behind the counter, and at a table, Horacio and me. He sits beside me in the flickering light of a small lantern. Knowing that he can’t see my face is liberating. Finally, my tears stream down, unrestrained. Hearing my muffled sobs, he reaches out, finds my arm, rests his hand there.
I sniffle as he pats my arm rhythmically. “You were right, Horacio,” I say in a shaky voice. “My life could get messier. It did.”
“Trust …,” he begins softly, his voice fading.
“Trust what?”
He sighs, searching for words. “Trust you’ll handle the mess. Trust you’ll even, somehow, love it. Trust that in the end, it will all be fine. More than fine. Beautiful.”
I wipe my eyes. “My friend Lupita—she told me the same thing. She said life is like mole. Not all sweet. Spicy with chile, bitter with cacao. All these flavors that jumble together and make it delicious.”
He gazes into the night, his expression pensive. “And now, tonight, we’re living through the bitter part, or maybe the painful, burning chile part.” He pats my arm some more. “But more sweetness will come, sooner or later. Trust that it will.”
I think about all the sweetness Wendell has brought into my life. The sweetness this new home has brought into my life. And how terrified I’ve been of losing it all. My home, Wendell, my perfect paradise.
But it’s not a perfect paradise. It never was and it never will be. The only real perfection is the miracle of simply being alive. Suddenly, I understand this with every cell in my body. There will be storms, scares, beasts, heartache … and I’m strong enough to deal with it all. As long as he’s alive.
All this time I’ve been worrying he’d leave and I’d lose him. And now, I might lose him in a way I never dreamed possible. Lose him for good.
No! I scream inside. He will come back. He will. He has to. I have to believe that he’ll return. And even after he does, there will always be uncertainty, a string of obstacles to overcome, the pain of being apart, the elation of being together. Our paths will fork here and there, unexpectedly, double back, take detours. And I’ll give him freedom to fly, to be his own person. I’ll trust that in the end, we’ll be together. Trust in the sweet parts and the bitter parts—trust the whole delicious mess.
Then I think of my father—the depth of his music, the tenderness that comes through in his mother’s stories. He might be innocent of the crime. If so, how tragic that a false accusation shaped his entire life. But if he hadn’t left and gone to Greece and met my mother, then I wouldn’t exist. I think of all the regret and sorrow and anger he must feel … and maybe hope, too, like a speck of mud that starts a world anew. I have to believe that he’s still out there, with enough hope to meet me halfway. His life has been the ultimate mess, but there’s been beauty in it.
Suddenly, Horacio grips my arm. “Listen,” he whispers, motioning with his chin. “Someone’s coming from the jungle, over there.”
I look up. Two figures are stumbling through the battered path toward the kitchen. They push through broken branches and rain-pelted leaves, huddled together beneath a blanket.
I jump up, squinting to make out the faces. One of the figures pulls back the blanket. It’s him, Wendell.
I explode with relief. In three bounds I’ve reached him, I’m hugging him. His body shivers in my arms. I lead him to a table, vaguely aware that the other figure has stayed at the edge of the woods. On seeing Wendell, Meche and Layla and Joe run from the kitchen and crowd around us. Wendell’s teeth are chattering violently; his face is a strange gray color, his lips deep purple.
Layla sits on his other side, putting her arms around him, sharing warmth. “Should we call an ambulance?”
Wendell shakes his head. He doesn’t seem able to speak.
“I’ll get some tea,” Meche says, hurrying into the kitchen.
Joe offers to get blankets and heads for his cabana.
I keep my arms around Wendell, willing my heat into his icy body. “Are you okay?”
He nods, trembling, and I press him against me.
In a few words, I tell Horacio what I see, giving him a visual to go with the sounds.
“And the other person?” he asks in a low voice, gesturing with his chin to the forest.
I’d forgotten about him. I peer over Wendell’s shoulder at the figure in the shadows. I can barely make out the silhouette. “Hey!” I call out. “You okay?”
The person nods, pushes back the blanket, just a little. But it’s enough. Dozens of little dreadlocks sprout from his head. Our fish guy.
“El Loco?” I murmur.
“Come on over,” Layla shouts. “Have some tea, warm up.”
The man shakes his head, raises a hand in a gesture of no thanks. I catch a flash of his bare chest. He must have given his shirt to Wendell—a damp black T-shirt peeking from Wendell’s blanket. El Loco starts backing up.
“Wait!” I call out. “Where’d you find Wendell? What happened?”
He continues backing up into the tree shadows.
Meche comes out of the kitchen holding two steaming mugs of tea. “Here, señor,” she urges. “Please, sit down.”
“I can’t stay,” he rasps. “But keep the boy warm. And safe. He’s been through a lot.” He turns and disappears into the jungle.
I face Wendell again, holding him tight. I’m dying to hear what happened, but at the moment, he can’t seem to talk. Joe runs over with a heap of wool blankets. I peel off Wendell’s wet T-shirt, then wrap the blankets around our bodies and press against his bare chest, desperate to warm him up.
Wendell sips the tea as the rest of us watch anxiously. I’m just thinking maybe we do need to call an ambulance—what if this is hypothermia?—when he sets down the cup and says in a hoarse whisper, “Th-thanks.”
Everyone murmurs relief at his speaking. “Wendell,” I say, searching his eyes, which are glassy from shock. “What happened out there?”
“Th-that man saved me.”
“El Loco?”
He nods.
“But where were you?”
“I-i-in the ocean. For a long time. B-but then Gracia came.”
“Gracia?” Horacio asks.
I explain. “She’s a—turtle we know.”
Horacio makes a puzzled face, and then Meche chimes in. “Yes, Gracia! She’s famous around here.”
I turn back to Wendell. Thankfully, he seems to be thawing out. “Then where’d our fish guy come in?”
Wendell makes a visible effort to calm his chattering teeth. “Wh-when I couldn’t tread water any longer, I called to Gracia. She came up under me. Brought me to his boat.”
I glance at Layla, who doesn’t seem
to find this at all strange. “You have a way with those turtles, Wendell,” she says, nodding. “Just like Zeeta’s father.”
Meche appears to accept this bizarre explanation too. “Gracia has saved people for years, from the time our abuelitos were young.”
I close my eyes, trying to hang on to something logical. “Well, what was El Loco doing out so late?” I ask. “And in the middle of a storm?”
When no one offers an answer, Horacio clears his throat. “When I heard that man speak—El Loco as you call him—I knew his voice. He was the one who pounded on our doors. The one who warned us the night of the fire. The one who saved us.”
Once Wendell is warmed up and feeling more clearheaded, we call the fire chief, Alejandro, to file a report. Wendell gives the basics as I sit beside him, holding his hand and listening. He explains that he went out to the Turtle Center beach in the afternoon. Instead of Santy, two men were waiting for him, baseball caps pulled low over sunglasses. They said they’d be taking Wendell out today, that Santy was sick. It wasn’t until they were on the water that Wendell noticed one of them was missing a finger. El Dedo, he realized.
Wendell knew he couldn’t take them both on, so he stayed quiet and kept his eyes open for a chance to escape. They took him far out from the usual reefs, into the open sea. Finally, they cut the motor and pulled machetes from under the seat.
At the mention of machetes, I cringe, remembering what El Sapo said about death by machete—El Dedo’s preferred method of killing.
As I dig my fingernails into my palms, Wendell continues. El Dedo ordered him to jump overboard. They were surrounded by ocean—no land, no other boats. But Wendell had no choice. He jumped.
They took off, leaving Wendell there, treading water in the open sea.
As he tells his story in such stark detail, a wave of panic rushes over me. It’s painful imagining him abandoned in the cold ocean.
I squeeze his hand and force myself to listen. He says that after hours of swimming, he was exhausted. Night was coming, and so was the storm. The waves grew rougher, higher, the water colder. He thought he was going to die.