Sighing, I stomp to the beach and fling the bucket down. As I dig in the wet sand for clams, my mind buzzes with excitement. On the other side of Punta Hicaco there are no reefs to calm the ocean. Even in good weather large waves lunge shoreward and shallow water changes to deep just a few feet from shore, causing a fierce undertow. I know better than to swim there; it’s too dangerous. But the beaches yield a lot of treasure, so I hike there a lot, pretending I’m Robinson Crusoe. Or I’m a pirate, and this is my Treasure Island. I spend hours poking under driftwood and in the dunes, finding a glass fishing float here, a perfect shell there. Once I found a bottle with a folded piece of paper inside but the message was now just a gray smudge of mildew. Last year I spotted a wooden hatch cover with Japanese writing painted on one side. Daddy found someone in the capital to translate: Danger! If this hatch is opened, the sea will enter. I shivered when I heard that, imagining a ship ripped apart in a storm and thinking of sailors drowning somewhere out there beyond the breakers.
And now the seas at Punta Hicaco have brought an actual shipwreck. I wait impatiently, and finally several figures emerge out of the brush and onto our beach. I race up the shore, clams forgotten. A tall, plain-looking woman with a parrot clinging to her shoulder stands next to two men, one about Daddy’s age, the other much younger. They’re Americans. The woman is Pat, and her bird is Paco. Rocky is the older man, all sharp angles, silver hair, and cold gray eyes. The younger man, Joe, is muscled, tan, and blond. He has a tattoo of a snake that circles his arm just above his elbow. When he smiles at me, a jolt goes through my body. I straighten up, conscious of my baggy shorts, dripping with sand, and my hair, uncombed and hacked off like a boy’s. Pat tells me to put my finger out and Paco waddles up my arm. The parrot is green with black claws that dig into my skin as he climbs my shoulder. I stare at Joe.
Rocky does all the talking. He says he owns a ship salvage business, and they were towing a barge from Miami to St. Croix with their trawler. All was fine until they hit a storm system three days out of Florida. They headed southeast, hoping for protection on the Dominican coast. Just as they spotted the entrance to Samana Bay, they lost engine power and drifted east toward Punta Hicaco. A coral reef punctured the trawler’s hull a few hundred yards off shore. They had barely enough time to untie the barge, which floated ashore, before the trawler sank with all their belongings. The three swam to safety and blundered through the woods until they came upon a group of farm hands, one of whom ran to find Daddy.
At lunch, Mama volunteers dry clothing and says she’ll find them a place to stay in Miches. By the time night falls everyone is dry and fed and sitting on our porch with cocktails. Pat chatters nonstop, worrying out loud about Paco.
“When we started sinking, I took him out of his cage so he wouldn’t drown. I don’t know what happened after that, except I was lying in the sand. Next thing I know I hear a squawk and Paco’s sitting on my head.” She laughs, then her mouth curves downward as she caresses the bird’s feathers. “He’s like my only child. I hope he doesn’t catch cold.”
She rattles on to Mama as the men talk, smoke cigarettes, and drink more rum. It’s past my bedtime, but Mama lets me stay up. I find ways to look at Joe when he’s not noticing. He catches me and winks. I turn red and stare at my feet. Rocky begins to grumble about some salvage deal that went sour in Miami. Suddenly there’s a flash of metal and he stands up unsteadily, waving a small pistol and shaking his head fiercely.
“If I get my hands on that S.O.B.…” he begins. Then, as if he suddenly remembers where he is, he tucks the gun into his pants and sits down again, mumbling an apology. Pat glares at him. I’m nailed to my seat, not sure of what to do. I’m used to seeing rifles at the Comandante’s quarters, or revolvers hanging off the belts of military police, but never on a foreign visitor. Daddy gets up slowly and yawns, as if nothing scary just happened.
“Well, it’s been a long day—let’s all get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll get some men to tow your boat off the reef and look at the damage.”
Pat collects her parrot as Rocky finishes off his drink. Joe winks at me again and thanks Mama for dinner and the three sway off into the darkness. Mama turns to Daddy. “What are we going to do now, Jesse?”
“Don’t worry. I think Rocky’s just a hothead. The best thing we can do is help them get out of here as soon as possible.” I go to bed, still wide awake. Daddy is just calling these people hotheads? These strangers are unlike any other visitors we’ve ever had. When I fall asleep, I dream of sinking boats and tattooed arms. Two days later Paco dies, and Pat weeps for days. Mama and I help her bury the bird in our yard. The barge is towed across the bay to the village dock. The trawler is raised up from the reef and hauled ashore for repair. Pat sorts out their waterlogged possessions to see what can be saved.
Mama sends me over with laundry soap and clothespins to help Pat. She is opening a suitcase when I arrive. She pries the latch open and, with a long sigh, pulls out something buried in wads of wet clothing. It’s a sandal, the high heel a clear wedge with rhinestones that sparkle. The strap, now warped by seawater, is also transparent, with multicolored stones in the shape of a rose. I’ve never seen anything so glamorous. All I own are two pairs of sneakers and one pair of flats for special occasions.
Pat twirls the sandal around her arm, making rainbows of color on the walls. “Oh, I hope they’re not totally ruined. I never should have brought them on the boat. But when I wear these I feel so—so pretty, I guess. I know it’s foolish, but I just had to bring them. Now look.” Her fingers tremble as she tries to smooth the twisted strap. She seems lost in her misery, so I leave the soap and go back home, thinking Cinderella’s glass slipper must have looked just like that.
As the days pass, the storms blows over, but my own tropical disturbance is brewing—I’ve developed a big crush on Joe, and my stomach lurches when I see him. He spends most days at the dock, readying the barge for its journey. I go down there every afternoon with cookies and lemonade and breathe in the smell of his sweat. I try not to stare at his muscled tattoo or the hair on his neck, sticky with salt, as he reaches for the snack. He gulps the drink then leans over and tousles my hair as if I were still a small child, the way Mama’s friends used to pinch my cheek and tell her how cute I was, as if I wasn’t there.
“I made the cookies myself,” I volunteer, my voice squeaking from nervousness.
“That right? Hey, they’re good. You’ll make a great wife when you grow up.”
He snatches another one, says thanks, and turns back to his chores. That night I close my eyes and pretend I can feel strong arms pulling me to him. I’m wearing a long silk gown and the crystal sandals. We dance and he kisses me. I kiss him back, or rather my pillow, over and over until I fall asleep.
Finally the trawler is patched up and running. The night before our guests leave, we hold a farewell party at Maria Antonia’s bar for everyone who’s helped put the boat together or helped bring the barge to the village. Off in a corner, Rocky wraps his arm over Daddy’s shoulder as if they’re best friends. He gestures and whispers, and Daddy keeps shaking his head as if saying no to something. Seated next to Joe, I can feel his bare leg press carelessly against mine as he leans in to flirt with one of our neighbor’s daughters who is pretty and nineteen. He doesn’t even notice our bodies are touching. Later I’m awake for hours, Joe’s face drifting in and out of focus. My body aches with feelings that are new and shocking, zings of sensation everywhere. But Joe is leaving tomorrow and I’ll never see him again. I begin to wish we won’t have any new visitors, ever, because they always leave, making me feel even more alone. It seems nothing good ever stays around.
The next morning we make a procession to the town dock. Joe picks me up and gives me a hug, and I hope he doesn’t feel how I’m trembling. Pat comes over to say good-bye. “I have something for you.” She reaches into a paper bag and pulls up the crystal sandals. I sputter my thanks. Moments later the trawler fires up its engi
ne and slowly motors away, towing the barge obediently behind. I stare at Joe, who waves once then turns away to steer the boat. I clutch Pat’s bag to my chest until the two vessels are just specks on the horizon, and I feel hollow and hot at the same time.
“Good riddance,” Daddy mutters under his breath as we walk home. Mama gives him a curious look, but Daddy just shakes his head. “I’ll explain later.”
That evening the wind is entirely gone and the bay mirrors the setting sun. Sitting on our dock, I dangle my feet in the water and think about Joe while Daddy tells Mama what happened the night before. Rocky confided that his business is really insurance fraud and that he removes or sinks vessels on demand. The insurance company pays the owners for their loss, and the owners kick back a portion to Rocky. Pat isn’t really his wife but a business partner, and Joe is in on this illegal activity too. On this trip the plan was for the barge to disappear from the Miami harbor and be declared sunk or lost at sea. A buyer in St. Thomas will doctor up the paperwork and resell the barge. Rocky will get another cut from that transaction.
“Can you believe the nerve of that jerk? He actually tells me this stuff.”
Daddy shakes his head. “And this after all our help. He even tried to convince me to get into the game—told me I’d make more money than just growing coconuts.” He takes a swig from his drink. “I guess his only comeuppance is that his own shipwreck was accidental—not on purpose. Maybe he’ll think differently about doing it to others after it happened to him.”
Mama murmurs something and they sit quietly, staring at the bay.
I lie back on the still-warm wooden planks. As the sky turns from pink to purple, I fight back angry tears. Rocky’s gang is nothing better than a bunch of pirates, and they lied about almost everything. That night in bed I lie awake and confused. But my thoughts don’t stay entirely bleak. Even if Pat wasn’t the person I thought she was, she’s left behind a special gift. All I have to do is slip my toes into the Cinderella slippers and I’ll feel pretty, just like she did. In the moonlight they blink up at me—shipwrecked treasures from the deep. I look at them and pretend Joe is kissing me and telling me how pretty I look in these shoes.
Mama won’t let me wear them, but I won’t give them away either. It’s part of remembering Joe. But in time the cloth insoles separate from the plastic and curl up and stiffen. The glue that holds the rhinestones in place disintegrates and the gems fall out. Soon I can’t even imagine Joe’s face, except when I look at the photo album where I pasted a few pictures Daddy took with the Brownie camera when Rocky and his crew were in Miches. The pictures are small and Joe is just a tiny figure, waving from the back of the boat as they left the harbor. I take Mama’s magnifying glass to see him better, but the larger image is fuzzy. I forget him entirely when summer brings shocks so big there is no room for anything else.
Chapter Fourteen
The Time of Secrets
We are just waiting for Berta to arrive. It’s hot and steamy, and even Bobby is lethargic. He lies around with his tongue hanging out as if he too is waiting for a change in the weather. I move my clothes out of her dresser, making room for her arrival. I’m jumpy with happiness and fluttery nerves. Berta hasn’t written us much, especially lately, so I can hardly wait for all the stories she has to tell. When she arrives home, she looks upset as she greets us. I don’t know why, except maybe she’s not too excited to see Daddy. A vague disquiet settles in my gut, so I grab her arm and chatter nervously about everything that’s happened in the past year. I take her suitcase from her and place it on her bed, which I’ve made up fresh just for her homecoming.
Things settle into normalcy for a few days. Bobby doesn’t want to leave Berta’s side. She pets him absentmindedly and he rolls over for belly rubs. At least he’s happy. One afternoon I come back home after visiting friends. I put my bicycle away and walk into the house, waving a container of dulce de leche that Matilde’s mother has made as a welcome-home present for Berta. But something’s wrong. Berta is lying facedown on her bed and Daddy and Mama are just standing there. Daddy’s jaw is clenched and his mouth is twisted. Mama is white. No one says a word. Berta turns her face into the pillow and waves me out of the room. I’ve never heard her sob like this before, and never in front of our parents. She curls into a fetal position, pulling into herself even more. Scared, I watch as Daddy lights a cigarette and stalks off to his workshop. He doesn’t look at me, but mutters in a fierce whisper: “You tell her, Emily. You tell her.”
Mama looks like she doesn’t know what to do next. Her hands are shaking and her eyes skip around the room like a fly trapped in a jar. My stomach jumps with fear, with not knowing what’s going on. I just know it’s bad. Eventually Mama’s voice comes out in a squeak. Berta has told them she’s pregnant, by a boy named Scott at school in Florida. Daddy and Mama have decided Berta must go back to the States right away, marry him, and have this baby. We will make up some story to tell the village; they haven’t figured that part out. But Berta will have to leave. I sink back, my neck prickly with fear. The words have trouble sinking into my brain. How could this have happened? Who is Scott? She’s never mentioned him at all to me in any letters. How can she leave? Leave me? I get up but it feels like a thousand weights are clamped to my feet. I drag myself back to the bedroom, so full of confusion I don’t even know what to say or ask.
Berta finally whispers to me. All I hear, over and over again, is that she didn’t know what Scott was doing to her, didn’t want it, couldn’t stop him, and didn’t know she’d get pregnant. She doesn’t even like him. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.” She alternately cries and throws up. There is nothing I can do to help, and there is no question of disobeying Daddy’s orders.
For the next few days Daddy rages and drinks far into the night. “Goddamn it,” he yells. “Son-of-a-bitch! My own daughter, my own goddamn daughter, pregnant like any village whore who opens her goddamn legs to any scum who throws her a peso!” This he says to Mama when we’re in our room, as if we can’t hear him. Berta puts a pillow over her ears and shakes. I go numb inside, into that dark cloudy place, but my stomach aches so much I throw up. Mama is silent in the next room except for a few low moans. My vocal chords are paralyzed and stinging with pain. She’s not that! I shout inside my head to him: She’s a good girl. Don’t say those things! I want to scream at him, hit him, hard. Mama, stop him! Don’t you see how it hurts her? But Mama doesn’t answer him, and he doesn’t stop.
Mama flies to Florida with Berta to meet Scott and his family. She comes home saying she and Scott’s parents have sorted out the logistics of getting these two strangers married. There’s nothing more to do. I sit in the emptiness of the bedroom, surprised I can still breathe, but I have to remember sometimes how to exhale. My stomach hurts all the time. I dread facing my friends, her friends, anyone who’ll ask about Berta’s sudden departure, but the next day I’m spared (at least for a little while) from everybody’s questions.
The village is consumed with bigger news when Fidel Castro decides to invade the Dominican Republic. An army of guerrilla fighters fly in, followed by a flotilla of boats that make landfall on the north coast. Radio Caribe announces that the Armed Forces is in control and has already killed most of the Cuban invaders. Trujillo gets on the air, promising the cowards will be eliminated within days. In Miches, busloads of soldiers in green uniforms swarm the streets. Some look like young boys who have just been yanked out of their fathers’ farms. They carry guns awkwardly, big ones, with bayonets.
Daddy stops repeating horrible things about Berta and rants about the coup instead. He says it looks like they don’t have a damn clue what they’re doing here, but even so a group of them practice maneuvers on the beach in front of Casalata, preparing in case any more Cuban guerrillas enter by Samana Bay. I watch them as they scramble around the rocks and splay themselves onto the beach. When they’re not on duty, they flock to Maria Antonia’s bar or dance with the prostitutes who smell fresh game and new mo
ney. One of the soldiers tries to flirt with me. He offers me a cigarette, which I decline with a grimace. “I’m Bengala,” he announces. I look at him, finally. He has green eyes and dark eyelashes. I shrug and look away down the beach where I’m heading off to be alone. He steps in front of me.
“You know, like the Bengal tigers of India,” he says again. “That’s my name. What’s yours?” I shake my head and take off in a run. I don’t want to have anything to do with boys.
Two weeks later, the coup attempt is over. As quickly as they arrived in Miches, the soldiers depart. I watch as the bus lumbers out of town. I see Bengala; he waves and I wish I felt something, anything, except the other loss, the one I can’t talk about.
Berta gets married in Florida. We have an address to write to but without a telephone we rely on infrequent letters. Berta’s misery shouts through the page in what she doesn’t write. Her letters drip in, each less revealing than the last. Scott’s parents occasionally write and so we learn their son is earning some money working at the local bait shop. Berta is selling cosmetics door to door. As summer wears on, we perfect our lies to everyone in Miches. We’re surprised to learn that Berta has fallen in love and decided to get married. Questions are on everyone’s lips when they greet any of us now—How’s your sister? Tell us more about her husband—how romantic for her. And on and on and on until I feel like screaming.
I feign delight at her new circumstances, then go home to a house turned upside down with anger and suffering. My stomach pain is constant now as Daddy drinks and rants: “She made her bed, now she has to lie in it. As far as I’m concerned she’s no longer a member of this family!”
The Coconut Latitudes: Secrets, Storms, and Survival in the Caribbean Page 7