“John.” Tamarind’s odd voice startled him.
Looking up, he saw her standing on the dock in his t-shirt and the same pair of cargo shorts that she’d worn the day before and still barefoot. Copper-colored hair corkscrewed around her face, obscuring her eyes in the breeze. A smile radiated through the mess.
“Hey, Tamarind! And here I was afraid I’d never see that t-shirt again.”
Chris paused behind him at that moment and said in a low voice, “I’d be afraid I’d never see what’s in that t-shirt again.” Raising his voice, he said, “Go on. I can take care of the rest of this. See you tomorrow then.”
John nodded, grabbed his backpack and slipped on his sandals before stepping up onto the dock.
“Your father anchor somewhere close by?”
“Yes.” She matched his pace as he walked. “What were you doing? Fishing?”
“Nope. That guy—Chris,” here he gestured behind him, “is keeping an eye on me while I dive. We went out to Amberjack today.”
“Keeping an eye on you? What does that mean?”
John looked at her, but it was a serious question. “Watch. Dive with me in case I try to drown myself again.”
“Oh. Well, then, that makes sense. You obviously have a lot to learn.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She stopped. “Did I say something wrong?”
John sighed and turned toward her. “No, no. I guess I’m not used to hearing such brutal honesty, except from my—my friend Zoë. But she enjoys it.”
“Enjoys it?” She appeared to think for a moment. “It’s not that I enjoy or don’t enjoy it. I just tell the truth. We were all babies once.”
John looked at her for a long moment. “I believe you.” He heard the surprise in his voice and hurried on. “Do you dive?”
She looked away and started walking again. “Yes.”
“Do you want to dive with me tomorrow then? Chris won’t mind.” He didn’t say that Chris would salivate at the chance to dive with a mermaid. He didn’t think that he could say that with a straight face.
“I haven’t ... with the things you use.”
“Really?” They walked along in silence while he pondered what she meant. He imagined Chris grinning. He went on slowly, thinking aloud, “You dive like pearl divers? That’s amazing! How long can you stay down?”
She looked at him, her eyes wide, but said nothing.
“Well, I don’t know much about them, but I think there are some people who can dive pretty deep and stay there for a minute or two to look for oysters. Where’d you learn to dive without equipment?”
“I don’t know.” She looked away from him.
“You don’t know?”
“We’ve always dived without things, all of us.”
“All of you?”
“All of my family.”
“Why? Why does your family dive? Is it for your livelihood?”
““Livelihood’? What’s that?” Again, the eyes that haunted his dreams jolted him as she turned to look at him.
“To bring up stuff to sell. Like the pearl divers.”
She shrugged. “We just do. We dive because we can.”
“Oh, well, that’s a good enough reason.” He looked at her, but her crazy hair hid her features. He rushed on. “I think it’d be pretty cool to see you in action. That’s if you’d show me.”
She didn’t say anything, her head bent to look at the street onto which they’d just stepped. John changed the subject.
“Can you do that humming thing again? It was unbelievable! I felt like I’d just had a full night’s sleep and a massage. I can’t remember being so relaxed and alert.”
Without answering, Tamarind began humming. This time, the throat-level hum skipped along in a decidedly upbeat melody. They walked for several minutes with the heat of the afternoon rising from the pavement around them. John, looking at Tamarind’s feet, wondered if they’d developed protective calluses or if her humming blocked out all burning sensation in them. He was about to ask her if she wanted to join him for lunch when she abruptly stopped humming. He glanced aside. Her gaze had frozen forward.
“I’ve got to go. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.” A note of panic sounded in her voice.
“Wait! Tell me where I can find you.”
She didn’t answer; instead she turned down a side street and hurried away. John started to call after her when a small movement caused him to look ahead. Ana sat cross-legged under a palm tree forty feet away, a large mat in front of her. Sunlight glinted on numerous small objects around her. When John’s gaze met hers, she folded her hands into her scrawny lap and nodded. The lightness following Tamarind’s humming drained away into the scorching pavement. A gull laughed overhead. John looked up reflexively and bird crap dropped onto his bare shoulder.
That night, Raimunda found him at his camping spot at Flamenco Beach. When she finally slept, John lay on his back staring at the stars for a long time. He found that, if he focused on the distant wash of wave on shore, he could remember Tamarind’s song. He imagined that it sounded like the music of the ancient seas, of the primordial ooze that birthed every living thing.
***
When John went out on his second dive with Chris, he looked for Tamarind at the dock, but she never appeared. This time, no humming reached him underwater, but he played the memory of her last tune over and over in his head like that refrain by Sheryl Crow—All I wanna do is have some fun. Whether it actually kept his panic at bay or only acted as a placebo, he had no way of knowing. On his third and final dive on Friday, he hummed to himself behind his mask. Chris flashed him a thumbs-up at the end of the dive and John knew that he’d earned his certification. He looked for Tamarind again after they docked, but she didn’t show up. Much to his relief neither did Raimunda that night.
Now that he’d completed his training, John had several days to explore other areas of Culebra, especially its National Wildlife Refuge—and to lose himself in its dusty isolation. He planned to check out Playa Brava and Playa Resaca on the north coast where leatherback turtles swam ashore every spring to lay their eggs in sandy nests. But his trek wouldn’t soothe him: his inexplicable unfaithfulness simmered in his unquiet spirit. He prayed instead that hard hiking might exorcise Raimunda. A part of him, the altar boy part, the part that cared that he hadn’t been to Mass since his grandmother died, sought absolution on the hilly terrain east of Flamenco.
But first, he had to call Zoë. To hear her voice for the first time in a week, to tell her. He woke too early, anxiety curdling his stomach. Forgoing breakfast, he tried to read to pass the time. He’d already finished Late Night Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony so he read through the proposal for his research mission again, trying to focus on the marine geology, which wasn’t his area. When it was late enough, he biked into Dewey to use Chris’s phone. Chris, his large eyes drooping, yawned and led him to the room in the back where an old black phone sat on a metal desk. He waved at John, yawned again, and left.
Zoë sounded groggy when she answered. “God, John! Do you have to call so early?”
“Sorry. I forgot you’re in the middle of your paper.” Had she been too busy to notice that he hadn’t written to her?
“You don’t know the half of it.” Already she sounded alert. True to her nature, she warmed to her subject in zero to thirty. “Dan’s decided we need to run some new simulations before we submit the final paper and I’ve been working eighteen-hour days all week.”
Sympathy, played well, could distract her. “He’s out of his freakin’ mind. Who does that any way?”
“A man who knows everyone in the security world and can get all the extensions he wants. I’m sleeping in today as an act of rebellion.” She paused. Her voice turned silky. “When I get down there next Saturday, there’s no way I’m sleeping at the beach. This island of yours might be paradise, but I don’t need to do penance to be let in, do I?”
“No, of course not. I’ve already booked
a cottage.” Let her think that Culebra was a ‘paradise,’ something from a travel brochure. He’d be doing penance when she arrived. “It overlooks the ocean.”
“Beautiful.” She paused. “Had any luck diving?”
“Yeah, it went much better than I’d hoped. I won’t have any trouble.” The truth hadn’t found its way to his tongue so he chattered on. “I saw some amazing sea life last week. It was like I’d descended into a Disney theme park, the colors were that bright.”
“I told you there’s nothing like snorkeling along a reef.” Zoë’s familiar smugness nettled him; he seized onto it to keep from drowning. “I’m looking forward to getting in some snorkeling. How’s Playa Flamenco? Every bit as beautiful as you read?”
He counted to three, let out a steady breath. When he spoke, he sounded casual. “Oh, absolutely. A mile of pristine white sand, which unfortunately is crowded with drunk campers on the weekend. I took the ferry over with a few hundred last Saturday. They start drinking at eight a.m. and sleep at the beach.”
So much for letting her think Culebra was a paradise. At least he’d told the truth. Maybe it would be easier to admit that he’d slept with another woman now.
“Okay, I’ll cross Playa Flamenco off the list, then. Too bad, I was looking forward to sunbathing topless.” The silkiness returned, inviting him to banter, but he couldn’t respond in kind. He changed the topic to get his legs under him, to give him control.
“I’ve been going over the proposal again. The geology, what I understand of it, is incredibly fascinating. These guys don’t really know what they’re going to see down there, and it’s rife with speculation. I’m beginning to appreciate just how important this is. It’s like we’re going to the moon for the first time.”
“Not thinking about changing careers, are you?” It was a throwaway question.
More truth leaked out, surprising John as he said it. “I wonder sometimes.”
If she’d understood him, she would have mined this vein for all of its worth, but Zoë didn’t follow up. She appeared to have another, more serious issue to confront.
“So, have you met anybody on Culebra? Any sassy señoritas?” Her voice was light, playful, but John knew better.
Now was the time to tell her. He squirmed, grateful that she couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see hers, either, and in that moment he knew that he couldn’t tell her over the phone. He’d have to take his punches in person.
“Except for the weekends, this place is pretty quiet. There’s a guy here who is Hemingway’s double. He was talking to a couple of American college students the other day. I guess I could’ve sat at the bar with them, but I just satisfied myself with speculating about what brought them here. Other than that, I’ve spent most of my time with a guy from the dive shop.”
Zoë must not have heard the tremor in his voice, only the escapism.
“You’ve got a week ahead of you with nothing to do except visit some sea-turtle nesting grounds and drink beer? I really wish I could’ve gotten away sooner to be with you. But I’m not blessed with an advisor who thinks it’s okay to start spring break a couple of weeks early.”
“What?” John feigned exaggerated ignorance. He could hide in humor now that the crisis had passed. “I’m here preparing for my mission.”
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for the envious geeks you call friends. What are you really going to do with yourself? Daydream about what you’re going to do to me when I finally get there?”
John ignored the question. “When are you getting here?”
“I’m flying into Dewey at 10 Friday morning where I’m sure you’ll be waiting impatiently to see me.”
“Impatient isn’t the word,” he said—honesty hidden in humor. Another relief to his sore conscience, even if it was indirect. “I’ll see you on Friday then.”
“Okay, I’ll see you on Friday. And John—I love you.” She’d slipped it in, just when he’d thought that he was home free.
John mumbled good-bye and hung up. He took the ponytail holder out of his hair and raked his fingers through the thick strands a couple of times, looking out toward the horizon. He shrugged and twisted the holder around his hair again. He’d delayed the catharsis of confession; now all he could do was to throw himself into his hike.
He picked up his backpack and set out for Playa Resaca, the nearest of the two nesting beaches. As he hiked the tortuous mile and a half, his mind emptied and he soaked in the mid-morning sun like a solar cell. He wasn’t serene and detached as he’d been on the bike ride; on the contrary, he experienced an exquisite awareness of his body in its surroundings. The sun burned the back of his neck and forearms and that knowledge consumed him until he focused on his straining hamstrings and calves. He felt the heaviness of his footfalls on the steep boulder-lined trail that led him 650 feet upwards through a forest of cupey and jaguey, whose stilt-like roots shaded orchids, succulent bromeliads, and agave with their stiff, sword-shaped leaves. The still air clung to him like a wetsuit and he stopped frequently to drink water and shoot photographs. Once he arrived at the eastern side of the mountain, the trail plunged to the shore; and by the end of his hike, he panted and his skin was slick with sweat.
Playa Resaca—“bottom of the sack” in Spanish—was nearly as beautiful as Playa Flamenco; Mount Resaca and the rugged terrain that he’d hiked sheltered the beach and it remained deserted, even this late in the morning. John surveyed Playa Resaca for several minutes, resting from his trek and sipping water. He could well understand why the leatherbacks would avoid the noisier Playa Flamenco for this beach; he himself preferred its solitude. When his breathing had evened out, he continued through the thorny scrub toward the other main nesting beach, Playa Brava, where he would take a quick dip.
Playa Brava was much like Playa Resaca: sheltered and deserted. Here, however, the surf was much stronger; hence its name: “the rough one.” John walked along the length of beach, imagining awkward turtles swimming onto the shore. Once they had cleared the water, their powerful flippers would be nearly useless in the clinging sand; they would manage to propel themselves across the beach with the drive to bury their eggs on land.
John paused in mid-stride.
Why do female sea turtles split their lives between sea and land? Why do they leave their eggs alone and vulnerable? Surely beaches are no safer than the sandy ocean bottom?
He looked up at the bright, flat sky.
There must be hawks or something who like turtle eggs. Come to think of it so do people and other animals. Why do leatherback turtles risk the survival of their species by leaving the ocean?
No answer came to him. As he stood, caught by these sudden questions, a lone seagull glided overhead, arcing over his spot. John watched, turning to follow it. The gull laughed and sped away toward the west.
Hot, hungry and unable to sustain a coherent mental struggle, he strode back to his backpack, which he’d left under a tree. He sat with his back against the trunk and pulled a sandwich and chips out. As he ate, he glanced idly up at the tree, which had numerous small green fruits resembling crabapples growing on it. He’d seen fruit trees all over the island: orange, lime, banana, guava, and mango. Perhaps the fruit of this tree was also edible, even if he wasn’t familiar with it. He’d take some back with him to Dewey and ask a local what it was and if he could eat it.
He’d finished his lunch, including an orange and a banana, and stood up to pluck one of the fruits when a woman’s voice behind him said, “No, don’t touch it.”
His fingers slipped from the fruit, which fell to the ground at his feet. He turned to face Tamarind, who stood fifteen feet away.
“Tamarind! You surprised me.” He heard the happiness in his voice but didn’t have time to wonder at it.
She stepped toward him. “The fruit of the manchineel tree is very poisonous.”
John shook his head, smiling. “I wasn’t going to eat it, if that’s what you thought. I’m not that stupid.”
She frow
ned, her eyes a vivid blue-green. “It’s dangerous even to touch. It bleeds white. It burns.”
John stood and gazed at her. She held his gaze for a moment but then tilted her head and stared off into the tree line. Strands of damp hair lifted off her neck and danced along a finger of breeze.
He teased her, hoping that she’d look at him. “Saved again in the nick of time. How’d you find me? You following me?”
She turned and looked back toward the water. “Yes.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried.” Still teasing, he took a step toward her.
“Worried? Why?” When she looked at him, her amazing eyes had widened.
“I’m just not used to being stalked.” He grinned at the thought of this girl stalking anybody.
She kept her gaze on him. He’d aroused her curiosity. “‘Stalked’? What does ‘stalked’ mean?”
“Follow someone around a lot without him knowing it.”
She tossed her head and the breeze caught her tangled hair and pulled it away from her face. “Now you know I’m following you. Maybe I’ll stop.” Here she stuck her hands in the pockets of her cargo shorts and turned away from him.
John darted forward and caught her arm before she could walk more than a step. Her skin and hair smelled salty. “No you don’t. Your abrupt exits are unnerving. Besides, I know you’re not stalking me. Stalkers don’t usually act the part of guardian angel.”
She didn’t try to escape; if anything she shifted closer. “Guardian angel?”
“My protector. Please, stay for a while.” He gestured to the tree where he’d been sitting and sat down. “No more peanut butter sandwiches, I promise.”
She squatted on the sand, imitating his posture. “How’s your diving?”
John realized that he hadn’t stopped grinning. “Well, I passed my test so now I’m certified! You’ll have to come up with another reason to follow me around.”
An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant Page 7