Finally, Estelle stood up and shrugged. “This isn’t a vacation,” she reminded us. “This isn’t a tour. We’re here to help in whatever way we can. I’m sorry we can’t get to Jalapa right now, but there are plenty of things to do in Managua while we wait. All of our host families can take us back. We’ve checked.”
They must have been up all night.
After another round of silence, Lenny said, “Well, unless you need me somewhere else, I think I’d like to do some carpentry at the language school. Half the chairs are broken and the front porch needs shoring up.”
Tim nodded approvingly. “Estelle and I can interpret for some of the newer brigades.”
Susan and Richard then expressed interest in a building project in Matagalpa. “We’ll come back in a week,” Richard promised. Susan nodded and patted Richard’s hand. For the first time since they’d stepped off the plane, they looked like a happy couple.
Liz, of course, could work at any of the local hospitals, which desperately needed professional help. “There’s actually one within walking distance,” she told us. “I visited it last Tuesday. They told me to drop by whenever I had the time.”
At that point, Allen stood up and volunteered to do childcare for the mothers who lived in the
barrio
. Veronica immediately offered to assist. They both looked proud of themselves.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Estelle said. “I’ll find out if you can use the community center.”
Which left just Tina and me. After clearing her throat, Tina announced her decision to leave the country as soon as possible. Nobody tried to talk her out of it.
“Thank God,” Liz whispered.
Which left just me. I’d spent the last twelve years of my life learning how to cross-examine police officers. What the hell could I do in Managua? I didn’t really like children, I knew nothing about carpentry and my Spanish was mediocre at best.
It was a perfect time to leave. I could have flown back to the United States, patched things up with Vickie, then collapsed onto my firm, comfortable mattress and slept for the next three months. After I’d fully recovered from the latest knockout, I could have decided whether I was ready to step back into the ring again or not. In any event, I could have made an informed decision.
Instead, I simply nodded to let everyone know I was still on board. Tomorrow or the day after, I’d figure out something worthwhile to do. In the meantime, I could help Sonia around the house, try the dollar store again. On the way back to Managua, I snoozed for a couple of hours, woke up with a headache and a slight fever, but figured I was basically fine. If the world was still reeling around me, then that’s just the way it was. As any battered woman will tell you, a person can get used to anything.
We’d headed back to Managua with no assurance that the road from Ocotal to Jalapa would be open anytime soon. As we drove down out of the mountains and into the capital, it was getting dark and the atmosphere felt thicker and clammier. There was also a scent in the air that reminded me of an overripe fruit salad; inhaling deeply, I could smell mangoes, bananas and papayas, every ingredient a few days past its prime. Or maybe I was just getting hungry. I realized, then, that the tropics no longer alarmed me, that I was beginning to adapt to the too muchness of it all: the noise, the smells, the heat, the vegetation, even the bugs. A few minutes later, as if on cue, hundreds of fireflies suddenly swarmed in front of the truck giving us a great phosphorescent light show.
Liz was bouncing up and down next to me. “A good omen,” she said, smiling.
“What, the fireflies?” I asked.
She nodded. “Sure.”
I should have left it alone—it was just a careless happy remark—but for some reason it irked me. “Do you really believe that?”
She looked amused. “Why not?”
“Then would you say that the fighting last night was a
bad
omen?”
“Oh, stop being a lawyer. I thought you quit.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Well, it bothers me when people assign meaning to random acts of nature.” I paused. “Maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I’d like to think the fireflies are a good omen too, but it seems so arbitrary. So fanciful.”
She patted my shoulder sympathetically. “It must be tough to be so rational all the time.”
I sighed. “It is. And not only that, it makes no sense. Why
not
have faith in things? Why
not
believe in good omens? There’s no real downside as far as I can tell.”
Liz laughed, then looked at me the way a nurse might if I’d shown up in the emergency room complaining of a headache and racing thoughts. “You need to get more sleep, Rachel.”
As we pulled up to the community center, it was hard not to feel sheepish. After all, we’d been gone less than two days. None of our host families, however, seemed at all surprised that we’d been forced to turn back. Making plans that actually worked was a luxury most Nicaraguans hadn’t enjoyed for years. Despite how late it was (we’d had more truck problems outside of Esteli), a representative from each of our families was waiting on the sidewalk, ready to welcome us as if we’d just arrived in the country.
I was surprised Sonia hadn’t simply waited at the house, but there she was waving as enthusiastically as everyone else. When she caught sight of me, I could see the relief and pleasure in her smile, which touched me more than I would have expected.
“Jeez,” Tim said, “I called from Esteli just to give them an idea when we might be rolling in. I didn’t expect them to stay up and meet us.”
That night, I sank into my cot at Sonia’s humming an old Bob Dylan tune about being stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again. But in fact I wasn’t at all unhappy. I actually loved how unstable my life felt. For the first time since entering law school, I had no idea what I’d be doing in the coming days, weeks or months. Finally, I’d managed to escape the ubiquitous rules of both civil and criminal procedure. The dizzy free fall—without an appointment book in sight—was exhilarating. But of course I hadn’t landed yet.
***
As it turned out, I spent the next two days picking up garbage and ashes from the field next to the community center. Instead of joining a building brigade in Matagalpa, Richard and Susan had concocted an unlikely plan that involved cleaning up the field and turning it into a playground for all the kids in the
barrio.
After returning to the States, they intended to convince local elementary schools to donate their used playground equipment. Despite the embargo and the prohibitive cost of shipping, they believed that some organization would be willing to take on the project. I wasn’t as confident as they were, but what did I know? Maybe I was already too acculturated and my imagination had withered accordingly. At least the field was clean.
On Friday, Susan had wanted me to help move a gigantic pile of rocks from one section of the field to another, but I told her my host needed me, which wasn’t a complete lie. While I was in Ocotal, Sonia decided she could make some extra cash giving manicures. She’d done it years ago in Panama and had saved all of the necessary utensils. To build up her confidence, she wanted to practice on me and on some of her neighbors. I couldn’t imagine who in Managua would shell out their precious dwindling
cordobas
on a manicure, but Sonia thought there was a market. And so, despite how much fun it would have been to spend the day moving rocks with Susan in one hundred and fifteen degree heat, I had to support my host.
On Friday morning, as soon as I finished breakfast, Sonia plunked down a bowl full of soapy liquid in front of me. She was wearing a light blue, professional-looking smock, like a dental hygienist’s, which made me smile. I’d been dawdling over my rice and beans, worrying about her health again. Something was up. For the past couple of days, she’d been more preoccupied than usual, her face looking drawn and set, reminding me of my mother’s when she was in pain after my father’s death but determined not to show it.
“So, what do I do?” I asked, staring at the bowl.
Sonia looked amazed. “Haven’t you ever had a manicure?”
“No, this is my first one.”
She clapped her hands together as though wonders never ceased. “Well, then, put your fingers in the bowl and let them soak.”
I plunged my hands into the liquid while she busied herself laying out various metal utensils as if she were a nurse in an operating room.
After about five minutes, Sonia determined I was ready. First, she massaged my hands and fingers, kneading them like dough, then cut my fingernails. Finally, she spread my hands on the table to examine the state of my cuticles.
“Horrible!” she exclaimed.
I pretended to look concerned. “It’s that bad?” I asked, glancing down at my fingers, which looked much better than usual now that I wasn’t climbing.
“Almost beyond repair.” She picked up a thin, ominous-looking instrument and began pushing the skin back to where it belonged.
I held still although it hurt a little. “Thank God I got to you in time,” I joked.
She didn’t respond. After a while, I looked up at her face and noticed a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks. “Sonia, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She switched to my other hand.
“Yes, there is. You’re crying.”
She wiped her face, tried to keep going, but I pulled my hand away.
“Please tell me what’s making you sad. Whatever it is, I want to know.”
Unlike my mother, thank God, she wasn’t a true stoic. “It’s Jorge,” she said. “He’s missing.”
Oh no. My nagging little headache suddenly felt worse. “For how long?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I got the letter on Monday saying only that Jorge was missing in action. His whole patrol is missing.”
“His whole patrol? Well, maybe they’re chasing the Contras back into Honduras?”
She nodded, looking unconvinced.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” It wasn’t until the words were out of my mouth that I could hear how presumptuous, how classically North American, they sounded. I’d been her guest for all of three weeks. Why in the world should she confide in me?
Sonia, however, took no offense. “I didn’t want to worry you,” she explained.
No, of course not, I thought, then took her soft, tanned hands in mine. “I’m so sorry, Sonia. Is there anything I can do?”
She hesitated. “Maybe you could pray for Jorge.”
“Certainly,” I said, although I hadn’t prayed for anything since I was twelve, and even then I hadn’t believed it would help—it didn’t, I still had to go to summer camp. And after that, I gave up even the pretense of praying to an unseen, unproven deity. But so what? It was the least I could do. In the unlikely event some benign force in the universe could hear me, it wouldn’t mind that I was another Jewish atheist going through the motions.
By the end of the day, I’d had another manicure which I obviously didn’t need, a pedicure that I did, and a neck and scalp massage that was vaguely irritating. Right before bed, I agreed to let Sonia slather my face with a strange-smelling lotion that made me gag. As I turned out the light, I made a mental note to beg Susan to think of another project.
The following morning, Sonia took a bus downtown with her utensils. As I’d feared, no one was interested. In the afternoon, she tried the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel, but the concierge immediately asked her to leave. From then on, she stuck to her friends and neighbors who occasionally traded food and other goods for her services.
***
Saturday night was the first time since losing Emily’s case that I fell asleep before midnight. I’d had a headache for days and wondered if I was fighting the flu. I slept deeply for at least four hours before I heard a voice—mine—ordering me to wake up. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. This is an emergency, the voice said, your primary relationship is in trouble. Stop pretending that doing nothing isn’t doing something. I sat up against the wall, turned on the light, and tried to think. How long had it been since the phone call when Vickie hung up on me? What the hell was I waiting for? I scrambled off my cot, grabbed a notebook and a pen, and then sat down on the edge of the bed. I needed a plan. I looked down at the blank page on my lap and began to write.
Plan A:
Pull your head out of the sand before you get so comfortable you learn how to breathe down there—it’s not your true home.
I stopped. Was I sure about that? No, of course not. I was blind and stupid and unsure about everything. Sometime in the last few months, my intuition had taken a leave of absence, perhaps a permanent one. Consequently, I knew very little. But I knew this: when you’re blind and stupid, preserve all options. I would write (and send) my girlfriend a heartfelt letter, not a falsely reassuring one, but nothing suicidal either. I chewed the tip of my pen for inspiration. I was a good writer, but this felt too much like a test. If I failed, I’d flunk my life.
Dear Vickie,
It’s three a.m. and I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night. If you were here with me, I could lay my head in the crook of your shoulder and you could smooth my hair and sing me silly songs. I wish I liked the taste of rum; Sonia says a glass always puts her right to sleep. Although it’s hard to be back in Managua—I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it—I don’t wish I was in some other country. I can’t explain it, but the emotional landscape suits me. If it were possible, I’d have our relationship frozen, like we did last summer with our membership at the fitness center. And then I’d have the time I need to think. I’m still waiting for clarity, but as usual she’s very late. While I wait for her, will you wait for me?
Love, which has never been the problem,
Rachel
Excellent, congratulations. I ripped the letter out of my notebook and placed it in an envelope with enough stamps to make it to the United States. Tomorrow, I would ask Sonia how to send it. Before turning off the light, I stood in the middle of the room and watched two geckos playing tag on the wall across from me. First, one would chase the other, both scampering madly as if their lives depended on it, and then all of a sudden, without any obvious signal, they’d reverse roles. Over and over, back and forth, chasing and being chased. Unlike humans, however, the geckos seemed endlessly content with their game.