Bringing the Boy Home (3 page)

12 Years, 359 Sunrises
The Amazon

“
K
arara, weave the
wah-pu
into baskets, crush up the
ay-ah-e-yah
—the men need more for fishing tomorrow—and watch your sister. I'm taking Luka to the forest.” My mother fires out the orders and, without waiting for a reply, heads down the path.

“Anything else?” my sister shouts. “Should I cook Luka's lunch, or oil his bow?”

Whether my mother doesn't hear, or just chooses to ignore Karara, I don't know. Looking back at my sister, I wince and mouth,
Sorry
. She shoots me a venomous look and, with a flip of her long black braid, turns and starts pounding the ay-ah-e-yah root with such force, I wonder if there will be any left for fishing.

As the firstborn daughter of a Takunami family, life has been put on hold for Karara. For the past fifteen years, she has not known our father either—and
will
not
until I pass my test. Because Maha has focused all her energy on me, Karara has taken over the mothering of Sulali.

It will be over in a couple of days,
I assure myself.

“Karara has grown into a beautiful woman,” I say, rushing to catch up with my mother.

“Not with that sour expression she always wears, and beauty is nothing if you are lazy. No man will want to marry her if she continues to complain all the time.”

I drop the subject, but continue to think about my sister. She will certainly have no problem finding a husband. And she is definitely not lazy. No, the word I would use to describe Karara is
spirited
. Where most women in our tribe cut their hair short because it is easier to keep clean, my sister has only cut hers twice. She uses oil from the tonka nut so it shines blue-black in the sun, and she fixes it differently every day. When it is not braided, it flows down her back, rippling like the Amazon itself. Some of the women look at her disapprovingly, but Karara doesn't seem to care and Maha is too busy with me to notice.

“Luka, come here.” My mother unties a piece of cloth from around her waist and covers my eyes. “Whenever you hear a sound—any sound, no matter how small—I
want you to tell me what it is.”

I see white stars behind the darkness of my eyelids. “Maha, the cloth is too tight,” I complain.

She yanks the knot tighter. “Stop talking for once and listen.”

A bird flies overhead. Two flaps. Long wings. Solid landing. “Harpy eagle,” I whisper.

Our still bodies are now shadows, invisible unless we move or speak. The jungle has been holding its breath since we walked in; but as it accepts us, little puffs of sound are released until it's so loud, I can barely focus on one noise before another takes over.

A rustling to my right. A pause. The rustling continues, muffled as it moves below the damp, rotting leaves. “
Bedenga
lizard.”

Tap-tap-tap
. “Woodpecker…redheaded woodpecker.”

Mweh, mweh
. “
Kah-mo
bird.”

Poo-poo-poo
. “Capuchin monkey.”

Drip
. Surely she doesn't want me to say what that is. I identify it just in case. “Raindrop.”

As the jungle comes at me from all directions, I feel vulnerable being blindfolded and crouch down. “
Kaka
frog,
mar-al
toucan, howler.” I spit out the names
quickly. As I say one, fifteen more spring into my head, layering my brain: floor dwellers sink to the bottom, followed by the inhabitants of the belly of the forest, then the residents of the chest of the forest, and lastly those that live in the head. “
Kono-paku
,
simbo-kallu
,
kancho
spider.”

I hear the pounding gallop of a tapir charging toward us. These piglike creatures are not dangerous, but we are standing in a curve of the path, so it will not see us in time to stop or even swerve. “Tapir!” I warn, diving into the jungle. It whizzes by me and I feel its coarse hair graze my leg.

“Tambo!” Maha yells.

Tambo? Our pet? I whip off the blindfold and leap up, brushing the rotted
kamana
leaves off my leg. My mother stomps back toward the village and I run after her. Halfway home, we see Sulali skipping toward us, flinging a stick into the air and humming.

“Sulali.” My mother speaks through clenched teeth.

Looking up, my sister's face breaks into a smile. “Maha. Luka.” She races toward us.

“What are you doing out here?” Maha asks.

Sulali stops, and her five-year-old face crumples. “Going swimming with Tambo.”

“Where is Karara?”

My sister looks down and shrugs. Maha grabs Sulali's elbow and continues toward home. Tambo has returned, looking for his swimming partner, and nibbles at our ankles with his trunklike snout. Maha kicks him and he yelps in surprise. Sulali starts to cry, but my mother ignores her. I desperately try to think of a way to warn Karara of our arrival.

Although our hut is very close to the entrance of the village, we must walk past the men's rohacas to reach it. Some of the warriors smirk as Maha strides by. We approach our cooking fire and I see my oldest sister speaking with our neighbor, Metuta. The handsome boy pokes the wood as Karara stirs a pot and laughs at something he says.

Maha hands Sulali to me. “Go to the garden and dig up some
patj-kam
root.”

My younger sister protests but stops midhowl when she sees me press my middle three fingers against my lips and widen my eyes in silent warning.

“Luka…,” she whines.

“Don't worry, Sulali. I won't let anything happen.” I sneak a look over my shoulder and watch my mother grab a piece of dried bamboo and approach Karara. I push Sulali behind me.

“Stay here,” I order. “Don't move.”

As I turn back around, I watch my mother raise the stick.

“No!”
I scream.

My cry is lost in the whistle of the bamboo as it sings through the air and smacks against my sister's back. Karara yelps and spins around. Metuta shields his face with his arms and stumbles away, but my mother ignores him and whips the bamboo down again. Karara clenches her jaw as her arm begins to bleed and tries to grab the stick.

Sulali sprints past me. “No! Don't hit her, Maha.” She darts between the two women and tries to push them apart, just as my mother swings again.

With a hollow thud, Sulali crumples to the ground, blood pouring from her nose. She doesn't move. I race toward her.

Karara drops to her knees. “Are you okay, Sulali? I'm so sorry. Wake up, little one, wake—”

Whack!
The bamboo cracks down on Karara's back with such force that she falls on top of Sulali. I grab my mother's arm.

“Stop, Maha! Enough!”

She whips around, and spit flies on my face as she seethes. “No one is going to stop you from passing your test. No one!”

12 Years, 359 Days
The United States

“H
ey Joe, how's it going?” I stand my bike against his porch stairs and lower myself into an old rocker.

Creak, creak
. The wood objects as I lean backward. The sound is so piercingly clear, I wince and bend forward.

Grooooan
. The faded porch complains.

Joey keeps reading.

I'm getting impatient. I've come over to tell Joey about my decision to take the soche seche tente, but he still hasn't forgiven me for what I said about his father. Rubbing my eyes, I exhale loudly. First things first.

“The reason I said what I did about your dad…” I search for words that will make things better. “It's just…”

Joey glares at me.

It doesn't matter what I say; he'll only defend his father anyway. “I was mad about what you said about my orthotic—and my dad—so I just lashed out. I'm sorry.”

Joey shrugs, but his face has relaxed. “You got mad because you know it's true, T,” he says. “You're always saying that you want to prove him wrong. But just because you're angry at your dad doesn't mean you need to take it out on mine.” He turns back to his magazine. “Besides, he promised me things would change soon. He's switching his flight schedule so we can spend more time together.”

Joey turns the page, and the sound is like the crash of a wave upon the shore. I lean forward and cover my ears.

“Now that's just rude,” Joey says.

I clench my jaw.

Chirp-chirp
. A brown chickadee beckons and I lift my head toward the yard, searching for the source of the sound.
Chirp-chirp
.
Flap-flap
. It flies away from the oak tree. Joey follows my gaze, his eyes hunting for whatever it is I'm looking at.

“What?” he asks.

“Can't you hear it?” I whisper. “The bird? The turning of the page?”

Pschhhhhh
. Someone a block away opens a can of soda.

“The soda can?” I sit frozen, waiting for the next sound. Joey cocks his head.

Leave a message after the beep. Beep
. An answering machine clicks on in the house behind the Carters'.

Joey looks at me like I'm crazy. “What are you talking about?”

“Some really weird stuff's been happening to me the last couple days, Joe.” I try to block out the sounds around me and focus on what I have to say.

“Like what?”

I start listing the week's events. “First, I could feel that Captain Maverick was going to kick and not pass the other day—
feel
as in knew without a shadow of a doubt, like I could read his mind—and then I heard voices during PT….”

Joey scrunches up his face. “You're hearing voices? Did they tell you to say that mean stuff about my dad, too?”

I ignore his comment and continue. “And then I saw a pierid butterfly with only one wing, and at Cal's I ate manioc for the first time in seven years.”

Joey has already gone back to reading.

Click, click, click, click
. Inside the house, the gas under a burner ignites.

“Your mom just turned on the stove,” I tell Joey.

He rolls his eyes.

“Go check.”

“Okay, Houdini.” Joey stands. “I'll play your game.”

The hinges squeak dryly as he opens the screen door. Now that I expect the sounds, they don't bother me.

“Hey, Mom?” he calls. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing lunch,” she yells back. “Does Tirio want to stay? I'm making grilled cheese.”

Without answering her, he pulls the door shut and sits back down opposite me.

“How'd you know that?” He sounds suspicious, but also ready to listen.

“I heard it,” I say. “I know this all seems weird to you, Joey, but I think I'm being called back to the Amazon.”

“Called back to the Amazon?” Joey repeats. “That's insane. By who?”

“My father.”

Joey turns red in the face. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he asks. “First you take a jab at me because my dad didn't make it to the game, and now you're telling me
your
father—who thinks you're dead—is calling you home?”

“It has to be him, Joe. He's the only one that can communicate with me this way.”

“Yeah, well, what about the butterfly and the manioc? Is your father some kind of Amazonian magician who can just wave his hand and—poof—make them appear?”

I shake my head. “Actually, I think they're signs from the Good Gods. They're the ones who control the spirits of plants and animals. My father has no power over them.”

“Good Gods? T, you've really lost it this time.” He pauses, and then adds cautiously, “Why would they be calling you back anyway?”

I lift a finger to my lips and tentatively hold my breath, listening. The refrigerator door slams and I hear Mrs. Carter humming as a jar pops open. She's still in the middle of fixing lunch; she's not going to interrupt us. I shake my head, grateful that my skills work when I want them to.

I pull out the
Anthropology Today
magazine from my backpack. Opening it to the dog-eared article, I hand it to him. “My thirteenth birthday is coming up, you know. Take a look at this.”

He quickly scans the article and widens his eyes as he looks up at me. “Are you saying your dad and these Good Gods of yours want you to take this test?”

“Not
that
test exactly,” I say, shaking my head. “The soche seche tente. It's the Takunami version of a manhood test. In order to pass, I'd have to find my way through the jungle and back to our village, with my father using the sixth sense to guide me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You're not going to try to do it, are you?”

I look him straight in the eye and nod slowly. “Yes. But I'm not going to accept his help.”

“Why not? Because you think he might try to kill you again?”

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Because I want to do it
alone
.”

He sits bolt upright. “What?”

“I just want to prove to my dad that I'm not the useless weakling he thought I was,” I say, lowering my voice. “When I left the Amazon, I gave up on ever taking my soche seche tente, but now that my foot's better—”

“With a little help from modern medicine,” he interrupts.

“—and Sara and I are going back for my birthday, and now these signs…” I shake my head in disbelief. “He's calling me back, Joe. He knows I'm alive. This is my chance.”

Joey stares at me. “Not wearing your orthotic is one
thing, Tirio,” he says. “But going back to a tribe that tried to kill you, just to prove a point, is another. Even if I do want my dad to be around more, I wouldn't stand in front of his plane to keep it from taking off to make that happen.”

I hear the soft slapping of bare feet on the hardwood floor. “You're mom's coming,” I warn him.

We both turn just as the door opens.

“Hey, Tirio.” Mrs. Carter smiles. “Can you stay for lunch?”

I nod. “Sure, thanks.”

She motions us in. “The food's in the kitchen, but you boys can eat out here, if you'd like.”

Joey storms past her into the kitchen, snatches a plate of sandwiches and pickles from the table, and stomps back outside.

I take the other plate and rush after him.

“Don't forget your drinks!” Mrs. Carter calls as she grabs the cordless phone.

I see the two glasses of ice tea sitting on the counter. Hurrying outside, I set my plate down and then run back to get the tea.

I grab one glass.
Scratch, scratch
. A cat sharpens its claws on a tree in Havana Park.

I grab the other.
Tick, tick, tick, tick
. Someone's watch ticks off seconds in the bathroom.

I head for the porch but freeze when I hear Mrs. Carter's voice. “This weekend,” she murmurs to someone on the phone upstairs. “Stan's flying in, and we're going to tell him together.”

There's a pause and then Mrs. Carter starts crying softly.

“Joey's going to blame himself,” she says. “I know he will. He'll think the divorce is his fault, like maybe there was something he could have done to prevent it, but”—she gulps in a breath—“this is my fault, not his….”

A wind blows in through the open sliding door and whispers behind me:

my fault, not his

my fault, not his

my fault, not yours

I spin around and come face to face with my mother. Not Sara, but Maroma—my Takunami mother. Brown and dusty, she hasn't changed since the last time I saw her, from her slight smile to her haphazard haircut.

A fly lands on her forehead and she brushes it away.
“This is my fault, not yours, and I too will pay,”
she
repeats.
“I too will pay.”

I drop one of the glasses and it shatters on the tile floor. I look down and see slivers of glass sparkling up at me as tiny drops of blood appear on my foot.

When I glance up again, Maroma is gone.

Mrs. Carter rushes downstairs.

Outside!
my mind yells. I don't want her to know what I heard.

Thump, slide, thump, slide
. I recognize the sound instantly. I'm dragging my foot. I haven't done that for years.

Maha
.

I slam the lone glass of tea onto the picnic table and lean over the porch railing, gasping for breath.

“What's wrong?” Joey asks.

“What happened?” Mrs. Carter is standing in the doorway, looking nervous.

“I accidentally dropped a glass,” I say, composing myself and turning around. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter. I'll clean it up.” I head toward her, dragging my foot with me.

Mrs. Carter's gaze drops down to my leg. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, my foot's just acting up again.”

“Don't worry about it, Tirio,” she says. “I'll do it.”
She pauses, then turns to Joey. “Honey, your father's coming home this weekend. Don't make any plans for Saturday night; he wants us all to go out for dinner.”

Joey's face lights up. “Really? Cool! Can we go to Las Conchitas?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly as she closes the heavy wooden door. “I'll make reservations.”

Joey's almost trembling with excitement when he looks at me. “Ha. Told you things were going to change.” He laughs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. “So, what really happened in there?”

Not wanting to spoil his happiness—and knowing he won't believe me anyway—I decide not to tell him about what the “change” really means. “I saw a vision of my mother,” I answer, my voice even.

Joey doesn't even bother to doubt me anymore, as if his father coming this weekend makes everything possible. “Sara?” he asks.

“My Takunami mother.”

He stops chewing for a second, and looks confused. “If the Good Gods control the plants and animals, and your father controls you, who controls your mother?”

“I told you,” I say through clenched teeth. “My father doesn't control me. Or my mother.” Staring down at my bad foot, I push away from the railing. My foot
feels strong. I take a step. It holds me. I take another and another, until I'm standing next to Joey. “I need your help.” I narrow my eyes. “I need you to help me prepare for a two-day trip in the Amazon jungle.”