Don't Look Back (3 page)

That’s the whole point,
her Inner Voice said.
Out of range. You wanted this, remember?

Ernesto—who went by “Neto”—straightened up behind the wheel, flicking back his lush black curls and turning slightly, bringing a doughy nose into profile. “
Listen!
One acre of this jungle here has
more species
of trees and insects than exist in
all of Canada.
”

Though Neto spoke very good English, he maintained his native intonation, hitting all the wrong syllables, the cadence forceful and impassioned. He and his wife, the proud proprietors of Días Felices Ecolodge™, hailed from Mexico City. Eve liked him instantly. And disliked his wife in equal time. Lulu—from “Lourdes”—commandeered the passenger seat. With blue eyes and flaxen fairy-tale locks that required constant readjusting in the visor mirror, Lulu seemed as contrary to the surroundings as did the Americans bouncing behind her on the serape blankets covering the bench seats.

The Baby Boomer couple two rows up oohed and aahed at Neto’s bit of trivia, and Eve did her best to retrieve names from the cursory introductions made at the airport. Harry—retired businessman in a guayabera, who stood too easily corrected by his wife. And the wife was …
Sue.
Sue from Omaha with the khaki travel getup.

Behind them, two men traveling together. Will, a sportswear designer from Portland, was of the why-are-all-attractive-men-gay? variety, with the intense jawline and emerald eyes and exemplary stubble. And his partner, a muscley Abercrombie type who’d introduced himself wryly as Gay Jay. They’d come directly from a tour group in Oaxaca City that had included two other Jasons, so droll adjectives had been assigned.

Beside Eve in the back sat a sullen woman in her thirties who’d staked out her seat before the others had arrived. Claire. Ruler-straight dirty-blond hair and focused, intelligent features. The newish dive watch strapped to her wrist signaled her intentions: She’d come accessorized to tackle the jungle. She noticed Eve looking and shot back a look of her own. Eve’s smile went unreciprocated.

Up front, Baby Boomer Sue chattered on. So far she’d done most of the talking, her stories invariably featuring her as a crusader of common sense triumphing over bureaucratic inanities. “So I told him,” she was concluding, “‘Why are you gonna fax something when you can walk it—I don’t know—
down the hall
?’” She rotated, pointing her perky round face at Eve. “And what did you say
you
do?”

I’m a sellout who explains arcane contract exemptions to policyholders
.

“I work for a health-insurance company,” Eve said.

This was met, appropriately, with bored silence.

Charitably, Will spoke up. “You said you have a seven-year-old boy? That’s gotta keep you busy, too.”

She heard herself say, “Never a dull moment,” and cringed. It had been her experience that people who said “Never a dull moment” experienced plenty of them. She flicked her thumbnail nervously against her wedding band, which she now wore on her right hand. She liked knowing it was there, that when she was out at the gym or a restaurant and wanted privacy, she could pop it onto her left ring finger and voilà—she disappeared.

“Bueno.”
Neto veered onto a dirt apron between mossy trunks and slammed the van into park. “We have arrived, my friends.”

They clambered out, tugging luggage from the back. Aside from a raised bamboo walkway vanishing into the undergrowth, there was nothing manmade in sight. Just lush Sierra foothills. And the air. Eve’s lungs ached from the freshness.

Back in the van, Claire slid across and paused by the open side door, adjusting something through the loose cotton of her pants. A metallic clank sounded over one knee, then the other, and then she used her hands to hoist herself up. Her legs stayed locked now, and Eve saw where orthotics bowed the sides of her sneakers. Claire took a few short, stiff-legged steps forward, her torso swaying.

“Oh,” Sue said. “I didn’t realize you were…”

Claire smiled brightly. “A cripple?”

Sue flushed.

Lulu came around from the rear of the van, hoisting a pack of supplies onto her back. “Welcome to the paradise.” She grinned cosmetically and headed for the walkway.

As the others started after her, Sue’s whisper to her husband rose to audibility. “—just gonna slow us down.”

But Claire moved with surprising proficiency. Her disease—
cerebral palsy? multiple sclerosis?
—must have been at an early stage. Even so, she fell behind, and Eve hung back to keep pace with her as the others pulled ahead.

“You don’t need to walk with me,” Claire said.

“I know.”

“I’m fine on my own.”

“Okay,” Eve said, and quickened her stride.

Around the first bend, the jungle opened up where patches had been cleared between copses of trees to allow for upscale
palapa
-style huts and a central cantina. A stable/garage at the periphery housed a Jeep Wrangler, some mud-spattered ATV-quads, and a few weary burros. Lengths of bamboo walkway, complete with tiki torches and vine-wrapped wooden posts, connected each structure, forming a tree-fort-like atmosphere. If Nicolas were here, he’d have certainly drawn an Ewok parallel. The thought of him opened up an array of concerns, and Eve wondered for the umpteenth time since stepping onto the plane if he missed her, if he was okay, if Lanie would precisely follow the gluten-free menu painstakingly charted out and magnetized to the refrigerator.

At Neto’s command several silent
indígenos
appeared, smiling as they distributed coconuts with protruding straws. With nut-brown skin and Picasso eyes, the workers were shorter and squarer than their Mexico City counterparts. Neither Neto nor Lulu introduced them to the tourists.

“What do you think?” Lulu asked proudly.

“It’s like we’re
in
the postcard,” Will said.

Gay Jay toasted him, knocking shells. “What happens in the Oaxacan jungle
stays
in the Oaxacan jungle.”

A burst of laughter contorted Neto. “
See?
There you go,
amigo
!”

Eve plucked at her sticky shirt and stepped back into the shade, taking another sip. The coconut water tasted divine. “Your Web site said you have some way for us to make calls? I have a son—”

“Here in our office we have Skype.” Lulu gestured past the cantina to an adobe shack that sported a satellite dish. “But we prefer it is used sparingly.”

“So you’ve got Internet,” Harry said.

“It is really intended for us to confirm reservations,” Lulu said. “Not for checking e-mails.”

Sue directed a strained smile at her husband. “We’re not here to e-mail anyway, right?”

Neto ushered them to their respective huts, Claire waving off help and lugging her suitcase herself. His attention fixed on Eve, the other solo female.

“Come,” he said, all but ripping her bag out of her hand. “I show you your accommodation.”

The huts were all more or less the same, aside from the fancier double-story number that Harry and Sue were settling into. Neto barreled up the brief walkway ahead of Eve. A rhino beetle the size of a fist inched across the threshold to her hut; Neto swept it aside with a sandaled foot. Beyond, a peaceful, airy space awaited. The palm-thatched roof tented pleasingly over a white double bed. What she first mistook for a canopy proved to be a framework for mosquito netting. A gas lantern pinned down a small nightstand, and the facing wardrobe stood closed. Past the headboard a bamboo pony wall hid a humble yet clean toilet and shower.

“We tell age by roofs here.” A broad smile stretched his mustache. “This hut, it is three roofs old. We have this hut only for single travelers. I put Claire in a couples one because for the space to maneuver.” He gestured around. “It is okay?”

Eve took out
Moby-Dick,
set it down next to the lantern. “It’s perfect.”

A length of duct tape had peeled away from a split in the ticking on the side of the mattress. Neto firmed the tape again to the fabric, giving a self-conscious smile. “Make sure no bugs crawl in there.”

“It’s okay,” Eve said. “I’m not queasy.”

Neto snatched fresh, glistening spiderwebs from the edges of the room. “No one has used your hut in
months.
We get mostly couples. And we have not been as busy as before the economic troubles. Tourism has been slow.” His heavy-lidded Buster Keaton eyes grew wistful. “The times, they are not what they were.”

She was about to express her sympathy when the screen door banged open and Will leaned through, distractingly shirtless. “
There
you guys are. Lulu already had us load the raft onto the Jeep.”

“Raft?” Eve said.

“White-water time.” Will’s smile was equally distracting, and she had to remind herself that yes, he
was
gay. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s get out there and see what’s waiting in the jungle.”

Chapter 4

He led with his machete, slashing through foliage. Heading home. String of fish over his shoulder. Stiff scales pressing wetly through his sleeveless undershirt. The air tasted of leaves. Lush. They said it rained green paint in the Oaxacan Sierra. Here in the foothills, it seemed so.

He sensed a vibration. Footsteps.

He paused. Cocked his head. Read the ground.

Human. Female.

Despite his big, broad frame, he moved gracefully, like a dancer. Controlled, fluid motions, fading into the jungle. Then he stopped. Blended in. Watched the game trail ahead. He could smell himself. The exertion of the morning. An animal musk, like a horse in lather.

A vibrant sarong appeared at twenty paces, glowing through the leaves. Bright stripes. Purple dye from sea snails plucked out of the crevices of the rocky shoreline. And bloodred from pulverized scale insects found in the nopal cactus.

She came into latticed view through the branches. Young. Firm legs. A dagger of ankle showed through a slit in the wraparound skirt. Her dark skin, one shade from home.

He waited. Chewed a twig, sweetening his breath.

She neared. In her hand an
ojo de venado
—a doe-eyed seedpod. Good-luck charm. She worked it with a thumb. Painted nail. Her blouse unbuttoned. Hair done up in ribbon-laced braids. Against her hip a laundry basket. Carrying it back from the river. An
indígena.
He watched her hips sway. This way. That.

Ten paces now. Five. He breathed.

A bird exploded out of the brush before her, honking. A
chachalaca
. The name, like its noise.

The basket tumbled to the mud. White blouses. Undergarments. She clutched her heart, perspiring. Looked for the fallen seedpod. There. Crouched to pick it up.

His huarache eased from the brush and set down atop the seedpod, smashing it into the moist earth. She froze in her crouch. Her reaching hand trembled inches from the cuff of his pants, which was cut carefully so it did not hang beneath the ankle—a small way he could show respect and obedience, even here.

“Stand, sister,”
he said. His voice, tranquil as always. His Spanish, serviceable.

“You startled me.”
Her Spanish, too, was accented. She was accustomed to speaking
dialecto.
She rose.

He was careful not to look above her chin, though he could sense her stare picking over his face. His olive complexion. The raised freckles across his cheeks. Rings like smudged charcoal around dark eyes. His dense hair, flecked with gray. His beard was wispy, tufts of brown and white wire. Cut tighter to the chin than he would’ve preferred. It was mottled on the left side, a pitted snarl like a handprint on his jaw and upper neck. He was in his late fifties now and thick, mass packed over strong bones. But still he moved like a whisper.

“You should be more modest. In your dress.”
He turned the machete in his hands. His right pinkie no more than a nub. The string of fish dangled, now looped through his belt. He wanted his hands free.

She hesitated. Then picked up a blouse and covered her arms. The slash of thigh still peeked out from the garish cloth. Tempting. She was astray. So far astray.

“Your leg,”
he said.

She pinched the sarong closed. Taking shallow sips of air now. Fear. He could smell it on her breath.

“Lower your eyes, sister.”

She did. He lifted the machete. Her head tracked its movement. He slipped it into the soft sheath across his back. She was trembling. Perspiration shone on the strokes of her collarbone. Her hair uncovered. Teasing him.

“Pick up your private clothes,”
he said.

He remained still, crossed arms like bars across his barrel chest. She labored beneath him, mud weighing down her sarong at the knees. Picking the fallen clothes from the wet ground. Soiled. She made little noises with her breaths. Straws of light filtered through the canopy. The jungle crackled and buzzed and hummed. Finally she stood, dirty hands gripping the dirty basket, head lowered.

“Walk away from me modestly.”
His words so calm, like a purr.
“Do not look back, or I will be obligated to teach you a lesson. Not with malice. But to calm you down in compliance with my duty. Do you understand my words?”

Rapid nods, like a child’s. She was shuddering now. Her nipples showed through her thin blouse. She clutched her basket with mud-streaked hands and walked away.

He waited. He chewed his twig. He watched her shoulder blades ripple beneath the fabric. Hanging vines brushed her cheeks. Her head stayed bowed, her eyes trained ahead.

Then, stepping over a moss-soggy length of deadwood, she glanced back. A flash of the whites of her eyes.

He started after her. Not running but gliding across rocks and dirt, his feet cupping each step, propelling him. She yelped. The basket fell. She ran, but the sarong constrained her legs. He trod a pair of white panties underfoot. She stumbled.

He kept on. His breathing did not quicken. He did not exert.