Frame 232 (23 page)

A short time later, she drifted off to sleep.

HAMMOND SLID UP
onto his elbows, his chest heaving and slicked with sweat. His eyes, wide and wild, darted about the room, taking in the shadows and the scattered moonlight that danced along one wall courtesy of a muscular north wind blowing through the ornamental trees outside the window. It was just after two thirty.

Throwing the covers back, he got into a sitting position and yanked open the nightstand drawer. There was nothing inside except a small, maroon-covered Bible. Stamped in gold foil along the bottom edge was the legend
Placed by the Gideons
. He took it out and flipped until he found Matthew 5:4:

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Then he located John 6:39-40:

And this is the will of him who sent me, that I shall lose none of all that he has given me, but raise
them up at the last day. For my Father’s will is that everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life.

He mumbled the passages to himself as images from the dream began to reinvade his conscious thoughts. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head like a wet dog. He murmured both passages again, chanting them like incantations.
“I shall lose none of all that he has given me. . . . Everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him . . . they will be comforted. . . . They will be comforted.”

But the dream images would not abate, and soon more began to slip through.

“No!”
he screeched with naked rage.
“No! How could you let this happen?”

In one fluid motion he got to his feet, took the book in hand, and readied to throw it against the wall. He stopped himself when he realized Sheila was standing in the doorway that separated their rooms
 
—and had likely been there for some time.

They engaged in a silent staring match for a long time. Hammond’s chest was still heaving, and crystal beads ran down the sides of his face. Sheila knew she must look every bit as petrified as she truly was.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I woke you up again.” He looked down at the Bible that was still in his hand, regarding it with a distinctly skeptical expression before tossing it onto the little writing desk against the wall. “I guess I had another bad dream.”

“I guess so.”

He smiled and looked away. “Well, nevertheless, we should try to get back to sleep. It’s going to be a long
 
—”

“You have them all the time, don’t you.” This wasn’t really a question.

“What?”

“The nightmares. They come all the time.” She moved closer.

“No, not really.”

“Yes, they do.”

“No. I mean, I don’t want them at
all
, of course. But hey, what can I do, right?”

“They’re about your family, aren’t they? About what happened to them?”

All expression fell from his face.

“I read something about it on the Internet when you were on your way to my mom’s house. The plane crash in the Caribbean. It was awful, Jason. Just awful.” She was very close now. “That’s what the nightmares are about, right? I heard you talking when you had them. Screaming.”

His breathing was becoming labored again. “Sometimes. Not always.” He swallowed hard and willed himself back to reality. “It’s not a big deal, really. Please, go back to bed so you can
 
—”

“And that long period of depression afterward. All those years. You never really got out of it, did you?”

“No, that’s all behind me now. Well behi
 
—”

“Jason.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re
not
fine. You need to talk to someone. You need help.”

“No.”

“You need to get this out of your system before it eats up everything inside.”

“It only comes once in a while, and I can control it when it does.”

“You’re only telling yourself that.” She set a hand gently on his back. “You’re not controlling it. It’s controlling you.”

He appeared to consider this for a moment
 
—she saw a flash of resigned acknowledgment there
 
—then began to turn away. She moved to follow him, however, to maintain eye contact. “Jason, look at me. Jason? Hey, look at me.”

At first he wouldn’t give in, turning farther and farther away. Then he relented. Sheila was momentarily stunned by his expression
 
—that of a frightened child rather than a grown man.

“It’s okay,” she said with exquisite delicacy.

Hammond nodded after a brief pause, again with the countenance of a little boy.

“Jason,” she said firmly, just to get his attention. Then, mouthing the words without sound, she repeated herself.
“It’s okay.”

They remained in a benign stare for what felt like an age. Then Hammond came unglued all at once. It was as if his resolve had been supported by a machine whose plug had suddenly been pulled. He collapsed against the side of the bed, weeping more powerfully than anyone Sheila had ever seen.

When she knelt down and pulled him to her, he did not resist.

IT WAS
a very old photograph, black-and-white and creased and edgeworn. Nevertheless, Clemente, sitting on a cot inside the canvas tent he had called home for so long, held it with the utmost reverence, suspended like a plank between his thumb and forefinger. A hurricane lamp burned on a small table nearby.

The picture showed a happy family standing alongside a 1950s Chevy Bel Air convertible. They were resplendent in their Sunday outfits, the father looking every inch the respectable businessman, the mother as beautiful as ever. The two boys, one in his early teens and the other approaching fast, had the first flickers of mischief in their eyes.

Clemente remembered that the photo had not, in fact, been taken on a Sunday but rather a Monday, at the start of a weeklong vacation to their uncle Hugo and aunt Mariela’s coastal home in San Cristóbal. He always thought of the trip as a significant historical marker along the timeline of his life
 
—the last of the Good Days. A week of swimming in the warm Caribbean while the women drank sweet
garapa
on the porch and the men smoked cigars, played chess and
checkers, and drank rum that they said tasted like liquid gold and ushered them into a stone-dead sleep, often on the patio furniture in the backyard and still fully dressed. During the day, when they were free of alcoholic influences, they discussed plans to combine their businesses. The boys were too young to understand the details, but they could grasp the elementary concept that their father had lost much in the last few years and was growing increasingly worried. Forming a partnership with Uncle Hugo was a survival tactic.

The plan never got off the ground. Four days after the family returned from San Cristóbal, Batista’s guerrillas came in the middle of the night and hauled the Clemente parents away. Olivero tried to fight them off and ended up bleeding and unconscious in the kitchen. Galeno fared a little better, breaking one man’s arm and another’s nose. Ultimately, though, he had to flee through the back door to narrowly avoid what the gunfighters of America’s Old West called “a sudden case of lead poisoning.”

The boys spent the next two years simply trying to survive, which was nearly impossible as their parents’ bank accounts had been mysteriously cleaned out and their father’s business interests seized. They were forced to sell their family home, which had sustained six generations, and live like gypsies. They also found it impossible to obtain information about their parents’ fate. One government official referred them to the next, but none had any answers.

While the younger Olivero was consumed by depression, Galeno became consumed by anger. Then he heard of Fidel Castro’s revolutionary movement to dethrone Batista and saw an outlet for his bitterness. When Castro rolled his tanks victoriously into Havana in January of 1959, Galeno was marching at his side. Less than a year later, as a loyal member of Cuba’s
Revolutionary Armed Forces, he finally learned the details of his parents’ tragic end
 
—just weeks after they had been detained, they were shot and killed. The report filed by the Batista official claimed they had attacked a prison guard, who then fired upon them in self-defense. Galeno wasn’t fooled; his parents had been lifelong pacifists who despised violence.

With his anger now converted into a euphoric, full-bodied rage, he decided to allocate himself entirely to Castro’s cause. In the years that followed, he worked tirelessly, both physically and mentally, to join the ranks of the fighting elite. When his superiors suggested finding more suitable work for one so young, talented, and motivated, he was only too eager to comply. New assignments began soon thereafter, first at home and then overseas. He pursued his objectives without question, hesitation, or mercy.

Clemente slipped the old photo between the pages of a little Bible. The Bible was then placed in a backpack, which he slung over his shoulder as he rose. He turned back to make sure the note he had left for Father Breimayer was on the pillow and to blow out the lamp. Then he took one final look around before exiting. The dusky glow of morning was beginning to spread over the canopy.

No sooner had he stepped from between the flaps than he stopped again. Breimayer was waiting just a few yards away, clad in shorts, sandals, and an untucked linen shirt modified at the collar to denote his office.

“You’re up early, even by your standards.” Breimayer said this with his usual top-of-the-morning gaiety, but it was tempered by an unmistakable note of curiosity.

“That is true.”

Breimayer nodded toward the backpack. “You’re leaving us, then?”

“Yes, Father, I am.”

A smile appeared on the priest’s face. “Heading anyplace special?”

Clemente didn’t offer a reply, and surely Breimayer didn’t really expect one. The priest had, after all, been gently probing him for years with nothing to show for it. There was no reason to believe today would be any different, but Clemente supposed the priest had to try.

“The work you’ve done here has been remarkable and is very much appreciated by myself, the people of this village, and the Lord our God.” His voice had already changed. Gone was the passive interrogator, replaced by the gentle holy man.

“I was glad to be of service, Father.”

A silence fell between them, each man grappling with a hundred thoughts but unsure of which to follow.

“For what it’s worth,” Breimayer said finally, “you are going to be dearly missed. And I want you to know that you can return whenever you wish. You are always welcome with us.” Before Clemente had a chance to respond, Breimayer drew a cross in the air with two fingers and incanted a traditional blessing.

“Thank you, Father,” Clemente said. “For everything.” A lump had formed in his throat, one that he hoped wasn’t evident in his tone. “I must go now.”

Breimayer nodded. “Farewell, my friend.”

“Yes . . . good-bye.”

Clemente had taken just a few steps when Breimayer decided to gamble just once more.

“Salvador?” he called out softly. Clemente was certain the priest knew that this was not his real name, but he had no other at his disposal.

Clemente came to a dead halt and stood with his back hunched up defensively, as if he were awaiting execution.

“Never forget
 
—the Lord grants forgiveness to all those who truly seek it.”

More quiet followed, punctuated only by the sounds of the awakening wild. Clemente turned back, but in the end he did not speak, did not gesture, did not in any way acknowledge the sentiment upon which the fate of his eternal soul rested. Instead he began forward again, moving deeper into the lush jungle growth until it enveloped him completely.