Hurricane (11 page)

I know, of course, that Berti doesn't understand my words, but she seems to sense what I'm feeling. It's amazing how good it feels to have her back.

Just before they leave, the U.N. soldiers tell us that the Honduran military will come later today to help us. They explain that the dead will have to be dug out and then burned in order to avoid the spread of disease.

The Honduran soldiers arrive just before nightfall. They come in four beat-up old Honduran military trucks and two small tractors and a backhoe. The tractors' engines sputter to life. The backhoe moves slowly toward where the Cortez house used to be. I smell the blue diesel smoke. Mom, María, Ángela, Juan, and I are alone in our house again. Our neighbors have moved into their new tent homes.

We sit listening to the machines tear up the ground, searching for lost souls. They don't stop until ten o'clock at night.

Finally everyone buried in the mud has been accounted for and recovered. Each of the dead has been identified by a family member or, if a whole family was killed, by one or more of the neighbors. The soldiers have wrapped the bodies in plain brown cloths, tied with ropes, and carefully laid them, side by side, on the road.

All of us gather around, and each person who wishes to speaks for lost loved ones.

Mr. Altunez says to the dead body of his wife, “Good-bye, dear. We love you.” He is too choked up to say more. Both Carlos and Pablo are sobbing.

Mr. Handel says, “Rest in peace, my son and my daughter. Rest in peace, Rosa … my love.” Now he is weeping too hard to say more.

No one speaks for very long. The soldiers all stand in a line, their green caps held over their hearts and their heads bowed. One of them is crying. They all wait respectfully, but they have much to do.

For the Marpaleses, the Hernándezes, and the Arroyos, since every member of the family was killed, an army chaplain speaks. “Dear friends, dear neighbors, we will remember you always and pray for you. Rest in peace now. Let us pray. Our father who art in heaven …”

We all pray together. Soon everyone goes back to their tents. Mom, María, Ángela, and Juan go back to our house, where Berti lies on the porch waiting for us. But I wait awhile longer, standing by where the bodies are, saying my final good-byes. I watch as the soldiers gently load the dead into a large truck and then take them to a field southwest of town, a quarter mile away.

One Honduran soldier, the last one still in town, asks me gently, “Did you lose anyone here?”

He is a young guy, maybe just older than Víctor, but he looks grown-up in his dark-green Honduran army uniform. He has darker skin than I do, and his features look Indian. He's handsome and his voice is kind.

I answer, “No, I have no dead family here, just friends and neighbors.” I add, “My father and older brother and sister …” I pause and take a quick breath. “… they are missing.”

He looks away from me. “I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” I answer. Then I quickly add, “We still hope to hear from them.”

“I understand.” The young soldier nods but still doesn't look me in the eye.

“What you do must be very difficult,” I say.

He hesitates and then says, “We do what has to be done when we burn the bodies from the fields and rivers and—” Suddenly he stops and looks at me. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean—”

I interrupt, “No, it's okay. I understand. You're doing a hard job and you're helping us. Don't feel bad.”

The soldier nods. “I have to go,” he says.

“Sure,” I say. He walks toward his truck, climbs up, and glances back at me. I yell over the rumbling of his truck's engine, “Good luck and thank you.”

“You too,” he says, and waves good-bye.

I watch him drive away, but I can't stop thinking about what he just said to me: “when we burn the bodies from the fields and rivers.” I remember what the radio said about the thousands of people missing.

What about Dad and Víctor and Ruby? How many people will never be identified, if their bodies are pulled from the rivers and fields and burned without anyone knowing who they are? I try to force myself away from these thoughts—but I keep thinking
missing, missing, missing
. Where's my father? My brother? My sister?

Are they lost forever?

In the darkness, Mom, Ángela, María, and I stand on the steps at our front door. Juan is asleep already, but the rest of us watch the yellow-orange flames of the soldiers' fire.

After a while, I notice that María has moved closer to me. I can't remember the last time I spoke to María since all this started.

María says softly, “They aren't burning life. They're burning death.”

I look at her and nod. Then I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know,” I say as she slips her arm around my back. I can't think of another time in our lives when María and I have held each other like this. It feels good. As the next oldest to me in age, María is to me like Ruby was to Víctor … I mean
is
to Víctor!

Ángela and Mom stand quietly.

Our friends and neighbors stand outside their tents watching the fire as well. These moments—the hurried service by the side of the road and now this fire on the edge of town—are as close to a funeral as they will have for their loved ones. I feel so sad for everyone, for the dead
and
those of us left behind.

Looking at the fire, Mom says, “Pray for them, for their souls.”

Ángela asks, “What should I say? What words?”

“Whatever words your heart tells you. Or the Rosary. Pray what feels right to you.”

María begins to whisper softly, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

I pray too, but just to myself.
God, if you're really there, if you're listening … I don't know why you sent us this. I don't understand
. I stop. Maybe God will be angry at me for what I'm feeling and saying. I'm so tired and confused that I can't even pray right.

Please, Jesus, help us
. I pray for the Arroyos; I pray for Vera Ramírez, for Allegra Barabon, and for all the dead people. I pray for Ruby and for Víctor and for Dad.
God, please let Dad and Víctor and Ruby be all right. I'm begging you, please just let my family be all right!

Berti, who has been lying quietly in a corner of the living room, walks over and lies down at my feet.

I watch the flames against the dark sky, bodies from La Rupa burning.

It is the most horrible thing I've ever seen.

An hour later, with Berti once again sleeping on her blanket at the end of my bed, I fall asleep.

My dreams are confused. Some are nice, like seeing Ruby eating an apple and laughing at something Dad has said. Mom laughs too. This actually happened in real life—Ruby and the apple and Dad and Mom. Everything is just like it was.

In my next dream, Víctor stands next to me where the stack of bricks used to be in our yard. He points to the huge boulder that rolled so close to the house. “What is this?” he asks angrily.

Víctor points at the bricks scattered around in the mud. “Damn it, we'll have to fix this,” he says. Then, smiling, he adds, “Hail Mary, full of grace … damn it!” Then he laughs. Although I somehow know I'm dreaming, I almost cry because it feels so good to hear my brother laugh again.

When I wake up in the morning, only one thought is in my mind: I have to find Dad and Víctor and Ruby. I have to find them!

Mom says, “No! Absolutely not! You're not leaving again! Can't you see how much I need you here?”

Of course, I know that her needing my help is not the real reason she doesn't want me to go; she's worried for me.

I say, very softly and calmly, “I'll be careful, Mom. I'll come back every night, but I have to look for them. Maybe they're already hurt. Maybe they need help. I have to try.”

Mom says, “The soldiers are looking. They have helicopters, trucks, and hundreds of people. What can you do that they aren't doing?”

I say, “Mom, the soldiers have too much to do and too many people to look for. They don't
know
us. They won't search the way that I will.”

I don't tell Mom what I'm most afraid of, that the soldiers might find Dad and Víctor and Ruby dead in some river or some field and not know who they are and burn them, and that we'll never know what happened. Thinking this makes me crazy.

Mom's quiet for a moment. Then she says softly, “You may be right, José. I know you would try hard to find them, but I need you
here
.”

I look at her face. Something's changed between us. There's a new kind of trust. I know that she needs me, and she will especially if Dad and Víctor and Ruby are … if they don't come back.

I say, “You're right, Mom. I'll wait a little while, another day or two until things are better.” But we both know that nothing will be better in a day or two. We see this in each other's eyes. Still, I can give her this much. I'll wait a few days, but then I'll have to go.

On the morning of this fifth day after the mudslide, a group of us are shoveling in the street, trying to get it cleaned up enough so that cars will be able to drive through town again. Mr. Barabon, Mr. Cortez, and Mr. Ramírez are with me, along with Jorge Álvarez and Pablo and Carlos Altunez. We work slowly, shoveling mud and drying dirt to the sides of the road. I feel almost good. The blisters on my hands are turning to calluses and I feel strong. It's sunny, and the warmth on my shoulders feels nice; it reminds me of tearing down the barbecue that day with Víctor, the day when everyone watched us. That seems like a million years ago. I wish I had kept on helping my brother that day. I'd give anything if Víctor were here now, the two of us working together.

The morning passes slowly. Although there isn't much laughter among us, we talk quietly to one another.

Mr. Barabon says to me, “You were right about the food, about the Arroyos' store. It's good we had you to show us where to look.”

I smile at him and answer, “Going to the Arroyos' store was my mom's idea. Besides, I was just lucky.”

Mr. Cortez says, “No, José, luck had nothing to do with it. You are your father's son. You figured out the perfect spot for us to dig. You're smart and hardworking. You're becoming a good man.”

I feel my face redden. It feels weird to hear these grown-ups talking to me like this, but I've noticed the other grown-ups listening to me more too, treating me almost like I'm a leader.

Mr. Barabon says, “You're the man of your house now, José. You're doing a good job. The way you went and found the doctor, your English—you are helping all of us.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I feel funny hearing this. I'm proud that he is complimenting me, but I am
not
the man of our house. Dad is, and Víctor will be someday. I don't want to think about this....

After digging for a while longer, I hear a truck coming into town. We've made good progress and have cleared almost fifty yards. The truck stops near us and Dr. Albertson climbs out. I'm happy to see him again.