Hurricane (12 page)

He walks directly toward me.
“Hola,”
he says warmly. But his face looks sad. He looks me right in the eyes and says, “We've found the truck, José.”

At first I don't know what he's talking about. I ask, “The truck? You've found the …” Now it hits me: He means my father's truck. I want to ask where, but I can't seem to find the word in English.
“¿Dónde?”
is all I can say, but he doesn't speak Spanish. I feel light-headed. Looking at his face, I almost want to say, “Please don't say any more.”

He says, “When the bridge was washed out over the Conrejal River on this side of La Ceiba, the truck was swept away. I'm so sorry.”

“Swept away?” I ask.

The doctor pauses and glances away and then back at me. “The truck was taken by the river when the water knocked down the bridge.”

“Yes,” I say. “Swept away, but … what about Dad and Víctor and Ruby? Did you find them?”

He looks down and takes a slow breath. He doesn't want to speak, but he makes himself continue. “They weren't in the truck when they found it, but all the windows were broken out and the rig was submerged.”

I feel a crazy surge of hope. “Maybe they're okay then! I mean, if the windows were broken out and—”

“They might be,” Dr. Albertson interrupts, “but I'm not going to lie to you. It's far more likely that they drowned and that the current carried them away.”

“Are you sure it's my dad's truck?”

“I'm afraid so, José.” He hesitates and says, “We retrieved some things from the vehicle.”

“What things?” I ask.

“Personal items.” The doctor stops and then asks, “I know this is hard, but are you up to taking a look?”

“Yes,” I say, but my voice comes out weak and squeaks.

We walk to the truck, and the doctor reaches in through the open window. He grabs a green plastic army bag with a ziplock top and hands it to me. I open it slowly and look inside.

Immediately, I recognize Ruby's shoe. Even though it is covered in mud, I see the Nike swoosh. The shoes were Ruby's pride and joy. My legs feel weak and I'm dizzy. I empty the rest of the bag onto the hood of the truck. There are papers, soaked through and caked with mud but still partially readable—a registration certificate, insurance documents, a business license in my dad's name. Víctor's leather wallet is here too. I pick it up. Although it's wet, it looks okay. I keep clutching it. “It's so perfect,” I mumble. “Víctor's wallet is in perfect shape.”

Dr. Albertson says, “I noticed that too. These other papers”—he points to the soggy mess—“they were attached to the visor and …”

I don't hear the rest because I suddenly feel a wave of sickness wash over me. I put my hand on the hood of the truck to try to keep myself from falling down. Víctor's wallet, Ruby's shoe—these details are so unimportant, so useless, yet they mean so much.

My hand begins to slide along the smooth green metal. The doctor sees me starting to fall. He reaches over and grabs my arm, holds me up, and steadies me.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, taking deep breaths.

He says, “I could be wrong, José. I hope to God I am. Maybe the windows being broken means they
did
get out; maybe they didn't drow—” He doesn't finish the word or his sentence. Instead he says softly, “Maybe they're okay.”

My mother takes the news quietly. Dr. Albertson doesn't tell her as many details as he told me. I translate as he explains that the truck has been found but that Dad and Víctor and Ruby are still missing.

Mom says, “We will just keep praying.” That's all she says. I'm proud of her for being so strong, yet I'm also embarrassed to translate this to the doctor. Maybe he'll think we're just silly and superstitious. But when I tell him what my mother has said, he nods and takes her hand in his. He says, “I'll pray too, Mrs. Cruz.”

After Dr. Albertson leaves, Mom quietly goes back to her chores. I slump down at the kitchen table. I sit there for a long time, not moving, not thinking, not feeling.

After a while I go out and stand next to the big boulder. I think about all the prayers I've said, all the Our Fathers, all the Hail Marys. What a waste of time! I raise my right fist and punch the rock. Pain shoots through my hand and up my arm, but I pull back and hit it again and again. Blood trickles from the open skin on my knuckles. I drag the wounds across the stone, leaving streaks of smeared blood.

I feel like murdering the whole world.

I join the others still shoveling mud from the street, but it's like a fog surrounds me. The others understood about Dad's truck. No one looks me in the eye. As I shovel, I'm quiet. Mr. Barabon and Jorge Álvarez, who are shoveling closest to me, must see something in my face that makes them quiet too.

I think back to a time last year when I went with Dad to La Ceiba. It was just the two of us. All along the road that day, we saw flock after flock of wild parrots, their feathers green, red, and yellow.

“They fly so beautifully,” I said.

“Yes, they really do,” my dad said. Then he smiled and added, “They are Honduras.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Dad, still watching the road, said, “I was in the United States once when I was a young man. I traveled around a little bit and saw many wonderful sights, some of the great cities like New York and Los Angeles, much of the countryside, many mountains and rivers, and all of that space.”

“I didn't know that, Dad.”

Dad smiled. “I know. It was before I even met your mother. I was a young man then, and it was my great adventure.”

“Wow,” I said.

Dad glanced over at me. “But in all the places I visited, José, never once, nowhere in North America, did I see wild parrots like we have here. They may live there someplace, but I never saw them, and I missed them so much that I couldn't wait to get back home.” He smiled at me and laughed.

I tried to figure out why Dad was telling me this.

Then he added, “We're Hondurans, son. This is a good thing … a
great
thing. It doesn't matter how big your country is. It doesn't even really matter whether you have wild parrots. What matters is what kind of man you become. But I'll be truthful with you: I'd never want to live someplace where there are no parrots flying free.”

In that moment I knew exactly what my Dad was saying. After that day wild parrots never looked the same to me again. They were always more beautiful.

I go back to shoveling and force myself to think about other things. But I can't stop thinking about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, and soon another memory comes, a memory of something that happened just a couple of weeks ago. I had walked into the kitchen, and Víctor and Ruby were sitting at the table, eating chips and talking.

“I never said that I ‘loved' her,” Víctor said, laughing as he threw a chip at Ruby.

Grabbing the chip and munching it, Ruby said to him, “You didn't have to say it, big boy. Look at your face!”

Víctor blushed and laughed. “How am I supposed to look at my face?”

I jumped in. “You could look in the mirror,” I said. They both looked at me and burst out laughing.

“What?” I asked. “What'd I say?”

Víctor said, “That's right, José … a mirror. I'm sure I'd have never thought of that.”

I felt like an idiot, but Ruby looked at me and could see that my feelings were hurt. She punched Víctor in the arm and said, “You stop it.” Then she turned to me. “You're right, José, he
could
look in a mirror. He's just jealous because you're so smart.” They both laughed again, and despite myself, I laughed too.

Nobody in the world could make Víctor and me laugh the way that Ruby could.

I mean the way she
can
. I won't believe she's dead, that Dad and Víctor and Ruby are dead.

I glance at the knuckles on my right hand, at the scabs and dried blood from when I hit the rock. I'm
glad
that my hand stings,
glad
that it hurts. It takes my mind off the pain I feel inside.

I'm sweaty from all the shoveling. The sun warms my shoulders and beats down on my head. I stop for a moment to rest and look up at the sunny blue sky. There is a perfect rainbow. The colors are clear and bright, red, green, and yellow like a parrot's wings. For a crazy second I have the feeling that this rainbow is a message from Dad. He's telling me that he and Víctor and Ruby are somewhere up there in the sky, happy and safe and flying with the wild parrots.

I feel this terrible, sad, happy ache. But now the happiness part leaves and I just feel sad. I don't want them with the parrots. I don't want them dead. I want them back home.

It's dinnertime, but after the news about Dad's truck, I'm not hungry at all. I know I should make myself eat, but I keep seeing Dad and Víctor and Ruby being pulled from the river and then burned in a great pile of unknown bodies. I move the rice and beans around my plate with my fork and stare at the mess. I'd rather throw this plate against the wall than take another bite. Mom stares at me, but I don't look back. I finally manage to eat a little, but I don't taste it. I can barely get it down without gagging.

How could this happen? A few days ago all I could think about was school and sports. My favorite ice cream flavor was chocolate. I used to imagine that someday I'd travel around the world and see great places, like my Dad did when he was young. But that was then, a thousand years ago, a million lifetimes ago. Nothing's possible now.

How could God do this to Dad and to my brother and sister? I don't understand. I don't understand any of it.

My sleep last night was angry. I can't remember my dreams, but I wake up this morning with a feeling of dread.

I dress quickly and go into the living room. At least the sun is out again, shining brightly through our big front window like it did yesterday.

Mom is already up and in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. “Good morning, José.”

I answer, “Hi.”

She calls toward the bedrooms to the other kids, “Let's go! It's delivery time!”

María comes out and stands next to me, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Ángela and Juan straggle out a few moments later.

Mom is talking about the rice and beans and flour we got from the Arroyos' trucha. It's still being stored at our house, and Mom has us deliver supplies each morning before our own breakfasts to all the tents and the Rodríguez place.

Ángela asks, “How long do we have to do this, Mom?”

Mom answers, “Until our neighbors have something more than canvas walls to protect them.”

Mom has already filled the plastic bags for us.

María and I are the
real
delivery people. Ángela and Juan are too little to help much. In fact, Juan's “help” always makes the job twice as hard as it would be if I just did it myself. But I let him help anyway, just like Víctor always used to let me help him when I was little.