Hurricane (13 page)

María and Ángela deliver the food to the closer tents. I go to the three tents farthest away from our home and to the Rodríguez place. I have twelve bags in all. Juan “carries” the bags in my left hand with me.

I'm walking down the middle of the street, down the wide path we've shoveled clear, when I first hear and then see a military truck coming slowly into town. Lots of trucks have been here over the last two days, so I am not surprised by this one. It could be bringing water, or maybe they're coming back to start work on the sewer lines or the phones or the electricity.

Suddenly a small flock of only three parrots zooms over my head and up toward what's left of the hillside. They are the first birds I've seen since the mudslide. They land on a broken tree, where the rainbow was when we were shoveling yesterday. I smile, but the good feeling doesn't last. What do I care about wild parrots anymore? What difference do they make? The plastic bags I'm carrying feel heavy. I'll be glad when I'm done with this stupid chore.

I kick a stone that's lying in the street, but part of it's stuck in the ground, so it doesn't move. I look back at the truck, which is still slowly moving toward me. Maybe it's Dr. Albertson and Nurse Sally, not that I care anymore. Besides, from this distance I can tell that it is a Honduran army rig. It's older than the U.N. trucks and moves like a snail.

I have reached the Barabon tent. My hands ache from the weight of the bags. I holler, “Hello!”

Mrs. Barabon calls back to me, “Good morning. Come in.” She steps up to the flap and smiles at me.

“Hi, Juan,” she says. Juan stands close to me, holding my leg.

Juan says, “Hi,” and smiles at her.

She pats Juan on the head. A few days ago, she lost her daughter, Allegra, and her son, Edgar. There is a horrible sadness in her eyes.

I look away, feeling bad and sorry for her.

Mrs. Barabon glances over my shoulder and suddenly her eyes open wide. “My God!” she says. “Look behind you, José!”

I glance back at the truck again. It's close now, close enough so that I can see the people inside. The driver is a soldier, but there are two passengers with him. I stare … blinking hard and squinting.... I keep staring, afraid to look away for even a second. I drop all the bags to the ground. The one with the rice breaks open.

Looking at the spilled rice, Juan says, “Uh-oh …,” letting go of my leg.

I run as fast as I can toward the truck, tripping and almost falling down. My heart pounds inside my chest. Words catch in my throat. I laugh and yell—not words, just loud hollering. Seated next to the soldier is my dad, and beside him, now leaning out the window and smiling at me, is Víctor!

Tears stream down my face as I reach the passenger door.

Víctor, trying to sound stern, says, “What're you crying about?” Then he smiles again. I jump up on the running board, and Víctor puts his hand around the back of my head, grabbing my hair and pulling me close to him, holding me tight and hugging me.

Looking past Víctor to Dad, I see that his eyes are filled with tears.

“Your mother?” Dad asks. “Your brother and sisters?”

“Mom's fine. We're all fine. Juan was sick, but he's getting better.”

“Thank God,” Dad says softly. Then, not really speaking to me, just saying the words out loud, he asks, “Where is the town?”

I think about Dad's words, “Where is the town?”

I know the answer, although for the moment I don't say it out loud.
We
are the pueblo.
We
are the town now.

When Dad walks into the house, Mom weeps and laughs and hits him and grabs him all at the same time. Ángela and Juan each grab and lock on to one of Dad's legs, almost toppling him over.

Mom hugs Víctor, who buries his face in her shoulder, hugging her back.

María, standing back a little, asks softly, “Where's Ruby?”

Her question hangs over the room.

“Ruby's going to be fine,” Dad says. “She has a broken leg, but the doctor says that it'll mend. She's in the little clinic in Chalupe.”

Dad pauses a moment, then says, “Actually, it was Víctor we were most worried about.”

Víctor tries to wave off Dad's words. “It was nothing,” he says. “A little bump on the head.”

Dad smiles. “Yes, a ‘little bump,' but he was unconscious for three days.”

“I was resting,” Víctor says, and then he laughs. “Actually, I don't know
what
I was doing.”

We gather around the table as Dad explains what happened: “We were on the bridge when the water broke over the top. We abandoned the truck and took off running, but a huge log riding the current rammed into Ruby, breaking her leg and knocking her into the river. Víctor dove in to save her, but when he came to the surface, he was unconscious. I pulled them both to safety. God was watching over us.

“I carried them, first Víctor for a few steps, then Ruby, then Víctor again, for a mile.”

He smiles. “Ruby helped by hopping on one leg. Víctor helped by not complaining. After all, he
was
unconscious.”

We all laugh, and Víctor smiles.

Dad's voice sounds tired as he explains, “We went slowly. The rain was like being hit by stones, but luckily the wind was blowing from behind us, pushing us along. I can't even remember very much about the journey, just that I was so worried about Víctor and Ruby and I knew we had to make it to shelter someplace. Finally we reached Chalupe. We've been there all week, with no phones and no contact from anyone outside the town until the soldiers arrived today.”

Once Dad has told his story, it's our turn. We tell Dad and Víctor about the storm—the rains, the wind, and the mudslide. We tell them about the doctor and soldiers, about finding the food at the Arroyos', about the sewer and phone and water and how I tried to go to San Pedro Sula. But we don't tell them everything; we don't talk yet about the dead.

We all take turns, each of us telling different parts of the story. Mom doesn't say much. She just sits close to Dad and keeps rubbing his arm, touching him, and staying at his side.

Finally Juan, looking straight at Víctor, says, “José used C-3PO, 'cause he was scared.” After Juan says this, he glances quickly at me, like these words have slipped out by accident. He gives me a sheepish look of apology.

Víctor smiles at Juan and says, “Oh yeah? Good. I wish I'd had C-3PO. It was pretty scary, all right.” Juan smiles at me, and I smile back.

Sitting here with my dad and Víctor home and knowing that Ruby is alive and safe, I feel almost like a kid again—
almost
. I feel lighter and relaxed and almost happy—
almost
. I'd forgotten what happiness felt like. But even as I feel better, I know that I'm not the same kid anymore.

As if she is reading my mind again, Berti walks across the room and lies down at my feet. I pat her head lightly, but she doesn't react at all.

“Roberta,” Dad says, smiling, and he pats Berti too. “Hi, Berti,” he adds, but she ignores him.

Dad smiles again and says, “Some things don't change, huh?” Suddenly he turns to me and says, “You've done a lot, José.”

“Everyone has, Dad,” I answer.

“Yes, I know,” Dad says, “but you've had to be the man here.”

Mom interrupts, “And he's done a great job.” She leans over, never taking her hand off Dad's arm, and puts her other hand on my shoulder. She kisses my cheek. I manage not to blush as I wait for Víctor to tease me. If there's one thing in the world I can always count on, it's that Víctor will never let a compliment go to my head. But Víctor is quiet, and when I finally find the courage to look at him, I see that he's smiling at me too.

He says, “Very good, brother.”

Now I can't stop it any longer. My face turns bright red. I say, “Everyone has done their part. Everyone.”

I think about all of us digging for the dead, digging for food, sharing our water, helping each other in every way we could. I think about finding my courage again when Berti found me on the roadway. But I'll admit it: I
am
proud of what I've done.

There's a moment of silence at the table. The quiet reminds me of saying grace before dinner. I think about that word,
grace
.

God's grace.

And how graced we all are by the wild parrots that fly over La Rupa once again.

Hurricane Mitch initially killed more than 5,000 Hondurans. In the months that followed the storm, many of the bodies of 8,000 missing people were found. Those missing who were never found are now assumed to be dead. Mitch was the worst storm in the Caribbean in two hundred years. Two hundred years! The last time Honduras had had a storm this bad, George Washington was president. Floods from Hurricane Mitch affected 70 percent of Honduras's agricultural sector. Entire villages and everyone in them were wiped out by mudslides. Hundreds of thousands of Hondurans lived for many months in shelters. Many of these shelters were in school buildings, including the school where I had taught when I lived in San Pedro Sula in 1981–82. Early estimates placed the cost of rebuilding Honduras at $3.8 billion, but the effort is still ongoing and it may take much more than that. In many of the small villages, there was no drinking water, and food supplies were dangerously low for months and even years. Dirty water became a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Malaria and dengue were rampant. People's immune systems weaken without enough food, and weak immune systems allowed these diseases to grab hold. Some people say it could take fifty years for Honduras to recover from Hurricane Mitch. Some say it will take many generations.

Like José in this story, I don't know how to respond to that kind of talk. How does one recover from the loss of everything? How does one recover from the loss of somebody, or maybe everybody, one has loved?

Although this story of José Cruz and his family is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is absolutely unintentional, it is certainly based on a true event. It is my hope that by sharing this story, we may better understand that we live on a relatively small planet and that we're all family.

Terry Trueman

October 2003

In 2005, all along the Gulf Coast of the United States and especially in New Orleans, Americans learned from Hurricane Katrina what the people of Central America had learned less than a decade earlier from Hurricane Mitch. Honduras was and is a small, poor country, and perhaps in the United States we felt that nothing like Hurricane Mitch could ever happen to us. But look what a single storm was able to do to the most powerful nation on earth. This story of José Cruz and his family is fictional, but similar events have occurred over and over again in Central America since Hurricane Mitch, and in many of our tiny towns and large cities all across our Gulf Coast.

Terry Trueman

September 2006

First and foremost I'd like to thank Toni Markiet, again, for her brilliance as an editor and friend (I told you this book could be done, Doc!!).
Hurricane
appeared in a different form/version, quite different really, at Hodder Books in the UK under the title
Swallowing the Sun
(2001), and Beverley Birch was the editor, so I'd like to thank all the people at both HarperCollins Children's Books and Hodder for their help with the story. Thanks to George Nicholson, my agent and a prince of a guy, and to his assistants at Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc. Thanks to my wife, Patti, and my son Jesse, to whom this book is dedicated. Thanks also to my many friends from so long ago in Honduras, especially Ginger Ninde and Reza and Marlee Khastou. I must acknowledge my “reader” friends who dedicate many hours of attention to “works in progress,” helping me to make those works better. Finally, thanks to the usual suspects: writers, pals, librarians, teachers, Sheehan, and everyone else who has made this career of mine possible.

Terry Trueman
grew up in the northern suburbs of Seattle, Washington. He attended the University of Washington, where he received his BA in creative writing. He also has an MS in applied psychology and an MFA in creative writing, both from Eastern Washington University.