Hurricane (8 page)

We collect rain in bottles, pots and pans, plastic bags, and any container we can find. But this water is used up as quickly as it's collected. If the rain stops for very long, we'll be in even worse trouble. We found some bottles of juice and soda and one case of bottled water at the Arroyos', but this won't last very long. We have no way of storing a large amount of water anyway, but without it …

It's scary to even think about, but how can we not think about it?

Alfredo Mendoza finds a box of his mother's home-canned tomatoes and a large bag of ground corn flour. He looks relieved to see the supply of food we found at the Arroyos'. The Mendozas are probably sharing more than they can really afford to. Alfredo also takes some of our neighbors back to his house to stay. He reminds me that they have a large water tank at his house.

“It is overflowing from all the rain,” he tells me. “We have more water than we need.”

“So you can give us some, until help arrives,” I say, “and we can share our food with you.”

Alfredo promises to tell his father about our water shortage.

We are talking out in the street, in front of my house. Alfredo wrinkles his nose and frowns. “What is this smell?”

“Yeah,” I say, “it's bad, huh? We think it is mostly the sewage.”

“Mostly?” Alfredo asks.

I look down at the mud. “It's probably dead people too.”

“Yes,” he says quickly, his face red. “I'm sorry.”

“It was good of you to bring this food, Alfredo. Please take some of our canned things back in trade.”

“Oh no,” Alfredo says. “We're all right.”

“Please,” I say, insisting.

I run back into the house and grab a canned ham and several cans of fruit and milk. When I go back out to the street, I hand them to him.

“This is plenty,” Alfredo says. “When we need more, I'll ask for it. Come get some water whenever you are ready.”

“Okay.”

It's too bad that the Mendoza house is some distance away. But it's only a ten-minute walk, and we're lucky that it's there at all.

As another night arrives and I go to bed, I start worrying again about Dad and Víctor and Ruby.

Finally I fall asleep and begin to dream. Víctor and I are building rather than tearing down a big brick barbecue on the beach at Omoa. The blue water of the Caribbean laps the shore, and puffy white clouds drift by in the bright-blue sky.

Víctor says, “We'll need this for the storm. The mud will not hurt us, you know.” I work eagerly and happily with him, even though a big brick barbecue in the middle of a white beach, with no house, no hut, and nothing anywhere near us doesn't really make much sense.

Ruby is out splashing and swimming in the water. “You're beautiful,” I yell. Somehow it doesn't feel funny or awkward to say this to my sister, even if it's something I'd
never
say to her in real life.

Ruby puts her hand up to her ear, signaling that she can't hear me, and then she laughs and dives under the water.

My father walks up to us, carrying three huge lobsters. “La Ceiba crawdaddies,” he says, and laughs.

I say, “But there're only three!”

Dad smiles and says, “Three is all we need. Three's plenty.”

For some reason I begin to cry. I feel my face burning red and quickly wipe my tears away. But Víctor turns to me and says gently, “It's all right, José. It's okay to be sad, but don't worry, this barbecue will save you all. Don't worry, José.”

Now I know that I'm dreaming, because Víctor would never
ever
give me permission to cry. As I think this, Víctor stops his work and looks straight at me. There are tears in his eyes too. “We all cry sometimes, José,” he says.

I wake up to an awful rattling sound. At first, still half asleep, I wonder if it's one of the lobsters from my dream, scratching his claws against the red bricks of the barbecue. But now I realize that this rattling sound, horrible, loud, and gasping, is Juan, trying to breathe.

I jump up from my bed and hurry over to his side. His skin is a light grayish color. It looks a little bit like the color of the dead people we saw when we wiped away the mud.

Mom holds Juan and rocks him quietly. He looks scared and sick. I keep staring at his skin color. We can't find the thermometer to take Juan's temperature, but we know he has a high fever. One moment he sweats, and the next he shakes and quivers from chills. His breathing still makes a bad rattling sound.

I can barely catch a breath myself; my heart pounds so loudly that I wonder if the others can hear it. Juan is so small and weak. I feel so helpless … I feel crazy.

“What can I do?” I ask my mom, my voice too loud.

“I don't know,” she answers quietly. “We need a doctor.”

“I'll go get one,” I say, even louder.

“But the nearest doctor is in San Pedro Sula,” Mom says.

“Yes,” I answer, forcing my voice to be quieter.

“How will you get there?”

“I'll run,” I say calmly, and I'm already on my feet, moving toward the door.

Mom says, “No, José, you can't! The bridges probably aren't there anymore, and with all the flooded roads—”

I interrupt, “I'll be careful, but I'm
going
, Mom. I have to!”

Mom says, “José, we need you here, we need—”

Suddenly Ángela, who has been sitting quietly on the couch, listening to us argue, says, “Mamá, José will be okay.”

We both look at her. She looks back and forth between Mom and me. “God will not let any harm come to José, Mamá. I know this,” she says.

Mom starts to ask, “How can you …?” but she stops and stares into Ángela's eyes.

Ángela says, her voice calm and certain, “I just know, Mamá. God does everything for a reason. We pray to Him to learn what His reasons are and to tell Him we love Him. God will save José, Mamá … I just know it.”

Ángela is a kind of odd little girl. She's always very quiet and never says anything unless she has something important to say. She and Juan are close, like María and me, like Víctor and Ruby.

I smile at Ángela and say, “Thanks, Angie.” Then I turn to Mom and say, “Ángela is right, Mom. I'll make it. It's what Víctor would do and what Dad would do. I'll be careful, but I
have
to go.”

Mom, with tears in her eyes, shakes her head. “But what if …” She stops in the middle of her sentence. Now she says, “You promise me that if you can't make it, if it looks too dangerous, you will stop and come back home. Promise me, José. I can't lose you too.”

This is the first time Mom has mentioned anything about losing anybody. I understand what she means. “I promise, Mom, but I'll make it. We can't lose Juan either.”

Mom says, “Yes, son, that's true.”

As I'm getting ready to leave, Mr. Barabon comes up to me. “I'll watch over your mother and sisters and little Juan.”

I look him in the eyes and say, “Thanks.”

He says, “I'll watch over them until you return or …” He hesitates and then says, “I'll take care of them no matter what, no matter how long. I give you my word.” He pauses again and says, “Go with God.”

I nod.

I grab a plastic bottle full of drinking water.

Ángela looks up from the couch and says, “You'll be safe, José.”

I nod again.

Mom gives me one more hug, and I give Juan's arm a little squeeze. His skin is clammy and cold, and it's like he doesn't even notice that I touched him.

I hurry down the street. I'm sinking into the mud a little, but it's nothing like before. The mud has hardened quite a bit, so I run as fast as I can toward the main highway south of town, the road to San Pedro Sula. In some spots, the mud is still softer than in others, and I'm slowed down, sometimes almost tripped. That makes me force myself to go more slowly and be more careful. San Pedro Sula is seventeen miles away. I must pace myself.

I have to make it. I have to get there for Juan.

I've traveled this route to San Pedro Sula on a bus every school day of my life. But it's so different now. What was once thick forest and green pasture is now mud and water, brown and dirty and never ending. Once I'm around a corner and La Rupa is out of sight behind me, I can barely tell which direction to go. The few patches of road not buried in mud are covered in muddy water. Over and over again, I slip off the pavement and feel my ankle turn.

My breaths come faster and faster, not just because I'm tired, but also because I'm afraid. I can't tell exactly where I am. I stop and look around for a landmark or some sign to guide me. I breathe even faster, and am almost panting as I start to panic.

What would Víctor do right now? I know what he
wouldn't
do: He wouldn't stand here shaking with fear. But I can't help it! If I'm lost, what will happen to Juan? If I can't find my way, what will happen to me?

I'm not Víctor … I'm not Dad …

But I keep moving, even though nothing looks familiar. The trees that used to line the road are either washed away or bent and broken. They could be any trees, anywhere. All I know is that I keep feeling the road under my feet. But is this the right road? Could I have wandered onto one of the side roads that lead in the wrong direction?

I think about Juan again, so sick and pale, about my mom waiting for me to bring back help, about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, maybe dead. No! They aren't dead! They can't be dead. They're alive—they have to be.

The brown water comes up over my ankles. In some places it nearly reaches my knees.

I stop, afraid to go forward and afraid to turn back. I'm not even sure which way
is
forward.

There is a sudden sound off to my right in a tall clump of bushes, the sound of an animal moving. What kind of animal? Could it be a jaguar? They are the most dangerous predators in all of Honduras. Normally they stay hidden high in the mountains, but with this terrible storm maybe one has come down to hunt, one who hasn't eaten in many days. I look around for a weapon—a stone, a large stick, anything—to help me protect myself, but there is nothing anywhere, only my bare hands!

“Get away!” I yell loudly, my voice stronger than I had imagined possible.

Jaguars are fast, and their spotted coats help them hide until the second before they pounce on their prey.

“Get! Go!” I yell again, my voice weaker and shaking.

There is another loud swooshing sound and a sudden burst of motion from the bushes. Water splashes as the animal makes its charge.

I brace myself, lifting my fists and screaming out.

In another second my scream turns from one of terror to one of total joy. “Berti!” I yell.

Her short fur is mud splattered and matted, her body skinny and soaking wet as she runs as fast as she can toward me. I kneel and she nearly knocks me over, throwing herself into my arms.