The Jade Notebook (30 page)

He rubs his face, closes his eyes. “I can’t—I can’t let this freak me out, Z. If I do, I’ll be a slave to the visions.”

I fight to control my voice, hold back tears. “Wendell, you have this amazing future ahead of you. A full scholarship to the art school of your dreams. You can’t lose that.” I choke back a sob. “And I can’t lose you.”

He holds my chin, moving my face close to his. “Trust me, Z.” He gives me a shaky kiss. “I’ll be careful.” Offering a pained smile, he adds, “And anyway, life’s a mess, right?”

I wipe my eyes and manage a weak grin. “Sounds like Horacio’s told you about his beautiful-mess-of-life theory.” For a while I’m silent, willing my heart to calm down, struggling to trust him that everything will be okay. “Whatever happens,” I say finally, “I got your back.” Then I add, “On one condition.”

“What?”

“You let Layla load you down with a few kilos of amulets.”

Half smiling, he whispers, “So now you believe in that stuff?”

I graze my lips over his red-streaked neck. “Whatever it takes.”

The next day, Sunday, we put the finishing touches on our new shed. Layla’s painted an ocean view on the door, lining every cloud with glitter. Of course she snuck in a Rumi quote:
We’re clouds over the sea, or flecks of matter in the ocean when the ocean seems lit from within
.

“Just to put our little troubles in perspective,” Layla says, satisfied.

El Sapo and Xochitl and Mayra arrive right when we’re burning incense for the shed’s ceremonial blessing. Joe hands them some bells. After his heroic efforts during the fire, his purple wig doesn’t bother me so much.

The girls get into the ritual, ringing their bells and belting out chants. Afterward, Xochitl turns to me. “Where’s Meche?”

“At home with Gatito.”

“We like her!” Mayra declares.

Xochitl’s eyes light up. “Let’s make a present for her jaguar.”

“I think she’d love that,” I say, showing them the brushes and extra paint and scraps of wood.

Half an hour later, while I’m cleaning the Iguana bathroom, the girls burst through the door, proudly hold up a piece of scrap wood with a painting of a smiling, sparkling jaguar framed by jungle flowers.

I admire it. “
Oigan
, I have an idea!” I find a stake in the pile of leftover lumber and nail it to the back of the painted wood. “I’ll hammer this into the ground just outside Gatito’s fence. Then he can enjoy it, okay?”

The girls smile, pleased.

Later, when Wendell and I walk down the jungle path carrying the sign, for the first time, I’m not scared at the idea of seeing Gatito. Not that I want to cuddle with him, but I do have sympathy for the creature. Next to the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED
warning, we set up the girls’ cheerful portrayal of Gatito. I’m sure that pounding in the stake will rouse him, but there’s no sign of him. We peer through the fence, scanning his patch of jungle. Nothing.

“He must be really sick,” I say to Wendell.

He nods. “Poor guy.”

I take Wendell’s hand, lean into him as we walk back. Now that he’s shaken off the darkness of his vision, he tells me about online research he’s done on poaching regulations. “We need to go higher than the local police,” he says,
determined. “Mexico has an agency that protects wildlife—PROFEPA. I’m going to talk with Pepe, suggest we contact them. Maybe PROFEPA can send people to investigate. Maybe even train a whole new volunteer force.”

I nod in encouragement, but inside, I wonder how the poachers will exact their vengeance. What was it El Sapo said about El Dedo’s revenge style? Death by machete? I remember the threats El Dedo yelled as he chased us through the jungle. Then I remember how Wendell looked clutching his neck, gasping for breath, as though he were dying.

I tighten my grip on his hand, wishing I never had to let it go.

On Monday, under the blazing afternoon sun, Wendell and I head to the grounds of the Turtle Center. There’s a bulge beneath his blue shirt—the pouch of amulets he’s agreed to wear, after pointing out that I’m turning into Layla.

We head past the turtle hatchery, straight to Pepe’s office. Wendell is holding a packet of information and a list of agencies to contact about the poaching.

“
Hola
, Pepe,” he says, poking his head in the doorway. He’s trying to sound casual, but his voice is brimming with tension.

“Wendell!” Pepe stands up with a look of concern. “I heard about the fire. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks.” Wendell chooses his words carefully, trying not to sound accusatory. It can’t be easy. “Zeeta and I—you know we’re concerned that the volunteers aren’t able to protect the turtles. And—”

“Oh, don’t worry,
muchachos
,” he says. “I replaced the volunteers who were slacking off.”

Wendell and I exchange glances. Pepe would be offended at the suggestion that his entire volunteer program is part of a cesspool of corruption. “Actually,” Wendell says diplomatically, “we’re thinking the police aren’t doing the best job of it either.”

“Really?” Pepe says, his brow furrowed.

Wendell sets his printouts on the desk. “We have to notify PROFEPA. They can investigate.”

Pepe leans against his desk, rubs his temples. “
Mira
, Wendell. Look. As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, you still have a lot to learn.” He rests his hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “You get farther in life by making friends, not enemies.” He sighs. “If the police find out that a representative of the Turtle Center has gone over their heads, they won’t be happy. We’ll pay for it. You see, we have a relationship going. You can understand that, right?”

Wendell is quiet. I can almost feel the outrage he’s holding inside.

“Leave it to me,” Pepe continues. “I have friends on the police force, friends all over this town. I’ll handle this in a way that won’t upset folks. All right?”

Wendell’s face hardens. He looks Pepe in the eye and says evenly, “I have to protect the turtles … even if it means losing friends. Or my job.”

Pepe presses his lips together. “Don’t contact PROFEPA yet. Just give me time to deal with it.”

Slowly, Wendell shakes his head. “Every day means
thousands more turtle eggs stolen, Pepe.” He takes a deep breath. “One day. That’s the most I’ll wait. Unless the poachers are caught, I’m contacting PROFEPA on Wednesday.”

Pepe rubs his temple, looking disappointed, as if Wendell has let him down. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. Finally, Wendell says goodbye and leaves. I follow, not sure what to think. Maybe Pepe’s right; maybe there’s an easier way to deal with this. One that doesn’t involve making enemies. The last thing I want is another enemy at this point, especially not after Wendell’s terrifying vision.

Flushed with emotion, he leads me past the shallow pools toward the beach.

Under my breath, I say, “Wendell, be careful. Please.”

He taps on the bunch of amulets under his shirt. “That’s what these are for, right?” His words are light, but I know him so well, I can sense the fear in his voice, his downcast eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he walks. He’s scared, and trying hard not to show it.

I try again. “Wendell, why don’t you just give tours around the grounds for a while? Stay off the water?”

“I have to go on the water, Z. That’s my main job.” He squeezes my hand and says, “Just trust that it’ll be worth it, Z. It’ll be okay in the end.” I suspect he’s saying it to calm himself as much as me.

On the beach, Santy is washing his boat, and waves to us in greeting. After some small talk, he and Wendell push the boat into the water. Hugging myself in the wind, I watch from shore as they hop in and rev the engine. Wendell waves as they go, calling out something I can’t hear over the motor,
probably something like “Don’t worry.” As the boat grows smaller and smaller until it’s just a pinprick of white, I do exactly that. Worry.

The afternoon drags on. I can’t stop thinking about Wendell out there on the water, vulnerable. To distract myself, I work on the jungle path, even wishing Gatito would make an appearance—from behind the fence, of course. Later, I bring a bowl of
mole
by Meche’s house, guessing she’s too distraught over Gatito to cook. She doesn’t answer when I call out, so I leave the dish at her gate, not willing to risk an encounter with the jaguar, even if he is sick and weak.

At home, I check the clock. Still two hours until Wendell gets home. Time is crawling so slowly, I could scream. I practice my “La Llorona” chords: A minor, D minor, E, and G, until I think I might go crazy. Then I swing by Don Rogelio’s shop, where he helps me put the chords together more smoothly, clapping out the rhythm. Now the song is discernible when I play, but remains patchy, spewing out in fits and starts.

His company calms me a little, but when I get home, there’s still nearly an hour to kill. I help Layla cook chicken in
pipian
sauce, a recipe Lupita gave me. As I grind the pumpkin seeds, I keep checking the clock and looking up to see if Wendell is coming down the path.

Finally, when five-thirty comes, there he is, heading toward me. Relieved, I let my muscles loosen, and greet him with a giant hug. “Your amulets worked!”

With a grin, he pats them. “You need to relax, Z.”

“True,” I admit.

Glancing up from the sauce she’s stirring, Layla says, “I’ll finish making dinner. You two go for a swim!”

As if by silent agreement, Wendell and I head to Playa Mermejita. At this point, we’re blatantly disregarding Pepe’s warnings about staying off the beach; we can protect the turtles better by keeping tabs on them and their eggs, since no one else seems to. As we walk, we stay close to the surf, giving wide berth to any mounds that could be covered nests. No turtles have emerged to lay eggs yet tonight.

We haven’t actually swum on this beach before, because of the riptides, but the sea looks especially calm tonight, glassy, with gentle waves. It’s nearing sunset, the light golden and soft, a few seagulls roaming in the surf, leaving sticklike tracks in the wet sand. I pull off my sundress, and he pulls off his shirt, and in our swimsuits, hand in hand, we wade into the ocean.

The water soothes my tense muscles, quiets my thoughts. We swim farther in as Wendell tells me about his day.

“I got lots of good turtle footage,” he says. “But afterward, when I swung by Pepe’s office, he was still acting weird.”

“You think he just wants everyone to get along?” I speculate. “That it’s clouding his judgment?”

“I guess.” Wendell sighs. “But I told him I’m sticking to what I said. Even if I have to leave the Turtle Center.”

I hate thinking Wendell might lose his job. That would be another reason for him to take the scholarship in California. One less thing holding him here. But he’s passionate
about the turtles, and honestly, they need him. I kiss him, a salty seawater kiss. “I’m here for you, Wendell. And the turtles. Whatever happens.”

We leap over waves until we’re past the breakers. I flip onto my back, closing my eyes, letting the water carry me. Wendell floats beside me, his hand in mine. The light is amber behind my eyelids. It’s easy to lose myself in the effortless drifting, letting go of worries. I’m vaguely aware of the sun setting, the light fading, the air growing cooler.