The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (3 page)

I kept playing. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the last of the musicians were disappearing up the stairs. My cadences slowed. I rang out fat chords, and with each of them I thought of something true. My first love. My parents. My brother. My newborn niece. Jack. The girl from the music store I wanted to make it with so badly. These things were true. These things were expanding, racing into the future. I kept playing, letting each chord ring out until it was no more, then replaced it with another. Noah Sol watched, then too he was gone and I was left with the fading sustain of my last chord and the settling dust in the last of the sunlight. 

When I stopped I was alone with a dead guy in an abandoned building. I felt I had done something, but wasn’t sure what. Some decision had been made but I wasn’t sure what, or even what all the choices had been. 

**** 

The next night I received a call from Jack. 

“I’m going to Jupiter,” he said. “I want you to come.” 

I just listened, didn’t say a thing. He knew my answer was no.  

“I’m going to be okay,” he said. “Maybe after Jupiter it will be a new galaxy.” 

“Why don’t you stop by before you go?” I asked. 

“I can’t, dude. That’s why I’m calling. Got to go.” 

And that was the last I ever heard from him. The world didn’t end. Obviously. I wouldn’t be writing this. Part of me hoped Jack would turn up a few months later, living with his sister in North Carolina, or with some fling of the month in Jersey City or Amsterdam, all of which had happened before. 

But it’s been six years. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.  

I finished the CD. It’s cool. Not what I envisioned. So be it. But I think of Noah Sol’s song all the time. I hear it in everything. Everywhere. In the dark of night when Jupiter is shining and especially on late August afternoons, when the cicadas are singing and I go in the basement to continue my endless tinkering with that old guitar I never got to give to Jack. 

HURRICANE SANDRINE 

Like a spirit given substance, the gentle humidity of the Caribbean air touched everything, creating an unseen bond, as certain as breath, between the creeping growth crowding the runway, the locals hustling a living, and the mockingbirds scavenging near the taxi stand.  

Steven tramped down the metal stairs pressed against the side of the plane. Walking to the terminal with the other passengers, he opened the top button of his short-sleeved white shirt. The sun’s heat on his exposed neck made him more aware of his body and the elemental nature of the Caribbean, even in the airport in the heart of Belize City.  

Vacationers filed by as he entered the terminal, their forgettable faces bronzed by the touch of the sun. Relaxed and courteous, they waited in line to return to the States, where more likely than not their newly found Caribbean goodwill would fade with their tan. Seeing these people so full of this spirit emphasized the emptiness in his bones. He yearned to be filled, to feel the completeness, the optimism, he knew when Elise was still alive. Here, in Belize, it seemed the elements were trying to find their way in to fill that void. The sun sought to burn his skin, the air to fill his lungs. 

In his mind’s eye he pictured Elise on the beach, her dark hair streaming in the wind. Six months ago they were together, sharing a carefree day on the Malibu coast. He couldn’t shake the image of her hair spread out almost the same way as when they pulled her, lifeless, out of the water. 

Outside customs, a dozen Belizean men hungry for work greeted him at the taxi stand. Steven pointed to a quiet man in the back of the group who smiled, took his pack, and led him to a dark blue sedan. They drove out of the small airport, leaving its manicured lawns, flourishing palm trees, and well-tended flower gardens behind. He started to outline the picture in his mind, but since Elise died, he could no longer bring himself to paint. 

As the image of the painting faded, he read the taxi license on the back of the seat. Fredrico Reyes. 

“Thanks for the job, man, it’s been slow,” Fredrico said. “Where you going?” 

“The Water Taxi station. I’m heading to Caye Caulker.”  

“You a diver?” 

Steven almost said, “My wife was,” but a harsh, “No,” left his lips.  

“Too bad. It’s good place to dive,” Fredrico said. 

Steven knew. He and Elise honeymooned at a resort on Ambergris Caye twenty miles away. She dove the reef. He painted. They shared lazy afternoons. Matt even showed up once for dinner. 

“I’m going to find my wife’s brother. He’s a diver,” Steven blurted out. “She’s no longer here.”  

Matt wasn’t at the funeral. Elise had always wanted to seek out and reunite with her rebellious brother, who had spurned America for the Caribbean life, but now she never would. They hadn’t heard from him in over a year and all Steven had was this address. In the rear view mirror, Fredrico looked at him sympathetically. 

“Such a nice place for so sad a task,” Fredrico said. “Go slow. That is the first thing they tell you.” 

Steven noticed dead flowers, a chicken bone and an incense holder at the base of a trinkety Mayan statue on his dash. Fredrico watched him look. 

“I tell you, use common sense and mind your own business,” Fredrico said. “Caye Caulker is a strange place, like an island of lost souls. Pirates used to hide in the coves and the Maya once had shrines out in the jungle. If your girlfriend’s brother doesn’t want to be found, he picked the right place to disappear to.”  

“Why’s that?” 

“There is nobody to answer to. No church, no police, and no governor, though I guess the island is somebody’s responsibility somewhere in Belize City. When a problem gets bad enough, they take it in their own hands. Someone will go to the mainland, to the jungle, to find a medico de selva.” 

Steven shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.  

“Don’t worry. Most of the bad people are either in jail or kicked off. Now it’s just a five mile strip of mostly fisherman, dive boat captains, and few drug dealers,” Fredrico said. “Just don’t buy any smoke and you’ll be fine.” 

The taxi drove past foundations and rubble. A haggard man with short frizzy dreadlocks stumbled across the road, uncaring of the speeding car. He spat as they drove past.  

“What happened here?” Steven asked. 

“Iris. Last year. Hurricane Iris.” 

They passed two kids playing kick the can outside a broken-down house with no windows.  

“Does the city get hit often?” 

“Sometimes near the shore. Some places get hit hard, some places not at all. Caye Caulker, where you are going, lost many houses, restaurants, and most of its palm trees to Iris.” 

Steven noticed the broken tops of the big palms lining the road. 

“Did Iris do this?” 

“No, Keith. Two years ago. Remember the one where twenty-two divers drowned? From Virginia, I think.” 

Steven felt water filling his throat. Since Elise died, he’d been dreaming of choking. When he decided to come to Belize to find Matt, the dreams had stopped. 

“Looks bad,” he said, viewing the devastated city block.  

“It is bad for us when a hurricane comes.” 

Steven didn’t know what to say. 

“I hope the weather stays good,” Fredrico said. “The weather says tropical storm Sandrine is moving towards the coast. I hope she blows away. Business can’t handle another hurricane.” 

“Isn’t it late in the season for a hurricane?” Steven asked. 

Fredrico didn’t answer. He maneuvered the cab through the narrow streets. Steven remembered when he was a child a hurricane had hit New York. He had stuffed his and his brother’s pockets with pennies to avoid being blown away, till his father told him not to worry. That was the only hurricane he could remember other than the quickly forgotten names on the news that alternated, girl-boy, alphabetically. Here, the threat was real and came not once in a lifetime, but dozens of times a season.  

“Just before Iris came, I went to see the beach,” Fredrico said, his concerned look disappearing for an instant. “The tide was so low. I never saw it so low. I walked out on the sand. Far, far out, man. My boy asked ‘where is all the water?’ We didn’t stay around to see it come back.” 

They drove over a drab green swing bridge. Steven glimpsed the ocean at the end of a channel lined with boats.  

“Station is there,” Fredrico said. His smile retreated inside him like a frightened ghost. He stopped just out front of the low stone building housing the Water Taxi station. Six rough men sat on the uneven curb. Weathered brown skin absorbed the sun beneath faded t-shirts, their faces a mix of broken teeth and cold watching eyes. Steven handed Fredrico an American twenty and two singles.  

“Thanks, man,” Fredrico said, handing Steven his pack. 

Steven walked past wood benches filled with sweaty people, and purchased a ticket at a small ticket booth that looked as if it belonged to an old movie theatre. The girl inside gave him change in colorful, animal-adorned Belizean bills.  

As he scanned for a seat, he noticed a woman in an orange tank top and jeans sitting on the second bench. Her skin, the light brown of murky water, glistened with perspiration. Slender legs crossed, she fanned herself with a delicate paper fan adorned with a heron. A hint of strong calves showed beneath her raised jeans and a clog balanced lazily on her foot. Like everyone else, she looked as if she had been waiting for a long time. Her impatience reminded him of Elise. Elise was never good at waiting, especially waiting to go diving. The woman watched Steven look at her.  

“1:30 to Caye Caulker here,” the man standing at the door called before Steven could find a seat. 

Still looking at Steven with her summer green eyes, the woman picked up her bag and smiled with her thin pink lips, the almost red of a lotus blossom ready to open. He got the feeling she smiled at everyone that way. 

She grabbed the wrist of a skinny young girl who couldn’t have been more than ten. The girl followed her, like a walking rag doll, into the line of people gathering to board the boat. 

The sweaty people filed out of the station, handed their blue paper tickets to the man at the door, and carefully stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat. Steven sat down on the narrow bench lining the inside of the deck, his shoulders pressed up against his neighbors. The woman in the orange tank top, wearing sunglasses now, carefully boarded. Her silver thumb rings and copper bracelets caught the sun as she stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat, creating a brief blinding flash. She sat down. The girl followed, quietly sitting next to her. Before the woman even settled into her seat, a young unshaven American wearing a UCLA cap a few seats down from Steven introduced himself to her. 

“Nice to meet you, Forrest,” she replied, with a thick Spanish accent. She didn’t give her name. 

Forrest took out a tube of sunscreen and began rubbing it onto his arms. 

“Want any?” he asked. 

“I don’t need any. I’m a gypsy,” she said with a smile. 

Steven thought her big gold-rimmed glasses were more suited to Beverly Hills. She did not offer the lotion to the young girl who stared, glassy-eyed, out to the water. 

The boys running the boat started the engine and slowly navigated the boat through the channel. 

“Can I have some?” Steven asked over the sound of the engine. “Mine’s in my pack.”  

“Sure,” Forrest said, handing the tube to Gypsy Woman who handed Steven the tube. 

Faded green and blue tattoo lines wrapped around her wrist, forming strange spirals and symbols. Glyphs and animals decorated her silver rings. A single charm, a Mayan character, hung around her neck. Steven wanted to ask what it meant but Forrest spoke. 

“You here on vacation?” he asked, apparently unaware the quiet little girl was with her. 

“Me? Vacation?” She laughed and looked at the girl. “No. I used to live here. Today I’m working.” 

Steven wondered what she did. The boat cleared the channel and picked up speed. 

“Your daughter?” Steven asked, nodding to the girl. 

“No. No,” Gypsy Woman said, shaking her head. “But I’m…taking care of her.” 

The girl continued to stare, seemingly unaware of the conversation about her. As the boat sped them further across the water, rushing air made it hard to hear. Forrest stopped talking and Gypsy Woman turned to the sea. Wind pressed her tank top against her, outlining the shape of her breasts, revealing her belly and slender waist. Steven closed his eyes partially, softened his gaze, and imagined the blurry form before him was Elise. 

In the shallows, just outside the channel markers which kept them in the safety of navigable depths, a blue heron seemingly walked on water. 

**** 

A half hour later the boat’s engines slowed as it pulled next to the long wooden dock. Boys with bicycle carts waited to take luggage. 

“Welcome to paradise,” they said in unison with the boat crew just after the engines were cut. 

A group of old fishermen greeted Gypsy Woman and the girl and led them away down the sandy street 

“Where you going?” a kid asked Steven. “Let me take your luggage.” 

“I’m O.K.” 

“Come on, man. Just give me a job. If the hurricane comes there’ll be no money for a long time.” 

“O.K.” Steven threw his pack in the basket. “But I’m walking, I can’t have you pedaling me around in that thing.” 

“No problem, man. Go slow. That’s the only rule around here.” 

Steven didn’t want to go slow. The first time he dove, he remembered Elise had told him to breathe slow. Life moved fast, not like a snapshot image of a painting, but like animation—thousands of paintings in the blink of an eye. The day at Malibu he felt like he had blinked and all his happiness escaped with Elise’s last breath. 

“No worries,” the kid said. “I know a good place. The Caribbean Paradise, right on Front Street.” 

“Let’s go,” Steven said. 

The kid pedaled and Steven walked. They moved past lush red hibiscus, thriving bougainvillea and small orange flowers on a vine whose name he didn’t know. They passed rickety homes, many that doubled as restaurants or businesses. “Martine’s Grill,” “Anita’s Laundry,” “Fresh bait here,” the handmade signs read. A small jail stood next to the bank. A man with a rifle stood outside, apparently guarding both. The kid waved and the man smiled.