The Ruins (5 page)

 That
was when he noticed Stacy. He winked at her, smiling, and she opened
her door a little farther. Then she crouched there, watching him. What
he said next would remain so vivid to her, so
unblurred
by the limitations of her seven-year-old consciousness, that she was no
longer certain if it had actually happened. Its lucidity seemed more
dream than memory. "I'm going to tell you something
important," he said. "Are you listening?"
When she nodded, he wagged an admonishing finger at her. "If
you're not careful, you can reach a point where
you've made choices without thinking. Without planning. You
can end up not living the life you'd meant to. Maybe one you
deserve, but not one you intended." Here he wagged his finger
again. "Make sure you think," he said. "Make sure you plan."

 Then
he fell silent. It wasn't the way one was supposed to talk to
a seven-year-old, and he seemed, belatedly, to realize this. He forced
a smile at her. He lifted his hands and attempted some shadow animals
in the weak light coming from the stairway. He did his rabbit, his
barking dog, his flying eagle. They weren't very impressive,
and he seemed to realize this, too. He yawned, closed his eyes, fell
almost immediately asleep. Stacy shut her door and crept back to bed.

 She
never told her parents about this conversation, yet she'd
thought of it, off and on, throughout her childhood. She still thought
of it now, as an adult, perhaps all the more so. It haunted her,
because she sensed the truth in what he'd said, or what
she'd dreamed he'd said, and she knew she
wasn't a thinker, wasn't a planner, would never be
one. It was easy enough to imagine herself trapped in some
unanticipated way, through negligence or lassitude. Aging, say, and all
alone, in a bathrobe spotted with stains, watching late-night TV with
the sound on low while half a dozen cats slept beside her. Or in the
suburbs, maybe, marooned in a big house full of echoing rooms, with
sore nipples and an infant upstairs, screaming to be fed. This latter
image was the one she had in her mind as she sat in the yellow pickup
truck, bumping her way down the rutted dirt road, and it made her feel
hollow,
balloonlike
,
popable
. She pushed it aside, an
act of will. It wasn't her life, after all, not now, not yet.
She was leaving for graduate school in a few weeks; anything could
happen. She'd meet new people, friends she'd
probably keep for the rest of her life. She spent a few moments
picturing herself in Boston—at a coffee shop, maybe, with a
stack of books on the table in front of her, late at night, the place
almost empty, and a boy coming in, one of her classmates, his shy
smile, how he'd ask if he could sit with her—when
suddenly, inexplicably, she found herself thinking of Uncle Roger
again, alone on that flooded road, of that magical instant when the
creek first took hold of his car, lifting it, giving him that
weightless feeling, not panic yet, just pure surprise, and maybe even a
touch of giddy pleasure, the start of a little adventure, a funny story
to tell his neighbors when he got home.

 Never
attempt to drive across moving
water.
There
were so
many rules to remember. No wonder people ended up in places
they'd never chosen to be.

 It
was with this thought—in hindsight, such an appropriately
ominous foreshadowing—that she glanced up through the
windshield, to discover they'd arrived.

W
hen the truck stopped, the man
held the map toward Amy. She reached to take it, but he
didn't let her. She pulled, and he held on: a brief
tug-of-war. Stacy was fumbling with the door handle; she
didn't notice what was happening. The truck rocked slightly
as Jeff and the others jumped to the ground. The windows were up, the
air conditioner on high, but Amy could hear them laughing. The dog was
still barking. Stacy got the door open, finally, and rolled out into
the heat, leaving it ajar, for Amy to follow. But the man
wouldn't let go of the map.

 "This
place," he said, nodding toward the path. "Why you
go?"

 Amy
could tell that the man's English was limited. She tried to
think how she could describe the purpose of their mission in the
simplest words possible. She leaned forward; the others were gathering
beside the truck, slinging their packs, waiting for her. She pointed to
Mathias. "His brother?" she said. "We
have to find him."

 The
driver turned, stared at Mathias for a moment, then back at her. He
frowned but didn't say anything. They were both still holding
the map.

 "
Hermano
?
"
Amy tried. She didn't know where the word arrived from, or if
it was correct. Her Spanish was limited to movie titles, the names of
restaurants. "
Perdido
?
" she said, pointing at
Mathias again. "
Hermano
perdido
.
"
She wasn't certain what she was saying. The dog was still
barking, and it was beginning to give her a headache, making it hard to
think clearly. She wanted to get out of the truck, but when she tugged
at the map again, the driver still wouldn't let her have it.

 He
shook his head. "This place," he said. "No good."

 "No
good?" she asked. She had no idea how he meant this.

 He
nodded. "No good you go this place."

 Outside,
the others had turned to stare at the truck. They were waiting for her.
Beyond them, the path started. The trees grew over it, forming a shady
tunnel, almost to the point of darkness. She couldn't see
very far along it. "I don't understand,"
Amy said.

 "Fifteen
dollars, I take you back."

 "We're
looking for his brother."

 The
driver shook his head, vehement. "I take you new place.
Fifteen dollars. Everyone happy." He smiled to demonstrate
what he meant: wide, showing his teeth. They were large, very
thick-looking, and black along the gums.

 "This
is the right place," Amy said. "It's on
the map, isn't it?" She pulled at the map, and he
let her have it. She pointed down at
the
X
,
then toward the path. "This is it, right?"

 The
driver's smile faded; he shook his head, as if in disgust,
and waved her toward the open door. "Go, then," he
said. "I tell you no good, but still you go."

 Amy
held out the map, pointing at
the
X
again. "We're looking for—"

 "Go,"
the man said, cutting her off, his voice rising, as if he'd
suddenly lost patience with this whole conversation, as if he were
growing angry. He kept waving toward the door, his face turned away
from her, from the proffered map. "Go, go, go."

 So
she did. She climbed out, pushed shut the door, and watched the truck
pull slowly away, back onto the road.

 The
heat was like a hand that reached forward and wrapped itself around
her. At first, it felt nice after the chill of the air conditioning,
but then, very quickly, the hand began to squeeze. She was sweating,
and there were mosquitoes—hovering, humming, biting. Jeff had
taken a can of insect repellent from his pack and was spraying everyone
with it. The dog kept lunging at them even as the pickup drove off,
lurching and swaying along the deep ruts in the road. They could still
hear its barking long after the truck was out of sight.

 "What
did he want?" Stacy asked. She'd already been
sprayed. Her skin was shiny with it, and she smelled like air
freshener. The mosquitoes were still biting her, though; she kept
slapping at her arms.

 "He
said we shouldn't go."

 "Go
where?"

 Amy
pointed down the path.

 "Why
not?" Stacy asked.

 "He
said it's no good."

 "What's
no good?"

 "Where
we're going."

 "The
ruins are no good?"

 Amy
shrugged; she didn't know. "He wanted fifteen
dollars to drive us somewhere else."

 Jeff
came over with the can of repellent. He took the map from her and began
to spray. Amy held out her arms, then lifted them above her head so he
could get her torso. She turned in a slow circle, all the way around.
When she was facing him again, he stopped spraying, crouched to put the
repellent back in his pack. They all stood there, watching him.

 A
disquieting thought occurred to Amy. "How're we
getting back?" she asked.

 Jeff
squinted up at her. "Back?"

 She
pointed down the road after the vanished pickup truck. "To
Cobá
."

 He
turned to stare at the road, thinking on this. "The guidebook
said you can always flag down a passing bus." He shrugged; he
seemed to realize how foolish this was. "So I
assumed…"

 "There
aren't going to be any buses on that road," Amy
said.

 Jeff
nodded. This was obvious enough.

 "A
bus couldn't even fit on that road."

 "It
also said you can hitch—"

 "You
see any cars pass, Jeff?"

 Jeff
sighed, cinching his pack shut. He stood up, slung it over his
shoulder. "Amy—" he began.

 "The
whole time we were driving, did you see any—"

 "They
must have a way to get supplies in."

 "Who?"

 "The
archaeologists. They must have a truck. Or access to a truck. When we
find Mathias's brother, we can just ask them to, you know,
take us all back to
Cobá
."

 "Christ,
Jeff. We're stranded out here, aren't we?
That's, like, a twenty-mile walk we're
gonna
have to do. Through the
fucking jungle."

 "Eleven."

 "What?"

 "It's
eleven miles."

 "There's
no way that was eleven miles." Amy turned to the others for
support, but only Pablo met her eyes. He was smiling; he had no idea
what they were talking about. Mathias was digging through his pack.
Stacy and Eric were staring at the ground. She could tell they thought
this was just her complaining again, and it made her angry. "Nobody else is bothered by this?"

 "Why
is it my responsibility?" Jeff asked. "Why am I the
one who was supposed to figure this whole thing out?"

 Amy
threw up her hands, as if the answer were obvious. "Because…," she said, but then she fell
silent. Why was it Jeff's responsibility? She felt certain it
was, yet she couldn't think why.

 Jeff
turned to the others, gestured toward the path. "Ready?" he asked. Everyone but Amy nodded. He
started forward, followed by Mathias, then Pablo, then Eric.

 Stacy
gave Amy a sympathetic look. "Just go with it,
sweetie," she said. "Okay? You'll see.
It'll all work out."

 She
hooked arms with her, pulled her into motion. Amy didn't
resist; they started toward the path together, arm in arm, Jeff and
Mathias already vanishing into the shadows ahead of them, birds crying
out overhead to mark their passage into the jungle's depths.

T
he map said they had to go two
miles along the path. Then they'd see another trail,
branching off to their left. This one would lead them gradually uphill.
At the top of the hill, they'd find the ruins.

 They'd
been walking for almost twenty minutes when Pablo stopped to pee. Eric
stopped, too. He dropped his pack to the trail, sat on it, resting. The
trees alongside the path blocked the sun, but it was still too hot to
be walking this far. His shirt was soaked through with sweat; his hair
clung damply to his forehead. There were mosquitoes and some other type
of very small fly, which didn't sting but seemed to be drawn
to Eric's perspiration. They swirled around him in a cloud,
giving off a high-pitched hum. Either he'd sweated all the
bug spray off or it was worthless.

 Stacy
and Amy caught up with them while Pablo was still peeing. Eric heard
them talking as they approached, but they fell silent when they got
close. Stacy gave Eric a smile, patted him on the head as she went by.
They didn't stop, didn't even slow, and after they
got a little ways down the trail, he heard them begin to speak again.
He felt a little flicker of disquiet, the sense that they might be
gossiping about him. Or maybe not. Maybe it was Jeff. They were secret
keepers, though, whisperers; it was something Eric still
hadn't grown accustomed to, their closeness. Sometimes he
caught himself scowling at Amy for no good reason, not liking her: he
was jealous. He wanted to be the one Stacy whispered to, not the one
she whispered about, and it bothered him that this wasn't the
case.

 The
Greek had an immense bladder. He was still peeing, a puddle forming at
his feet. The tiny black flies appeared to find urine even more
alluring than sweat; they hovered over the puddle, dropping into it and
taking flight again, dimpling its surface. The Greek pissed and pissed
and pissed.

 When
he finished, he pulled one of the tequila bottles from his pack, broke
its seal. A quick swallow, then he passed it to Eric. Eric stood up to
drink, the liquor bringing tears to his eyes. He coughed, handed the
bottle back. Pablo took another swallow before returning it to his
pack. He said something in Greek, shaking his head, wiping his face
with his shirt. Eric assumed it was a comment on the heat; it had the
proper air of complaint to it.

 He
nodded. "Hot as hell," he said. "You guys
have a phrase like that? Everybody must, don't you think?
Hades? Inferno?"

 The
Greek just smiled at him.

 Eric
shouldered his pack, and they started walking again. On the map, the
path had been drawn as a straight line, but in reality it meandered.
Stacy and Amy were a hundred feet ahead, and sometimes Eric could
glimpse them, other times not. Jeff and Mathias had started up the
trail like two Boy Scouts, all business. Eric couldn't see
them anymore, not even on the longer
straightaways
.
The path was about four feet wide, packed dirt, with thick jungle
growth on either side. Big-leafed plants, vines and creepers, trees
straight out of a Tarzan comic book. It was dark under the trees, and
difficult to see very far into their midst, but now and then Eric could
hear things crashing about in the foliage. Birds, maybe, startled by
their approach. There was a lot of cawing, and a steady locust-like
throbbing underneath it all that could suddenly, for no apparent
reason, fall silent, sending a shiver up his spine.