Where’re we going to go?
We’ll find a place. No problemo.
He took off his shirt and stuck his head out the window and we rolled along the side of the road. Wet hairs draped his forehead and he looked like he was drowning. After a mile he ducked back inside and rolled up the window. With his shirt off I could see his muscles and that made me feel slightly better.
Are we going to drive like this all day?
No.
Why not?
Too dangerous to drive like this, he said.
He checked the rearview mirror and I imagined the older man and the teenager huddled on the side of the road in the rain and an army truck pulling over to collect them.
My dad rolled down the window and stuck his head out again. He looked tough against the rain whipping his face. I knew we had to get off the road because maybe the army guys would catch up with us, but I did not mention it to my dad.
I used all my energy to push that image out of my head and decided to help my dad. It may have been my first truly mature act, knowing that helping him drive through the rain, instead of being stuck in fear, would make me feel better in the long run.
I wiped my hand over the fogged passenger’s window and right away I saw a dirt road cutting through the jungle and I yelled to him. He stopped the truck. He backed up. He smiled when he saw the road.
Way to go, Eagle-eye Ollestad. See. Never give up.
He swung the truck out wide and we dropped off the pavement and he told me to hold on. He hit the gas and we tore through the tight opening. The truck bucked and metal grinded and the undercarriage thumped the ground. We waggled our way like a water snake through the deep mud. The trail curved suddenly and my dad yanked the wheel and the ass end of the truck slapped some trees. It went on and on and he couldn’t slow down or we’d sink. My eyes were pinned open and I held onto the dashboard and my dad’s triceps flexed with every turn of the wheel. His head was out the window flogging like a cowboy on a bull, ducking under jungle limbs and receding within the window frame whenever his side brushed up close to the jungle wall. I almost asked where we were going but decided that would distract him.
Another close call with some part of the truck tagging a branch. My dad hit the gas and we bounced, then sailed for a moment and landed hard, the undercarriage vibrating up through the seat. Then the engine died. The truck halted and we lurched forward. I felt the truck sink.
My dad spanked the steering wheel with his hand and turned to me.
End of the line, Boy Ollestad.
Is the car broken?
I don’t know.
Will they find us?
No way José. They’ll whip right past that road. We almost did and we were going a quarter of the speed.
I nodded. He seemed right. And he had shared the previously unspeakable-crazy-scary thing with me—that the army guys might come looking for us—and I was comforted by his admission. It’s good to be one of the fighters for a change, I thought.
What do we do now? I said.
Walk down to the beach. See if we can find some shelter.
Are there houses around here?
You don’t bust your ass cutting a trail like this for nothing, Ollestad.
He carried a surfboard under each arm with his duffle over one shoulder. I carried my suitcase. The mud came up to my knees in some places and we hugged the edge of the trail, searching for firmer ground near the trees. A swath of banana plants gave us something to wedge our feet against and seeing the familiar green fruits clustered around the thick vines reminded me of the plants surrounding Grandpa and Grandma’s house.
With each step we had to unplug our feet from the earth. It reminded me of all those hikes I did with my dad in search of virgin powder. I told him so.
Remember your killer snowplow? he said.
Yeah. I could ski anything with it.
You skied the top of St. Anton all the way to the bottom in a blinding snowstorm with ice under the powder in that snowplow.
When did I start skiing parallel?
Let’s see. I think in ’73 when we took the train to Taos for Christmas.
Oh yeah, I said, recalling the plastic Indian he bought me, and how I would sometimes look at it and think about my dad dying, declaring that I wanted to die too if he died.
Do you think I might win a race this winter?
Don’t worry about winning, Ollestad. Just keep trying. The rest will come.
Do you think I’ll be in the Olympics one day?
Sure. Better yet you’ll get a scholarship to Harvard or Yale.
What’s that?
It’s when they invite you to go to their school and play a sport for them.
Dad planning my life so far in advance added pressure, as if the mud and the jungle had grown thicker.
Are we ever going to get there? I whined.
My dad stopped. The spackles of mud on his face and mustache and up his legs made him look like some kind of human chameleon of the jungle.
It’s easier if you…
Just hike straight through without stopping. I know.
He laughed.
Besides there’s nowhere to sit down, he said and laughed again.
Not having a place to sit because we were surrounded by mud and jungle and overhead by thick clouds about to burst did not seem even kinda funny.
I wish I didn’t come, I said.
And I slogged past him.
Well, Ollestad. I’m glad you did.
I don’t want to ski race anymore, I called back without turning. I’d rather do karate.
Your mother’s the one who needs to learn karate.
I paused, startled. My dad had never said so much about my mom and Nick before. This was my big chance to speak out— tell Dad how Nick called me a liar and insisted I’d grow up to be a failure. This was a good time to ask my dad to do something about Nick’s cruelty. But all I did was grunt and plod on.
The hillside climbed to a ridge that wandered back toward even bigger hills. Up ahead I saw the trail drop abruptly. Where it appeared again down below, the jungle grew in ribbons over grassy marshland. There were some cows and tall coconut trees and then another hill and I hoped that on the other side finally awaited the beach, shelter and rest.
I guzzled some water. I was sweating and the heat was like a thick cloak and my head burned with a fever.
I’m burning up, Dad.
We’ll jump in the ocean and it’ll cool you off.
As much as it made sense, that’s not what I wanted to hear.
I could feel him looking at me. I wanted him to say something about my mom or Nick. Then I could tell him that Nick swore at me and said I was rotten and said he’d track me down if I told on him. After that, when we got home, Dad would take care of things.
My dad moved behind me and I waited. Then he stopped moving. He didn’t say anything.
I threw my suitcase over the drop-off. It appeared a few seconds later floating on the mud in the trail below. My eyes blurred with tears and my voice was raked by anger, fucking this and fucking that. I sat in the mud and threw globs of it at my dad. Eventually I ran out of steam and just cried. The mud felt good against the scab on my hip. It began to rain again.
Are you done with your mountain fit? he said.
No, I said.
He reached down and I took his hand and he tugged me out of the mud.
Slide down on your ass, he said.
We slid down the hill into the grassy marshland. The mud was waist deep and I grabbed my surfboard from my dad and floated on it.
Great idea, Ollestad.
Where’s your bag? I said.
Left it up there, he said. Guess I’ll have to wear trunks from now on.
We got to the other side of the marsh and I noticed that some of the mud had dried on our skin—it had stopped raining—and we looked like swamp things. We could hear the ocean and my dad patted my back.
Way to grind it out, he said.
He led me out of the jungle. Abruptly our feet crunched down on a mound of white seashells. I looked ahead and the shells mushroomed all the way to the wet sand and then lay scattered about, washing around on the shore.
The water was blueberry, like the sky now. There were slicks of turquoise where the reef ceased, allowing the white sand to reflect back up through the water. Farther out a bigger reef made swells leap up everywhere like a sea of cobras striking ten at a time. We two swamp things looked on in awe.
For the first and only time my dad refrained from pointing out the beauty. He said nothing. Not even about the surf. He tiptoed over the shells and dove into the ocean. The mud left a stain in his wake. He told me to keep my clothes on in order to clean them out. I opened my eyes underwater and yellow fish scatted beneath a cluster of reef.
We stripped nude and hung our clothes on a papaya tree. The fruit’s sweet aroma mingled with the humid air and stuck to the inside of my nose. The yellow-green melons hung like big breasts and I held the papayas’ bouquet in my lungs. Everything glared vibrant with color and at the same time was as soft as velvet.
We stood in a daze, our long trudge affecting us now. Time passed and the sweetness of the air and the berry palettes in the sky and water resonated over the percussion of waves crashing against the reef.
Breaking the spell my dad asked me about my hip.
It’s getting better, I said.
Sure looks like you got it skateboarding.
I paused. Down here in Mexico, my lie appeared such a small thing.
I did, I said.
Your secret’s safe here in Mexico, he said.
My face contorted into a smile. I felt loony and relieved. I charged the ocean and called out, attacking some imaginary demon. The shells sliced into my feet and I dove headlong into the sea.
I surfaced and my dad gave me a humorous sideways glance, then danced over the shells with his balls swinging. He jumped in and floated on his back and watched the sky. He was at ease like a seal bathing with one flipper up and he watched the pregnant thunderheads and seemed to enjoy their warm mist.
I swam ashore and scoured the beach, finding some thick white shells with holes in them. I showed them to Dad and we decided they were puka shells. I collected at least a hundred, storing them in a large abalone shell.
My dad tore open a papaya with his thumbs. We each dug out the slimy black seeds with a shell and spooned the meat into our mouths.
Just like the Indians, he said.
He told me that they fished with handmade spears, carved boats out of logs, and had no TV or cars or restaurants.
They were tough, Ollestad, he said.
How tough?
Tougher than tiger shit.
What’s tougher? Tiger shit or tiger piss?
Hmm. Tiger piss maybe.
Really?
Yeah. Probably.
He washed off the surfboards in the salt water and I washed off my suitcase. Then I followed him north.
What happens when you boil to death? I said.
You dehydrate and finally die.
What happens when you freeze to death?
You’re cold. Then you feel warm and sleepy. And then you fall asleep and never wake up.
I’d rather freeze to death.
Me too.
We followed the raised sand spit hooking out to sea. My dad looked back toward the big reef. He stopped and studied the waves and I pretended not to notice.
Might get good when the wind settles down, he said.
I didn’t respond and he turned and walked around the spit. On the other side was a patch of sand ending where the big black rocks bordered the cove. As we got closer I saw two fishing boats on the wet sand, rocking like cribs. They’re not canoes carved from wood, I thought. Little dories overstuffed with nets and buckets and spears—metal not bamboo.
Look, my dad said.
Barely visible above a hedge line of mangroves was a group of steeple-shaped roofs made from coconut palms.
My dad shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it and I realized we were lucky. It made me nervous that we were relying on luck.
He followed a path trampled into the shells.
Should we just walk right in? I said.
He opened his hands.
I don’t know what else to do, he said.
But what if the people who live here don’t like strangers?
Then we’ll leave. Don’t sweat it, he said.
He took my hand and we walked toward the roofs.
CHAPTER 13
SANDRA REFUSED TO MOVE and the airplane’s floor rug was under my arm. Sandra needs an adult to order her under the wing, I thought. Not an eleven-year-old kid that she thinks is a brat. I put the rug down beside her and crawled back toward my dad.
I needed to smell him, feel his skin. There wasn’t much I could do without him—I could not move him or Sandra on my own. Why hadn’t he woken up? I must be doing something wrong. What the hell is it?
I crossed into the funnel, and navigating the ice curtain drove away all extraneous thought. The fog heaps and wind and snow seemed to erase the terrain and I had to go on my memory of where I thought he was—down a couple feet then across fifteen feet or so. My laser focus held all thought noise at bay. Until I found him.
I nudged my nose into Dad’s ear. Cool but not cold. With the crown of my head I rammed him, like an animal might. He was dead weight. I couldn’t accept that I was too weak to carry him to the shelter.
You’re too heavy, I said, blaming him for my weakness.
My chest thumped with frustration. I put my hands over my face. I turned away from him. I drew my fingers down my face. Finally I opened my eyes. Then clawed up and over to Sandra. I dug into the mountain, cursing it and everything that was mounting up against me—even Nick pointing out my weak character, my inevitable failure—all the way to her seat. Nick’s full of shit, I declared silently as I took Sandra’s hand. She shied away from me. I flicked open her seat belt buckle and pulled her out.
Let’s go, I said, reminding myself of my dad—how he always took care of her. It was my job now.
What are you doing? she said.
For a moment I recalled her sitting on a bar stool, in Utah maybe, scolding me for being a spoiled brat because I was insisting that my dad leave the boring bar and go down to the game room.
Then I saw that her skin had lost its caramel color, turned pasty from the extreme cold. She’s just scared, I decided.
I set the rug behind her seat, hoping it wouldn’t get blown away. I moved beneath Sandra and lodged my hands below her fancy leather boots.
Move with me, I said. We’re crossing to the wing. We can get under it.
I talked her through it and she followed my instructions. I used my entire body—knees, pelvic bones and chin—to crab us off the edge of the funnel.
My knee caught the corner of the trail first. I guided Sandra’s boots onto the ledge and told her she could put pressure on it. Relieved, I rested for a moment.
Great, I said. Now turn onto your side and sort of walk while you lean against the hill.
Sandra’s hip and shoulder plowed into the mountain as her boot heels dug into the trail and her good arm helped drag her across the chute. The trail saved us a lot of time and energy. About ten minutes later we slid onto the relatively even ground behind the big trunk.
I have to get the rug, I said.
No. Don’t leave.
I’ll be right back.
What if you slip?
I grunted and moved upward to find the trail. Millions of specks jumped off the ledge like white fleas, making the ground appear raised. Trudging on I found the rug behind the seat, then paused, wondering about my dad. I wanted to feel him again. I tried to locate him amongst the dizzying gray formations. Streaking white flakes rained down on me and a turbine of wind seemed to shake the mountain.
I have to get warm, I told myself.
I strode away from him on my four paws. I f
elt my muscles bulging out of my shoulders. My body seemed to have already adapted to what my mind was unwilling to accept—I was on my own.
CHAPTER 14
DAD’S CURLY HAIR had dried in a big puff. I stayed right on his tail as he led us toward the coconut palm roofs. I wished he were wearing a shirt or shoes. Not just surf trunks.
The path squeezed between the mangroves and widened to a muddy trail that cut through the tiny village. Except for the mangrove trees abutting the sand, most of the jungle had been cleared away and replaced with caladium and hibiscus and aloe vera plants. The huts looked like old-fashioned schools, made of palms, without windows, except the hut on the end was shaped like a cone and open on the bottom so you could duck under and enter it from any side.
Women and children and old people swarmed around two center huts. They stopped and stared when they saw us.
My dad called to them. No one moved except a little girl who waved to us. She was dressed in a tattered skirt. Most of the mothers wore ragged clothes of all styles and colors. Only the older men looked uniform—thin ponchos, baggy cotton pants and deeply lined faces. Nobody wore shoes. The women’s clothes were ornate with gold stripes and ruffled hems like Vegas dancers, the material especially threadbare and faded.
Donde esta los hermanos? Los padres? said my dad.
A woman pointed and rambled quickly in Spanish.
Gracias, said my dad.
We crossed over the mud path along a tree limb that had been laid down, balancing one foot in front of the other like longboarders walking to the nose. The children stared at me as if I were a green-tentacled Martian.
My dad led me around the farthest hut, where chickens scattered from a pile of seeds and took cover behind a pen. Inside were pigs. Big and fat and black. Behind the hut was a grove of widely spaced tamarindo trees. The jungle grew thick and heavy right up to the meadow and under the overhang was a stable of horses. Four men worked on four horses, cleaning, shoeing, and feeding them. All the men wore cowboy hats and boots. I had never seen big horses like that in Mexico—just burros. My dad waved to them and they turned and watched us approach, although none stopped their work.