Slowly, he lowered himself onto his hands and knees and crawled around the tree to a patch of dirt around a cluster of taro plants. His pulse raced with the thrill of knowing the men were maybe forty feet away. He wormed his way under the taro and its elephant ear leaves, his stomach pressing against cool earth. Carefully, slowly he pushed aside the leaf in front of his face.
There were three men. Two were fairly muscular and not older than thirty. The third was short, with stubby features, and looked to be in his fifties or sixties. They all wore slacks and guayabera shirts – or what his uncle used to call Mexican doctor shirts. The fancy stitch work running down the front of theirs looked quite elegant, expensive. But each had the dark, sun-worn skin of men who worked outside. And each held a lit cigar in one hand between index and middle finger, casually puffing on these in no hurry to finish or start what they were doing.
Edward watched as the short man made a joke, his voice raspy, high-pitched. Shorty rushed toward one of the other men and abruptly stopped, acting as if to hit the man with a closed fist. The younger man jokingly blocked his genitals with his free hand, just before Shorty stepped back out of view behind a tree trunk. The two men in view laughed heartily at whatever the joke was. When Shorty stepped out from behind the tree, nodding and pointing at the other man, Edward could see he had scars around his head, a massive palm-sized patch of pink skin on the side of his face, a skin graft that cut into his hairline over his ear in an almost a perfect square. From a distance, the scar might have been mistaken for a punk rocker’s trim, except that Shorty’s ear was shriveled, gnarled, and colorless.
Shorty continued his joking, speaking in a voice permanently muffled by its scratchy hiss, like a voice from an antique phonograph recording. He spoke in rapid sentences. Every time he paused, the other men filled the silence with laughter. The banter went on for a few minutes. Then Shorty gave an order, and the youngest man stepped over to the elevated shack, opened the door, and leaned inside. He emerged holding two backpacks. Shorty, now serious, appeared to direct him. The man carried the bags through the path to a boat that Edward could only see slices of through the mangrove roots. As the young man passed, Shorty gave him a forceful slap to the back of his head and cursed. This brought about more laughter from the two other men.
The second man moved to close and secure the shack’s door, holding his cigar in his mouth as he worked the latch in place. When he was finished, he and Shorty followed the others out of the grove and to their boat.
Edward crawled out from under the taro leaves, dirt coating his chest, legs and elbows. He stood up behind a palm on the perimeter of the clearing just as engines roared to life. The powerful rumble was like an electric shock to his heart. He had to take in a breath and calm himself before moving again. He looked around the tree, through the narrow opening in the mangrove wall at a slice of open ocean and the front of a red speedboat. The low bow was sharp and hung over the water like a blade.
The tail of a rope was yanked in off the water. The motors were gunned two times like a drag racer on the starting line. Hydraulics lowered the propellers, which gurgled and spat as they entered the water. The boat’s long bow slid across the view. The tallest man was driving, beside him sat the one who had carried the backpacks. Shorty sat in the middle of the rear seat with his arms stretched over the headrests, cigar clamped between his teeth, his head back, and his eyes closed. Finally, beyond a span of stern, the four outboard motors slid by, massive black cubes the size of truck tires. And then all Edward could see was rippling water and clear sky beyond.
He could hear the full power of the go-fast boat being employed. In seconds the head-rattling bellows of the engines became nothing but a bee’s buzz. A minute more and even this dissipated to nothing but the wind.
Edward stepped out into the clearing, following the trail through the mangroves to the water. He walked out into the shallows, up to the middle of his shins, to where the limestone shelf ended and the bottom fell away into darkness. The boat’s foamy trail arced west, disappearing behind the north cliff of the island. Something brushed against his leg as he surveyed the view. It was a juice box, one piece of trash left behind. There was a sandwich bag and cigar butt bobbing near mangrove roots behind him. Edward reached down and picked up the empty juice box. The words were in Spanish and he didn’t understand any of it, but the image made it obvious. A beaming, wide-eyed cartoon apple, tongue swinging out with large drops of saliva flinging off, experiencing a hysterical thirst that only the box’s contents could cure. Edward flung the box out as far as he could before turning around and starting home.
~~~
When the phone clanged, Edward was dreaming of a fire station and firefighters sliding down from the second floor to board their truck. As he awoke, this thought of there being a fire lingered in him. He jumped out of the hammock he had strung between two palms in his backyard, and stumbled around to the front of his house, looking for a fire alarm until he came to his senses and realized what was ringing.
He ran into the kitchen, leaving a trail of sand on the floor, and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Tache, ow long you been deer? I doonh appreciate waitin for you.”
“Ms Sarah, is that you?”
“He asked if it’s me.” She said to someone else in the room. “Yes, it is. Do you remember I pay you? I pay you to be deer to answer dah phoon.”
“Oh, sorry, I was out back—”
“I doonh care if you was out buildin Noah’s ark. You av to answer dah phoon when I call. I call you ten times today and you doonh answer.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I was swimming earlier and you don’t call very often—”
“Shhh! I’m not interested in ‘earin your excuses.”
“I would’ve answered. I was just outside—”
“Mr. Tache, please shut up.” Her voice was a like a train barreling down the track, crushing anything in its way. “I’m callin for a reason, so listen. You ‘av to prepare dah place for Mr. Murrell and iz fam’ly. Now, him, his wife, and two little boy arriven tomorrow at noon.”
“OK. Sure. No problem—”
“You ‘ave to make sure deers no dust, Mr. Tache. No sand. No mildew. No bugs. Do you understand what I am tellin you? Even if you dink it’s clean right now, you ‘ave to clean dat ‘ouse.”
“OK, No problem—”
“You ‘ave to spray dah Lysol and look for any-ding growin in dah corners. Bugs, spider web, dead mouse. Make sure deer’s no stinky smells. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I—”
“Before you do dat, deers one ding you ‘ave to do. Dat stupid man, George, is workin at Saint Thomas—”
“What’s he doing there?”
“What’s he doin deer, he ask me.” She said with her mouth away from the receiver. “Well, let me tell you – I doonh care! Dat’s what he’s doin deer. Please shut up and listen to what I say. He is a very stupid man. I tell ‘im go deer yesterday. And I tell ‘im return yesterday. Boot you know what he do? He stay deer. Today he still deer and I tell him to find a graveyard to bury himself in, cuz he can stay deer forever for all I care.”
“Why didn’t he come back?”
A few moments of frightening silence passed as Ms Sarah took in air through her mouth.
“Because he’s a very stoopid man, dat’s why! He got some ladyfrienh deer – why you ask me dat? Please doonh ask me ‘bout stupid dings. Right now you ‘ave to go to dat village and buy steak. Do you understand? Mr. Murrell’s secretary say he likes steak. You understand? Steak. Dah ‘ouse should ‘ave every ding else needed for dem. I know George bring you fruit and eggs already. So, juss go to dat restaurant in dah village. I doonh care about price. Buy dah good steak. I’ll put dah cost into your next paycheck—”