It was one of the only really good things I’d ever done or had a part in, and because of it, my soul smiled.
It was also short-lived.
Chapter Thirteen
The rooster woke me, but it was the smell of coffee that got me out of bed. I walked out of the single-room shack occupied by the bed I’d been sleeping in. Two parallel walls of concrete block. Plastic sheeting on the other two. Rusted tin roof. An orange extension cord snaked out of the main house, across the yard, and under the door where it powered a light above my head and the oscillating floor fan. The door was made of horizontal slats with an inch or two of space between. It wouldn’t keep out much. Stepping back, I realized I’d been sleeping in a converted chicken coop.
I shuffled across the yard and onto the porch wearing another man’s shorts. From what I could tell, she’d already swept the dirt porch, washed and hung the laundry, fed the chickens, and cooked breakfast—which looked like beans, rice, and fried plantains. A pot filled with what looked like milk sat simmering on the stove. The smell of it wafted from steam off the pot and hung in the air. I waved and my voice cracked. “Hi.”
She was standing next to a large, waist-high concrete sink. The left side of the sink was a rippled section on which to wash clothes. The right side looked like a drain for clean dishes. The middle was a deep sink. She was hovering over the middle sink, pouring water from a bucket over her sudsy hair. When I first met her, her hair had been pulled up and back. Now it was wet and hanging nearly to her waist.
She rinsed again, then wrung out her hair and began brushing out any tangles. She pointed with the brush. “Breakfast there if you feel like eating.”
I pointed to the coffee. “May I?”
She nodded. Something about her body language told me she was in task mode and that I was one more task getting in the way of several others. She wasn’t unkind, but I could tell she was trying to figure out what to do with me.
I poured myself a cup from an old percolator, sat at the worn wooden table, and hung my nose over the mug. I was hungry enough to eat the table, but that coffee smelled so good. When I sipped, it did not disappoint.
She noticed my reaction. “Good?”
I nodded while the taste swirled around my mouth. The caffeine buzz was immediate and satisfying.
“You like good coffee?”
Another sip. “I’d let you put it in my IV.”
Over her shoulder, San Cristóbal sat smoking. She pointed to the smaller volcano, lush and green, that sat to the right. “Grown right there.”
The coffee was intoxicating. “The flavor is, well…wow.”
She nodded knowingly. “It ought to be.” She finished brushing her hair, then spun it into a tight bun at the back of her head. She poured herself a cup and sat. I extended my hand. “I think we’ve already done this, but I’m a little hazy. Charlie Finn.”
She nodded and bowed slightly. “Paulina Flores.” She waved her hand across the neighborhood. “Around here…Leena.”
“Thank you.” I waved my hand across myself. “For everything. I don’t remember much, but what I do remember tells me that it wasn’t pleasant.”
Her daughter appeared, sleep in her eyes, hair in her face. She walked up to me, extended both hands, pressed palms together—like she was swimming the breaststroke—and held them out, bowing slightly. She held the pose for several seconds. Waiting. Paulina said, “She’s honoring you.”
I cradled both her hands in mine. “Hello, beautiful.”
Paulina spoke softly over my shoulder. “Hola, linda.”
The girl listened to her mother, and a smile slowly spread across her face. I had a feeling she understood me, but she was waiting for her mother to give her permission to respond to a stranger.
“What’s your name?”
Her mother prompted her. “It’s all right.”
Her voice echoed inside me, taking me back to the sidewalk outside the cathedral. “Isabella.”
“Good morning, Isabella. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”
She puffed up as though she had information I did not. “You’re not in my home. You’re in the chicken coop. Momma put you in the chicken coop so the neighbors don’t start talking.” Her index finger started waving like a windshield wiper. “It’s not—” She put her hands on her hips, letting me know that she was about to unleash a grown-up word on me. Her lips moved slowly around the letters as she made the word. “Appropriate for you to sleep in our house.”
Look up the word “precocious,” and you’ll find her picture. I asked Paulina, “How is it that her English is so good if she’s grown up here?”
“Life is tough here. It’s a good bit tougher if you don’t speak English. I knew she’d get Spanish by default, so since she was born, I’ve spoken English with her.”
Isabella smiled wider, grabbed a red plastic mug, dipped it gently into the milk, and climbed up into her mother’s lap where she sipped on the milk, painting her upper lip in a mustache while her mother brushed her hair. Leena spoke over Isabella’s head and eyed the pot of milk. “Help yourself. We own one cow. Half Brahma. Half India. The Brahma half is strong and can survive the conditions around here, namely the heat and drought, but generally gives little milk. The India half is weaker but gives good milk. More robusto. Put them together in one cow and…” A shrug. “We drink milk on a regular basis.”
I hefted my coffee mug and smiled. “Why’d you help me?”
“Couldn’t very well leave you.” An honest shrug. “You’d either be dead or about to be.”
The little girl spoke up. “You looked drunk. Were you drinking?”
I laughed. She smiled again, leaned against her mother, and tucked her knees up into her chest. Her hair matched her mother’s, as did her eyes. Jet-black. I chuckled. “No.”
She didn’t skip a beat. “Do you drink?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Why not?”
“Never really started.”
“Then you’re a good man?”
So much wrapped in so small a question. I’d lied for so long. The memory of my parting with Shelly on the beach was still raw. I had no desire to suffer another self-inflicted wound in such a short amount of time. I shook my head. “No. I’m not.”
Paulina broke the awkward silence. “We didn’t know where to take you in León so we brought you here.”
“Where is here?”
“Valle Cruces. Forty-five minutes west.”
“I know I owe you some money. Everything’s in my hotel room in León.”
“No hurry.”
“Any idea how I might get back there?”
“Bus leaves in a few hours. Cost you a couple of dollars.”
I patted the pockets of my shorts. “Not a penny to my name.”
“Truck leaves in two days. You could hitch a ride then.”
“Truck?”
“Belongs to my uncle. He’s working today and tomorrow, but he can drop you in León day after tomorrow.”
“Any other option?”
She pointed to the road. “You can walk. Although thirty miles in flip-flops might leave your feet in worse condition than when you started.” I eyed my feet. She continued. “You can hitchhike, but unattended gringos with an ‘I’m lost’ look pasted on their faces have a way of disappearing around here.”
She could see my wheels spinning, but she said nothing. My options were few. “Mind if I stay until the truck leaves?”
She shook her head once. “We’ll be gone most of the day, so you’ll be on your own.”
I eyed her cell phone. “Mind if I call my hotel?”
She slid it across the table and helped me contact the young man at the desk. He answered and was glad to hear from me. I told him to hold my room and I’d pay him when I returned day after tomorrow. He agreed, said it was “no problem” and that my bike was still parked out back. It would keep.