The Center of the World (15 page)

He told them about his mother and father. “They have a great love for each other,” he said. “My mother bakes pies with peaches that come from the gods. She bakes from her heart.”

About white people stealing land, he said that it was not all white people, but that yes, long ago, the Indios of Norte America had been driven from their land. At this, Hector's family solemnly bowed their heads.

About marriage, he said that all the Mayan women were so beautiful that he was nearly blind. It would be hard to find a woman in Brooklyn who could compare to the women of Dos Erres.

Will stretched out the job as long as possible until the day came when he had to head back to Guatemala City. It would take fourteen to sixteen hours of hard riding on his small motorcycle to get there. He would campaign hard with Blackburn for this village to get a pickup truck or a tractor, anything that would ease some of the physical burden that they bore constantly. But he was not eager to say good-bye to Hector. Something bright glimmered in his mind—he could return to Dos Erres and start a Spanish/English school. Nothing had ever been this clear to him before. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

When Hector waved good-bye to Will, he did so while bumping the soccer ball from knee to knee like a juggler. Will's throat constricted and his lip trembled. Aside from providing his physical labor to a terracing project for bean crops, the soccer ball had been the most enthusiastically received gift that Will had ever left in a village.

“
Vaya con Dios,
Hector,” he yelled. Then in K'iche', “You are the sun god of soccer!” Hector's gleaming smile was the last thing he saw before he left.

 

On the ride to Guatemala City, he thought about all their questions, their respectful nods as he answered them, their worried looks when he told them he didn't stay in contact with his ancestors. Hector's mother, Rosa, shook her head and said, “Then they will take a bite out of your soul.”

At the main office in Guatemala City, Will typed up his report on the Selectric typewriter in one of the spare offices and gave it to Ron Blackburn. In it, he outlined their crop rotations with corn and beans, their frugal use of cows for fresh cheese, and their chickens and the tiny
tienda
where goods were trekked in from the lowlands, and how little of this was transported out. In fact, only the cornmeal was sold elsewhere. He summarized that it was a successful village.

“Excellent,” Blackburn said, scanning the report. “This is just the sort of thing we were looking for. You've been out in the country for months. This area is supervised by Jenkins. He'll make excellent use of this. You've accumulated ten vacation days by my count. Have yourself a good time and check back with me when you return.”

As Will left Blackburn's office, he nearly collided with a man who had his hand on the outside door handle.

“Whoa, busy place,” said Will. The man's receding hairline highlighted his skull, making it look larger, outlined by thin brown hair. Time and equatorial sun had etched deep lines at the top of his nose forming a perfectly inverted Y at the bridge, pulling the loose flesh of his brow down. He was a squinter, with the skin from his eyebrows draped over his eyelids. But he couldn't take his eyes off the guy's forehead, where a large lump protruded over one eyebrow. If they were in Brooklyn, this guy would definitely be called Tumor.

From his desk, Blackburn shouted, “Jenkins, this is our translator.” Apparently Will didn't warrant a name. The man went into Blackburn's office, and shut the door.

 

Will hadn't been to the Pacific coast in months and he longed to stick his feet into the ocean. That's what he was after, sea breezes and sand. Swimming in the ocean. Dark bottles of beer and freshly caught
langosta
.

When he was on the beach, he bought a hat for Hector and another soccer ball. A boy can't have too many soccer balls. Will pictured a place in the village for a school room. No, he had learned enough to realize that he could only suggest the idea and ask permission from the village, which he would do, with his pal Hector at his side.

CHAPTER 22

K
ate invited Will for coffee in the little kitchen area available to the guests. She washed her hair in a fit of primping. She was halfway down the wide staircase when she heard the ka-thunk of the iron knocker.

Marta was first to the door and opened it. “I want a doorbell. Other guesthouses have doorbells. It's our next bit of upgrading. Come in, come in. You must be Will.” She stepped forward and held out her hand for a robust handshake.

Kate's father told her once that he had recognized her mother as his true love instantly. He said that it had been the clearest thought that he'd ever had—“There's the woman I'll marry.” Her mother had said the same thing.

Kate had listened, doubting every word of it. Did people become more perfect after they died? Do the dead become wiser? Would her mother know what to do with an orphan? Now, as Will tipped his head to Marta and complimented her on the courtyard, the lushness of the potted plants, and the rich scent of meat emanating from the kitchen, Kate saw him, saw how they could fit together. Is this what her father meant? Not now, oh, not now.

Marta slipped away, excusing herself, directing them to the sitting area as if they could not have found it on their own. The kitchen had one hot plate, a fridge, and a jug of filtered water. Kate directed Will to the small alcove. Will sat very still on the small, hand-carved chair. The sound of children's voices bubbled from the other end of the courtyard. Kate said, “That's Sofia.”

Kate sipped the first coffee that she'd had since coming to Antigua. Her intestines no longer cramped.

The plastic shower curtain separating the kitchen from the courtyard flew open. “There you are,” said Marta. “I think Sofia started to get worried. She can work up an adult-sized frown. Not much of a crier, though. Felix, now he's a bloody screamer. Takes after me.”

Sofia straddled Marta's hip in her new cotton skirt and blouse. Her black hair stuck up at odd angles. Sofia stopped frowning when she saw Kate. She reached out one arm for Kate. The flesh along her small arms looked so tender, like peaches.

Marta brought out a bowl of guacamole and set it on the table. “This is the best way I know of to celebrate Kate's good news. Not only is little Sofia cleared medically, but Kate is going to adopt.”

Kate flinched at the lie that she'd told Marta about the heart condition. The woman had been extraordinarily kind to her.

Will still hadn't moved since Marta brought Sofia into the room.

Kate set her coffee down and opened her arms to the girl. Is this why people can so easily kidnap children? She never thought of this before, but of course it was. Igniting trust and loyalty in a toddler could be done from love or evil. Kate shuddered at the options for a war orphan, or for any child without protection.

Once in Kate's arms, Sofia turned her head to one side and nestled into her chest, tucking her face beneath Kate's chin. Kate kissed her and rocked slightly, murmuring, “That was a long time. Too long for you, little one.” With every rhythmic sway of her hips, she wanted to wash away the horror for the child.

Marta turned to look for Felix, who appeared with an empty plastic jug that once held laundry soap, now partially filled with pebbles and clothespins. “I know I play second fiddle to Sofia, but as proprietor of this grand place, I'd like to invite you to stay for lunch.”

Will did not respond. He stood up, keeping his eyes on Sofia, his face crumbling along one side of his mouth. The expected momentum of the conversation stalled and the room echoed with Kate's heartbeat.

“Will's been in the Peace Corps and now he's traveling around for a few months before he returns home. Maybe they don't do lunch or . . .” She stalled for time, giving Will time to recover from whatever was going on.

He turned to Kate. “I should be going. Thanks for the coffee. Nice to meet you, Marta.” He backed out of the kitchen and left. The sound of the large front door opening and closing echoed in the entryway.

“Was it something I said?” asked Marta. “Was it the guacamole?”

“It wasn't you. I think he freaked out when he saw Sofia. He must be one of those guys who run when they see a kid.”

Even as she said it, she didn't believe it. It wasn't disinterest that she saw on his face. It was fear.

 

Kate hadn't seen Will in two days and she wondered if he had packed up and left. Was he just a backpacker guy, post–Peace Corps worker, a vagabond? Will never told her where he was staying. She had scared him off with her seriousness and need, and with Sofia. It was better that she had not told him one thing more, better that she didn't think about him at all.

Marta's husband was having trouble selling their property in Australia and would not be returning for weeks. Marta said she longed to talk with someone and that someone was Kate. If Kate came downstairs with Sofia, Marta was there in a flash, seeking the camaraderie of another woman, and another English speaker. Marta was a fountain of questions about the adoption process, now that Kate had confirmed that yes, she was planning on adoption.

“How long will it take? Can I help in any way? It's odd that they don't want to meet with you and Sofia together. What in blazes can take them so long? Not that I mind you being here, but surely they can't expect you to stay here forever. But come to think of it, I don't know what Felix and I would do if you and Sofia left.”

While these were perfectly normal questions, life had ceased being normal. Since the massacre and finding out about the
casa de engordes
for little children like Sofia, embers of suspicion ignited in Kate, glowing hot with any inquiry about the child. She was becoming adept at nonanswers.

“Adoption is a long process,” she said. “We're progressing right on schedule.” Lying grated on her but she no longer felt safe announcing to the world that she had a child and that adoption was a problem. What if someone kidnapped Sofia and sold her?

Kate had already been in Antigua for ten days and she was no closer to finding a solution. Fernando would say only that he was making inquiries. She hadn't heard anything from Kirkland and she desperately hoped for a lifeline of sorts from her. And if she stayed in the guesthouse with Marta all day, she'd never clear her head enough to think. Marta's propensity for small talk far out-stripped Kate's threshold.

It was midday and the two kids collapsed on Marta's couch. This is how Sofia would have slept at her home, pressed up against her brother like two halves of a walnut, inches away from Manuela and Jorge.

“Go on,” said Marta. “You have the look of a mother who needs an outing. The children are fine here.”

She looked like a mother? Kate put on her jacket and headed to the street. Fernando's café would have to do as a retreat for her thoughts.

The guesthouse was five blocks from the central square. Storefronts opened directly onto the sidewalks, all the size of closets with thinly spaced stock on dusty shelves: a can of Spam, two boxes of powdered milk, bottles of orange soda, a pile of bananas, and squares of grainy chocolate wrapped in paper. The day was cloudy and cold and the volcanoes were shrouded in clouded hats. Kate had replaced the old sandals with new ones and wore thick wool socks with them. She was not a fashion statement, or if she was, it was called bedraggled gringo.

As she neared the center, something different hit her, stronger than the diesel smell of the old cars that rattled along the buckled cobblestones. It was excitement bubbling over, smiling faces under hats at each corner. By the time she got to the square, a cluster of militia huddled nervously, necks straining to look around as if they feared a sudden attack. She was still undone by the sight of soldiers, but she was becoming better at hiding it. Perhaps Antigua was far too public and open to travelers for the soldiers to do anything stupid, at least in the daylight.

Kate crossed the street so that she didn't have to walk next to the soldiers. What could they possibly be afraid of? She pushed open the doors to the café and turned her head to the table where Will had been on that first day. Empty.

“I'm not that predictable. You can't look for me at the same exact table,” said a familiar voice.

Kate whirled around. Will sat with his back against the far wall, reading a newspaper. “I wasn't looking for you,” she said. Too quickly, she said it too quickly.

“And I wouldn't blame you if you never looked for me. I'm a rude idiot from Brooklyn. Would you come and sit with me so that I can apologize?”

Kate could say no. She didn't have to walk across the room and join him at the table with the green plastic cloth. On top of everything else, she didn't need to get involved with a guy who told her nothing about himself and who ran away the minute he saw Sofia.

“So they didn't teach you any manners in Brooklyn?” she said. Kate slid a chair out and sat down. Did he twitch at her rebuke? His cheek muscles jerked one side of his lips.

“They taught me manners at home, but on the streets, I learned all the best lessons from a guy named Cesar. When I wasn't getting the shit kicked out of me, he said I showed some promise as a human being. He would have been shocked at my poor behavior with you. He always said, if you find a woman who makes your heart beat faster, and your brain go slower, either run away or move in.”

“Whatever happened to Cesar and his sage advice?” She placed the tips of her fingers on the edge of the table, ready either to hold on or push off. He should not say
woman
or
heart
.

“It would sound more interesting if I said he was in jail, but he's a FedEx driver.”

“And his love life? Which did he choose, running away or moving in?”

“See, guys make up a lot of silly stuff in our heads that never happens. He met Ruthie and she made him wait for two years before she'd let him move in. He moved in when they got married and not before.”

“What kind of silly stuff do you make up?” Kate relaxed and put her elbows on the table. Could he see her heart pounding out of her shirt?

“Me? I'm just going to keep talking so you don't get up and go away. Is it working?”

“So far. What happened when you saw Sofia? What was that all about?”

Will took a breath, then slowly exhaled. “I got close to some kids in a village. The military hammered the village pretty hard. Some of the kids got hurt. I've been avoiding getting close to kids for a few months. It was hard to see you holding the little girl.”

“But surely you've seen Mayan kids since then.”

The café was dark, with only two windows facing the central park, and they were heavily shaded by the wide veranda over the once majestic sidewalks. A flickering lightbulb across the room formed a yellow pool that did not extend to their table. Kate's spine was cold and she wanted to stop pretending she was brave.

“It was the way you held her, the way she trusted you. Trust can go so wrong,” he said.

Will ran his hand along one side of his neck. Had he trusted someone he shouldn't have?

“What do you mean,
hammered?
Were people killed?”

“I mean that I don't want to talk about it, not right now. Okay?”

She could press the issue, but if she did, was she ready to tell him about the massacre? A flicker of alarm fired in her about this man. “Okay.”

Two Mayan men walked by the door, illuminated by a slant of light. Their shoulders were pulled up and back like they had just won the Guatemalan lottery, if they'd had one.

“Do you know what's going on today? Is it a holiday? I'm completely lost with their holy days.”

Will pushed the newspaper toward her. It was the government-controlled newspaper from Guatemala City.

“Turn to page four. Then I'll fill in some of the blanks.”

Kate turned to page four. She scanned the page for anything that would explain the thread of festivity that fluttered through the city. Headlines: December 20, 1990: Politicians ran for election, a photo of a military parade in Guatemala City, the president standing next to a somber-faced school child, and then there it was. She knew enough Spanish to get the nouns and verbs.
General Javier flies to Santiago Atitlán to inspect the military barracks
.

“I'm not sure what this means and what to believe,” said Kate. Was there any harm in telling Will that she had been doing research at the lake? The words sank back down her throat and hovered until further notice. She folded the newspaper and handed it back to him.

Will pulled the newspaper toward his side of the table. “Here's what I know so far. There was a massacre in Santiago. Thirty-two people from Santa Teresa were killed in the village square by a bunch of bozo military guys. But here's the amazing part. The Maya from Santiago and the next village filled the square the next day. Ordinarily, it would have been standard procedure for the families to take their slaughtered loved ones and bury them. Or on days when the militia felt less generous, they'd dump the bodies into mass graves, dug by the people of the village.” Will clenched his hands, and for a moment he looked like a boy who could not believe the first and worst truth of his life.

“This time the villagers refused and they stood guard over the bodies, daring the soldiers to shoot them. I'm a little hazy on this part. I didn't actually read that in the newspaper, but the market is buzzing with rumors. The villages around Santiago say they will no longer give them food or shelter. If the soldiers touch the women ever again, the women will poison them. They are done with the soldiers and they want their lives back the way they were before the military moved in. The people of Santiago don't want one more massacre, one more person killed.”