River (Pt. XIII)

Streaks of sweat wash away silicone and castor oil. Jonah continues:

The boy grew. Lupe and Máximo were wise, in the fashion of the day, and they raised young Eligius to be hard-working, pious, and noble.  A bond of love knit the little family together. 

Máximo was often away in the early years of Eligius life. Much time was spent traveling to Caracas and Havana to find brokers for the indigo or in San Juan haggling with the garrison's procurement agent on a price for Máximo's salt pork. But when he beheld Eligius playing in the courtyard, or laughing in the nursery, Máximo knew no burden. The boy gave him new strength and hardened his determination.

For Lupe, Eligius was irrefutable proof of the goodness of God. By then she knew that her womb would never flower and she loved the boy with a fierceness that stilled her own spirit. She tutored him in good Castillian Spanish and taught him his letters in the evenings before supper. The question of the boy's natural parents no longer troubled her. The wise do not find fault with the Lord's redemption. 

Dolores adapted well to life in la Casa Fuente. In no time at all, she replaced old Ingrid as Lupe's closest confidant and her dedication to Eligius could not be denied. When the boy was hungry, Dolores was ready with beans and bacon; when cold, a blanket and coffee. She knew of the boys complaints before he could give them voice. 

Their shared dedication drew the two women together. In each heart, it became difficult to remember the time that came before Eligius. 

On a chilly autumn evening in Eligius fourth year, Dolores bathed the boy in a tub before the hearth. Lupe sat nearby, reading from the Bible by firelight. Máximo had not yet returned from the fields.

As Dolores squeezed the sponge over his head, Eligius watched the soapy water slide down over his body. Suds passed over the mermaid on his breast and the boy laughed. "See how she splashes in the waves, tía?" he asked. 

Dolores face grew long at the sight and it seemed for a moment that she were in a sad and faraway time.

"What is it, tía?" Eligius asked, concern heavy in his voice.

The boy's tone caused Lupe to look up from her reading. Misunderstanding, she pointed to the birthmark. "It is a gift from the Father," she said, "that He might know you when you come before Him."

But Dolores shook her head. "His father knows him already," she murmured.

A silence descended on the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The two women locked eyes and a silent conversation passed between them while the boy stood naked and wet in the tub.

"Let us speak no more of this," Lupe said at last.

To be continued...

Read Part I here. 
Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. XII)

Most anyone would say Driftwood got lucky.

How else could one describe his present circumstances? What brought Driftwood and the car together in the early morning hours at that freeway rest stop out in the middle of nowhere in California? A car that would never be listed as stolen on any police reports? A car delivered to him by two lost and hapless souls that no one would ever miss? In the very moment of his need?

But Driftwood did not believe in luck.

He sat on a box by a dumpster, chewing the burrito Flo had left in the car, and eying the pickup truck parked across the alley. The rubber hose and the empty gas can, his siphoning kit, were tucked behind him in a filthy recess between dark brick walls.

The little nook in which he lurked, part of the city's stinking underside, had seen use. The close-set walls and the on-ramp to the Hawthorne Bridge overhead afforded shelter from sun and rain. Rotted cardboard covered the concrete at his feet. Vagrants had used the place as a temporary resting place. Somewhere to sleep when the homeless current stalled. It suited Driftwood's purposes perfectly. He could remain there, unnoticed, until dusk approached. Then he could make his move. But that was hours away. All there was for him to do at the moment was to wait.

The truck was parked nose-in to a graffiti-spattered brick wall. Near the truck's front bumper, a shabby door opened into a brick wall, a cut-to-fit plywood sheet blanking out a square of window. Windows peaked out from the floors above, revealing dirty white walls and bare light bulbs. An apartment building. But there was no movement nor signs of activity in any of them. It was as good a setting as Driftwood might hope to find. More false evidence of luck.

His one worry was that someone might come for the truck before Driftwood was ready. In that case, he would have to act quickly. But he didn't think that would happen. He had a feel for these things.

His hand dropped to his shin and he felt the knife in its sheathe. The hardness of the finger guard reassured and brought to mind how it had been with Nanna. He recalled how the grip felt when he thrust the blade up and into her, when he saw her eyes widen with realization. That had always been her problem. She never had any idea what was coming.

His plan was to follow the river north. The state line with Washington was not far, but he had no real destination. Just north. In his mind, he saw long stretches of empty highway. A frozen landscape where everything was held in stasis. Seclusion.

The girl would come with him, he knew. Having her along would help avoid suspicion. When the time was right, he could cast her off.

The boy would be a problem. Eddie was lonely and desperate and that made him dangerous. But, like Driftwood, Eddie was running, too. Driftwood had no fear that the boy would speak with anyone who might interfere. As he mused on it a vision came to him: blood leaking into murky water.

 "Whacha lookin' for?"

A voice injected itself into Driftwood's reverie. He snapped his mind to the here and now. Someone had stepped around the dumpster. A young woman. She wore a loose-fitting, sheer blouse and tight shorts, cut high on her thighs. Her hair, dyed an impossible red, was tucked behind ears peppered with piercings. A sleeve of vivid tattoo flowed from wrist to elbow on one arm. Her hip was slung to the side, a hand with painted nails resting on it. She looked at Driftwood with amused disdain.

"I'm waiting for someone," he said.

She sneered. "That's what they all say," she said.

"Get lost," he said.

She shrugged. "Okay, fine," she said. "But if you work up some courage, I'm in that room up there." She pointed to a window on the second floor of the apartment building. "When the music is playing, it means I'm busy. No music means you can come on up." She turned around with an exaggerated swing of her hips and sauntered across the alley. She paused at the door and cast a look back at him. He stared her down without moving a muscle. She turned away with a shrug of her shoulder and disappeared behind the door.

Driftwood thought it over. That was the problem with staying in one place. Still water became stagnant. He thought again about Eddie. If something happened to the boy, how long would it be before someone made the connection between him and Driftwood? How many people had seen Driftwood? How many would see Eddie? How many would see the two of them together?

Even as his mind churned on these thoughts, the woman appeared in the second floor window above. Her shoulders were bare and she stood in the exact center of the window frame, staring down at Driftwood with apparent disinterest. After a moment she bent down out of sight, then rose up again, holding a boom box stereo. She placed it on the sill, speakers facing out into the alley. Then she turned away. The boom box sat on the edge of the sill, mute.

Driftwood shifted further back in the shadows. Besides gas, he would need money. Not much. Just enough keep him in fuel and road food. And damn Nanna for not having the money! If the old cow had been even half of what everyone said about her, Driftwood would be well on his way to Alaska. But he couldn't afford to waste his energy raging about that now. He peeked from behind the dumpster at the pickup again. How much gas was in the tank?

As he watched, a middle-aged man, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt stole down the alley from up the way. His movements suggested he was trying to be discreet, but the bright, clean clothes he wore stood out amid the darkness and drab of the alley.

Driftwood watched as the man, apparently unaware of Driftwood's presence, stopped near the pickup and glanced about carefully. He looked up toward the window where Driftwood had seen the young woman and stood still, listening. Then he opened the door and disappeared into the building.

Driftwood waited.

After a minute, the woman on the upper floor reappeared at the window. She hit the switch on the boom box. Music blared out into the alley; a local radio station. She turned and was swallowed by the vacancy beyond the window.

Music will at least help pass the time, Driftwood thought. He raised an imaginary glass to the window. Here's to business. He settled back and continued to wait.

To be continued...

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. XI)

The day he met his father, Eddie awoke to the sound of Carlotta speaking with a man who was not Darrel outside his door. The tones were calm. Or at least not enraged. Eddie lay on the smelly mattress on the floor and listened. The words were indistinct. Something about money. Something about a complicated situation.

Eddie sat up and rubbed his eyes. Carlotta's voice began to take on the sharp edge that Eddie knew so well. He stood up, walked to the door, opened it and stepped out into the hallway.

Carlotta's silhouette was sharp against the morning light, framed by the door at the end of the hall. She stood with her back to him, facing the world outside the dingy apartment. Someone was on the doorstep beyond her. A man Eddie did not know.

Carlotta glanced back over her shoulder. "Shit! He's awake now," she said.

"Is that him?" the man beyond her asked. His voice was subdued. 

Carlotta shrugged. She turned away from the man to speak to Eddie. "Well, kid, look what washed up at the door. You always wondered, but it looks like today is your day to find out. This here is your father."

She stepped aside. Eddie, bathed in unfiltered sunlight, felt suddenly naked and self-conscious. He smoothed down his sleep-mussed hair and squinted.

The man, whoever he was, seemed to be afraid of Carlotta. Eddie couldn't blame him for that. The man stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. His face was bent toward his feet, but he peered up from under at Eddie. For a dreamy moment, Eddie imagined he stood before a mirror that revealed himself twenty years in the future.

"How ya doin', kid?" the man said.

"You're my dad?" Eddie asked.

The man shrugged, but said nothing.

Carlotta filled the void. "Yep. That's him alright. Biggest mistake of my life. I haven't seen him since the day I told him you were coming. Well, here he is, twelve years later."

The man didn't seem to hear. He was looking at Eddie.

Carlotta kept going. "I don't imagine you're here to take him off my hands, are ya?"

"Carlotta, give it a rest," the man said. "I told you. I got troubles of my own."

"Oh, life is real hard up there in Oregon, ain't it?" Carlotta mocked. "Why did you come here?"

Eddie's father shrugged. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Eddie. "I came to see my son," he said.

"Well, take a good look and be on your way," she said. "Darrel will be home soon, and you won't wanna be here."

He spoke to Eddie. "Yeah, kid, I'm your dad. If I ever doubted it, now that I've seen you I know it's true." He took a step across the threshold and stuck out his hand. "If your mom didn't tell you, my name's Adam."

Eddie looked from Adam's face to the extended hand. It was a small hand, very clean, with short, round fingers.  Eddie held out his own hand. Adam seemed relieved as he took it..

"Kid, you wanna go get some breakfast?" Adam asked.

Eddie glanced at Carlotta.

She rolled her eyes. "If you're not gonna take him home with ya, yeah, get him out of my hair for the morning at least," she said.

Adam smiled. "Come on, Eddie. Let's go get some pancakes."

Adam had a car parked on the street. They drove to a breakfast joint not far from the apartment. Adam chose a booth in a corner by the window. The waitress brought menus and left to fetch coffee.

"Get whatever you want, kid," Adam said.

Eddie didn't need to look at the menu. "Chocolate chip pancakes," he said.

Adam smiled. "Been here before?" he asked.

"Carlotta brought me here on my birthday. Darrel slept late that day and we snuck out before he got up."

"This Darrel sounds like a hell of a guy," Adam said.

Eddie shrugged.

"So, you play sports, kid?"

Eddie shook his head. "Just go to school. I don't really hang out with anybody there."

Adam nodded. He dropped his eyes to the table. "Listen, kid, I wanted to tell you--"

The waitress arrived with coffee and a glass of milk. Adam ordered an omelet for himself and bacon and pancakes for Eddie.

Eddie gulped his milk. He took a good look at Adam over the rim of his glass. Adam wasn't exactly what Eddie pictured when he thought of his father. Everything Eddie knew about his father, he'd had to piece together from the tidbits, usually delivered in the form of sneers or insults, that Carlotta had let slip as Eddie grew up. She'd never had anything good to say about him, but Eddie had reserved judgement. In his own mind, he'd imagined his father to be kind and noble and strong, with broad shoulders and a generous smile.

The diminutive, uncertain man Eddie saw before him now was hardly that. But he seemed nice.

Adam poured cream into the steaming cup. It roiled within, keeping its own cloudy identity, until he stirred it. At that point, everything changed to pale mud.

"What do you do for fun?" Adam asked.

"Mostly I just hang out," Eddie said. "Goof around outside. I don't like to stay at home."

Adam nodded. "So, you should know you've got a baby sister up in Oregon. I live in a town called Gresham. I got a wife up there and a little baby girl." His eyes were fixed on Eddie's face.

Eddie slurped his milk.

Adam spoke again. Slowly, as if he chose every word with care. "I got something here for you," he said. He fished in his pocket and produced a key chain attached to a small plastic figure. "In case you ever get a car and want to come up to Oregon."

Eddie took the key chain and looked at it closely. The figure was a mermaid. Her tail was painted green with two red dots on each flesh-colored breast. He could feel Adam's eyes on him as he looked at it and knew somehow that the man's heart was in his throat. So Eddie smiled. "Thanks," he said. When Adam smiled, Eddie felt happy.

"You got anything you wanna ask me, kid?"

Eddie didn't need long to think about it. "Can I call you Dad?" he asked.

To be continued...

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. X)

The most amazing thing, if you asked Eddie, was how Jonah managed to keep from falling on his face. The guy just never stopped moving. One minute, he balanced on a toe, opposite knee held high, a hand held flat over his eyes, as if he were a sea-faring captain peering at the horizon from the prow of his vessel; the next, he sat on an invisible chair, rocking an invisible baby in his arms.

Eddie stood up from the bench, turned, and leaned his back against the river wall to watch. Flo stood beside him, fascinated. People at the tables sat transfixed. Casual strollers stopped to watch.

Jonah affected the stature of a man riding an invisible horse, the heels of his black buckled shoes clomping out an equestrian cadence."Eventually, Máximo returned from his travels. On the very day the ship docked in San Juan, weary but determined Máximo rode out to return to his household. He arrived in the late afternoon." (Jonah pantomimed dismounting from a horse).

"Máximo was not a volatile man by nature. Years of back-breaking toil had cured him of it. And just as well, for a hair-trigger temper on such a large, powerful man would no doubt have led to tragedy. Nonetheless, even Guadalupe was surprised at his lack of reaction when he entered the house to find two new additions to his household.

"She greeted him in the foyer, dressed in her church clothes with her hands clasped before her. Máximo  nodded at her, then glanced at Dolores --the young woman Lupe had found weeping by the river --where she stood at the hearth, stirring something in a cast iron pot with a wooden spoon. At the sight of him, Dolores shrank back into the shadows, fearing this dour man with the blank expression." (Jonah seemed to shrivel up with apprehension.)

"Máximo turned his gaze back to his wife and seemed on the verge of some terrible pronouncement when a sound came from the back of the house. It was like the mewling of a trapped animal --both fearful and outraged. Máximo frowned and Guadalupe held her breath. Then the big man strode past her without a word, toward the source of the noise." (Jonah affected the posture of a bearish man striding with determination, shoulders forward, head down.)

"The women had made a nursery of a room in the back of the house, and the child was there, in a crib that Lupe had acquired on a trip to town. Máximo walked up to the crib and looked down on the child where it lay sprawling on its back like a naked turtle. 'Behold, husband!' Lupe breathed. 'I call him Eligius, because he is a the child God has chosen for us!'" (Jonah stood with his hands clasped before him, eyes turned upward to peer at the invisible Máximo.)

"Time stood still while Máximo beheld the child --the cocoa-colored skin would serve well in the Caribbean climate, the long arms and legs foretold physical strength. The strange birthmark on the child's breast, shaped like a mermaid, filled Máximo with a foreboding he could not understand. At long last, he spoke: 'The courtiers in Madrid and Paris have taken to wearing purple. Indigo is fetching a handsome price in Veracruz. The child shall not lack for anything.'" (Jonah stood tall like a man who willingly shoulders an awesome responsibility.)

Eddie, watching from near the bench, frowned. Jonah's words took him back to a different time when a father had beheld his son for the first time.

 To be continued...

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. IX)

Hope dies hard. And on the occasion of finding the child, this truth served Guadalupe well.

Early in her marriage, Guadalupe had sewn a wardrobe of baby clothes in expectation of the child that she and Máximo would someday have. As the years passed and Guadalupe's womb remained empty, the baby clothes made their way to a trunk in a corner of her sewing room. As the hope faded further, the trunk made its way to the cellar. But Guadalupe had never forgotten the sad little garments. 

On the day she found the child, she brought him in and laid him naked on her bed, then hurried to the cellar and dragged out the old chest. The clothes were there, neatly folded and smelling surprisingly fresh. She hurried back to try them on the child who gurgled happily as she poked his arms and legs into the sleeves. She took it as a sign from God that the clothes fit perfectly.

Next, she went to the goat pen and tried to squeeze milk from the udder of a less-than-obliging nanny. The goat had recently kidded and was stingy with her milk, but Guadalupe knew a trick or two. She found the kid and strapped it to the nanny's side with its head toward the udder. After that, the milk flowed freely into the pail. 

She returned to the bedroom to find the child wide awake and staring solemnly at the shadows playing on the walls. She fashioned a nursing bottle from some cloth and a flask and fed the child until he fell asleep in her arms.

As he slept, Guadalupe's thoughts turned to the matter of the child's mother. Where was she? How had her child come to be on the stream bank near Guadalupe's home? 

Puerto Rico was a dangerous place in those days, and Guadalupe had no trouble imagining a likely story. Civilization, such as it was, had spread all along the shores of the island, but the interior hills were a different story. Escaped slaves, stranded pirates and common criminals inhabited the dark places in the forest, keeping out of sight and beyond the reach of Spanish law. Doubtless, the child was the product of some liaison among the hidden people. The mother, whoever she was, put her child in the basket and sent it down the stream, hoping for the best. After all, even a watery death for the newborn could be no worse than the fate that awaited it in the wild interior.

The more Guadalupe thought about it, the more convinced she became that the child had come to her through an act of God. As He decreed, thus would it be. For the sake of the child and, yes, for the sake of Guadalupe and Máximo who were basically decent, pious people, her Christian duty was clear. 

She decided against making inquiries in San Juan to find the child's mother. 

And although she was sure in her faith, she repeated the rationale to Ingrid, the old slave woman who kept the chickens and cooked meals for her. As Ingrid stirred a kettle over the flames in the kitchen, Guadalupe explained how she had no choice but to keep the child for herself and her husband. It was God's will. Ingrid, mute and impassive, nodded. Guadalupe was never sure how much Spanish the old woman understood. 

The Caribbean were troubled waters in those times. A swash-buckling brigand known to the local authorities as El Cocodrilo del Mar terrorized the waters between Veracruz and Havana and word reached Guadalupe that Máximo's return would be delayed. The notorious Cocodrilo had boarded and looted a fully-laden merchant ship just as it was leaving for Sevilla and the Spanish commodore had ordered a restriction on travel between the islands while his fleet sought the ever-illusive Cocodrilo. 

Guadalupe greeted the news of her husband's delay with ambivalence. On the one hand, Máximo's absence gave her time to prepare. He was a stolid, unimaginative man and Guadalupe was not sure how he would react to the discovery of an infant of unknown origin under his roof. The extra time afforded by his absence could be put to good use accommodating the child in the house. Máximo would be easier to win over if he returned to a smoothly functioning household.

On the other hand, Guadalupe was already stretched to her limit running the house, seeing to the farm's affairs, and overseeing the slaves. The addition of a child who required constant attention required time that she simply did not have.

But Guadalupe's faith was rewarded.

One morning, having left the child in Ingrid's care, Guadalupe hitched the plow horse to the cart and drove to the market before the gate of San Juan. As she urged the old nag across a muddy ford in a stream that cut the road, she notice a young woman by the water, bent with grief. The girl lay in the mud, face to the ground, her slight frame wracked with sobs.

Guadalupe reined up and called to the girl, who lifted her face to reveal a tear-streaked brown face. Shabby clothes and calloused, bare feet spoke of a life of poverty and destitution.

"Why do you cry, child?" Guadalupe asked.

The girl's reply was angry and full of venom. "Because I am bereft and powerless and my enemy has taken my happiness from me."

Guadalupe responded with a puzzled frown.

The girl continued, interrupting herself with pitiful sobs. "Not long ago, I gave birth to a child, an angel. He was my life. But one day, when I went to the river to bathe him, a squall came up from the sea and the stream flooded and carried him off. This very stream. Since that day, I have followed it, hoping against hope to find my child. And now, here I am and the sea is there and I know my child has passed beyond my reach forever and I am left with nothing. And I curse fate for taking away my purpose."
  
Guadalupe's mind churned. Could it really be? 

In the tiny, eternal wake of the girl's soliloquy, the course of fate was laid out before Guadalupe. She spoke. "Come, child," she said. She patted the cart bench next to her. "I have work for you."

The girl rose like a marionette dangling from the hand of some unknown puppet master. Wordlessly, she climbed onto the cart and took a seat beside Guadalupe, who wiped her face with the folds of her skirt. "All will be as it must, child," Guadalupe told her.

As she wheeled the cart around, clucking at the horse and shaking the reins, Guadalupe felt her heart settle into its new channel. God in His infinite wisdom, had sent this girl to her to fill the voids in each of their spirits.  Guadalupe was never more sure of anything in her life.

Together, they would raise the child in a godly fashion. 

To be continued... 

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. VIII)

"Hello and good day, everyone! Welcome to the Rose City!" Jonah's voice boomed out across the concrete. Some two dozen people sat at the tables near the food cart and another dozen or so were nearby on the esplanade and the sound drew their attention. Eddie and Flo, seated on the bench, turned away from the river to look.

Costumed like a pirate, with a frilly white blouse, a tricorner hat, breeches, knee socks and buckled, black leather shoes, Jonah stood tall. He had removed the trunk from the rickshaw and stood atop it, towering over the loosely assembled crowd. His face was done up to appear grizzled and unshaven.

"And what a lovely day it is!" he bellowed. "Who says that Portland is all rain and drizzle? A day like today, when the sun is so proud, is a day to see things clearly. It's a day to take note of where the currents of life have carried you." He surveyed his audience, taking in the bemused, interested expressions.

("What is he up to?" Flo asked. Eddie shrugged.)

"Where is everyone from?" he continued. He pointed to a man seated at one of the tables --a paunchy middle-aged man with thin hair and sagging shoulders, a handsome middle-aged woman seated at his side. "You, sir! Where do you call home?"

"Seattle!" came the reply.

"Seattle!" Jonah said. "One of the few places in the lower forty-eight that gets less sunshine than Portland." He winked. "My sympathies." He pointed to another spectator; a pretty young woman in polka-dot sun dress and sandals. "How about you?"

"Eugene, Oregon."

"From Eugene! Upriver!" Jonah said. "Carried downstream by the mighty Willamette! Hang on, sister! The ride has only begun." He cast his gaze at Flo. "How about you? Where are you from?"

Flo looked down and said nothing.

"Come now. Don't be shy," Jonah said. "Where are you from, sister?"

"She's from nowhere," Eddie said. 

Jonah's face was a mask of disappointment and surprise. "Nowhere?" he asked. "Imagine that." He pulled at his chin. "Nowhere." Then he shook his head, as if to clear it of puzzling thoughts.

"In any case, I can see we've got some adventurous spirits among us." He cast a quick glance at Eddie. "All to the good. Who doesn't love adventure? In my experience, adventurers come in two types. Those who go out to seek their fortunes and those who seek to escape from the fortunes thrust upon them."

Jonah struck a pose. He stood on one foot and crossed his knee with the other foot in a figure-four. He held one arm across his middle and one hand to his chin. He squatted as if he were seated on an invisible stool. For all appearances, he was sitting on empty space.

("How does he do that?" Flo whispered. "It's just practice is all," Eddie said doubtfully.)

"When I look out on this crowd," Jonah continued, "I'm reminded of Eligius and how he discovered his fortune in the days when the Caribbean Sea was a wild and adventuresome place. You all know the story, yes?" Jonah straightened and cast about, looking for acknowledgment. Blank faces.

"No! Really?" Jonah asked, astonished. "No one in this crowd of adventurers knows the story of Eligius, the pirate's son? I simply can't believe it." He cast about in disbelief, then seemed to accept the truth of it. "Well, if you'll indulge me, I'll remedy that." He glanced at Eddie and chanced a conspiratorial wink.

"Listen closely, if you will," Jonah said. "There is a lesson here for everyone." He stood with his feet apart and his chest pushed out, one arm across his breast.

Eligius, the Pirate's Son

Long ago, in the days when oceans were bigger than they are today, when men still sailed in masted wooden ships and measured their positions by gazing at the stars, a childless woman found a baby in a basket on the banks of a muddy stream in Puerto Rico. 

The woman's name was Guadalupe and she was a kindly woman and good, from a noble family of pure Spanish blood. Such was her nature that, even as a child, those who knew her agreed that Guadalupe was born to be a mother. 

Guadalupe was the wife of Máximo Fuentes, the most important merchant in all of San Juan, who made his fortune through hard work and discipline.

In those days, Puerto Rico was the key to Spain's American empire. Spanish fleets, laden with gold and spices, would make San Juan their final port of call before the long voyage eastward across the Atlantic. 

Máximo came to San Juan from Spain early in his life. He received an inheritance from his blue-blooded father and set out for the New World, determined to carve his own fortune. He purchased land not far from the settlement and with no more than a dozen slaves, cleared and tilled a full labor of land, just off the road to Bayamón. From the newly-won land, Máximo grew yams and squash and raised cattle to sell to the fleets and the Spanish garrison at the harbor. Over the years, his business and his reputation grew; and when finally, after he was a well-established and respected citizen in San Juan, he sent word back to his family in Grenada, arrangements were made and the political match-making of Spanish nobility dictated that Guadalupe, the daughter of an allied family, sail westward for a life in the New World.  

When Guadalupe debarked, he was waiting at the dock, dressed in a threadbare and hopelessly passé suit for which he would have been mocked in the courts of Spain. But Guadalupe was not a woman to dwell on such matters. Rather, it was the look of grim determination on her groom's face, a look tinged with resignation and despair that gave her pause. Is this what the frontier has in store for me then? she wondered. Very well. I am strong, in faith, if nothing else.

Their marriage and their life together was arduous. It was not easy, in those days, to live on the outskirts of the empire. And if the thing that grew between them was not exactly love, they respected and appreciated each other enough to make life tolerable. In the early years of their marriage, although they tried, and although their wealth and influence in San Juan grew, God did not see fit to bless them with a child.

After several years of barrenness, the Fuentes' hopes for a child slowly faded. Máximo spent more of his time away on business, selling his salted beef to other Caribbean settlements, everywhere from Haiti to Cuba. Guadalupe kept herself busy running the household, overseeing the work of a full staff of servant women and arranging for the care and upkeep of the slaves who tended the land. 

Guadalupe had been in the new world for ten years on the day that she spied the basket resting on the muddy stream bank. Máximo was away on an extended trip, having sailed to Veracruz to negotiate a contract for a new cash crop. (Back in Spain, the aristocrats had taken to wearing purple and demand for indigo was such that even the cautious Máximo was attracted by the thought of mountainous profit.)

Guadalupe was making her routine circuit of the farm, when she saw it. A woven basket like those that she saw the local women carry to market in San Juan. Curiosity, nourished by the ennui of a gentlewoman's life, caused her to approach and peer inside. 

Within, dark, solemn eyes set in a cherubic face calmly beheld her. Guadalupe was astonished to discover a baby, wrapped in swaddling folds.

When she saw the child she was nearly overcome. Why would a baby be alone in a basket on the steam bank that bordered her husband's estate? Surely the mother must be nearby.

Guadalupe took the basket and laid it higher up the bank, away from the water. Then she looked around. But she could not see far. On the stream's far bank, the forest was thick in shadow; silk-cotton and candle-wood defeated the sunlight. She feared to leave the child, but she stood on the bank and called out into the darkness. "¿Hola? Is anyone there?"

For a moment she thought she could hear rustling and her heart stopped. She sensed movement in the shadows and might have heard human voices, but no one or nothing revealed itself. 

She called out again, but the darkness swallowed her lonesome cry.

Guadalupe returned to the basket, unwrapped the child and took it in her arms. It was a boy with long arms and legs and brown skin. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the child save an ink-stain birthmark on its breast, directly over its heart, in the shape of a sirena, one of the fabled fish-women that lured men to watery death on the high seas.

No matter how the child had come nor whom it belonged to, Guadalupe could not leave it to fend for itself. No Christian would. So she lay the child in the basket and took it with her back to the manor. 

She did not yet dare to hope that the child was a gift from God.

To be continued...

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

River (Pt. VII)

The sun approaches its apogee. The heat, unseen but growing in presence, seems to take form above the white concrete. Traffic sounds from the ramps of the Marquam Bridge overhead.

In the shade of the trailer, la abuelita worries her beads. Her lips respond to the sensations in her fingers, silently forming each word of the five decades. Eyes closed; face bent skyward. The path of her devotions --Padre Nuestro, Ave Maria, Gloria --is so familiar that there is no stone upon it which she does not know. Her mind wanders through gray dusty labyrinths. Her thoughts hold a candle to the void. "Gloria al Padre, al Hijo y al Espíritu Santo. Como era en el principio, ahora y siempre, por los siglos de los siglos."

Flo pauses at the edge of the shaded space. The ghosts have returned --the man and the child. Away under the Hawthorne Bridge, they stand and watch. The man holds the child to his side with an arm around the shoulders. She is afraid, but she believes they will not approach in the heat of the day. She remembers the sack of food in her hand. She considers, then walks to the car and takes one burrito from the sack. She opens the driver side door and drops the sack on the seat behind the wheel. She turns and walks back toward the bench where Eddie is sitting.

Driftwood is farther up, standing in shadow behind a filthy green dumpster. He has returned to retrieve the gas can and siphon hose from the trunk of the car. He watches Flo wander away from the car toward the riverbank. People are gathered at the picnic tables and milling about on the esplanade. Driftwood waits.

Eddie is on the bench in the blazing sun. He thinks about finding a phone. Perhaps he can borrow one from a stranger. So that he might call his father. To announce his presence. I am your son. Eddie. From California. Would it be alright if I stopped by?

Flo approaches and sits beside him and he is distracted by her presence and the smell of food. She sits, takes a bite from the burrito, then offers it to him. Wordlessly, they share. Although famished, they eat slowly and calmly, thinking their thoughts. The river flows beneath the line of their visions.

Jonah prepares for the show. He dabs makeup on his face. He pencils a moustache on his upper lip. He rummages in the trunk of the rickshaw for a pirate's eye-patch and a blousy white shirt. He will begin his performance shortly.

Jonah is confident of success because he knows he is the kind of person who can enter a room and have everyone eating out of his hand. Jonah is a practiced and confident performer and he has never failed at a performance.

Except for the one time.

That day the crowd was big. Fifty or more people sat at the tables and stood on the pavement watching as he went through his verbal and physical contortions. He worked his audience with skill and confidence. He developed his story carefully, emphasizing what was important. As he spoke, the story unfolded like a map. And then, just as he was arriving at the moral of his story, the audience in the palm of his hand, he had looked out and seen the tall, stoop-shouldered figure standing at the back of the crowd. The figure who, despite the sunglasses and the floppy shade hat and the deliberately inconspicuous posture, Jonah knew to be Elihu Rosenkwit. Jonah's father. Scornful, iron-willed Elihu standing at the back; silent, but undeniably present.

His father's stance, the set of his jaw --these told Jonah all he needed to know. His father had come down from Seattle, unannounced, to see the show. To indulge Jonah. To let Jonah know that he viewed Jonah's chosen path as foolishness. An indulgence to be granted. A bothersome petulance that a father must endure in order that his son might see the error of his ways.

The discovery of his father caused Jonah to become flustered and lose his concentration. At the crucial point in his story, his delivery faltered. His power-packed ending was robbed of its effect. When he finished, he saw the confused looks and uncertain smiles and knew that he had lost his audience. And although he did not look at Elihu, he sensed that his father was smirking. Smirking behind his sunglasses and the hard set of the jaw. As the crowd dispersed, Jonah did not pass his hat, but turned away in shame. He did not engage them. He did not solicit them to put money in the basket that he had placed on the concrete before him. He turned away and busied himself at the rickshaw. But no one approached him. When he sensed that everyone had gone he went to retrieve the basket knowing it would be empty. But it was not empty. In the bottom was a white, business-sized envelope. Jonah picked it up and glanced inside to see the thick stack of bills within. He did not count the money, but he knew it was more than he could expect to make for the entire summer. His father was gone, dispersed with the rest of the disappointed crowd.

Since then, Jonah has never failed at a performance. He is confident that today's show will be well received. The people eating at the food cart, the people strolling along the esplanade are mostly tourists and tourists appreciate entertainers.

The kid, Eddie, and the young woman and the square-shouldered man who arrived that morning in the car have inspired Jonah. Desperation, lunacy, fear --these are the elements of a good story. Jonah is driven to match the story that is unfolding beside him with a story of his own.

These thoughts riff in his head as he finishes applying makeup and dons his costume. When he is done, he draws a deep breath, sets his mind to right, and steps up onto the plastic pedestal he has placed on the walkway.

Driftwood, from his hiding place behind the dumpster, sees Jonah step forward, sees how he draws all the attention to himself. Driftwood slips out from his hiding place, makes his way to the car, takes the food from the front seat, springs the trunk, and quietly takes the gas can and the siphon hose and steals away, back into the shade.

It's showtime.

To be continued...

Read Part I here.Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.