Movie review: The Counselor

Note to readers: If you're following along with my story (novel? novella? short story?) "River," don't despair! I'm still working on it. Another episode will be forthcoming in the not-too-distant future. Whatever that means.

The Counselor is a collaboration from two formidable artists: director Ridley Scott and screen-play author Cormac McCarthy. That, right there, sets expectations high.

The cast is a powerhouse. Michael Fassbender (who was fantastic in Inglourious Basterds), Brad Pitt, Penélope Cruz, Cameron Diaz, and Javier Bardem. This is Bardem's second collaboration with McCarthy. Recall that he played the terrifying Anton Chigurh in the Coen Brother's No Country for Old Men. More about that flick later.

Ridley Scott's made some great flicks. My favorite is Alien (1979), one of the best ever science-fiction thrillers (and the flick that made Sigourney Weaver's career). McCarthy is one of the premier writers of our time, having written such classic literary novels as Blood Meridian and The Road. Artists like these aren't common. 

Judging from their previous works, you can expect the world they create to be beautiful, yes --but also appallingly dark.

Right on both counts! The Counselor is a suspenseful and profound flick that makes you stare into the face of an abyss that most of us would rather not know exists.

It's the story of an unnamed protagonist, the counselor. (McCarthy often refrains from naming his protagonists.) The counselor is a successful criminal attorney in El Paso who decides to dive into the dangerous and violent world of international drug trafficking. The counselor is in love with Laura (Cruz) and wants to provide her with a life of comfort and opulence. He partners up with a coke-dealing client, hedonistic Reiner (Bardem), and a shady finance lawyer named Westray (Pitt). Malkina (Diaz) is Reiner's sharp-as-a-razor girlfriend who always seems to be in the know about everything. She has cheetah spots tattooed down her flank. She owns two of the predatory cats, which she occasionally sets loose upon the local jack-rabbit population.

The complicated scheme involves making a big drug buy from a cartel in Mexico and delivering the cargo to a distributor in Chicago. "A one time thing," as the counselor imagines. If everything goes as planned, money changes hands and everyone walks away happy.

It doesn't work out that way.

The acting was great, Bardem in particular. The dialog is sharp and significant, with lots of profound exchanges.

"When the axe comes through the door, I'll already be gone. You know that," Malkina says. Reiner nods. "That's fair."

"It's not my fault," the counsellor protests. "It's just a coincidence." "These people don't believe in coincidences," Westray replies with matter-of-fact coldness. "They've heard about them. But they've never seen one."

And then there is the soul chilling exchange between the counselor and an unnamed, mobbed-up Mexican lawyer played by Ruben Blades. "There is no choosing," the lawyer says. "The choosing was done a long time ago. There is only accepting."

This is the stuff that keeps me coming back for more. McCarthy has few rivals when it comes to delivering maximum meaning with the minimum number of words. And when the lines are delivered by a cast that strong, it is positively sublime.

This is a well-crafted, suspenseful film that has you sitting in your seat, dreading what is to come. (Expectations are set early when Reiner describes the use of a ghastly assassination tool called a bolito.) And that's the way things go in McCarthy stories: Things are set in motion and there is no going back. Some of the characters accept it. Others fight their fates. Can you guess who gets the worst of it?

But at times the Shakespearean soliloquies seemed a bit forced and unlikely. And the movie's 111 minutes ran a bit long.

McCarthy's usual explorations of solipsism and predestination are powerfully presented. But, you know, The Counselor covers much of the same ground that was already covered by No Country for Old Men. In fact, the two stories have a lot of similar elements: a protagonist who sacrifices his woman in a futile attempt to save himself, a grizzly murder by garrote, a ruthlessly competent villain. The Counselor is different from No Country in that it is more talking, less action. But it's the usual McCarthy: despair in the face of the void.

I enjoyed the hell out of this flick. But it's not for everybody.

River (Pt. XIV)

Jonah's performance grinds forward. Not a single soul has left the area around the food cart. Hector, forgotten behind the counter, rests on his elbows, himself caught up in the show. La abuelita rocks on her stool, working her beads. Passers-by from the esplanade collect on the periphery. Flo moves from the bench to a place in the shade, nearer to Jonah, tickling the edge of his vision. Only Eddie seems to have lost interest. He sits with his back to Jonah, staring out at the river. It bothers Jonah, but he files it away for later analysis. The show must go on.

***

The years rolled swiftly past. Eligius began to bud into manhood and by his twelfth year, worked the farm with Máximo. He learned to harvest indigo alongside the slaves. He learned to slaughter and butcher livestock and salt the meat for sale to the Spanish garrisons in San Juan and Bayamón. Whipcord muscles knotted his arms and legs.

Máximo was well-pleased. If the boy would ever assume management of the estate, he must first learn the work, truly. But his actions proved him eager to do so.

Tastes for vivid, exotic apparel did not wane in the fashionable quarters of the great European cities. Máximo's decision to raise indigo brought him great wealth. He doubled the number of slaves on his estate and cleared land much further inland. In time, his holdings became so expansive that it took him a full day to walk the perimeter which extended from the shore well into the hinterland.

But peril loomed at the far corners of Máximo's lands. Runaway slaves and castaways inhabited the shadows of the highlands, and more than once, Máximo saw evidence of their presence. Cold ashes from campfires, carcasses of poached animals, discarded clothes and broken tools. Now and then a shallow grave. Máximo never left the homestead unarmed, but the vagabonds themselves stayed out of sight.

On the water, El Cocodrilo del Mar's reputation grew. Every merchant ship carried tales of his plunder. In San Juan, the Governor proclaimed a bounty of 500 doubloons that carried all the weight of an old crone's mutterings at the campfire. All knew that more than gold or soldiers would be needed to capture the Crocodile. Some said he could breathe water; that he dwelt in an underwater cave not a cannon shot's distance from El Morro itself; that he knew of every ship that passed through the mouth of San Juan bay. They said he was a master of disguise and deception and spoke fifteen languages and was at home among any crowd. The people believed he had the run of the city, and frequented the brothels and taverns in the township. He was said to carry a string of human ears around his neck and a pouch at his belt, filled with the powdered bones of victims of his piracy.

The more responsible citizens of San Juan, Máximo and the Governor among them, scoffed at such romantic notions. And yet, no matter what he said, the Governor was never without an armed escort when he passed through San Juan's streets, and they said he burned a lamp in his chambers all through the night. 

For Eligius, El Cocodrilo was an exciting whisper passed between the slaves when they rested in the courtyard after the day's labors. Entertaining, yes. But life was cutting indigo and slaughtering livestock or learning letters from Lupe's stern hand.

In his fourteenth year, on the very anniversary of the day when Lupe had found him, Eligius's stood on the far edge of the Fuentes' territory, staring at markings in the mud of a stream bank. He did not know of the anniversary; Lupe had never told him the story. Nor did he know that he stood beside the very stream by which Lupe had found him all those years ago. What interested him were the markings.

Two sets of prints from two very different animals pocked the soft mud beside the slow-moving water.

The first set was the cloven-hoof markings of a boar. The animal was known to Eligius. He'd seen it rooting in the mud over the past several weeks. Máximo had recently instructed the boy on the use of the matchlock musket and when Máximo left the estate that morning, Eligius decided that this would be the day that the beast would die. He entertained visions of presenting the carcass, dressed-out and ready for salting, to Máximo upon the older man's return.

The other set of prints intrigued Eligius greatly. They were bootprints. Each print had a distinct heel and sole that suggested sturdy boots. Nothing that a lawless refugee might be expected to wear.

Eligius spoke to Ancianito, the old mestizo slave who had accompanied him on his patrol. 'What have we here, old one?' he asked.

'Caution, young master,' said Ancianito. 'There is danger here.'

'A poacher,' the boy said. 'Go back and fetch my father. Tell him what passes. I will follow this trail and take the lay of the land.'

Ancianito hesitated. 'Young master, think on it carefully. Escaped slaves don't wear boots...'

'Don't worry, old man,' the boy replied. 'These outlaws are craven. They flee before the righteous.' This was a truth that Lupe had taught him.

'Master, this is not a common vagabond.'

'Ancianito, do as I say,'Eligius commanded.

Disapproval showed in the reluctance of the old man's steps and the sullen set of his shoulders. Nonetheless he obeyed. Eligius waited until he was swallowed in Spanish elm and satinwood.

Eligius checked the powder in the pan of the heavy musket and stowed the match in his breast pocket. It was a heavy, awkward weapon, but after weeks of practice he could fire and reload nearly as quickly as Máximo. He'd seen the wounds it inflicted when Máximo brought down pigs at fifty paces. Whoever might be up the trail ahead of him would do well to avoid a similar fate.

He proceeded cautiously, but it was not easy going. Holly and itamo real choked the stream-banks and with each step. But the trail of his quarry was clear. The pig and the man (Eligius assumed it was a man) used the stream as their highway.

Verdant canopy concealed the sun. The heavy musket and the difficulty of progress wore on Eligius. Sweat poured into the boy's eyes, and doubt gnawed at his heart. He was well beyond the boundaries of the Fuentes estate. Never before had he been this far into the interior. Perhaps it would be best to turn back and meet Máximo. Ancianito had spoken truly: Eligius had no idea who or what lay ahead. 

He came to a bosky area where the stream widened into a calm, green pool. A dim light filtered through the leafy canopy. Shadows shrouded the undergrowth. A round stone at the water's edge offered an inviting resting place. Eligius leaned the musket butt-down in the crook of an elm and sat down to catch his breath.

As his breathing calmed, the boy became aware of the sounds around him. He heard the kow-kow-kuk of a lizard-cuckoo, the croaking of coquí, but beneath those there was only silence. No grunts from a rooting boar; no sound of man. Eligius took comfort in the thought that his pursuit was likely forlorn. 

'You'll find your musket to be of little use in this terrain.' The voice seemed to come from the trees overhead. 

Panic gripped Eligius heart. 'Who's there?' he cried, springing to his feet and reaching for the musket. 

Movement flashed in the corners of his vision. A rustle in the shadows. A gleeful laugh. Splashing in the shallows. Before any of it could register, Eligius stared into the maw of a pistol, match alight and hissing. He froze.

'Don't get frisky, boy.' A leering face came into focus behind the pistol. 'Stay where you are.'

'That's right, lad, nice and easy.' A second voice. Eligius did not take his eyes off the bore of the pistol, pointed directly at his face. 

More shapes came out of the shadows. Three, four, six --too many to count. 

'Señor Abaroa, lower your firearm.' The second voice carried a tone of command. 

The pistol dropped. Eligius's vision cleared.

A motley assortment of at least a dozen men surrounded him, leaning against tree boles, squatting in the shallow water, seated on low branches. They were clad mostly in rags, but each man had a weapon of some kind --a firearm or a blade --at hand or tucked in his belt.

The pistol-holder grinned like a maniac. He was bald, his eyes seemed unfocused, and the corners of his mouth trembled. Eligius was stilled to a deadly calm --the fellow was mad.

 'A long-barreled musket is not a weapon for the forest, lad.' Again the commanding voice. 

Eligius slid his eyes toward the source. A tall, slender figure stood nearby. He held Eligius's musket before him, examining it with interest. He had a sharp chin honed to a point by a goatee and black curls hanging at his shoulders. His clothes were several cuts above those of his companions. He sported a wide-brimmed hat from which sprouted a dazzling parrot plume. Despite the heat, the man wore a seaman's jacket and knee-high leather boots. Eligius saw the boots and knew that the pursuit was ended.

'Who are you?' the boy asked.

Soft laughter rippled among the men. The tall stranger smiled. 'Don't you know?' he asked.

An impossible realization dawned on Eligius, but he did not answer. He thought of Lupe and Dolores and his vision blurred.

El Cocodrilo smiled with his eyes. 'Now, now, lad, none of that. With any luck, no harm will come to you.' 

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. 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.