Word leaks out the putas are arriving for their bi-monthly visit. Dawn greets the men as they line the dock. Golden beams are just cresting the eastern horizon as the boat arrives. The Captain cuts the engine drifting to the dock.
Christopher’s heart has begun to hammer in anticipation. His eyes search the deck for Juanita’s slim figure. Women are shouting. They swing their skirts, pirouetting around the deck. Tossing hair, their lingering looks cause men to shout, whistle and stamp their feet. It’s a crescendo of noise and bravado.
A skinny boy jumps to the dock to secure the lines.
What! Wait! Shouldn’t Juanita secure the lines? Christopher’s breathe catches. His throat swells. No!
Shoving bodies aside he arrives at the front of the line. He shouts down to the skinny kid, “Donde esta Juanita?”
The boy pretends to cough and sneeze, pantomiming the flu.
Crushed Christopher pushes his way to the dirt trail leading up the cliff. Today there will be no new memories for Christopher and Juanita to share. In his misery he doesn’t notice the Captain. Juanita’s father studies him with a fierce scowl. He grips the boat railing until his knuckles turn white.
Cresting the cliff Christopher sits down hard. Holding his head in his hands despair threatens. How can Juanita love a prisoner? Where is the future? One tortured thought leads to another. Have her feelings changed? Has she met someone else? Exhausted he lays down watching the colors of the sea change.
• • •
Awakening to the rumble of diesel engines he’s surprised. The Captain’s boat sets out to sea. Twilight falling, the time of day the trees collectively sigh and breathe. Juanita explained this mystery. She said, “Trees breathe once a day. Together they exhale and inhale at twilight. Pay attention and you’ll be able to feel it.” Juanita think of me.
Walking on down to the beach, a full moon wondrously round, casts a luminous glow. Behind him in the quiet he hears “plop, plop.” A momma sea turtle lays her eggs. She is as big as a manhole cover. A grunt of satisfaction tells him she is finished with her chore. He watches her head to the water’s edge.
Instinctively compelled Christopher stops her. Looking into her soft eyes and gathering his intent into his belly he exhales his prayer. “Great Mama turtle please carry my prayer. I send my love and blessings for Juanita’s full recovery from the miseries of flu. Let her rest in a circle of love. As she reclaims her health, let beneficence guide and protect her. Amen.”
The turtle eases into the moon lit sea. She glances back as if to say, “okay” disappearing into the greatest mama of all. The welcoming sea washes over her. In better spirits Christopher heads to his bunk.
• • •
Lying on his cot Checo smokes a black market cigar. Ave Bonita hangs upside down rocking on her dowel perch. Her trills fill the air. Christopher sits down to listen, her song mesmerizing. Checo breaks Ave Bonita’s spell asking, “Where is your muchacha today? Is she laying down with a new man in Mazatlan?”
His laugh rumbles deep in his chest.
It takes all of Christopher’s self-restraint not to jump on Checo and beat the crap out of him. Checo blows out a tourbillion of smoke. Ave Bonita fluffs out her feathers in irritation. Choking on the swirling haze, squawking a complaint, she coughs. Her ruffled quills unleash a single green feather. Christopher watches it float to the floor.
Ave Bonita hops her way to Christopher’s bed. “Sweet Bird, you can hang out with me. Come over anytime.” Looking over at Checo he adds, “Even Ave Bonita doesn’t like you right now.” The screen door slams behind him as he goes to the kitchen tent to search out leftovers.
• • •
The next day obsessively playing out escape scenarios leaves him with a pounding headache, sick at heart for everyday of his parent’s grief. Too many visions of failed escapes are toxic.
Consciously choosing to shift his thoughts he remembers Juanita the first day he saw her. Air sparkles, the white swan peaks over her shoulder. I love her smile. She radiates sweetness, strong and feminine, delicate. As a bonus Christopher finds her smart, engaging and straight forward. There are no words to describe Juanita’s powers as a healer. She has eases my burdens in countless ways. She has uplifted me with prayer and ceremony.
He grows still. The blue dragonfly dances around him. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. At the moment of death I’ll look into Juanita’s eyes.
Then his anxiety skyrockets. Will Juanita crew her father’s boat next month? There is no way he can be certain she’ll agree to be his wife. Marriage is in the future, a future free of Islas Tres Marias.
These plans require faith. The dragonfly flutters near his heart. Pops of blue light engage and disappear. He has no idea what they mean. Yet their presence is a comfort to him. Do I have faith? Do I have the necessary faith in the unfailing goodness of life? Juanita calls it faith in beneficence. Will I break free of La Luna’s curse before I am dragged into the jungle and the bone yard?
Christopher stands straighter. He chooses. I will live with faith in Beneficence. I will live with faith in the unimpeachable truth of my integrity.
The air shines around him. Faith delivers him to the possibility Juanita can, does and will love him. Juanita the hope of their future is the glue that holds Christopher together.
Sunday afternoon he sets out to gather limes for El Jefe’s fish. Walking under the shade of a large tree with extensive exposed roots he looks up to the canopy of graceful branches dense with foliage. Leaves chatter in the tropical breeze, the seduction of a willing woman swaying and chattering while looking over her shoulder beguiling.
Sitting in his jeep a watchful guard nods. He says, “No loitering on the grounds. Only the chapel is available to inmates.” He pats and rubs the assault rifle lying across his lap. Curled in the passenger seat, tilted upright, sits a bullwhip. More and more guards are carrying the whip.
“Thanks for the warning. I just want to pick limes for the fish I prepare for El Jefe.”
The guard nods “No problemo. Go ahead.” He waves his hand in agreement.
Christopher moves quickly toward the chapel and surrounding graveyard. Here, among the markers, the lime trees grow. Christopher rubs his thumb over the bumpy skin. The dark green fruit plump. Gently pulling the lime away from the stem it drops into his hand. The back of his mouth puckers. He puts the fruit into his pants pocket.
By the time he’s carefully selected the limes a misty rain has begun to fall. To avoid a soaking Christopher jogs to the back door of the church. Rusty hinges squeak as he enters the vestibule. The sanctuary surprisingly well maintained. He notices Candle smoke has dulled the stained glass windows.
Two elderly inmates, bent with years of work in the salt pits, are mercifully assigned church duty. The chapel smells of polish and candle wax. Christopher thinks, not many men reach old age on La Luna.
Curiosity draws Christopher into an alcove. A desk and matching swivel chair fills the space. Shelves hold church artifacts, a silver chalice, and bowls for communion wafers. He sits in the oak chair testing the swivel. He uses the desktop as leverage, holding it in the classic u-grip, and pulls himself into the desk niche.
Opening the drawers Christopher finds them empty. The last drawer doesn’t rest smoothly in its tracks. He pulls and the swivel chair topples backwards. A flash of silver falls at his feet. On the stone floor lies an amethyst and pearl rosary. He flashes on the times Juanita explained La Currandera’s belief. Beneficence, a morphological field crafted with truth, acts of power and beauty, the alignment of goals and behavior. Congruency ignites positive possibilities, magnetizing beneficial circumstances. What had La Currandera asked Juanita? ‘Can you fathom a goodness requiring you to create acts of power and truth that resonate out into the world creating waves of intention where the impossible interfaces the possible?’
The rosary’s beauty astonishes him. He runs his finger over the cross. Then he lifts the figure to his lips as he has seen his father kiss the Jesus with reverence. The beads whisper and slide through his hand. He decides to take it to the chapel conservator. If he gives it to Christopher he will gift it to Juanita. A perfect gift for Juanita.
The rain has passed leaving the air fresh and plants sparkling.
Red throated frigate birds ride the thermals searching for food and mates.
Clouds catch the trade winds and dance the spontaneous choreography of moisture and air, a sacred geometry funneling across the sky. Even the ocean sways in harmony with the moon’s gravitational pull.
In the sparkling of fresh air mingling with plants, the dance of wind and clouds, in the calmness of his eye falling on far distance, suddenly Christopher can feel his God here. He can feel the large and small beauties of God right here reaching beyond the horizon where earth and sky meet. His God is alive amidst the cruelties of Islas Tres Marias.
Back at quarters Checo tells him, “Fat Luis looks for you. El Jefe wants a fish run. Get down to the dock.”
Jogging to the boat dock Christopher arrives breathless. Fat Luis is bitching. His octopus is staring at Christopher. Its arms wave in agitation. Two tiny eyes lost in the oversized head and roundness. The octopus lack of skeleton is reflected in Fat Luis’s size.
Fat Luis continues his tirade as the launch dips and sways with every step he takes to the Captain’s chair. He says, “El Jefe buys too much fish.” He glares at Christopher. Christopher could swear the Octopus glares as well. He suggests, “Why don’t I cook you a fish dinner?”
Silence sits heavy, Fat Luis silent.
His octopus arms wave in the air with gentle undulations.
For Luis food the answer to every problem, food even solves the problem of overeating. He says “Don’t expect favors from me gringo.”
“No favors big man. Just extra food I hope you enjoy.”
As their launch approaches the Vargas fishing boat Christopher sees Leon’s fleeting distaste for Luis. His overflowing belly, stained armpits, greasy hair; his girth dominates his appendages. Luis’s obsession with food has led to a stunted personality. Life skills, good communication are not relevant. Luis loses himself, loses consciousness in a spiritual union, oneness, with food he’s ingesting.
It gives Christopher pause. What would it take to excavate the feelings that lead Luis to drown himself in food?
He wants to feel compassion, but it’s not there this day. In fact his conclusion I need to find a way to distinguish myself from the fat man.
The fish purchase goes quickly aided by Christopher’s friendly banter and handshake. He makes sure Vargas junior and senior know him on a first name basis. When Vargas reaches for his payment Christopher turns to Fat Luis taking the money from his hand in one smooth motion.
Placing the dinero in Leon’s hand he says, “Vaya con Dios mi amigo.”
Leon nods, “Gracias Christopher, e usted.” From the middle of the boat Miguel raises his hand with a smile and nod to Christopher.
Such a small exchange and Christopher’s elated. He has made a personal connection. They see past my prison clothes. They see me as a human being, not a prisoner, at least for this moment. He’d like to do a small dance of joy. Today the good wishes and adios has given him hope.
• • •
Checo drops by while Christopher filets the fish at the original pits they dug. Looking up from slicing along the backbone, Christopher grins, “Hey amigo, que paso?”
Stomping toward the fire pits Checo says, “You kiss the smelly behind of the fat man and leave me with extra work.”
Sucking yet another black market cigar Checo blows the smoke at him.
Covered in fish guts Christopher snaps, “Checo for the first time we have enough to eat. I give you twenty-five percent of the profit from the fish I sell. I’m making money for both of us. Don’t complain.”
He hands Checo a fresh piece of fish knowing he’ll share a morsel with Ave Bonita.
Still angry but satisfied with the exchange, Checo moves down the hard packed trail. Ave Bonita follows painting the air with her native trills.
• • •
The putas have come and once again Juanita’s absence plows through Christopher’s gut. Determined to talk with her father he waits until the women are matched up with the first group of men. He approaches cautiously standing respectfully. He thinks this will be a delicate conversation.
Ignoring him, Juanita’s father counts his money. He’s sitting in his usual spot under the umbrella next to his boat. Taking a deep draw on his cigarette he looks up. “What’s your story? What does my daughter see in you?”
“Your daughter is a special woman.”
The Captain frowns. He leans his elbows on the table. “Young man,” he says “Juanita is not a woman. She is a girl. I do not appreciate you treating my daughter as a woman. It is disrespectful to her place in life. It is disrespectful to me her Papa. Comprende?
Christopher thinks Juanita not a woman, yet you use her to crew your floating house of prostitution!
He grits his teeth. He does not want to fight with Juanita’s father. He only wants to know if Juanita is safe. Why doesn’t she come to Islas Tres Marias?
Holding back his thoughts he says, “Yes sir. I understand.”
The Captain looks at him gruffly. “What’s your story?”
Christopher takes deep breath, to relive his parents anguish, his stupidity and the duplicity of the tuck and roll owner. The beatings and the suffering inherent living in captivity everyday on La Luna is its own torment. Every time he describes the treachery it exacts a toll. It crumbles his spirit. It makes daily life separated from his family and Juanita that much harder.
But Juanita’s father has asked. Christopher begins with his errand to the Tijuana Tuck and Roll.
Interest fades quickly in the older man’s eyes. The more Christopher reveals the more disinterested the man becomes. Frustrated Christopher stops speaking. I will not cast pearls before swine, not even for Juanita’s father.
Silence sits heavy between them.
Donde esta Juanita? He asks breaking the silence. Suddenly he is self-conscious. The beige t-shirt and beige drawstring pants, his prison clothing, marking him as an inmate of Islas Tres Marias.
The Captain does not look up from re-counting his money while replying. “She is in San Diego with her Tia.” Slowly, reluctantly the Captain continues. “She wanted to come to the island. I insisted she perform a family duty. Her Tia will take her to the San Diego Zoo and shopping.” Pride shines in the Captain’s eyes.
When he looks again at Christopher those same eyes are hard as stone. He says “Christopher, while you appear to be a gentleman, here on Islas Tres Marias you are a prisoner. If Juanita comes to Islas Tres Marias again you will remain a gentleman or gringo, I will have El Jefe cut off your huevos.” Shaking a finger with sternness he adds, “I may have him cut them off anyway.”
Christopher knows this is not an idle threat. He’s trapped in the fundamental differences between a free man and a prisoner. He swallows hard against rising anger. He will never be able to explain the depth, the authenticity of his feelings for Juanita to her father. They press against the fabric of his soul. Speaking past the lump in his throat he asks, “When are you scheduled to come to the Islands again?”
The Captain arcs the butt of his cigarette into the water. “That’s up to El Jefe. Hurricane season approaches.”
Christopher bows his head. “Please tell Juanita I look forward to our next visit.”
“If I have my wish,” the Captain says, “she will find a young man with a future. What can you offer her gringo?”
Standing tall, Christopher answers “I’m a citizen of the United States. I have a future to offer. I will not always be a prisoner on Islas Tres Marias.”
The Captain snorts. Turning his head is a dismissal. Christopher bows. He has been trained after a fight to show respect. Teeth clenched, pride slugging it out with anger, he turns walking away. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the blue dragonfly.
• • •
The following day El Jefe demands a fish run. Strangely Luis is not reluctant. He buzzes with a peculiar excitement that Christopher cannot understand. His octopus is alert. The arms waving with, not agitation, but the most activity Christopher has ever seen.
The two men stop at the supply shack next to the dock. Luis offers Christopher a cigarette. “No gracias. I don’t smoke.” Puzzled Christopher shoots him a questioning glance. He wonders, why would Luis offer me a cigarette? Typically he’s yelling complaints. What does this gesture mean? Luis smiles, the octopus undulates. “Take the cigarette gringo. A gift from El Jefe he insists you smoke it.
How do I refuse without offending El Jefe? The octopus watches him. All eight arms ripple. Fat Luis makes a show of lighting the cigarette. Christopher takes a dutiful first puff. Surrounded in a haze of smoke unprepared when Fat Luis punches him. Three hundred pounds focused right below his navel.
Christopher crashes to his knees. Luis takes the opportunity to right hook him in the ear. His world tilts and spins. Deep in his intestines nausea grips him. Christopher projectile vomits on Fat Luis’s shoe.
Infuriated Luis grabs him by the collar, yanks him to his feet and bolo punches him in the groin, the pain an electric bolt from his toes to his ears. Christopher faints. Curled in a fetal position, a fire is blazing in his belly, parts of him are swollen like a cucumber and other parts have vanished.
He comes to when Luis throws a bucket of water on him. A bucket of water Christopher supplied at Luis request before he offered him the cigarette.
Sound travels down a long corridor. From a distance he can hear Luis laughing. He says, “What are you looking for gringo? Did you lose something today?”
Hands on hips, Luis looms over Christopher. He yells, “Gringo, that’s a gift from me and El Jefe. You’re too cocky. You forget you are a prisoner! Basura! Get to your feet. Let’s go buy some fish for the man.”
Slowly Christopher rolls to his hands and knees. Face to face with the wooden dock he notices the wood is silver with age and splinters. When he stands a ripping sensation has him bending in two. That can’t be good.
There is no time to assess his injuries. He slowly moves to release the bow lines. He steps gingerly, finding his footing, aboard the launch. As they speed out toward the fisherman Christopher vomits over the side.
When his stomach settles he fills a small bucket with water. He pours the cool water down the front of his pants. Filling it a second time he pours it over his head. His ear throbs.
Fat Luis laughs and his belly bounces. Christopher gazes at his feet thinking I could kill this idiot with one blow. He feels the power of a mighty kick growing within him.
Seen from the lookout tower the escapee alert would be out before he could get very far. And he’s in no condition to run.
When he can form a cohesive thought he realizes my time on La Luna is at an end. If I can’t escape they’ll take me out to the jungle after Juanita’s next visit. They’ll wait for her to see me one more time to avoid her suspicions. Her father will hire a new crew member…
Luis pulls alongside the Vargas fishing boat. Taking in Christopher’s appearance Miguel yells, “Hey! What happened to you? Your ear bleeds, and your face is swollen!”
Fat Luis laughs from the Captain’s chair. “Not the only thing swollen from my beating,” he brags. “The gringo even threw up on my shoe and again on our way out here.”
Miguel takes in Christopher’s bent posture and understands what happened. He looks to his father. Leon’s face is a storm cloud. Over and over, waking and sleeping, he still sees Daniel’s face and hears him beg, “Por favor, por favor. A memory he will never shake.
Together father and son help Christopher load the fish. They give him a first aid packet of ice for his ear. The exchange goes smoothly. But Christopher sees something new in Leon’s face, determination growing.
Christopher can only hope the duo will agree to give him transportation to Mazatlan. Somehow he must arrange to make his way to their boat, unseen by the towers, in the dark. After Juanita’s next visit he will ask them.