Kilometer 99 (23 page)

Ben's first two fingers hold fast against me as I shudder on the bed. I squeeze his hand between my upper thighs and inch closer. His other hand strokes the top of my head.

He lowers himself next to me. I reach between my own legs, find him there, and finally we make it further than we did this morning. Ben lets out a long breath.

He moves with a gentle and circular rhythm, one that somehow falls into step with the oscillations from our fan. He wraps one arm around my shoulder, grabs my hip with the other, and pulls me even closer to him. I brace my hand against the wall and push my whole body into his. With my other hand, I grip the underside of his thigh.

Normally, I find it stupid when people make comparisons between sex and surfing. As if all sources of pleasure should be converted to some kind of universal currency, then measured against one another. But today, I see the connection. Like the barrel I had so many months ago, this session with Ben is a beautiful set of blinders. For a few moments, there is no Pelochucho, no Alex, no earthquake even. My peripheral troubles melt away like fat rendered off a bone. With all our limbs wrapped up tight, it feels as though we are indivisible, that even the worst of our secrets and jealousies won't be able to split us apart.

Once it's over, we lie limp and silent. Our bodies spread across the bed. I settle my head into the crook of Ben's armpit and run my fingers through the hair on his belly. As the minutes go by, Ben's breath slows, his chest rises and lowers less often, until I'm certain he's fallen asleep. I feel drowsy myself.

Lying beside Ben on the bed, I'm momentarily able to imagine our trip once again: waking beside each other, surfing, seeing the world. It had all been so very much within our grasp one week ago. What could I do to get back there now?

A few minutes later, Ben wakes and turns to me.

“Let's go up to the roof,” he says.

“I'll meet you there,” I say. “I want to shower.”

*   *   *

Inside my preferred shower stall, I turn the single knob and open the tap all the way. Though there's no heater, the water is normally warm by this hour of the afternoon.

Once my hair is lathered up, a bang sounds from the sheet metal of the stall door.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Hey. It's me,” Ben shouts over the running water.

For a second, I wonder if he isn't about to join me inside.

“Lock the door to the bedroom when you're done, will you?”

“Okay.” I hate that Ben has to remind me about the ground rules of staying in this town. I rinse my hair and shut the water off. Back in our room, I dry off and get dressed.

*   *   *

The long day's last light clings like rust to the edges of a worn-out sky. Smoke rises in columns off the burning sugarcane fields to the east. Mariachi bands start up in the restaurants by the point. On the roof, Ben sits in his usual plastic chair, staring out to sea, two canned beers at his feet.

“No waves?” I ask.

“No waves.” He passes me one of the beer cans he's brought up, his stare still stuck to the ocean.

My thoughts pace a circle through my mind's front yard, still contemplating Pelo's contract, our trip, even the temporary visa option. My eyes cast out across the Pacific, and I wonder which way it is to Honolulu.

“By the way,” he says. “I spoke to Peseta again, while you were gone.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “More funny stories of torturing kids?”

“I mean about your passport.”

“Right.” I feel instantly sorry for the remark. “What did he say?”

“He doesn't think it's any of the usual suspects. Nobody's been flashing money or anything like that.”

“That's weird,” I say. “Maybe they're playing it safe.”

“I don't know,” Ben says. “I think we might've jumped to conclusions.”

I take a big sip from my can. A kind of dreadful emptiness overwhelms my stomach, a feeling that can't be erased, not with beer or anything else. No matter what, I have to get out from under Pelochucho's thumb. That much is clear.

“Ben,” I say. The beer can grows woefully light inside my hand. “I have something to tell you.”

He seems to know that this means bad news and keeps his eyes on the ocean. “What's that?”

“I didn't stay at La Estancia the other night while you were in the hospital.” I look at the side of his face.

He brings the beer can up to his lips and then down again, the red fur on his cheeks rising and lowering in a tight swallow. “Is that right?”

“I was with Alex.” As I say it, I wonder if maybe I've overestimated how much of a surprise this will be for Ben.

“You fuck him?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I turn my eyes away from his. Tears dump down my cheeks in a quick, watery way, as if from spicy food or chemical drops.

“I see.” He takes the last sip from his beer can and then crushes it inside his fist. “You go visit him yesterday?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I had to say good-bye. The other morning was weird.”

“What about the embassy? Did you even go there?”

“What?” I'm taken aback. Perhaps I shouldn't be. “Yes, of course.”

“So the lost passport, that's true, right? That really happened? That's not some other lie meant to get you out of this fucking surf trip”—he raises his voice, still staring out to sea—“which you wanted to come on in the first fucking place! And which you can bail on, at any time, just by saying so! It's your fucking life!”

I'm suddenly a child, screamed at by a well-intentioned but exasperated parent.

“My passport got stolen,” I manage to say.

“Sorry to yell,” Ben says.

I wonder if he's suspected such a thing all along, or if my one confession has led to a viral breeding of jealousy and paranoia that's taken over his entire mind in the last minute or so. My eyes are on the concrete roof below our feet, but I can feel his gaze settle upon me.

“Does Pelo know about this?”

“Pelo? What?” It's the last question I expect from him.

“That whole song and dance outside our room this morning. ‘Do you know somebody named Alex?' Blah-blah-blah … Is this what that was about? Am I the last person in El Salvador not to know who my girlfriend is screwing?”

My head does a cross between a shake and a nod. “No. Well, yes. That's nothing. He heard me talk to Alex on the phone.”

“You've been talking to Alex on the phone?”

“He called here; I blew him off.” This all seems so tangential to the real reasons Ben should be mad at me. “That part is no big deal, seriously. But I did sleep with him that night you were in the hospital. We were drunk. A lot of weird emotions were going around. I'm sorry.”

“Look at me, Malia.”

I wipe at the sides of my now-puffy eyes with a trembling finger and turn toward him.

“I forgive you.” He's not yelling anymore. He is impossibly calm.

“What?” Somehow, this is not at all the response I anticipated.

Ben rolls his eyes. “That's right. If you want to be with Alex, if you want to stay in this country, if you want to bail on our plan and on us, then you'll have to decide it for yourself. You're going to have to pick up your bag and walk out. I'm not going to push you away.” His chest rises in a hard breath. “Frankly, I think it's pretty lame that you'd put me in that position.”

My chin goes rubbery. The crying jag gets a second wind. Is Ben right? Did I confess only to force one of my doors closed, be made to either stay or go? I can't bring myself to tell him about Pelo's blackmail. I don't want him to think that's the only reason I came clean.

“That isn't what I want. I want to go to South America with you. I'm just scared that it won't happen.”

“I need to be away from you for a little while,” Ben says. “Can you handle that?”

I nod, careful not to ask him for more understanding than I deserve.

Ben goes down the stairs. I let myself cry in a way I'd not wanted to in front of him—with deep, wheezing, self-pitying gasps. The bedroom door slams. A second later, a vehicle enters La Posada. I rise to have a look, and see a pickup full of shirtless young men. It's the pool diggers. Pelochucho hops out of the truck. I step back from the edge of the roof so that he won't see me.

I can't quite make out their words over the sound of the truck pulling away, but Ben and Pelo greet each other, then walk out. The rough shuffle of their rubber soles sounds against the street outside.

I stay on the roof for a while and watch the rest of the sunset—a clear-skyed affair of purple and orange that seems to mock me with all its beauty. Once it's over, I go downstairs and wipe my eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Thankfully, Ben left his tobacco and I can pass the time with smoking and hand-rolling.

Neither Ben nor Pelo returns to the hotel. Perhaps they're drinking together and speaking ill of me, of all women. Perhaps they'll visit the whorehouse. The very thought unnerves me.

A whistle sounds from the street. I see Peseta outside; he's not allowed to enter the courtyard unless he has potential guests in tow. He makes a gesture for me to come over.

I walk toward him, not sure what he wants.

“Take this.” He looks from side to side on the street, then hands me a small prescription bottle. “Sorry it took so long. My friend was out of town.” I nearly forgot about the Valium.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling ashamed for my suspicions the night before.

“And this.” He holds a few coins on the flat of his palm.

“What's that?” I ask.

“Your change.”

I pick a couple of the coins off his hand, then say, “You keep the rest.”

He nods and walks off.

I cross the courtyard, enter the bedroom, and swallow two of the pills. The drugs take effect in an instant. I try to confine my body to one side of the bed, hoping that Ben still wants to share it with me.

 

22

“Can I meet my mommy?” It was the last time I'd ever mention her so casually. My father had made lunch, then served us each a dish of ice cream. I must've been nine at the time.

His spoon jangled inside the empty bowl. With a hard exhale, he rose and carried all our dishes to the sink.

“Put your good shoes on,” he said. “I'll make a phone call.”

Together, we took a silent drive. Up the Pali Highway and over the Ko‘olaus, we passed through clouds and a minute or two of rain. On the other side of the tunnels, the sky cleared. We had a view of the Windward Coast, looking down at both the Kaneohe and Kailua bays, the narrow spit of land between them. Though my young eyes must have traveled that road before, it would be my first lasting memory of that high panorama.

My father parked the car along a street in Kailua town and we climbed out. I followed him to the front door of the house, not understanding why we were there, and too scared to ask.

An older haole woman answered the doorbell. She was fat, with falsely red hair, wearing a frowsy muumuu. My jaw dropped open once I saw her, incredulous that she could be a possible relative of mine.

My father spoke to this woman in tones too hushed for me to understand.

She smiled and said, “Malia?” in a louder voice. “Come on in.”

I looked to my father for confirmation. He nodded.

We followed the woman into her house.

“My baby!”

I was blindsided by another woman and smothered inside a tight embrace. The arms that wrapped around me smelled of mint and smoke.

“You've gotten so big.” The words were muffled into my shoulder.

I didn't see my mother's face until she let go and held me out at arm's length.

“You look just like me,” she said.

This wasn't true, but it made a nine-year-old me happy. She was pretty: dark skin, defined features, long, wavy hair. She wore all black clothes, including a small military-looking hat, which seemed stylish to me at that time. Behind her stood that older haole woman, along with a man I presumed was the woman's husband.

“I'm your mama.” She smiled hard, grinding a piece of gum between her back molars.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

The other adults all laughed aloud.

My mother put her hands on my shoulders and looked up at my father, who stood behind me. “Can I be with her alone for a minute or two?”

I turned around to face him as well.

He nodded, not having spoken a word aloud since we'd entered.

*   *   *

My mother led me to a covered carport at the side of the house. She closed the door and leaned over my shoulder, placed her head next to mine. “Look!” She pointed with her index finger. “See that gecko?” The dark outline of a lizard shone against the off-white of the patio table.

“Watch this,” my mother whispered. With three quick paces, she crept up toward the table. Her flattened hand slapped down upon the lizard's rear half. “See that!” she shouted.

I joined her at the table. The lizard ran away in a jerking blur.

“Look at the tail.” My mother pointed with her other hand. “He let it go!”

On the table, the small black length of reptile flesh—now free of the body—squirmed and twisted, forming curlicues and sidewinders. I squealed with delight.

My mother let out a loud, cackling laugh. She swept the tail away with the back of her hand and put an ashtray and cigarettes down on the table. “Have a seat.”

There was a refrigerator out in the carport, and she opened two Coca-Colas—a treat my father never allowed me. She smoked cigarettes while we talked, the gum grinding in her mouth the entire time. I remember seeing the name Kools printed on her cigarette pack. For years afterward, I thought that was a Hawaiian word.

She asked me unremarkable questions about school and hobbies, how often I saw my Tutu, her mother. If anything underhanded went on—any attempt to get dirt on my father or how he raised me, to leverage any kind of custody for herself—it was too subtle for me to notice.