EXCERPTS

Tamarindo Siesta

      This short story was published last July in STILL CRAZY, the literary magazine for those over 50.  It was originally inspired by multiple sojourns on the paradise isle of Culebra off Puerto Rico.  It is included in the upcoming book 'Coming of Age' about older people making new decisions. To see an excerpt from 'The Paradise Bird', please scroll to end of this story.
        
       All morning you dive for the treasures of Neptune.  Like a delighted child you bring up for my inspection spiny starfish and smooth conchs streaked with the salmon of winter sunsets.  I wish that you would save your energy and snorkel sedately with me above the underworld of the reef where we could be content to follow from a distance the turns of an electric Blue Tang or nibbling of a rainbow-sided Parrot Fish.  
        At noon we crawl out of the water like primal creatures and lay mask and fin on a log to dry.  This beach is not the kind in travel posters.  It requires a long dusty walk through the hills and weathered feet to navigate the bleached bones of coral.  One grove of tamarindo trees hardly taller than we offers the only shade.  It is not the beach most people go to, but after three weeks on this island, we know where to be alone with sea and sky.
      We pull our lunch from the pack—tinned sardines salty on crackers, granola bars, a mango so orangey ripe that it can only be eaten with eyes closed in ecstasy, sweet juice running down our chins.
       Satisfied, we retreat to the dappled shade of the spreading tamarindos and tie up our small rope camping hammock.  Contemplation is necessary to pretzel two bodies where there should be one, but finally we rest suspended while shopkeepers in town are turning over Closed Until Three signs that frustrate tourists.  We have learned what they know here about the ebb and flow of the day.

       I stay awake and watch you sink into drowse.  You were not tired by the long walk, although you moaned in your sleep last night.  My silly beach hat protects your vulnerable head and ego, although I find your new baldness sexier than thinning gray hair.  It is my job to save this moment.  I‘ve been busy saving moments on Culebra, gathering them into a place where memory is so alive it can strong arm the limitations of the future.
       You sleep like a child, neck crooked and arm thrown overhead.  Your sunglasses reflect back my naked brownness, sudden reminder of the wild sea child growing up where the geography of life was pitch pine forest, crab-scuttled marsh, and the galloping hiss of waves receding on sand.  My body, scoured glassy smooth and now salty from the morning swim, is finally beyond burning, incapable of tension, so finely tuned to all-pervading peace that even the green gecko scampering up the tamarindo trunk stops to stare, her golden eyes wide. 
       “Ah, you found the rabbit hole,” she says.  
       I smile and nod.  
       Down I’ve fallen through blessed days hoping never to hit bottom.  Not one mosquito, raindrop, or have to mars our shaded rest.  The hardened winter membrane of our cells has cracked open and spilled protoplasm into a new stream flowing universes away from doctor’s offices and off-white waiting rooms.  Did we talk about magazine articles as we waited, pretending distraction?  What words did he say—the white-jacketed man—as he pointed to a dark spot on a foggy x-ray?  I can’t remember.  Today I am trying to believe it possible to forget things out of existence.  
       Above us the green lace canopy waves against outlandish blue.  These tamarindos, whose ripe fruit turns our mouths with its delicious sour, are a spreading circle of dwarves, but on dry islands height is no measure of age.  The grove of elders is anchored deep, tapped into underground rivers.  They remind me of us in this time outside time: both stunted and deep.
       The waves are singing in their own language.  Over and over they gather, roll, break, retreat—ah-hem-ssss—ah-hem-ssss—repeating what they know of life’s rhythm until I, too, know it by heart.  Beyond you the ocean is a color I never dared believe in until now.  A hunger for azure grew on gray snow afternoons as I sat by the window unable to work. Bare trees gave up form to darkness and left me staring at my own reflection.  
       “We need to go,” I said, and you did not resist.  
       Now we spend our lives immersed in azure—the color of grace, of healing, of god in this instant.  All morning we were baptized in it, last minute initiates of a religion called Now.

       Can it be this simple?  Is it the story we know from dreams as we rise on dim icy mornings?  The story says paradise is our birthright.  It says we were untimely ripped from paradise to be ever haunted by the promise of return.   It says paradise is simple—no lost dreams, no broken innocence, no disobedient cells.    
       It says two old lovers plant a green tent under the sea grapes at the edge of a white horseshoe beach.  Each morning they rise early, sink heels in sand soft as flour and greet the sun as it lifts off the protecting arm of olive hills.  On striped towels at mid-day they sleep like sated babies under the shade of coconut palms.  When they wake they walk barefoot down the sandy road past a colorful tent village to fetch plastic jugs of warm water from the cistern and stripping naked, pour it over their heads out behind the bushes.  As the sun descends on the far side of the island, they share feasts with a new community of friends from Holland, Egypt, Germany.  They pull picnic tables together and bring simple things—rice and beans, onions and peppers, more on Tuesdays and Fridays when the truck arrives from the mainland and we hitchhike into town.  In the evening they sit on cooling sand while the moon casts a milky path across the waves to their feet.  Under a tipped bowl raining stars they sleep in each other’s arms as the night breeze sings in the tent sides.
       Day after day the tale unfolds pure as smooth shells I turn over in my hand and pack away to bring home.  Or so we will remember it and that is what the Universe hears when it begs us for a story.  It cannot feel the prick of worry or whether we saved ourselves this time.  It sees only the bright brown smile on your face.   

       I close my eyes and breathe deeper than I ever have.  It is a habit these days and it does stop tears.  Could we heal together this way if I only had the courage—no greater decision than whether to snorkel the reefs off Rosario or walk to ocean cliffs and watch clouds unload rain on the peaks of El Junque across the water?  Am I growing restless with perfection?  We are three weeks from answers.  Even here will it start again—worry between the eyes, resistance around the heart?  I close my eyes and float out beyond all futures, real and imagined.
       You stir, stretch and turn ungracefully out of the narrow hammock, as always startling me with your abrupt awakenings.  The sun has moved west toward the green hills and secret coves of Luiz Pena, the isle across the water.
       “I’m going for a walk,” you announce with that sense of rebelliousness you now have, but I do not object.  
       On the afternoon beach, you stand where waves curl over your toes.  I walk after to hug you from behind, resting my head against the hollow of your still strong back.  You with your sea lust would be on that boat tacking by out there, white sails to the wind like wings.  
       “Next year we’ll come down on a boat and live here,” you say with more faith than I.  Every thread that holds me together would make it so, even if it turns out to be I who must hoist sail and pull rope.  
       The breeze is from the east now and silky warm like skin on skin.  You are too soon off down the beach hunting perfect shells, then clambering around the rocky point that is porous like lava cooled in the sea only yesterday.  I sit cross-legged on the sand at the edge of the tamarindo shade.  It is my part to be still, to note the language of paradise we will need to remember—words that float loose on the breeze, rhyme with the sea, dance with the leaves, answer the pelicans.  
       You come back down the sand and stand facing out to sea again.  It is time to go.  You will not admit it any more than I.  

       Tomorrow morning we will pack our sandy clothes and bags of shells, roll up the tent, board the ferry dragging suitcases, take a taxi to San Juan and fly north.  I will press my face against the window as Puerto Rico and the shallow Bahamas pass under us like green jewels in the azure sea.  Then as gray clouds close in below, I will shut my eyes and vow to remember this language I am learning on whatever shore we land.   
       But that is for later.  

       Now it is enough to put tiny spiral shells and crenulated white coral flowers in the pack, exhale ‘ahhh’ on the breeze, and live one more naked moment beside you on a bony coral beach in the shade of the tamarindos.

 

The Paradise Bird 
Chapter Two

 Mary Hallett and her brother John have spent a tense day traveling from Yarmouth to Eastham on the outer edge of Cape Cod where she will begin service in the home of the Reverend Samuel Treat.  In this scene she meets two people who will change her life—Samuel Bellamy, who will become her lover and Treat’s son, Nathaniel, who will become her friend.  

       The weather grew gloomy and a late afternoon storm darkened the rolling plains of Eastham as John and Mary continued north.  Boats rocked at anchor on a long narrow cove and cold drops of rain hit face and shoulders.  John turned off onto a side road and pulled in at a weathered building with faded sign swinging in the wind, not at all like the fine tall tavern in Yarmouth.  Thunder rolled, the heavens opened and Mary raised her face to the rain in thanks for postponing their journey’s unwelcome end.
       She stood at the entrance to the tavern great room savoring excitement at entering this man's world for the first time.  Her brother greeted the owner by name, took pipe from rack and lit it with a splint. She hung her damp shawl and sat alone unnoticed on the bench by the door. In a half-walled little room with swinging gate, the tavern keeper poured out his fare from wooden kegs.  The crusty smell of bread baking mixed with pungent fish stew, the choke of lamp oil, the stink of rain-soaked wool and the sweet scent of tobacco. 
         An older man sat alone at a table near her dressed unsuitably fine for these rough outlines in velvet coat with lace at wrist and throat.  His voluminous powdered wig made her smile.  She watched him observe the homespun locals at a long table close to the fire where a tall young man with an unruly mane of black hair tied back in a careless tail spoke with loud voice.
        “Yes, I tell you a fleet of Spanish ships loaded with treasure sank in a storm off a place south of the colonies called Florida,” the man said with accent of the Old England.  “Stout sailor lads are heading there to fish the wrecks and come back rich men.  Imagine!  Mountains of silver coins and gold ingots the size of my arm for picking off the ocean floor.”
        Thunder shook the room causing odd shadows to dance across the ceiling.  A shudder spun up Mary's spine lifting hair off her neck as if she had stepped through a veil between the ordinary and what lay beyond.  She tried to imagine where this place called Florida could be. Once when she delivered cloth she had studied a map of the colonies on the wall of Captain Morgan's parlor.  It showed some vague places to the south of Carolina and now she wished she had paid closer attention.
        The local men puffed harder on their pipes and stared into the fire obviously aggravated that this stranger had blundered into their conversation about the bluefish run.  The Englishman pulled out a large coin, polished it on his sleeve and showed it to the men around the table.  “This here is Spanish silver.”  
        Her brother strode over to reach for the coin and rubbed the surface with his thumb.  “Sam Bellamy, what be the sense of stirring a fuss.  Have you not done enough up on the island?”  
        “I intend to get me a crew of stout sailors to sail south.  'Tis fair reason.  You men here who scrimp and tail and never have enough to dream, you could have all you need and more."
         What was this urgency in his voice that made her sit up and listen?
         “Is it you careened Ezra Snow’s sloop down the Cove?” John asked. 
        “Aye, she be mine fair and square.”  
        John raised an eyebrow and passed on the coin.  “A rich man, eh?  You’ll be a drowned one, too, and lucky to make Martha's Vineyard before that scaley bag of timbers falls apart.”  
        There was knowing laughter among the men, but Bellamy set a foot up on the bench and leaned forward to return to his story.  He had a largeness of movement, an urgency and offhand grace that Mary had never seen before.  “Listen up, you briney blokes.  For a few months' work, you could every one come back a rich man.  They tell me the gold is so close to shore, you can nigh on wade for it.  Now, I am fair.  Share and share alike, say I.  A life's worth of sweeping the blasted sea for fish ‘twill be yours in a month.  Think on the freedom of it.  No man will ever look down his nose at you again.”
       John handed back the coin, which had come full circle.  “There be gold aplenty in the sea here and we draw it up ‘til our boats are like to sink.  What do we want with far-off treasure?”
        The dismissing attitude did not dampen Sam Bellamy’s spirit.  Mary sensed an air of destiny that would not be delayed by a rattletrap boat or the non-dreamers of Eastham.  Sam Bellamy then urged investment in the repair and provisioning of his sloop for which he would pay thrice upon return.  She wanted to explain that Cape men did not think large.  She had observed that they plowed the sea the way they plowed the land and their women: in a straight row that netted a small but predictable harvest year after year.
       The men at the table talked among themselves until Sam thundered back into their conversation.  “Come now.  Will ye be cowardly puppies who submit to be governed by the rich merchants of Boston, those crafty rascals who want you as their slaves?  I seen you up there, John Hallett, sweating over the try fires for a pittance to light their lamps. I was a hen-hearted numbskull slaving for punishment in the Queen’s navy  'til I says, Sam, you be above this abuse.  We are all above the abuse.  Why not plunder the rich?  They rob us under cover of law.  I intend to be free under protection of my own courage. Will you come take this chance at freedom with me.”
        The air was alive with his passion.  Was there a moment when the locals seemed swayed by his daring?  Then John said,  “Bellamy, you be a dreamer and that's the worst bedevilment.  Go find some other fools.  We seen one too many wrecks bleaching on our shores to take any chances on might-be treasure.”
        A brawny red-faced man stepped up to offer a fist under Sam's chin.  “Listen up, ye dog.  No one, least of all a bloody Old Country man calls Joseph Paine a coward.”
        A tall young man stood up to pull back the aggressor.  “No harm meant, I am sure,” he said to Sam.  "We are all Christians and 'tis night on Sabbath eve. Perhaps we shall see you at meeting tomorrow.  My father will be preaching on the true treasure that awaits after the trials of this world.”  He set aright a tankard of rum that had been knocked over in the scuffle and offered his hand.  “Nathaniel Treat here."    
        Mary caught her breath. He had copper hair and a ponderous expression, this son of the preacher in whose house she was doomed to serve.  She had always disliked men with red hair.   
       “Remember, ‘tis as hard for a rich man to get into heaven," he continued, "as for a camel to pass through a needle's eye.”
        “Get into heaven?” Sam sounded as if it were a place he had never considered.  “Ah, what if paradise is here?  I intend to enjoy my just rewards now.”
        Mary had never heard anyone talk this way.  The men seemed outraged that this blasphemer had blundered into their midst.  The fight on the hearthstone escalated.  Joseph Paine stepped up again muttering, "I'll give ye just rewards and send ye back where ye come from."  His fist swung in an arc that ended on Bellamy’s nose and sent him reeling toward the fire.  Sam recovered and landed his own fist in the man’s belly bringing a yell to restore order from the tavern keeper.

       Mary held tight to the edge of the bench.  The whirl of emotion made her feel light headed.  Bellamy thought in a forward way no one else she knew did.  It gave her shivers of hope, then fear.  
       What was this pounding of her heart, this need to know more of the life this man described, this sudden feeling of constriction inside all the careful boundaries laid out for her.  Never before had she seen clear possibility of escape. In those moments she understood how the fateful summer had changed her; that she had been secretly withdrawing from small predictable ways.  It seemed she was standing at an edge and needed this boisterous passion, these bold ideas to take flight. 
         On the hearthstone men yelled, shook fists.
 The idea of speaking to the man called forth an uproar of emotion.    
        On the hearthstone men yelled, shook fists.  Mary stood up smoothing her apron, sat down dizzy with the boldness of throwing aside modesty in so inappropriate a place.  She closed her eyes, pressed her back hard against the wall, felt her heart shaking her body.  Go, it said.  I cannot commit this inexcusable transgression.  She felt hot, then cold.  Never had she dreamed of doing such a bold thing in public.  She drew a breath, stood up and launched forward, shoes hardly seeming to touch the floorboards. She moved swiftly lest she lose the burst of courage that had seized her
        A blur of men stumbled back, mouths slack at the boldness of this female who trespassed on their territory.  Mary sat on the bench at the board they had abandoned.  Sam Bellamy stepped off the hearth as surprised as the others, but quicker in recovery.  He approached the table nursing a bloody nose.  She reached into her apron pocket and held out her best handkerchief.  
       An amused smile lit his face as he sat on the bench across from her.  "Who might you be, fair lass?  Sent from heaven to deliver the paradise this young man there speaks of?”
       Off to the right Nathaniel Treat and her red-faced brother stared in transfixed horror.
       "I am—but Mary," she said having always been shamed by the name's plainness.
       “Ah, but Mary, a good Christian name for the loveliest lass in the outland."
       "'Tis a better name than Forgiveness or Mercy, of which you will find little here."
        He threw back his head and laughed with abandon.  In that moment she knew he understood. It gave her a shiver of hope.       
        "I would know more about Florida," she said.
        A smile lit Sam's face.  "Lads look to the lass," he called out.  "She sees this adventure for what it be."  He launched into a story of water warm as tea, fruit bright as the sun that falls off trees into your mouth and mountains of silver coin in the sea so high they looked like shining islands. Then she felt John's hand heavy on her shoulder pulling her back over the bench. 
        “Leave the lady!  We were but conversing,” cried Sam rising.  
       “Bellamy, you rogue.  I will not see my sister seduced by the likes of you.”  
        John shoved her toward the door.  “I was a fool to bring you here,” he hissed,  “and the good Reverend’s son to witness you behaving like a strumpet.  We shall go back in Yarmouth now.”
       “John Hallett, wait.”  Nathaniel Treat approached to offer a wan smile.  “Let me get my wagon and take your sister to my father's house.  You need to make Billingsgate by nightfall.”  
        John stared at the floor.  “Mary will offer apology and promise 'twill not happen again.”  
        “Indeed, I-I have been sorely amiss,” she stammered summoning a penitent look.  “I was overtired from our long journey.”  
        
        The two disappeared round the building as Mary stepped outside on the doorstone.  The storm had passed west and left a string of pond-like puddles in the road reflecting a deep blue sky.  Sunset tinted the underbelly of clouds impossible colors—gold, magenta and crimson.  She shivered at the beauty and possibility that might lie out beyond life as she had lived it until then. 
          John led horse and wagon into the road and stood a moment before mounting to the seat.
         "Stay away from Bellamy," he warned.  "He is wild and foolish."