Lost in his abstractions, he didn't immediately see the young man come in after Camila. It wasn't until Camila said, "This is my father," that he looked up.
"Dios mio," he murmured. "And what did the cat drag in?"
"I found him, half-dead from drowning, on the beach," Camila said in Spanish. "He doesn't remember where he came from, or who he is, or how he got here -- anything."
Her father sighed. "Camila," he said.
"At least let him have some of your old clothes," Camila pleaded, before he could flat-out refuse. "He's got literally nothing. If you're going to insist that he move on, you should at least let him be clothed properly."
"Camila," Chico said, again, but she could tell that he wasn't going to send him begging. "The government--"
"What government?" Camila snapped. "We live in the middle of nowhere. He could have washed in from Cuba, for all he knows."
She watched her father consider this. It was a delicate matter, negotiating with her father -- she had to be sharp enough to goad him, but she couldn't piss him off or else he would dismiss her altogether.
Chico began to doodle on the pad where he'd been planning things out. After a moment, Camila relaxed. She knew she'd won.
"Go get him cleaned up," Chico said, standing up. "I'll see if I have anything that will fit him."
Camila translated as best she could: He could stay. It wasn't the entire truth -- there was still the matter of Martina's permission, and the abuelos might object to a young man to whom she wasn't wedded living under the same roof, but Chico had tipped over to their side. Martina couldn't argue with them, not when there were guests coming in a few hours, guests who would probably not appreciate her turning away an amnesiac in the middle of nowhere.
His eyes lit up with a smile when she told him that. "I will work," he said, as she led him to the bathroom. "I can work."
She reached over and squeezed his hand. It was strangely cold, in this heat. "Your help will be welcome," she said. "We must give you a name," she added, "at least, until you remember your real one."
He slid into a pensive stare when she said that. Camila cursed herself, silently. She had to stop reminding him of his memory loss. Otherwise he won't like me. It was odd how badly she wanted him to like her. The last time she felt something like this was when she was nine years old and crushing hard for the boys of 'N Sync.
This feeling was not as intense but it had a presence, a seriousness that prevented her heart from fluttering every time their eyes met and her hand from shaking whenever they touched, but at the same time kept drawing her eyes to him.
She drew a bath in silence and helped him into it. Chico came in then, left some clothes and said he would set up a cot in one of the empty bedrooms until they could get him a bed.
"And does Mama know?" Camila asked.
Her father pursed his lips and whistled. "I told her I could use the help," he said. "She actually agreed."
It must be a cold day in hell, indeed, Camila thought, smiling despite herself.
But then again, what else could she do? It wasn't as if there was anywhere he could go, anywhere he could be sent to. A wave of pride at having finagled something so major from her mother flooded her.
Then she caught his liquid green eyes watching her, and she felt appalled at being so petty in front of him.
THAT NIGHT, they christened him Javier. Along with their guests -- two flabby, pasty couples from Connecticut, the Smithes (Carl and Mary) and the Cramers (Kyle and Jennie) -- around the table, they raised their pale beers and cheered as they bestowed the name upon him.
His face turned red and said nothing. He just bowed his newly-buzzed head (earlier that afternoon, Camila spent an hour trying to brush out his dreadlocks and finally took a pair of shears to them) shyly and bit into his tortilla. He ate delicately, like a bird, nibbling his tortillas and poking the chili and crispy fried plantains suspiciously.
"I have the feeling that I've eaten these before," he explained to Martina, who was about to take offense at his silent critique of her cooking, "but I can't remember having them like this." He ventured a bite then, and the delight that spread across his face went a long way towards mollifying her.
During the meal, Chico and Martina kept the Smithes and the Cramers occupied as they recounted their hellish flight: the flight attendant who had the nerve to make a snide remark about Carl Smithe's weight (Camila was surprised they limited themselves to his weight. The man's teeth were terrible, there were large pimples in his thinning hair, and he was wearing a neon-green pair of Bermuda shorts), the terrible turbulence over the Bermuda triangle, the nasty cab drivers, and how hard it was to find a car rental when they didn't know Spanish.
Camila wanted to yell, Well, why the fuck did you travel, then?!
But she managed to curb her tongue and when the last grandfather finished his food, she began to clear the table.
Javier took his cue from her and rose from his seat to do the same. Martina nodded her approval of them. Overall, it was a quiet evening. Camila ran the hot water and started doing the dishes, and let Javier bring out the dessert: a massive plate of fruit ringed by a rainbow of Jello cubes.
They were now talking about life in Mexico -- how Camila had to take her classes online, how quiet life was here, the many repairs the place needed.
Chapter Five
JAVIER CAME BACK.
"Yo hablo Espanol," he said, before she could screw up a "hello" again. "I understand, but you must speak slowly," he added.
Camila didn't quite know what to say. "Bueno," she said, to fill the air with something other than his expectation. She'd spent the afternoon trying to avoid him so that she wouldn't inadvertently remind him of his memory loss. It should have been easy in a house this large -- sometimes there were days, literally, when she didn't see one parent or the other, after all. And yet he seemed to pop up everywhere, wanting to carry something or do something or hold something.
Eventually, she'd retreated to her room and closed the door; only coming out when their guests arrived. It was always a big deal when they arrived, mostly because they always missed the turnoff the first time and had to drive to the next little village before they realized their mistake. Some of them never did find the turnoff, and ended up renting a room in Cancun. Martina and Chico always had champagne waiting, and it was Camila's job to smile and put up with being ogled while introductions were made.
This time was no different, except that the Fuenteses couldn't quite figure out how to introduce the one they had later christened Javier, and in the midst of all the ums and ahs, Camila slipped away, only to run into Javier in the kitchen.
Again.
"Are you afraid of me?" Javier asked suddenly, jarring her out of her blank-minded state.
"What? No," Camila said. "Why would you think so?" The question was out of her mouth before she remembered how skittish she'd been acting. "I'm just... I've never had a... never mind." She caught herself before the word "amigo" could escape her, because he wasn't her boyfriend. Why did her subconscious insist on acting as though he were? "It's just... strange, I guess."
"I will try not to be strange," Javier intoned.
Despite herself, Camila had to smile at him. He was so serious, so sincere. The word "cute" came to Camila's mind, but she squashed it with a hard blink and merely nodded.
"It's late," she said, finally. "I should probably go to bed. It's going to be a busy day and we'll have a lot of work tomorrow."
THE NEXT morning, Camila was awakened at five-thirty by the sound of something scraping the stone in the courtyard. Bleary-eyed, she got up and stumbled out of her room, wondering why their guests were trying to tear up their courtyard. It was ugly, sure -- full of weeds and a fountain that didn't work -- but that didn't give them the right to wake the world at this ungodly hour trying to destroy it.
What she saw though when she stomped out of the house was Javier, on his hands and knees, attacking the cracks between the stones with
the point of a crowbar.
He was at the other end of the courtyard, where the kitchen was, opposite the bedrooms and the servants' quarters. So far, Martina was not in sight and Camila considered warning him to stop with the noise already. But Javier saw her at that moment and waved.
"I am cleaning the courtyard," he said as she walked towards him, not giving her a chance to ask. "The dirt between the stones is enough to grow the grass, and their roots run deep and crack the rock elsewhere, see?"
Camila nodded even though the words washed over her meaninglessly. "Why are you awake so early?" she asked.
Javier shrugged. "I couldn't sleep," he said.
Camila sighed. "Well, at least let me make you something to eat," she said, going past him to the kitchen. She wondered what had happened to the eggs she was supposed to take to Manuel the previous morning. She couldn't remember if she'd brought them home, or if she'd left them on the beach. But wherever they were, they weren't in the kitchen. She'd have to get more from the chickens.
She grabbed the egg basket on her way out of the kitchen, remembering how oddly quiet the chickens had been yesterday. She hoped they were doing better. The sun was rising now and the jungle's usual cacophony was beginning, floating over the walls of the house on the sea breeze. Everything was back to normal again, Camila noticed.
Wait a minute. When did that happen?
She couldn't remember and it bothered her. She'd been distracted and flustered yesterday so it was impossible to be certain, but the hairs on the back of her neck rose as she realized that she vaguely remember everything going back to normal when Javier was resuscitated.
Did it happen the moment he took that first gasping breath? She couldn't be sure; she'd been so focused on him.
But she remembered breeze suddenly coming in from the ocean, when a few minutes before she had been complaining of the very still air. And when they got back to the house, yes, the birds were chirping again in the forest while leaves swayed in the wind.
I don't believe in ghosts. I don't believe in the supernatural. It was all just coincidental.
Irritated, she tried to dismiss the idea that Javier had anything to do with the life returning to the area, but instead she was only reminded that the abuelos had been sparky enough to leave their area and join them for dinner -- all four of them -- tonight. It was as if what was happening had affected them, too.
She almost shook her head at the strangeness. No, it was all just in her head. She was imagining things. She continued her work, trying not to get spooked as she was already by her random, wicked, thoughts.
Chapter Six
CAMILLA GATHERED THE EGGS and brought them back to the kitchen. Javier stood up when he saw her and reached for the basket with a little bow, even when he was taller than her, or that she felt it was too much.
Camila was still too sleepy to protest. She followed him to the kitchen, and began pulling down the bowls and the whisks and taking out the cutting boards and things to make eggs and tortillas and orange juice.
"Can I help?" Javier asked.
"I guess you can crack the eggs," Camila said, fishing out some tomatoes from the dish they sat in. "I'll make the salsa." She began chopping the tomatoes and onions, pointing him at the bowl.
Javier stood behind the bowl and cracked an egg. They both jumped back when a chick came flying out, cheeping its protest.
"Maybe it was an old egg," Camila said after a moment. The chick was scrabbling around the bowl, trying to find some kind of footing on the smooth surface.
Camila tilted it back into the basket and carried it to the henhouse, wondering how the egg had managed to escape her notice yesterday. She let it scurry to the feeding trough, where the other chickens had congregated.
If the other birds didn't kill it, then maybe they would have another chicken one of these days.
Then an anguished cry broke the morning calm.
It came from Javier, and Camila ran back to the kitchen hoping that he hadn't hurt himself or cut off his finger with a knife. She could hear Martina's voice sneering in her head, You see? Men don't belong in the kitchen.
"What is it?" Camila asked as she barreled through the doorway.
Javier was sitting on the floor, his face wrenched into a combination of horror as he pointed at the bowl on the counter. Camila couldn't see into the bowl -- but she didn't really have to. The soft cheeping noises the baby chicks made said it all.
"What did you do?" Camila demanded even as she knew it made no sense to blame him. But then she realized that there was no way ten eggs would have escaped her notice yesterday. The flock numbered only fifteen birds, and if they had been old eggs, it would have meant that ten eggs had escaped her notice for three weeks. She wasn't that inattentive.
"I don't know," Javier said. "I don't know."
Footsteps outside the kitchen door approached. Camila felt a surge of panic running through her. There was only one other person who would be awake at this hour and Martina would not be pleased at the fact that ten perfectly good eggs had spontaneously hatched when there were guests who would be expecting breakfast.
Camila shoved the cheeping bowl under a towel and stepped in front of Javier, her heart racing. Please, God, let her be in a good mood, Camila pleaded.
"What is going on here?" Martina demanded as she came in. "First I hear someone tearing up the courtyard and... what's that?"
Camila felt the need to come up with a semi-plausible lie, only there was no good lie that would explain how ten newly-hatched chicks ended up in the mixing bowl. Martina scowled at her, and then at Javier.
"What's going on here?" she demanded an instant before she saw the birds. "What is that? Are you planning on cooking baby chickens for our guests?"
"No, Mama," Camila said, hurriedly. "I just--"
"A neighbor dropped them at the edge of the jungle early this morning," Javier said. "I felt bad for them so I picked them up."
Camila's mind blanked. Javier had told the lie so smoothly that, for a moment, even she believed it. She could actually picture him in her mind leaning over and scooping up the chicks into the bowl, and bringing them to the kitchen because he didn't know how to open the chicken run.
Martina weighed what he said -- true, or false? Camila fought the urge to take Javier's hand. It would give them away. And indeed, it was "them" and not just Javier, because with those two sentences he had uttered, he had cast his lot with Martina alongside hers if their mother discovered the lie.
"Very well," Martina sighed. "Were there any eggs this morning, Camila?"
Camila shook her head, no, pointing to the empty egg basket. "They must be having an off day," she said. It did happen occasionally. There was nothing to do then but drive the five miles to the nearest store in Playa del Carmen to buy the eggs. Martina waved her away with an impatient flick of the wrist.
"Go then," she snapped. "I need you to get back before nine."
Camila felt lighthearted and almost giddy as she grabbed Javier's hand and pulled him out from the kitchen to her father's Jeep before her mother could change her mind.
"Get in," she said, vaulting into the doorless vehicle. She started the engine and rolled the Jeep onto the matted vegetation that constituted the path to the main highway.
"What did you do that for?" she asked him when they were safely out of range of the house. "Why did you lie to my mother?"
He shrugged -- or maybe they'd hit a lump in the jungle path that caused his shoulders to rise. In the rainy season, the dirt road was insurmountable in anything less than four-wheel drive, and only in the lowest gear. Camila had the Jeep in second. "I thought you might be in trouble if I didn't," he said.
"I always get in trouble for everything," she said, shortly. She was concentrating on driving, hoping the deep-treaded tires would catch rather than slip. The sunlight through the trees speckled the jungle floor and Camila always had a hard time discerning the innocent shadows from the ones that meant a hard lump.
>
So she took her time, easing the Jeep along, feeling her way through the obstacles by the rumble in the gas and the stick. "I can handle it."
"But it was my fault," he said.
"Yeah," she agreed. "What was that with the eggs? What did you do?"
"I don't know what happened. I just cracked them like you asked me to do, and little chicks came out," Javier said. His voice trembled as he recalled the horror of wasting all those eggs. He understood, all too clearly, how dependent his stay was on Martina's good graces. "I don't know anything, I swear," he said.
"Bullshit," Camila snapped. "Either I missed ten whole eggs for three weeks, or you did something to make freshly-laid eggs hatch."
"I really don't know," Javier said. "Please believe me," he pleaded.
Camila sighed. He was a young man and it did not seem right to see him begging like he was doing. Christ, this guy needs a backbone, she thought. But then, what would she feel if she ended up being tossed on the beach without her memory -- without knowing anything about herself? She barely survived getting uprooted from Boston. What could have happened if she didn't even remember her name?
"All right," she said with a sigh.
She pulled onto the "highway" -- the two-lane paved road that connected Cancun to Tulum -- and shifted out of second. The road was pitted with potholes and during the hurricane season, it was frequently flooded and sometimes washed away. But they were out of the jungle, and she could at least see the potholes. She turned off the four-wheel drive and the Jeep leapt forward.
Javier sat in silence next to her, glum with reproach.
After a minute of this, Camila sighed and pulled off the road.
"All right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that," she said as she cut the engine. "It's just... I know I didn't miss ten eggs for three weeks."
"And I swear to you, I don't know what happened in your kitchen," Javier said.
Camila shrugged. "Well, when we buy these next eggs, you'll let me hold them," she decided. "Okay?"