Amy waved, calling his name. But the din of the chatter under the vaulted ceiling muffled her voice. Not until she walked right up on him did he push his sunglasses up to greet her.
“Hi Andrew. It’s me, Amy, your cousin.”
“Amy. I was hoping I would find you.” Andrew sprang to his feet, smiling through glassy eyes. He wore a classy suit, like Jessica’s friends, but when he rose, the scuffs and wrinkles stood out, Amy noticed. “Where’s the restaurant? I’m famished.”
###
“So you met Andy.” Sid broke in. “How’s the guy doing?
“Oh Sid, I’m not really sure,” Amy looks guiltily over her tea. “He talked, but I was so nervous, I don’t know if I heard what he was saying.”
“You said he was dressed in a nice suit. Did he seem happy?”
“I don’t know, Sid. I mean, it almost looked like he slept in that suit the night before. I remember I wanted to iron his shirt right there.”
###
A sign hung over the entrance to Jessica’s restaurant. The American Grill; they must have changed the name for Jessica’s show. Amy was delighted when they found a table looking out the window over the Bay. The window’s edge blocked out the mud flats, creating a view of life the way it should be.
As the two cousins settled in, Amy looked around, noticing families and a couple of businessmen. They all seemed to be eating the same thing, some kind of buffet. Children scurried about under one table. Amy ignored the buffet, she would have lunch from the bill of fare and she asked for two lunch menus from the Latin waitress. With the noon hour sunshine beaming, she inquired after her cousin.
“A little tired today, but hey, this should revive me.” He seemed nervous. “I drove up the coastal freeway last night.”
The waitress returned.
“Yes, I’ll have an Allie’s Shrimp Louis Salad”, said Amy.
“Yes Miss. Anything to drink?”
“A Banana Daiquiri, please”
“And you sir?”
“Steak and fries. And a whiskey on the rocks. Canadian whiskey.” Andrew calmed noticeably.
Amy relaxed more herself when he asked of Saskatchewan. She listened to his talk of California, but couldn’t help catching a few words from the businessmen. The inner workings of the business world Amy supposed. Jessica had some friends that were in business, always high-ended business where deals were exciting and fulfilling; ones that financed their exquisite lifestyles. These ones talked quite softly, in hoarse voices, that in a lull somehow echoed over so Andrew noticed too.
“… he was driving pissed, man. The cops busted him for that, then they found out what he was carrying. He got six years …” She heard the words clearly now.
Andrew’s eyebrows shot up, like he understood more. Must be a casual part of their lives, Amy decided, not their real business. Then a pair of well-dressed women, classy, walked over to the men’s table. They chatted about club Monaco. Yes, that’s more like what happened for Jessica; she knew a lot of men. A cell phone rang, and one of the men excused himself.
Amy focused back on Andrew, still seeking to feel Jessica’s secrets. As she nodded at her cousin, she saw past Andrew swirling ice around in his glass. The mud flats shrank as the tide advanced. Gentle turquoise waves lapped up on a white sand shore. Tiny ripples with a tinge of magic. Jessica’s world, right there.
Andrew relaxed more when the businessmen left. But then Amy couldn’t help but hear the family, and she realized what Jessica’s life never included. Amy’s enchanted forest threatened to topple as she wondered how Jessica could be happy without children’s laughter.
When she finished her Allie’s Louis salad, she felt delightfully content, even full. Could it be the feeling she sought, or just the feeling of a good healthy meal like Grandma made for Grandpa Paulo. The wailing and chatter of the children filled in as background noise with little musical songs, she listened closely – Christmas songs. In August! Andrew chatted on. Then quite abruptly, he pushed his chair out.
“I have to get back to LA today, sorry Amy; it was really nice to see you.”
“Remember the next reunion.” Amy reminded him. “It would be great to see you at Sahiya again.”
Andy’s hazy eyes struggled to clear. “Yes, that sure was one cool weekend. You guys were really great to be around.” He stood up, putting his third glass to his lips to drain the last of it. “Take care, Amy.”
“Goodbye, Andrew. Thanks for meeting me.”
Amy turned back to the window, the jet airliners coming into San Francisco International. They flew straight up the long pier, the same pier in Jessica’s picturesque background. For a moment Amy felt an inner tingling peace she couldn’t describe. It all came together for that one moment. She settled back, watching people strolling along on the walkway in the now bright sun. A beautiful white jet flew in over the pier gracefully seeking its place to land. She saw a flock of seabirds skimming over the surface of the Bay. Then the sunshine faded behind a cloud’s shadow. How could the wondrous feeling be so fleeting? She couldn’t help thinking of her family now, her refuge. She needed a breath of fresh air.
Wandering outside again, she strolled slowly back down the seaside boardwalk, stopping to sit for a moment, breathing deep. She listened, this time to a couple of young women, well dressed, talking.
“… you want to give as much as you take …” One said straight into the eyes of the other.
The earlier tingle ran reverse, as she somehow realized those words were part of her Marriot message as well. She sat in the sun, musing, as three jet airliners lined up for take-off. The first jet had come down the runway while the other two waited. The airplane circled completely around and began its take off, headed out from the city. Back towards home.
After the jets took off, one by one, she turned, and came face to face with her reflection in the glass wall. Who was this woman? The Golden Gate Bridge loomed in the distance, the bridge that closed each half hour session with Jessica.
Amy walked slowly back to her room. Glancing out the window, she saw once more the cycle of jets taking off and landing while another jet roared high overhead. Everything was right there, why couldn’t she connect? She fell back on the bed, a tear rolling down her cheek, praying for an answer, any answer.
Packing her things in her bag, she took one last look around, feeling the moist air, sniffing the aromas it brought out. She closed the door behind her, walking past the cleanup people, playing the role most familiar to her back in her house trailer. The people behind the scenes, the ones who made the front seat view of Jessi’s life possible.
Waiting for the airport bus, the voices around spoke of the everyday things. She sat relishing the California view of ocean, concrete and traffic, pondering over what she had seen. Lunch in San Francisco, all the children, the young women on the boardwalk, Andrew’s glassy eyes and the businessmen in Jessica’s restaurant.
The bus took her through the concrete maze of on-ramps, off-ramps and freeway pieces suspended high in the ocean air. The San Francisco International sign appeared in all its sunshine glory and she stepped off the bus to catch her flight.
On the plane, she settled in. San Francisco, how bitter sweet. Excitement around her children and husband now began to build, yet confusion on leaving the Jessica world behind. What would she do with the stomach knot now?
Amy looked across the plane through the windows on the far side. Who might be at the Marriott now watching planes taking off, who might be watching her plane as she had watched them earlier? As they taxied, she could see the hotel, red letters writing Marriot on the sandstone collared building, like a glance over the past few hours … over the past many years.
The trip back passed with a blur of clouds, clear spaces, the great salty lake, more airport gates, walking out to a smaller jet and a drowsy, dreamy time that ended with a final de-boarding. She felt the embrace of the dry prairie air.
Bryan met her at the airport late that night. They didn’t
talk much as they drove through familiar streets.
“How are the kids?” Amy asked quietly.
“They’re sleeping.”
“Thanks.” She softly touched his arm. “Thanks, Bryan, for everything.”
They parked in front of the trailer. Looking at each other, knowing they had done something, not exactly hand in hand, but kind of.
Amy slept well, very well, and she remembered her dream in the morning. A bird, one that flew freely through the air; a bird that became a jet; a jet that became part of a cycle of endless takeoffs and landings; a cycle that then turned into a hamster running in its wheel.
“I told Bryan about the dream,” says Amy. “When he was getting ready for work.”
“What did he say?”
“He had a hamster when he was a kid. They only live for two years, you know, and he said he watched it in its wheel, for two years, just round and round.”
“Right.”
“So when the kids came running in, and when I looked around the trailer – the dishes, the vacuum cleaner, the lunches to make, the clothes to wash I just felt different, I never forget that give at least as much as you take. But you know, that knot still comes and goes.”
“Yah, I know. How do you deal with that now?”
“I don’t know, Sid,” she says. “All I know is San Francisco is far away, I don’t watch that show any more, and here I am, still living in this trailer.”
“You look good though, Amy, you look pretty content.”
Amy smiles broadly. Sid sips the last of his second cup of tea. He’s got to be on the road soon, he’s got to get back to Calgary, but there’s still one more stop with Ryan.
Chapter 11
As Clyde yips, he backs the van out, waving Amy a final goodbye as he picks up his city map to find Ryan’s. He’s heard rumours of Ryan travelling too; maybe he flew down for lunch with Uncle Nick, just for the day. And Sid is finding a guy can go on a trip just by listening to people tell their stories, and that fits his middle-income budget. Vicarious travel.
Amy’s tale sounded like a true-life gift from her husband. Some need to see the truth for themselves, to just go there. Her trailer life now puts the win-the-lottery look of contentment on her face. Taking action to seek out her fortune, she found it hidden beneath her own pillow.
As he traces the route to the scribbled address, he passes through Ryan’s old neighbourhood. Those last words of Uncle Nick’s … Ksandra’s drowning; there’s more to it … A few blocks further, he finds the address on an older building.
Broken red plastic tape reads Ryan Mirchuk. He pushes 104.
“Who’s that?” A voice breaks up through a crackly speaker.
“It’s me Ryan, Sid.”
“Hey Sid. Come on in.”
The door vibrates with electric charge, letting him know to pull.
He follows the numbers down a half flight of stairs to the basement. Ryan beams as he opens the door, inviting Sid to sit on the leather couch taking up half the front room. Light streams through half of a small window that frames the tires and undersides of cars parked in the back alley, casting a square spotlight on the wall.
“So what the hell?” Ryan plops himself in the matching leather easy chair, levering himself back. A glint fills his eye, like he just reeled in a big one. His voice sounds borrowed, as from some other never met cousin.
“Hey, Ryan.” Sid scans his face cautiously. “I just come from Amy’s. She was down in San Francisco last summer.”
“Yah, I heard about that. A trip can be a good thing.” Ryan seems unnaturally relaxed; almost a new level of laid back. “When did you get in?”
“Flew in last night from Jo’s.” Sid says. “Camped out on a quiet street last night.”
“What?” Ryan says. “You should have come over.”
“It was really late. But hey, fill me in on your trip.”
“Ahh, yah, my trip.” Ryan pauses. “Remember, Uncle Nick told me to come that Christmas? I dunno; I had a lot of bills. So I finally got it together last winter. Such a cool place. Uncle Nick is a pretty smart guy, you know.”
“So you went to Costa Rica?”
Ryan’s leans forward. Sid listens.
###
Ryan flew to Miami through Toronto, and over the Caribbean, to drop down into San Jose, nestled in the Central Valley of Cost Rica. At the airport he knew right away the people were as friendly as in Saskatchewan, though he didn’t speak a word of Spanish. Everyone wanted to practise their English, and lots of gesturing, hand signals, right up Ryan’s alley. He does a hands-talking-to-each-other for Sid.
At the baggage pick-up, a Canadian voice really jumped out.
“Hey Ryan. Bienvenidos.”
“Uncle Nick! You gotta talk English.”
“Come on, dinner’s ready at the house. Arroz con pollo. I’m saying welcome to Costa Rica and we’re gonna eat traditional, chicken and rice.”
They grabbed Ryan’s backpack, fishing rod strapped on tightly, and wandered out to hop in a Land Cruiser. Fresh from a crisp white winter, Ryan stared in awe at the bright green flowering landscape. Blooms all year around, Nick said, just different ones depending on the season – rainy or dry. No long days or short days, he added, the sun goes down every day at six, and comes up again at six.
They crossed a creek on a one-way bridge, real bamboo growing among the rocks. Older fishing rods were bamboo, before fibreglass, and here the stuff just grew like ditch grass. The curvy roads meandered up and down the hills of the Valley, leading them to a street lined with houses of cinderblock, with metal corrugated roofs. Third down from a huge tree Uncle Nick pulled in to a garage, and closed the steel bar door behind. Like prison, Ryan remarked. Thieves, Nick let him know.
Ryan connected right away with one son, Carlos, all language barriers forgotten. He disassembled his fishing reel, showing Carlos the parts and how it worked, all in mechanical gestures. His finger pantomimes were suddenly getting much more than just a laugh.
###
Next day, they headed down to the ocean on business. Time for work, said Uncle Nick; we’re crossing the Valley; we’re going to take the autopista. English, Uncle, said Ryan. The freeway down to Punteranus, Uncle Nick said, the fishing crew will meet us there.
“You really call this work, uncle?”
“We all have choices we can make, Ryan.”
They drove through a coffee plantation, and then some sugar cane fields, between rows of trees lining the curvy secondary, jungle speckled by big houses rising on volcanic peaks above. They slowed for a village, and people walking along the highway now main street. A row of stone columns peeked around one corner, a house, huge, with men standing on the balcony in sun glasses and slicked back hair. Hey, they look like mafia, Ryan said.
###
“How big is this house?” Sid can’t hold it back. “As big as the one at Witchekan?”
“Bigger”
###
They’re security guards, said Uncle Nick, there is no mafia in this country. There’s very little violent crime, in fact, just lots of thieving. Remember the bars? That’s Norberto Verdugo’s house and he hires those guys for security.
“He must of won big.”
“Business, actually. A rags to riches story. Just a guy with another fruit stand, then he gets an idea, imports some apples from the north, from the U.S. and Canada. Now why would you move fruit to a place where it grows everywhere? But they were a real Christmastime hit. The whole thing is about as likely as a lotto win, but he’s a local hero now.”
“Hey uncle, what’s a campesino?” Ryan asked as they passed through a corridor of white and red blooms. “Carlos laughed about them a lot.”
Uncle Nick sat silent for a minute. “Well, Ryan, el campo is the countryside, like anywhere out of the city.” They crossed a bridge over a deep chasm, peaking down at a river far below. Nick pointed out three men precariously balanced along the top far edge, working. “Those guys could be campesino
s. That’s definitely marginal land, what no one else really wants, and they’re trying to grow something there. They’re the social outcasts – they get the raw end of the deal. Behind in education, the poorest of the poor, all they know is agriculture – they get the brunt of the jokes around here usually …”
Ryan turned sideways as they came off the bridge. One of the men had a broken metal spade, while the other two merely had wooden digging sticks. Right on the edge of a row of coffee trees; the property line of a plantation abutting the ravine.
They drove down the autopista, and the day got rapidly hot. Just like in the Rockies, Uncle Nick said, the lower you go the warmer, or hotter, it gets. From the cool heights down to the sweltering lowlands. They slowed at a village road and, highway wind gone; the salt laden humidity engulfed them, pasting their shirts to their skin.
Uncle Nick pulled up beside the chipped blue-faded paint of a cinderblock home. Engine off, the regular beat of the surf pounded through the jungle. The guys came out to greet them with movie length handshakes, inviting them in for coffee.
Ryan was delighted with the carefree attitudes, like a Debden house party. He added some Latin American to his gesture literacy. Pura vida. He didn’t just learn to speak the words, he experienced them; they wove their magic through him. Excitement overrode all when he recognized fishing equipment, traps he could guess at, but not so easily the fine mesh little nets, lead weights hanging heavy, holding them down on their wall pegs. Throw nets, Uncle Nick explained, you’ll see.
They ate lunch, arroz con pollo again. Then a snooze in a hammock.
After siesta, they followed the trail through the jungle to the beach. The guys tossed a throw net a couple times in the shallows, just to show, walking up on the captured tiny fish. For aquariums, Nick said. They left Ryan under a tree, shaded from the tropical sun, on the rocks, casting. More than one species got hooked that day, as Ryan absorbed his lessons on local habits. Tricky to clean, those fish, bone patterns different from northern lake fish. They would have pescado with their arroz that evening.