Kilometer 99 (12 page)

We must look like a ridiculous three-headed monster: soaking wet, no shoes, covered in blood and puke, wearing only our still-wet bathing suits. Pelo's head wobbles atop his body like a child's toy. The locals must think we're three drunks coming from a fight as we amble through the labyrinthine hospital-market district in the midday heat.

At the next clinic, they give us an important-looking piece of paper and directions to yet another location. At this third place, a doctor has Pelo lie across a table and places a special cloth over his face. It has a hole that exposes his injured eye. The doctor cleans the wound. Pelochucho groans and squirms with the pain. It's hard to watch.

“Do you mind if I step outside?” I whisper to Ben.

He hands me the car key. “There's tobacco in the console. Roll a smoke if you like.”

On the street, everyone stares at me in my bikini. Old women mutter their judgment. Young boys giggle.

I look through the car for a sarong but find only the bloody towel. In the passenger seat, I sit and smoke one of Ben's rollies.

A kid in rags approaches the window. He holds his palm out flat and says, “One coin?” My hand goes instinctively to the side of my thigh, but find no pants, no pocket, much less any money there. I have no cash at all. Not for this kid. Not for lunch. Not for Pelochucho's stitches or anything else.

Once the cigarette is done, I fast-walk to the hospital doors, eyes forward, ignoring the stares of onlookers. The piece of wire in the sole of my sandal scrapes against the pavement.

Back inside, they've set up a couple of chairs for Ben and me. On the walls are eye charts and mirrors. Racks of eyeglass frames line the shelves. From the ceiling hang instruments used to measure vision. Pelo's surgeon seems to be an optometrist.

A beautiful Salvadoran nurse assists. Judging by her dress, she must also be the receptionist. Bracelets dangle from her wrists as she passes the doctor sutures and clamps. Her nails are long and polished. Neither of them wears rubber gloves.

I stand up, walk to the table, and look over the doctor's shoulder. He complains about how much sand is in the wound, as if there's something I can do about it. With a crescent-shaped needle, he stitches up the internal tissue. Each time the doctor goes to insert it, I whisper “Breathe out” to Pelochucho.

The doctor seems to enjoy the fact that I'm watching. I look up from the surgery at one point to see a framed painting on the back wall, done in dark velvet. It's a picture of a surgeon in the OR. Jesus Christ—who bears an uncanny resemblance to the actual Chuck Norris—stands behind him, looking over his shoulder, guiding his hand. With a gasp, I realize that I'm standing right behind this surgeon the way that Jesus is in the painting. I sit back down beside Ben.

Soon, the doctor announces that he's finished and writes out prescriptions. The nurse takes the cloth off Pelo's face and tapes a thick bandage over his eye.

*   *   *

Somebody must've seen gringos and figured we could afford first-class treatment. They lead us to a private room, with a bed, an easy chair, an air-conditioning unit, and a bathroom.

“Pelo,” Ben whispers, “we should clean you up before you sleep.”

Pelochucho nods and stumbles into the bathroom. He takes a second to undo his drawstring, then lets his board shorts fall to the ground.

The bathroom has a small concrete cistern with a faucet, a drain in the floor, and a wide-bottomed bowl for bucket bathing. Pelo looks confused. Ben opens the water tap and picks up the bowl. Finally understanding, Pelochucho sits on the tiles and hugs his knees. Ben dumps bucketfuls of water over him, careful to keep the eye bandage dry.

I can say with my right hand across my heart that I'll never forget the image of Pelochucho naked on that bathroom floor. His body folds itself up and trembles from the cold water. He brings his forearms together under his chin and opens his hands like a flower. It's a gesture akin to both prayer and pleading—not unlike the fruit vendor's expression in the minutes after the quake. I'm not sure if he's enjoying the bath or hating it. He might be crying; I can't tell. But it's clear to me, in that moment, just what a thin and porous layer it is that separates every single one of us from such a state—a frantic and filthy mess of blood, tears, and torn flesh.

Pelo opens up his posture some, once adjusted to the water's chill. His dick sticks against his inner thigh. I try not to stare, but his is the first uncircumcised adult penis I've ever seen. It looks unfinished. Some odd rush of blood forms a lump near the end, as though it's a snake that has just swallowed a rodent. With his one good eye, Pelo catches me staring. I turn and step outside of the bathroom.

A nurse brings in soap, toilet paper, a towel, and a pair of blue hospital pants that might've fit Pelochucho when he was ten. Now they come just past his knees. I have half a mind to ask if she has any clothes for me to change into. Pelo falls asleep immediately, his feet twitching against the rail of the bed. The nurse returns with paperwork. Ben and I make up all of Pelochucho's information while he sleeps. We guess his birthday, estimate his age, invent his real name.

Figuring he'll sleep for a while, Ben and I leave the room in search of lunch.

*   *   *

In the market, a vendor sells soup from a blackened pot. She has a table and three chairs set up under a blue tarp. Long bones stick out of our bowls. Oil forms egg-shaped bubbles at the surface. We slurp down a broth of leaves and potatoes.

“This is not cool,” I say, stirring my soup.

“What's not cool?”

“None of this is cool. Pelo's eye. The fucking earthquake. Quitting the Peace Corps. This isn't how it was supposed to be.” My eyes tingle with the beginnings of tears. It feels as if today's events are the exclamation point on a boldface message from the universe.

“What are you talking about? This doesn't have anything to do with the quake. Pelo got speared in the eye. That's all. It's just bad timing.”

I try my best to compose myself. “The Hawaiian language has this word:
kuleana.
There's no exact translation. It implies rights or property, but also responsibility. It means your calling or your duty. The idea is that you can't have ownership without stewardship, that they're not separate; they're one and the same.”

The truth is, I'd never before used the word
kuleana
in relation to my own life. But in the past few days, the notion keeps bobbing up in my mind—with Pelochucho and his land, with Cara Sucia and the aqueduct, with the refugee camps and the mass graves. I'm not sure what my duty is anymore, but I'm convinced I've been a bad steward of it.

“Ben, I know that we have the right to leave El Salvador.” I look him in the eye. “But that doesn't make it the responsible thing to do.”

“No offense,” Ben says, “but I'm starting to think my
kuleana
is in South America already.”

We both turn and stare at our soup.

“Do we need money to pay for this?” I mean the hospital bill, but the question could just as easily apply to lunch.

“Those bills he gave us yesterday are still here.” Ben pats the cargo pocket of his trunks. “I forgot about them until we were out in the water.”

I stir my soup and slurp cautiously at the too-hot broth. The vendor adds tortillas to the stack on the table. She glares at me—in my bathing suit—as if I'm naked.

“Sweetheart, listen.” Ben puts his hand out on the table, palm up.

I lay my own hand inside his.

“We're gonna be okay,” he says.

*   *   *

Back in the hospital room, Pelo snores hard. He looks horrible. One side of the bandage hangs off by the tape. His eye is swollen shut. It'll probably stay that way for days. A ragged scar will now run from the bridge of his nose up through his forehead.

I lean into Ben's shoulder. He wraps one arm all the way around me.

A nurse comes in and checks on Pelo. She tells us that only one visitor can stay overnight, and empties the garbage bin on her way out.

“Why don't you take the car back to La Posada, mind the fort and get changed? I'll stay.” Ben pulls the thin cushions off the single chair and lays them on the floor. “You should probably hit the road before it gets too late.”

“Right.” Driving at night in El Salvador is considered a matter of taking your life into your own hands.

“Take one of these, in case you need gas or something.” He reaches inside the pocket of his shorts and hands me a moist hundred-dollar bill.

Ben and I kiss good-bye. He's become oddly calm, whereas I still shake with nerves and adrenaline.

“Good-bye, Pelochucho.” He moves slightly as I touch his forehead. I tuck the bill into the top of my bathing suit and turn back to Ben. “I'll be here first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Drive safe.”

“I will.”

“Malia.” Ben stops me with a stare. “I know you're having second thoughts. I feel awful about it. Maybe I should've given you more time … to decide to quit and everything. I'm sorry if I rushed you.”

“It was my decision,” I admit. “Don't feel bad.”

“The thing is, it's kind of a done deal now. We can't go back to being volunteers, even if we wanted to.”

“I know.” He's right, of course. “I'm just venting. I'll be okay.”

“See you tomorrow.”

We exchange another kiss good-bye.

 

14

I've never learned the layout of San Salvador, beyond the Peace Corps office, the hostels and bars popular with volunteers, and the bus terminal for La Lib. Ben, born with a superhuman sense of direction, has done most of the driving since we've owned the car.

I have a hell of a time making it out of the hospital district, then straight away get stuck in a traffic jam on one of the city's bigger arteries. In a cloud of carbon monoxide, I watch boys run between cars with tiny boxes of chewing gum, chanting “
Chicle, chicle, chicle,
” as if trying for a cadence that will put the motorists into a buying mood.

At the next light, a man in a clown costume and greasy makeup scrapes a Popsicle stick along a ribbed metal flashlight and mutters lyrics. After each verse, he holds out his palm and collects donations.

A boy in a bright orange vest walks past with a stack of daily newspapers. The headline is, once again, about the Monkey-Faced Baby. This is a local legend that surfaced in the wake of the earthquake. It has several variations, but most of them involve a baby born at a hospital somewhere near Zacatecoluca. The newborn had a mature primate face: full head of hair, a big set of yellow teeth. The delivering doctor took one look at it and said, “This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen in my life!” The baby then opened its eyes and, in perfect Spanish, said, “If you think I'm ugly, wait until you see what happens on the thirteenth of February.” The second those words were spoken, the baby died.

Local news media ran with the story. They interviewed a series of frazzled subjects and so-called experts—doctors, witches, geologists, and clergy—about the potential implications of the Monkey-Faced Baby's prophecy.

Many people buy the paper. The vendor does a better business than the flashlight clown.

I have no idea where I am. The eye-level afternoon sun gives way to dusk. It occurs to me that I might be inching along in the wrong direction. Traffic speeds up at last. I recognize the tall pink monolith of the Hotel Intercontinental looming above the rest of the block.

I'm at Metrocentro, a shopping district near La Estancia—the cheap hotel where Peace Corps volunteers stay. An appealing plan B materializes inside my mind: Why not go by the hotel and see if I know anybody? Maybe I can borrow some clothes. It might be nice to stay one last night in the city, have a few drinks perhaps. If nothing else, it'll save me hours of driving.

Once the seed of this idea is planted, it grows into a wishful tree within minutes. I take a right onto Boulevard de Los Heroes, a street that I finally know my way around on, then turn left at the Esso station and enter the neighborhood.

A teenager in a mismatched hat and uniform shirt carries a shotgun and approaches as I park. He smiles and tries not to stare at my bathing suit. I ask him to keep an eye on the car for me. He nods.

At the doorway to La Estancia, gringos fill two couches in the main room, their faces illuminated by the television screen. My pupils dilate, desperate to recognize someone.

“Malia?” I hear my name before I can make anybody out. “Is that you?”

“Courtney!” I'm so happy to hear her voice. “Do you have some clothes I could borrow? I've had a really bad day.” As I say it, I realize how true it is. My body is chilled and chicken-skinned, still speckled with salt, vomit, blood, and diesel exhaust.

“Come on, honey.” Courtney rises and wraps me up in a tight hug. The warm softness of her feels reassuring. With an arm around my shoulders, she leads me toward the back bedrooms. By a few seconds, she may have saved me from a pathetic crying breakdown in front of everyone else. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

We enter the bedroom she shares with several others. I tell her the story of Pelochucho's injury and the hospital, how I couldn't find my way back.

Courtney's maternal instincts come into full bloom. She's much bigger than I am, but she doesn't hesitate to root through the backpacks of rookie volunteers in search of clothes. We come up with a wrap skirt and white tank top only slightly too loose. I take a shower and wash my hair with Courtney's fragrant American shampoo. Niña Ana—the owner of the hotel—is able to change my hundred-dollar bill and reserve me a bed for the night.

Once I'm clean and dressed, Courtney fetches two beers from the refrigerator.

“
Salud.
” We clang the aluminum together.