The Center of the World (20 page)

CHAPTER 33

S
he heard his footsteps, light, his body lifting and landing, the muscles in his legs so full of sureness. His running shoes lapped along the terra-cotta tiles of the courtyard. His footsteps stopped, paused at the step.

Kate knew he was there and she waited, a towel in one hand from Sofia's bathing. Then he knocked, the exact same knock he always used; he was blindingly consistent with his knocks. Kate pictured them living together in a house in Maine or Cape Cod and each day when Will came home, he'd use the knock, and her heart would leap just as it did now.

Kate opened the door as if it was a question, the way it works in Spanish with the question mark at the front of the sentence. Why the pause? She tilted her head to one side and saw only the tanned face of the man who wanted to help her, the man who saw her, really saw who she was.

He looked exactly the same; everything was going to be fine. He smiled his gorgeous toothy smile, a product of North American precision with dentistry, and stepped into the room bearing fresh palm-sized tortillas and cheese wrapped in paper. She opened her arms to him, folding him in through her skin. His left hand moved to the back of her neck. Kate felt the extra moisture on his palm, then the slightest tremble, unlike him.

“Fill your pack. We are going to the airport in Guatemala City. Here is some food for the trip.”

Kate staggered back, her core collapsing, hit dead center with a bag of cement. From the corner of the room, Sofia trilled her new word. “Water, water,” she said, keeping the accent sweetly on the last syllable.

“It's too soon. I thought we would have more time to get ready.” Suddenly everything about the cobbled streets, their bed, bathing Sofia in the bucket was precious. What would await them in the States? Her hands grasped at the air like she was searching for a cord of time, pulling it back to her.

“It's time,” he said.

She'd been bathing Sofia, singing the “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” song in a warbling duet. Sofia sat in a large metal bucket, the preferred option to the shower.

“I have a car waiting for us,” he said.

“Now?” Why hadn't he warned her? It was nearly dark out; evening church bells were ringing. Should she tell him about Henry Matthews? Maybe she didn't need to.

“What—how—does this mean that you have papers for Sofia? How could you possibly have done that?” She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around the slick child, and picked her up. Sofia chirped something in Kaqchikel to Will. Kate had given up trying to stop the two of them from speaking Mayan. Sofia's full-out delight was impossible to deny with Will.

The three of them left the small bathroom and headed to Kate's room. Will placed his hand on her back, pushing slightly. “I'll wait out here while you two get ready. But Kate, you have to hurry. We have to be on the eight o'clock flight.”

“Oh, Sofia,” she said as she hugged the girl and whirled around. It had only taken her a few minutes to adjust to the shock of leaving. She dressed her in long pants and a small sweatshirt. She put everything she had into the same small backpack that she'd taken from Santiago; one skirt, two pairs of jeans, thick leather sandals, and lastly, Will's socks.... cramming all of it down hard into the dark caverns of the pack. She retrieved her passport from beneath her pillow. Sofia's underwear and skirt were tossed in. Lastly, she lifted the mattress and retrieved the cloth that Manuela had woven. She rolled it tight and rammed it beneath everything else.

Home, they were going home. Were they flying to New York or Boston? She didn't even know yet. She and Will would squeeze Sofia between them on the plane, keeping her safe from the bombardment of a new culture.

Kate slipped the pack on her back and took Sofia's hand.

“We're ready.”

Will leaned against the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. He'd been in Guatemala more than two years; leaving had to be bittersweet for him. Some part of him was resisting, the way his hand rubbed the stair rail. She couldn't blame him. He had become closer with people here than she'd ever been able to. The language specialist.

They were going home and they were going to be safe. She'd carry them all with her belief, like a rocket.

He reached out a hand to her. “The driver's waiting.”

She jerked to a stop. “Marta! We've got to say good-bye to her and little Felix.”

“I passed Marta on her way out. She's going to some potluck. I wish we could, but we have tickets, reservations, and we can't miss this flight. Everything is on go now, just a little faster than we had planned.”

They started down the wide stairs. “And Fernando. We can drive by and say good-bye. I could never leave without thanking him.” She pulled hard on Will's arm and felt an extra tautness that had not been there before.

“No need to go by his café. He's driving us to the airport. I asked for his help.”

Will held a manila envelope in one hand. “I have everything here—our tickets and all the papers that you'll need for Sofia. As of today, she is adopted, with all the international stamps and passports and gold seals that you'll ever need.”

A sweetness rushed into her throat. She could tell him now, absolve the weight of secrecy that had descended on her. “This means we don't have to go through the guy who was going to help me. I didn't want to tell you—”

Will stopped as if he had walked into a wall. “What guy? What are you talking about?” They were at the front door.

“Some guy who used to work with adoption, a gringo, who said he'd help me get papers. I met him two days ago.”

“Where?”

“Right here. In the central park. I just bumped into him with Sofia. He made me promise not to tell anyone.” Something was wrong. Will looked like he'd been struck.

“What did he look like?”

“Older gringo, squinty eyed, sort of on the make, big lump on his forehead. Don't worry, I knew what I was doing.” Why did she feel like they were sinking, sliding downward?

“Oh God, what have you done?” He yanked open the door to the street. Fernando waited with the engine running.

“What do you mean?”

“Just get in, quickly.” The car was a VW bug, ten years old at least, 1980. Kate's mother drove one for years. Kate and Sofia crammed into the backseat. Will jumped into the passenger seat.

Fernando smiled and turned to Kate. “It is my great pleasure to be your escort out of the country. Please pardon the bumpy ride.”

Kate reached up and squeezed his shoulder.

Will turned around in his seat. “It was not an accident that you bumped into that man. His name is Jenkins,” said Will.

“He told me his name was Henry Matthews.”

Will curled forward with his head in his hands and a shudder ran through his torso. “You didn't do anything wrong. He was responsible for the massacre in Hector's village and I exposed him to his boss. He was demoted as a result. He's been out for blood ever since. He was here to find a way to get revenge. I should have known he'd try to get to you. You didn't know, it's not your fault.”

Kate ran through the conversation with the man with the lump on his head. How had she been so oblivious? Now, with Will's added information, each word and glance seemed so obvious. And malevolent.

“But are we okay? We can still leave? You said you had adoption papers.”

Will glanced over at Fernando as the man navigated along the cobblestone streets. “Everything will be okay. We're an hour from the airport and we can still make the flight.”

 

As Kate stepped out of the car at the airport with Sofia in her arms, Fernando embraced her. “Don't leave a trail. There is a saying from the highlands—don't drop crumbs unless you want the jaguar to follow.” Fernando put his palms on either side of Sofia's face and kissed the top of her head.

They came to the gate where passports and tickets were demanded. Fernando said he'd wait until they were gone, standing by the wall. Will stepped aside and nodded to Kate to go through, handing over her passport, the tickets, and Sofia's documents.

Kate's breath scalded her throat, burning with fear. The uniformed man looked at the documents, flicking his eyes to Kate's face, turning the pages of Sofia's adoption papers, eyeing them with extra scrutiny. He reached beneath the podium where he held the rights and privileges of all who passed through the border. Kate's breath stopped. But he brought out his stamp, pressed it into an inkpad and stamped both passports. Will's would of course be easier. Nothing fancy, just a guy going home. She stepped through and turned around to see Will, but the other passengers had squeezed through the checkpoint.

Will stood off to the side, still within arm's reach if she tried.

“What are you doing? Come on.” Sofia was heavy on her hip, wiggling, wanting to get down. Wanting Will.

Will's eyes had the unblinking stare that her mother's had held when she was dying, the otherworldliness, the stripped skinless look that Kate did not expect to see on him.

“You have to get on the plane. Start walking, Kate. This is how it has to be. You've got to trust me.” He looked over at a clock on the wall. “They're boarding and you have to get on. It must be this plane.”

What had he done? Had he betrayed her, led her to love him, love Sofia, and then sent them away?

Kate stopped, put down her pack and her child. The ragged clutch of rejection mingled with shock, seeing others stare at them. They were now the epicenter of a drama. An airport guard turned to Will, his hand on the automatic weapon. She would refuse, they would talk this through, get past this last-minute panic on Will's part.

Will told the guard in Spanish, “One last embrace, please, for my frightened one,” he said, winking, arms wide, palms open.

Within inches of the gate, he beckoned to Kate and she walked into his arms. His broad smile never reached his eyes. He whispered into her neck. “If you don't get on this flight, they will take Sofia and you will never see her again. They have taken my passport. You must be very brave. Do not look back. I love you.”

His voice caught on the last three words. He pushed her away saying loudly for all to hear, “There now. See you stateside. Good-bye, sweetie.”

In stunned slow motion, Kate reached down for Sofia's hand again, backing up, keeping Will in sight. What had she done? Why did she talk to the man in the park? The flight attendant stood near the open door leading to the plane. She gave Kate a come-along hand motion. Kate walked backward down the corridor, watching Will until she could see him no longer.

 

Her seat faced the airport gate. She could still see Will, his hand pressed to the window. She was crying and she couldn't stop, her chest seizing with pain. What was happening? What exactly had she done? Was this all her fault? She sat in the window seat with Sofia on her lap.

“May I join you?”

Kate looked up and saw Henry Matthews. Jenkins. She froze. He sat down and then leaned over to her, waving through the window.

“Let's wave farewell to your heroic, linguistically talented Will. Ah, he seems to recognize me.”

Crushed by his body, Kate was pushed to the side of the aircraft. She kept her body between Jenkins and Sofia.

Here was the man who had something to do with another massacre, who wanted to hurt Will, who had lied to her.

“No, you can't join me,” she said. She turned to look back at the airport window. Will exploded, pounded the window, and shouted, his face a grimace of agony. Two gendarmes grabbed him and he tore out of their arms. The dark silhouette of a gun rose, then smashed into Will, and he dropped.

“No, stop! Stop them!” shouted Kate.

“That boy should really settle down,” said Jenkins. “Local jails are not a pleasant place. But then I don't really care about his comfort.”

“What have you done?” Were they going to kill him? She prayed that Fernando had seen what had happened.

Two military jeeps pulled alongside the plane. Were they taking her too? And Sofia?

“I'll be getting off here,” he said. “But here is what you will do. If you ever tell anyone about Will or his wild stories about massacres, I will have him killed.” Jenkins smiled and glanced down at his hands, examining one fingernail. “If you contact a congressman, Amnesty International, perhaps an attorney specializing in international law, if we even get the slightest hint, I will have him killed. And then we will take care of your café owner.”

Kate froze, wind sluicing down the corridors of her spine. Fernando?

“Say it, Kate. Say you will never speak of him again, never try to contact him, never tell anyone about his allegations in the Dos Erres village. It's up to you.”

The door to the plane opened to reveal two additional men. Jenkins put his hand on the seat back in front of him and pulled up, rising.

Kate wanted to kill him. She'd never felt that way about anyone before. Jenkins drew in hate like a black hole.

“Stop! I will never contact him. I will never tell anyone about the village. . . .” She wanted to say massacre. She wanted to say Manuela, Hector, babies, women, men. “I will never tell anyone about the allegations. I will never say his name.”

Jenkins turned to face her. “Very good. Now, would you like to say his name one more time? I'm not without some feelings of tenderness for young love. One more time, Kate, for the last time, say his name.”

She wanted to shout it, scream his name loud enough to be heard throughout the world. She wanted to say it in the dark, back in Antigua, close to his skin. She didn't want to say it to Jenkins, not in the demented way that he offered her. Kate's breath caught in the middle of her throat and turned solid, a tennis ball of air clutching her windpipe. She had to act like she had nothing to fear, like she was just another blond tourist on her way home.