“Do you need to take a pee?” Minna asked.
Inside the filling station, the men stared hard through the glass at Minna until she glared back and their gazes crumbled away. Claire passed by invisible. One could not blame them. Playing with paper towels and squeegee, Minna helped Don wash the windshield. Her dark skin blazed in the harsh sun, the bright coral tank top she wore in astonishing contrast. Her teeth, as she laughed, like rare pieces of polished ivory. It occurred to Claire for the first time that Don was in love with her. How could he not be? How could any of them not be dazzled by her?
In the dank bathroom, there was only cold water and soap like gritty sand to wash her hands. Claire avoided the cracked mirror.
* * *
The road veered inland, and the ocean dropped from sight. The air grew hotter, sparse grass giving way to glittering-hard desert floor. Don sang cowboy songs from old Roy Rogers films, while Minna sat next to him, dissolved in laughter, trying to sing along.
For stretches of time, Claire forgot her illness altogether, lost in the thrill of movement, in the lust of Don and Minna for each other, in the cheerful prattling of Mrs. Girbaldi.
“Where are we going?” Claire asked.
“First we need to eat.”
Although the air appeared still, far off in a field Claire saw a whirling of wind as it funneled sand up into a cone. It danced shakily back and forth like a drunken top, a miniature tornado, then landed on a bush, which became possessed, electrified, branches stretching and shuddering. She did not wonder at the credulity of the ancients in explaining such a sight as an act of providence. Although she was amazed, she did not point out the sight to Don or Minna or Mrs. Girbaldi, hoarding the vision until she could decipher its significance. Even riding along in their modern, air-conditioned car, Claire would not have been surprised to see the bush burst into flame, to hear the voice of God. In her illness, she had fallen outside the constraints of time and logic.
She recalled Lucy’s disappearance all those years ago, and their panicked reaction. Claire should have walked out into the desert without turning back until she found her. So clear in hindsight that Lucy had just wanted to be found.
* * *
Don drove them through the gates of a resort along the ocean, and they entered another world, the fake movie version of Mexico Claire had long ago expected — palm trees, fountains, and red-tiled buildings. But the simplicity she also expected was nowhere in evidence: the parking lot was filled with expensive imported cars; the lobby stood marbled and sleek. Here Minna’s glamour was the norm rather than the exception. They were seated on a terrace overlooking the bay; oily, listless waves dragged forward and back, back and forward.
A lovely, plump waitress, with heavy, oiled hair that coiled like a snake down her back, greeted them. Her uniform was straight out of a B movie — white peasant blouse with an elastic neckline pulled down over her shoulders, ruffled skirt in red and green that accentuated her full hips. When she recognized Don, she giggled, asking for an autograph.
“Only if you bring us menus.”
She bowed, hurried away.
They ate large, moon-shaped pieces of Mexican papaya, the rose-colored flesh served at room temperature. The fruit tasted overripe, even the smell made Claire queasy, but she kept spooning pieces in her mouth, forcing herself to swallow because she didn’t want to appear sick, didn’t want to break the spell of reprieve and be forced to return home. Didn’t want the day to ever end. The waitress brought a tray full of margaritas from the manager. Claire picked up a glass and drank, although she wasn’t allowed alcohol. The girl stood by Don, telling him how she enjoyed his latest desert picture.
“Dear,” Mrs. Girbaldi said, “can you let the man dine in peace?”
Irritated, at first Minna ignored the girl. Then she began to ask her for things: salt, a napkin, another order of chips.
“Is there anything else?” the waitress said, sullen.
A fork, bottled water, another with bubbles. Till the girl caught on and stayed out of reach at the bar, mooning over Don from afar.
“Annoying,” Minna said.
“Source of paycheck,” Don said.
They ate ceviche and fresh grilled mahimahi and local lobster until Claire felt sick but would not dare refuse a bite.
Minna smiled. “Somebody must be feeling better.”
“This is lovely. Like it was forty years ago,” Mrs. Girbaldi said. “Let’s toast.”
Everyone raised a glass. “To the past.”
Minna lifted her glass. “To the future!”
* * *
Don took a snapshot of them at the table, Claire with her arm around Minna, smiling as if they were ordinary tourists on a pleasure jaunt. When he left to use the telephone, Claire held Minna’s hand.
“Tell me we never have to go back.”
“I’m honored you included me in this escape.” Mrs. Girbaldi drank down her margarita.
“Let’s walk on the beach,” Minna said.
“No,” Claire said, but it was too late. Minna had already pulled her to her feet.
“Count me out,” Mrs. Girbaldi said. “I’ll order us another round.”
They walked along the sand, around a bend that hid the restaurant from view. A breeze came up and rattled the dried-out palm fronds overhead. Claire’s arm that held her hat in place prickled as the blood left it.
“Let’s wade in the water,” Minna said.
“It’s too hard.” Claire motioned to the hat.
“Take it off.”
“No!”
“No one cares.”
“I won’t.” Impossible to explain the damage of seeing one’s disintegration reflected on the faces of strangers. Far from wanting to attract attention, Claire wished to be invisible.
“Okay, look.” Minna pulled off the coral top she wore. Underneath, her white cotton bra did not pass for a bathing suit. She hiked her cotton skirt up and knotted it on the side of her hip. Her thigh was rounded and heavily muscled, like a runner’s.
“Easy for you,” Claire said.
Minna held out her hand, and reluctantly Claire took off her hat.
Once it was gone, Claire had to ignore everything, concentrate only on nature, to save herself.
The water was cool; it tugged and sucked against her legs, luring her out to the darker, purple-blue depths. Claire was not brave enough to look back at the shore so she waded, knee-deep, and stared out. She had never felt so exposed in her surroundings, naked and peeled, a turtle unshelled. Absurd that a hank of hair insulated one so much from the world. She had experienced this exposure before, in a much more devastating form. How had she ever recovered from the stares after Josh’s death? Hadn’t she been singled out and forced into the part of victim then, too? Wasn’t it the same — the internal, private agony and then the public one added to it?
“This reminds me of home,” Minna said.
“Tell me what it is like.”
“A pink house on top of the hill.”
“Pink?”
“A beautiful pink house, with a red-tile roof. Windows arched and trimmed in white. And bougainvillea — red, purple, and gold. Bird-of-paradise bushes that brushed against each other like chimes in the wind. Hibiscus flowers as big as trumpets.”
Claire closed her eyes. “I want so much to see it.”
“The inside cool as a cave, even on the hottest day. The oiled wood floors smelled of lemons. The greenhouse, hot, humid, smelled of flowers and earth.”
“Take me.”
“Leta, our cook, loved me. Famous people came to eat her dinners and said that her dishes were better than the finest restaurants, not only in Roseau, but in Port-au-Prince or Kingston.”
“Maybe she would have cooked something I could bear eating.”