Kilometer 99 (3 page)

Soon, we pass a still-standing hospital in the process of evacuation. Nurses carry out the sick by the corners of their bedsheets, then line them up along the sidewalk. Doctors kneel over bodies, taking pulses and hoisting bags of fluid. The building must have been judged structurally unsound. I wonder where they plan to put everybody. Is this the final destination of Don Antonio and my first ride? Will the bandaged man get any attention at all?

Somewhere near Santa Tecla, one of the workers points to the north. A giant white
colonia
—a subdivision of identical attached houses—is painted down the middle by a mile-wide stripe of muddy brown. The men in the truck curse, then cross themselves. It's the biggest landslide I've ever seen—in real life or in pictures. A huge section of the hillside has collapsed into the houses. Dozens of homes are invisible beneath the mud. So many people buried alive. I think again about Ben and his adobe shack. Is the epicenter even closer to him than I'd anticipated?

The engineer in me can see what a bad idea that
colonia
was—built in such a place, without retaining walls along the hillside. But who am I to judge, after what happened to my water system? Though I'm not at all religious, and have never been to Mass, I find myself making the sign of the cross along with these workers.

Once on the Pan-American, we make time. The traffic's all going the opposite way—more pickups with mattresses and injured people hoping to find a working hospital in the capital. On either side of the road are endless fields of sugarcane, the stalks invisible behind the thick green foliage. It was in fields like these that my grandparents first met.

Our truck must be up to eighty miles per hour. The two workers giggle and point up ahead. I climb the first rung of the wooden slats to see. At the spot where the road meets the horizon, a bank of dense black smoke rises into the air.

“Get ready.” One of the workers laughs out loud. “It's about to get hot.”

I have another look. The fields on both sides of the road have been set on fire. I know they do this before harvest, to get rid of the leaves. But I've never seen it up close.

As we approach, the Pan-American fades into a tunnel of fire. A bus blasts out of it, coming in the other direction. I expect our driver to pull off or slow down, but instead he seems to be gunning the throttle and gaining as much speed as he can.

“
Mamasita.
” The other worker puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Down!”

I do as I'm told. The three of us crouch with our backs to the cab. The men hoot and holler. The sun and the sky disappear. I'm instantly coughing and covered in sweat. My eyes burn, but I can't help but look around at the fiery landscape: black lines of cane stalk surrounded by orange flames, and farther on surrounded by blacker smoke. It so resembles the cartoon versions of hell that I half-expect to see a cloven-hooved red devil standing around, pitchfork in hand.

We emerge from the fire just as abruptly as we entered. Even the humid, exhaust-drenched highway air feels fresh and cool by comparison. The two workers curse and cheer. I find myself smiling along with them for half a second, as if this whole day has been some sort of scary carnival ride. But it doesn't take long to recall that pile of pipes in the jungle, the bodies under blankets, and, most of all, Ben. My stomach sags inside me. Soon, the three of us wipe at tears, and I'm not sure if they're due to guilt over that fleeting celebratory moment, or simply from all the smoke and fire.

We reach the outskirts of Santa Ana, El Salvador's second city. I see the same unfair pattern of fallen houses as I had in my own town, the same bamboo-and-earth construction exposed. This city has several old colonial buildings in its center—a municipal palace, a theater, and a tall Gothic cathedral. I wonder if they've survived intact. Mercifully, this truck has no business downtown.

At a stoplight, the driver hollers back to ask where I'm heading. I shout the name of Ben's nearest town, and the driver seems to understand. Minutes later, they drop me off at a crossroads. I thank the driver, say good-bye to the workers, and wait by the road.

A pickup truck with a rebar cage welded to its sides finally shows up, a dozen people standing up in the back. For a few coins, I'm allowed to climb aboard with the others. We head down the dirt road toward El Porvenir, knees bending with every bump in the dirt road.

I still have no idea where the epicenter is, whether I'm getting closer to or farther away from the heart of the destruction. I try to apply some makeshift science to it—after all, I've traveled nearly halfway across this country today—but nothing adds up. The levels of damage seem to have more to do with the style of architecture than with anything else.

The pueblo of El Porvenir, at any rate, does little to raise my hopes. I've been here only a couple of times before, but I always considered it a charming town, full of friendly
pupuserías
and pastel-colored stores. Now, the very hue of the place has dulled. So many buildings are down, it's hard to tell where the blocks begin and end. Even the police station and the mayor's office have suffered damage; black tarps are set up in their courtyards as they try to mitigate the disaster.

The pickup comes to a short stop and we all climb out. Ben's tiny village, El Cedro, is up a steep hill, and I know there's little chance of getting a ride the rest of the way. I set off on my own, the sun now low in the western sky, this long day finally drawing to a close.

No one passes me on the rutted path, and no houses line the way up. A pair of indifferent cows stands by themselves in a field. They stop chewing and stare at me, against a pink-and-blue background of fading light.

The first house I come to in El Cedro is simply a pile of brown adobe and red tile, with a door and door frame still proudly erect in the center. A mother and four small children sit in a circle off to one side. She prepares a meal for them on a clay
comal
placed atop a small open fire. Chickens pace around the remains of the house, pecking out a supper of bugs and worms. The children turn to see me, but we don't exchange words.

The next two houses are much bigger, but they have also fallen to the ground. I make a conscious effort not to study them too closely, and quicken my pace. My nerves come unraveled. Through the heart of El Cedro, I hold my hands up against the sides of my face, making literal blinders against the ruin. I have yet to see one house still standing here. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the tiny wooden store where Ben bought beer and snacks. Yellow-and-red Diana brand packages are strewn about the ground. The shack itself seems to be held up only by the refrigerator within.

Once the road ends, I head up the path toward Ben's. It's nearly night once I finally catch a glimpse of his house. It's just as leveled as any other home in El Cedro, a pile of broken adobe blocks, some splintered beams, and the red crumbs of a roof. Not even the door frame stands.

I take two more steps, then stop and collapse there upon the path. Tears fall hard from my eyes. Sobs buck and kick their way out of my chest. On my hands and knees, I know that I can't go any farther. I can't be the one to find it, to unearth my boyfriend's body from the ruins. I'm simply not that strong, and won't pretend to be even for one second longer. How has it come to this? How did we let it happen?

You only get to be in love so many times—if ever. Why didn't we take better care of it? Why didn't we stay together, in a little hotel room in La Libertad or someplace similar, for as long as we could or until the Peace Corps kicked us out? Why was I always saying good-bye to him? So I could go play engineer on some stupid water system that's now worthless anyway? None of it makes any sense. But I'm sure I did it all wrong.

Night has now fallen, and brought along a cold wind. I lie in a fetal position upon the packed dirt of the path. Can I sleep here tonight, I wonder, then find somebody who might help me deal with Ben's body in the morning? Can I simply run away at first light, pretend I never went farther than San Salvador, and then act surprised once the embassy releases the news about Ben? Anything but this: to face him now, here, all alone.

“Malia? Is that you?” It's the first English I've heard since the phone call with my father.

“Ben?”

“I'm over here. My leg's hurt and I can't move too well. Are you okay?”

“I'm just fine.” I stand up. The very last bit of daylight fades along the horizon.

“Over here.”

I follow the voice.

On the other side of his downed house, Ben has himself propped up on a couple of rocks, one foot elevated.

“Sorry.” An emotional crackle sounds in his voice. “It's hard to get up.” He begins to shift his weight to his arms and raise himself.

“No,” I say. “Stay there.”

I fall to the ground and we embrace so tightly, it's as if we're protecting each other from falling debris. He rubs a hand all over my back and neck, checking my spine to see that it's fully intact.

Into the whiskers of his cheek, I whisper, “I was so scared.”

“I was scared, too. Thank God you had the wherewithal to send me that page. I couldn't do much but wait anyways.”

I sit down on the dirt beside him; we lock hands. I'd never noticed it before, but at this angle there's a view down to the lights of Santa Ana. We sit and watch the lit-up city. From this distance, it might be any night at all.

“Did something fall on your leg?” I ask.

“No.” Ben sighs. “I was working in a steep cornfield and turned my ankle. It's an old injury. A couple of guys helped me limp my way home just in time to watch my house collapse.” He takes a big breath. “If the quake had hit two minutes later, I'd be at the bottom of all that.” He gestures to the pile of adobe blocks behind him, but I don't turn my head.

“Jesus,” I say. “Did a lot of people die up here?”

Ben shrugs. “I've heard of only two so far. Both older folks. It was such a hot morning; most of us were outdoors. Had it happened at night, everybody in El Cedro would be dead.”

It's the first time that I've even considered how things might've been worse.

“How's your neck of the woods?” Ben asks.

“Cara Sucia fared better than here. Supposedly, the bedrock slab that blocks the groundwater kept it stable. Our pueblo is bad, though, and the capital is the worst.”

Ben squeezes my hand a little harder. “You must've seen some shit today.”

I do my best to paraphrase it for him: the vanquished shantytowns, the freed zoo animals, the looting gangsters, and the awful Santa Tecla
colonia
swallowed up by the earth. Finally, once all those more tragic facts have been related, I manage to say, “The water project is totaled.”

Ben turns to me in the darkness. “Your aqueduct?”

“Boulders rolled down the hillside and smashed up the pipes. The spring box broke off the rocks.”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

I shrug. “They're just pipes, right?”

“I guess. I know it means a lot to you anyway. You worked hard.”

I nod, saying the words
just pipes
over and over to myself, like the very repetition might make me believe it.

“Listen,” Ben says. “I've had some time to think today. I'm not sure if I'm up for staying.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at this place.” He gestures backward, toward a village that we can't see, that isn't really there anymore. “I mean, what am I supposed to do for the next three months? Sleep under a tree and try to talk to these guys about using natural pesticides? They've got bigger problems right now.”

“That's true.”

“I know people need help after this earthquake, but what do I know about that? And if I stay, where will I live? In some shelter that ought to go to somebody else? Somebody who needs it a lot more than I do?”

“Right.” I hadn't thought about the future all day. It was as if some cosmic reset button had been pressed, like a bigger pair of hands had shaken up the ant farm that is my life.

“I know we've talked about traveling once we finish our service,” Ben goes on. “But now, with your aqueduct destroyed…”

“What are you saying?”

“Why don't we just quit now? Together. Start our trip a few months early? The handwriting is sort of on the wall, don't you think? If there were any walls left.”

I let his words settle for a second. “It's true; I don't know if I can start over. I don't know if the agencies will even want to fund a rebuild like that.” And it would definitely take way longer than the few months that are left of my service.

Ben puts his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. I can see the Santa Ana cathedral below, and it looks intact.

“Those are the logical reasons, Malia. And they make sense. But more important, I can't stand to be apart all the time. Not seeing you for a week or two was hard enough already. Now, after this earthquake, it'd be impossible.”

My mind's eye still sees those pipes littered through the river valley, all the hours and effort that went into them. My heart still stings with those first awful seconds of finding Ben's flattened house. Less than five months are left of my service. What does that number mean to anybody besides me?

“Count me in,” I say.

*   *   *

Most of the time, my story feels utterly trivial: a footnote about a small measure of second- and thirdhand suffering, stuck between the pages of this nation's history—a history that flows over with far greater suffering.

But other times, my story seems to beg the most fundamental question of our age: What's a decent person supposed to do when confronted with a fallen world?

 

5

Ben and I spend that first night in the dirt beside the remains of his El Cedro home. In the morning, he finds a neighbor with a pickup and arranges to hire it for the day. We pull his backpack, his camping gear, hiking boots, and a few other valuables out from under the wreckage, then have the driver take us straight to La Libertad.